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ONE
The Light of God



T he night burned a pulsing orange.

General Vorto, supreme commander of the legions of Nar, stood
on a hillside beneath the red flash of rockets, safely distant from
the bombardment hammering the walls of Goth. It was a cold night
with frost in the air. He could see the crystalline snow in the sky and
on his eyelashes. The northern gusts blew the battle rockets up
and over the city and bent the fiery plumes of flame cannons.
Goth's tall walls glowed a molten amber at its weakest parts, and in
the city's center small fires smoldered, the result of lucky rocket
shots. Gothan archers rimmed the catwalks and battlements,
raining down arrows on the thousand legionnaires encircling the
city. High in the hills, rocket launchers sent off their missiles, while
on the ground war wagons lumbered on their metal tracks, grinding
the earth to pulp. Inside the iron tanks, teams of gunners pumped
kerosene fuel into the needle-noses of flame cannons and blasted
away at the unyielding stone of Goth.

The war machines of Nar were at work.

General Vorto pulled off a gauntlet and tested the wind with a
finger. Southeasterly and strong, he determined. Too damn strong.
A curse sprang to his lips as he pulled his metal glove back on. So
far, the Walled City didn't seem to be softening from his attack, nor
had the winds abated to cooperate. It had only been a few hours
since he'd begun his attack but he was already growing
impatient—not a good trait for a general. He ground his teeth
together in frustration, and watched as the city of Goth withstood all
he could throw against it.

"Resist, then," he grumbled. "Soon we will have the ram in place."

Nearby on the hillside, the gunners of a modified acid launcher
awaited their general's orders. They had loaded the first cannister
of Formula B hours ago, when they'd first arrived around the city.
Vorto had hoped the wind might cooperate, but the breeze had
picked up and so the order to fire had never come. There were five
more such launchers in the hills around Goth, all primed like this
one, all awaiting Vorto's order to fire. Vorto blew into his hands to
warm them.

"They are strong ones," said the general to his aide, the slim and
dour-faced Colonel Kye. "I've underestimated them. They have a
stomach for siege, it seems. I would have thought Lokken weaker
than this."

"Duke Lokken is weak," corrected Kye. He had a rasping voice that
Vorto had to strain to understand, the result of a Triin arrow through
his windpipe. "When the dawn comes he will see what's out here
waiting for him, and he will surrender." The colonel smiled one of
his sour smiles. "I am optimistic."

"Yes, you can afford to be," said Vorto. "I cannot." He pointed
toward the city's towering walls, thick with archers ignoring the
bombardment. "Look. See how many men he has? He could hold
out for weeks in there. And these damned winds . . ." Vorto halted,
mouthing a silent prayer. God made the winds, and he had no right
to curse them. He confessed his sin, then turned his attention to
the giant launcher sitting nearby. Ten cannisters of Formula B
waited beside the magazine, ready for loading. The bellows that
would propel the cannisters was swelled with air. It groaned with
the sound of stretched leather. Vorto reached down and picked up
one of the cannisters. His gunners gasped and inched away. The
general held the cannister up to inspect it, turning it in the pulsing
rocket light. The cylindrical container was no bigger than his head.
Inside it, he could feel liquid sloshing around. There were two
chambers in the cannister, one full of water, the other loaded with
Formula B, the dried pellets the war labs had synthesized. Upon
impact, the cannister would shatter and the components would mix.
Any small breeze would do the rest.

Theoretically. Formula B had never been tested in the field.
Bovadin had fled Nar before its perfection, leaving a handful of
tinkerers behind to finish his work. Formula A had proved too
caustic to transport, even in its dry state. But Formula B, the war
labs had assured Vorto, was perfect. They had tried it on prisoners
with remarkable results, and they were sure fifty cannisters of the
stuff would be enough to wipe out Goth.

But the winds would have to cooperate.

Brooding, Vorto put down the cannister. Much as he wanted to, he
couldn't risk detonating the formula in such stiff winds. The walls of
Goth were high, certainly, but were they high enough to contain the
gas? And what if one of the cannisters landed outside the walls? If
there was a safe distance from the caustic fumes, no one knew its
measure. Maybe Bovadin did, but the midget was in Crote now,
hiding with the sodomite Biagio.

Have faith, the general reminded himself.

"If I fly with dragons, and dwell in the darkest parts of the earth," he
said, "even there will Thy right hand guide me, and Thy light shine a
path for me." Vorto smiled dispassionately at his colonel, who was
not a religious man. "The Book of Gallion," he declared. "Chapter
eleven, verse nineteen. Do you know what it means, Kye?"

Kye was unmoved. Unlike Vorto, he followed the edicts of
Archbishop Herrith out of duty alone, and not of any sense of the
mystic. Vorto had tried, unsuccessfully, to convince the colonel of
the reality of Heaven, but Kye had remained skeptical. He was a
loyal man, though, and a fine soldier, so Vorto overlooked the older
man's heresy.

"They fly the flag," said Colonel Kye simply. "That's all I know."

Behind Kye, Vorto could see the city of Goth aglow in rocket fire,
its stone towers tall and defiant. And at the city's heart, billowing in
the winds atop Lokken's fortress, waved the Black Flag, that hated
symbol of old Nar. It was a crime to fly that banner now, but Lokken
and others like him flaunted Herrith's commandments. Vorto would
not be satisfied until he pulled down that flag and stuffed it down
Duke Lokken's lying throat himself.

Since the death of Arkus and Herrith's ascension, there was only
one flag that the nations of Nar were allowed to fly. It was the same
banner Vorto's men milled under now, a radiant field of gold
harboring a rising sun. Herrith himself had designed the standard.
And the bishop had named it wisely, and blessed it with the power
to rebuke the Black Renaissance.

It was called the Light of God.

And whenever Vorto saw it, he felt a catch in his throat. Now, as
they circled the enormous Walled City, his standard bearers held
the Light of God high so that the glare of the rockets alighted on it
like the touch of heaven and all the misguided in Goth could see it.
Tonight they flew their Black Flag—tonight they displayed their
loyalty to a dead Emperor and his equally dead ideals—but on the
morrow if the winds were fair, the Light of God would wave above
Goth forever.

"Check your azimuth," Vorto commanded the gunners. "I want no
mistakes when we launch."

The gunnery chief looked at his leader questioningly. "Are we
launching, sir?"

"We will be," replied Vorto. He strode over to the weapon and
checked the gauges himself. It was unfamiliar work, but the crude
dials and sliders were simple to understand. A small pointer along
the barrel displayed the estimated distance in forty-yard
increments. His gunners had set the range on maximum and
pointed the barrel, high enough to scale Goth's wall and lob the
cannisters into the city. Curious, Vorto regarded his gunners.

"Best guess, Chief. These winds . . . too much?"

The soldier wrinkled his nose and looked up into the night. The
snow flurries were coming down in a slant. "Hard to say, sir. The
cannisters are heavy, so they should fly straight. But that's a damn
high wall. We'd have to call back the wagons before I'd be
comfortable."

Vorto nodded. "Agreed. Be ready."

The general turned and walked to his warhorse. The powerful
dapple-gray, outfitted with hammered armor, snorted unhappily as
its master mounted. Vorto was an enormous man, and so required
an equally enormous horse to support him. This one was from
Aramoor and big in the shanks. Upon Vorto's back was strapped
his axe, the only weapon he favored since the loss of two fingers.
Though less precise than a sword, he had found the axe at least as
devastating in battle, and its twin blades gave him a desirably
frightening presence. He wore no helmet, for he liked the sounds
of battle and feared no arrow. He armored himself traditionally in
black, but he knew his greatest protection came from Heaven. He
wore his head shaved and his cheeks smooth, and he adorned his
hands with silver gauntlets polished to a mirror shine. Big in the
extreme, he was not fat at all, but rather muscled the way a bull is
muscled, and when he was shirtless his deltoids gave him the
appearance of a wing-spanned hawk or the hood of a cobra. Save
for Herrith himself, no man in the new Nar held more power than
he, and no man was more feared.

Everything about Vorto was inhuman—particularly his eyes. They
were a faded blue, like two lusterless ferns, dim and without life. As
a boy they had been brown, but the potions of the war labs had
changed that. The same potions that had once made him very near
immortal had done strange things to Vorto's body. Like Arkus and
the rest of the dead emperor's Iron Circle, they had all become
addicts, dependent on Bovadin's amazing narcotic. But since the
little scientist's departure there had been no more of the drug. It
was just one more secret Bovadin had taken with him to Crote, and
so Vorto and the others loyal to Herrith had learned to live without
it, despite the bone-crushing withdrawal. Sometimes, when it was
quiet and he was alone, Vorto still had cravings, but with God's
help he had tamed his demons. Others had not been so lucky.
Some of the foppish Naren lords had been unable to withstand the
pain and had perished. A few had even flung themselves out of
Nar's towers rather than endure another moment of agony.

But Vorto was more stout-hearted than those weaklings. He had
overcome the drug and Biagio's schemes for the throne, and he
considered that his proudest struggle. Now he and Herrith were rid
of this tribulation, mostly, and ready to destroy the rest of Biagio's
designs. There was wise work to be done in Nar these days. Men
like Lokken still held on to the ideals of the Black Renaissance,
Arkus' godless disease. The Black Flag still flew in at least four
other nations, and those who didn't fly the symbol of the past often
refused to fly the flag of the future. Very few had come willingly to
the Light of God. Archbishop Herrith could count only a handful of
the Naren nations as true allies. But he had Vorto behind him, and
Vorto had all the legions of Nar. In time, Lokken and everyone like
him would heel.

God's will, thought Vorto as he spied the city. God's will that they
should die this way. Like cows on the killing floor.

In the days of Arkus and the Black Renaissance, Vorto had trod
the world like a prince. He had maimed and slaughtered for the
emperor's false ideals, and had bargained away his soul for soft
beds and lewd company. But he was not that man anymore. He
had heard the call of the Lord and had been cleansed. Herrith and
God had saved him.

Vorto had no remorse. The Black Renaissance was a cancer, and
the only way to deal with it was to eradicate it utterly. Ideas were
powerful, hard to kill. To leave a trace of them was to invite death.
Those who were called to do Heaven's work needed to be iron-
willed and, sometimes, iron-stomached. There would be a stench
from Goth for months, and the buzzards would feast, but Duke
Lokken would be dead. Biagio would have one less ally on Naren
soil to threaten the throne, and the Light of God would fly above the
city, a symbol of God and his mercy.

Vorto spurred on his horse and guided it down the slope. When
this was over, he would sleep well. Colonel Kye mounted his own
horse and followed his superior down the hillside, sidling up to
Vorto and shooting him a suspect stare.

"We're going to launch?" he asked. "When?"

"When I say so, Kye."

"But the winds . . ."

"I've come a long way to bring justice to Duke Lokken and his
rebels," snapped Vorto. "I won't leave defeated."

Kye grimaced. "Begging the general's pardon, but I think you just
want to try the formula."

Vorto shrugged. Kye was almost a friend, and sometimes overly
familiar. "It's God's will," he said simply. "When the other nations
see what's happened here, they will think twice about siding with
Biagio. They all have armies, Kye. Vosk, Dragon's Beak, Doria. We
can't be everywhere. Biagio knows this. And the memory of Arkus
is strong." He gave his second a mordant glare. "We must be at
least as strong."

"General," said Kye evenly. "We have enough men to take the
city."

"I intend to take the city and more, Kye. Now get that damned ram
into position. It's time we knocked on Lokken's door."

Inside his castle of stone and cedar, Duke Lokken of Goth kept the
lights out. The rockets were imprecise and hardly a threat to his
fortress at all, but his family was in this room and Lokken was a
superstitious man. One stray battle rocket, one lucky shot, and a
fire might start that would consume them all. Around his private
chambers high in the western tower, there were guards aplenty to
hold back Vorto's legions, but they could do nothing against the
onslaught of flame cannons and rockets. Lokken stood by a
window, brooding over his falling city, his face awash in the glare.
In his chambers were his wife and two daughters. His eldest and
only son was outside somewhere, probably on the wall.

A rocket slammed into the courtyard below, rattling the tower. In
the hills around the city, the duke could see the distant flares of
launchers as they sent their missiles screaming skyward. His
daughters were crying. The bombardment had hardly dented his
wall, but it had already turned the brains of his people to mush.
Even Lokken was starting to fracture.

The room was dark. Lokken felt a shiver of cold and the
unmistakable shoulder-tapping of remorse. Overhead, the Black
Flag of Nar still flew above his castle, along with Lion's Blood,
Goth's own standard. In a fit of outrage, Lokken had ordered that
detestable banner of Herrith's shredded. He had sent the flag's
remains to the bishop in Nar City. But now, looking down at the
legions, he wondered if his valor had merely been bravado, and he
regretted the ugly death he had invited for his family.

Arkus had not been a perfect emperor. He had been a tyrant, and
Biagio was probably no better. But he had been Lokken's tyrant,
and he had understood the importance of a nation's pride. Never
once had Arkus asked any country of the Empire to lower their own
flag, nor did he ever insist that they fly the Black Flag. Lokken had
complied with Arkus for years, and for years the old man had left
Goth alone, content with the yearly taxes Lokken sent to Nar City.
But this Herrith was a demon.

Lokken missed Arkus. He missed the old ideals of the Black
Renaissance, of peace through strength and world domination.
And when the old man had finally died, Lokken knew with whom to
side.

"Kill me if you can," whispered the duke. "I will never fly your flag."

"Uncle?"

At the sound of the voice Lokken turned from the window. There in
the darkness was little Lorla, her face full of dread. She had
dressed for travel, as ordered. In her tiny hands she clutched a
leather bag full of food, hopefully enough to get her to safety. Her
brilliant green eyes looked up at Lokken with profound sadness.

"I'm ready, Uncle," she said. Her eight-year-old's face tried to
smile, but there was no joy in the expression. Lokken dropped
down to a knee and took her hand. It was small and soft, belying
the truth of her nature. Not surprisingly, Lorla hadn't shed a single
tear throughout the entire bombardment. Lokken was proud of her.

"I wish I could take you to Duke Enli myself," he said. "But you'll be
safe with Daevn. He knows the way better than any of my men.
He'll get you past the legions."

Lorla looked dubious. "I've seen them through my window. There
may be too many to pass. And they won't hesitate to kill me."

Lokken smiled. "Then you mustn't get caught, right?" He ran his
hand through her splendid hair. She had been his ward for almost a
year now, ever since Nar fell to Herrith. Biagio had asked Lokken to
keep the child safe, and though Lokken had thought it a hardship at
the time, he had adored every moment he'd spent with Lorla.
Blood might have separated them, but she still felt every bit his
daughter.

"Lorla," began the duke solemnly. "I don't know what's going to
happen to you, even if you do reach Dragon's Beak. Biagio hasn't
told me anything more about you, and I've never met Duke Enli.
But it's important that you get there. It's important to Nar. You know
that, don't you?"

"I know what I am, Uncle. Whatever the Master has planned for me,
I'm ready."

The Master. Lokken still hated that term. Since coming to Goth,
Lorla never referred to Biagio as anything but the Master. He
supposed it was Roshann programming. Very thorough. Lorla
knew what she was, but that was all. In a sense she was a freak, a
growing woman frozen in the body of an eight-year-old. She didn't
know what Biagio had planned for her, and her incubation in the
labs had made her trust the count implicitly. Lokken pitied the girl.

"You've meant a lot to me," he said. "I'm proud to have been part
of this. I wish I could have known you better."

Lorla's gaze dropped. "I wish you could have told me more. Maybe
someday."

Lokken's grin was crooked. They both knew there wouldn't be a
someday. Not for Lokken, and not for the family that had cared for
Lorla this past year. Like Biagio's Roshann, Vorto's legions were
thorough. Given time, there would be very little left of Goth. But
Goth wouldn't perish entirely. If Lorla made it to Dragon's Beak,
Herrith and Vorto would hear from the Walled City again. Perhaps
Biagio was a madman, but he was brilliant. Whatever the Count of
Crote had planned, Lokken had confidence. Just like Goth, the
Black Renaissance would not go quietly.

Lorla walked past Duke Lokken toward the window. Standing on
her tiptoes, she regarded the battle raging outside. Her eyes
scanned the hills and circling war wagons, the legionnaires armed
with flame cannons and maces. This was the gauntlet she had to
cross, with only her diminutive size and the cloak of darkness to
hide her.

"I should go now," she declared. "The snow will slow them."

Lokken nodded grimly. "There's a pony waiting for you. Daevn is in
the courtyard. He'll take you to the hidden gate. Remember, wait 'til
the rockets die down, then head for the first hill with the apple
trees. It's rugged there, and . . ."

"I know the way," Lorla interrupted. She was getting agitated. Too
much talk. So Lokken said no more.

For an hour, Vorto watched his siege machines circle the city.
Then the ram was ready. Vorto rode down to inspect it, surrounded
by an armored entourage of legionnaires. The ram was enormous,
the largest the war labs had ever constructed. Twenty greegans
had dragged the war machine to Goth. Its wheels were as tall as a
man, and a hundred wooden handles poked from its side like the
legs of a centipede. Its head was of granite, fastened to the stout
oak shaft with bands of riveted iron, and along its top length were
loops of rope to keep the men from being dragged beneath its
crushing wheels. As he brought his mount up alongside the
weapon, Vorto wondered if it was up to the task. Goth's walls were
legendary, and the city gate was reinforced with spikes and lengths
of petrified timber. The Walled City had stood for generations,
shrugging off countless wars. Some said it was impregnable.

But then, nothing was impregnable to God or Nar. Vorto reined in
his bucking horse and turned to Kye. The colonel's helmet was
covered with a sheen of snow.

"Bring up two platoons of cannoneers. Have them concentrate fire
on the walls around the gate. We have to keep the archers back.
And stop the rocket barrage. I don't want those damn things
landing near the ram. When the gate comes down, we'll swarm. Is
your infantry ready, Kye?"

"They've been ready, sir."

"Then keep the cavalry back until I give the order. We need a clear
passage for the charge. I don't want them bunching up near the
gate; Lokken will be expecting that. And he'll probably have some
surprises for us."

Kye grimaced. "Sir, if we're going to use the gas anyway . . ."

"I want Lokken, Kye. I have a surprise for him. Off with you now. Do
as I say."

Kye dismissed himself with a shrug, then rode off to gather the
flame cannoneers his lord had requested. Vorto watched him go.
Once again, impatience was gnawing at him. The snow was
deepening, and the cessation of rocket fire would bring back the
darkness. Beneath his metal gauntlets his fingertips were blue.
Goth could hold out for weeks, and winter was coming fast. Hunger
and cold would soon eat away at his legion's morale, and he
couldn't risk that.

It took only moments before Kye had the cannoneers arranged. As
ordered, he had them flank the ram's path to the gate. A steady
stream of fire belched from the nozzles of the cannons, pushing
back the archers defending the city's entrance. The wooden
catwalks along the wall burst into flames under the barrage. Gothan
archers drew back to safer positions. Vorto heard their desperate
cries for reinforcements. They had seen the ram.

Vorto pulled his double-sided axe from his back and thundered
down the hillside. Behind him followed his standard bearers,
holding high the Light of God. The sight of the golden flag attracted
the attention of some of the archers on the wall. Vorto laughed and
shook his fist at them.

"I'm here!" he taunted. "Put one through my heart!"

But he was still too distant and the archers knew it, so instead they
pumped their arrows at the ram and the legionnaires taking up
position alongside it. Vorto shouted orders at the hundred-man
team. Above the ram's pulling stations was a hood of metal, a
deflector against the rain of missiles. Each soldier in turn tethered
himself to the ram, dropping loops of rope around his waist. Vorto
moved in a little closer, until he was with Colonel Kye again. The
platoons of cannons fired at the wall, pressing back the wave of
Gothans. Fingers of flame splashed against the monolithic wall.
Overhead the rockets had ceased. A dull darkness pressed down
on the world.

The walls of Goth loomed fifty feet tall. The gates themselves
stood a proud twenty. General Vorto quickly calculated the
required force. Five passes; maybe more. But that would take
time, and the cannons wouldn't hold forever. Already longbowmen
had scored some lucky hits against his men. From the torches in a
nearby tower, Vorto could see the shadows of more Gothans
taking up position. His men would have to hurry.

"Kye," he said very calmly. "Now."

Colonel Kye raised his saber. "Ram!" he directed.

A grunt of exertion filled the air. Very slowly, the massive wheels of
the ram began grinding forward.

Lieutenants near the ram cursed orders, urging on their men. The
weapon picked up speed as it rolled toward Goth's gate. Vorto
licked his wind-chapped lips. The ram groaned as it accelerated. A
panicked shout went up from the Gothans. Flame cannons
detonated, spilling against the wall. Faster and faster went the ram.
Larger and larger loomed the gates. Vorto grit his teeth. . . .

Louder than a crack of thunder, the ram smashed against the
wooden gate. All the world seemed to shudder. Archers along the
wall tumbled backward with the impact, and for one moment the
cannoneers stopped their endless fire, astonished by the sound.
Vorto peered expectantly through the murkiness. As the light grew
again, he saw the damaged gate. Impossibly, a hairline fissure was
snaking its way through the petrified wood.

"God in Heaven!" Vorto laughed. A cheer went up from the
legionnaires gathered around the ram. They were two hundred
strong now, called from their circling of the city to storm falling
Goth. Men on horseback shook their swords in victory. Even
Colonel Kye broke into an unreserved smile.

"Again!" ordered Vorto. Already the ram was being pushed back
into position. Again the night flashed with cannon fire. A new rain of
arrows poured down upon the soldiers, catching some in their
backs. Kye directed a squad of handhelds toward the new threat.
The two-man teams hurried up to the wall and hosed it down with
streams of fire. Though small and lacking the range of their bigger
brothers, the handheld cannons threw their fire high into the night,
scorching the tower of the Gothan archers and halting their
barrage.

Once more the ram inched forward. Vorto heard the agonized
shouts of the men as their muscles strained with effort. The ram
accelerated slowly, then faster and faster still. Another concussion
shook the ground as the ram battered the wooden portal. This time
the fissure became a groaning rent. Vorto hurried his charger
nearer the gate. Through the crack he could almost see the city.
Several poles of timber still held the doorway fast, but these had
bowed and would never withstand another blow. Kye shouted
orders to his men. The ram started backward for one last assault.
Vorto pranced triumphantly in the cannon-light, laughing and
praising Heaven for his coming victory. The Light of God waved
above his head.

"Time's up, Lokken," caroled Vorto gleefully. He spared one last
look into the hills where the launchers were waiting, and a little pang
of anticipation ran through him.

Lorla reached the hidden gate just as the snow began falling in
earnest. Her pony was exhausted from the hard, fast ride through
the city. Daevn, her guide and guardian, was slick with sleet and
sweat. He was a tall man and a fast talker, and Lorla watched
anxiously as he spoke to the Gothan soldiers at the gate, and
shouted up to the men pacing the wall. Except for the soldiers,
Goth was locked up tight. The rockets had stopped falling now,
and darkness crept over the city. Lorla fidgeted as she listened to
the far off pounding at the main gate. The sound reminded her of a
drum.

Daevn returned, mounting his horse as he waited for the portal to
slide open. It was far smaller than the main gate, more like a door
really, and made up of the same dull gray as the rest of the wall.
Lorla tried to peer through as it opened. Beyond it she could see
only darkness and snow.

"What's that sound?" she asked nervously.

"Battering ram," Daevn explained. "They've started to break
through. Lucky for us, too. The rest of the Naren soldiers are
gathering near the main gate." He smiled at her wickedly. "We just
might make it."

Lorla hardly knew Daevn at all, and wasn't sure he understood what
she truly was. But she tried to smile, because she would need the
brute's goodwill, and when the hidden gate creaked open she
ushered her pony closer to it.

"It's clear, I think," said one of the soldiers. He looked up to the
catwalk where another Gothan silently gave them the go-ahead.
"Hurry now. Stay to the shadows, but don't linger."

Daevn nodded. "Ready, girl?"

"I'm ready," Lorla lied.

Daevn took the lead, trotting his horse outside the wall. At once the
darkness swallowed him. Lorla steeled herself before urging her
pony outside. The beast seemed to sense her trepidation and
moved with leaden legs. Lorla heard another concussion from the
far side of the city, and fear sped her on. Daevn impatiently waved
her forward. Outside the wall, everything was silent. The din of
battle was oddly quieter here. Lorla spared a sad look backward as
the hidden gate drew slowly closed. Remarkably, it seemed to
disappear.

"Come on," Daevn ordered. He began speeding for the hills. It
would be thick there and dark. Dressed in black, Lorla and Daevn
quickly became part of the shadows. Fast and silent, they rode
toward the looming unknown of Dragon's Beak.

Duke Lokken stepped out onto the balcony of his tower and
brooded over his falling city. Reports were coming in faster than he
could comprehend them, and his private chambers were flooded
with aides. Vorto's legions had broken through the gate and were
swarming into the city. The glow of flame cannons told the duke
how near they were. Larius, his Counselor-at-Arms, was tugging at
his shirtsleeve like a little boy, begging for guidance or any
semblance of life. But Duke Lokken was a million miles away. His
eyes had glazed over with dreadful visions, and his thoughts had
slowed to a crawl. His boy Jevin was on the main gate. Dead by
now, surely. And in another hour or so his daughters would join
him—but not before they lost their virtue to the marauders. Very
quickly, Goth was becoming a Naren ruin.

"Larius," the duke said quietly. "Take my wife and daughters to the
throne room. Wait with them there. I will be down presently. Just a
few moments alone . . ."

"No," cried his wife. Kareena rushed up to him and took his hand.
Throughout the siege she had been resolute, but now the dam of
her emotions was crumbling. "I won't be away from you."

Lokken smiled forlornly. "Kareena, do this for me. I want to watch
the city. Alone."

"We will stay with you," his wife offered. "Send the others away, but
not us. Please, the girls—"

"Will have their father with them in minutes," Lokken said. "Go to
the throne room. Wait for me there. And have the guards wait
outside." He turned to his counselor. "Larius, you hear? I want no
soldiers in the chamber. You alone will stay with them,
understood?"

"I understand, my Duke."

Lokken took his wife's face in his hands and pulled it close, his
voice a whisper. "I have to be strong, Kareena, and there's not
much time. Just let me have my moment of weakness, will you?"

Kareena's lips shuddered. Without a word she slipped from the
duke's embrace, gathered her daughters, and led them out of the
chamber. Larius was silent too. The old warrior gave his duke a
sad smile before leaving the balcony and ordering the others out of
the chamber.

Alone, Duke Lokken of Goth cast his eyes out over his burning city.
Goth the fair. Goth the strong. Built by slaves, mortared with blood,
it had been the only home the duke had ever known. Tears trickled
down his cheeks. Soon Vorto would come for him, and by then he
wanted to be purged of tears. He would face the butcher of Nar
with the same contempt that had made him shred Herrith's hateful
flag. This day, even as Goth collapsed, he would give his enemies
no satisfaction.

On a thousand armored feet and breathing flame, Vorto's imperial
legions rolled through the city of Goth. Above them rose the
granite towers thick with archers, and the streets were barricaded
with human flesh—Lokken's wild, sword-wielding defenders. Naren
cavalry pushed through the narrow avenues, slicing down Gothan
infantry with their sabers while flame cannons cut them a blazing
path. Overhead the dawn was breaking red and harsh. Men were
barking like dogs, ordering advances and retreats, and the
screams of the burning echoed down the stone corridors.

Fighting street to street, Vorto's legions had nearly made their way
to Lokken's castle. Now the fortress could be clearly seen, tall and
impressive in the snowy dawn, its two flags wet with ice in the
chilling wind. General Vorto rode his horse through the carnage, an
expression of victory on his face. Not far away, Colonel Kye was
leading the cavalry assault on the main thoroughfare, ignoring the
flood of arrows from the granite towers. Vorto followed him, his
massive axe cutting through Gothan infantry, buckling helmets and
crushing heads. Gore splashed his armored legs and the flanks of
his horse. Detonating flame cannons rocked the avenue. A horde
of Gothan defenders rode toward them furiously, trying to trap
them against the foot soldiers. Screaming, Vorto turned to charge
them.

"Follow me!" he bellowed. Twenty heavy-horsemen heard the cry
and galloped off after him. A quick-thinking cannoneer turned his
weapon against the coming Gothans, burning down a third of them
in a fireball. The heat from the blast struck Vorto in the face,
singeing his eyebrows, but he rode on heedlessly. When the
bloom of fire had dissipated he collided with the Gothan
horsemen. At once he felt a sword glance off his armored
shoulder. Vorto brought his axe up and then down, shearing off the
offending arm. He whirled to catch another horseman, too near to
avoid the flashing hatchet. And then his men were with him,
crashing against the horsemen of Goth. Lost in the blinding melee,
Vorto crooned his terrible battle chant and swung his weapon,
slamming through flesh and armor and dousing himself in blood.

When the melee was nearly over, Vorto pulled his horse out of the
crowd and followed Colonel Kye's brigade down the street toward
the fortress. Kye had cut a path wide enough for the greegans, and
the war wagons were lumbering forward, heedless of the Gothan
archers. Unstoppable, bristling with swords and bright with cannon
fire, the column moved slowly toward the waiting fortress. Ahead of
them, the Gothans were retreating for the castle, regrouping for
one last battle. Vorto could see the structure plainly now. A three-
tiered masterpiece of rock and wood, it reminded the general of a
bulldog, its power born from a squat and determined stance. Vorto
hurried his mount up to the center of his army, shouldering past the
thickness of men and horseflesh. Colonel Kye gave him a sinister
grin.

"The fortress, General?" he asked.

Vorto nodded. "They'll make their stand there, no doubt. Take up
positions to the east and west, four platoons each with cannons.
The rest of us will ride up to Lokken's door."

Kye looked around suspiciously. "Quiet," he remarked.

Vorto surveyed their surroundings. It was quiet. They had met only
pathetic resistance from the populace, and now the streets were
fairly deserted. Soon the formula would do the rest. Unnerved by
the silence, Vorto and his legionnaires fanned out toward the
waiting fortress.

The Gothan regulars scurried down the streets in retreat, taking up
positions near Lokken's hideout. The archers ceased firing. Vorto's
column moved deliberately through the deserted avenues. The
general's eyes moved over the streets and towers, waiting for an
assassin's arrow that never came. In the distance around the
fortress he heard the shouts of men. An eerie pall blanketed Goth.
People in their houses peered nervously from windows. Vorto's
brow furrowed. . . .

Then he saw the flash. It was more brilliant than the sun.
Breathtaken, Vorto reined in his horse as the rockets climbed
skyward over the fortress, hung high above, then burst into a
cascade of fireworks. For one beautiful moment, the sky over
Lokken's home was the only thing in the world, alive with light
meant for one defiant purpose—to illuminate the flags of Goth,
Vorto's face did an impossible contortion at the sight of it. There
was the Black Flag, lit with all the grace of Heaven, an impudent
beacon in a darkness of snow. One last spit from the disloyal duke.

"Lokken," seethed Vorto, "you will burn in Hell for this." The general
crossed himself and closed his eyes in prayer, begging God to be
unmerciful. His simmering rage boiled over. "Fly your flag?" he
hissed. "Your black and faithless flag?"

It was all he could manage not to scream. "Hurry now," he roared at
his men. "I want this bastard found!"

The Naren legion double-timed it through the streets. The war
wagons rumbled forward as quickly as the mammoth greegans
could pull, and the cavalry horses snorted. Vorto fought his way to
the front of his column. The flame cannons had stopped now, but
Vorto could see platoons of them taking up positions near the
fortress, balancing their needle-nosed weapons unsteadily in
makeshift cradles. Colonel Kye brought his horse up alongside his
superior's. The soldier sniffed at the sight of the fortress.

"It's as if they have no defenses at all," he laughed. "Maybe you
were right, sir. Maybe we should just knock!"

They were in a large courtyard of stone. A garrison of Gothans
stood before them, armed and sullen, flanked by the remains of
their cavalry. The men of the Walled City made no pretense at
defense. They simply waited. Vorto leaned over to whisper in
Kye's ear.

"Kye," he said softly. "What is this?"

Colonel Kye shrugged, clearly puzzled by the mob. "I don't know.
Surrender?"

Vorto put up a hand to halt his column. The order echoed down the
line. Almost in unison the armored snake came to a stop. Vorto
looked around uneasily. A trap was his first instinct, but he saw
nothing to indicate aggression, not even the smallest movement.
He eyed the Gothan soldiers standing guard around the fortress.
They hadn't lowered their swords, yet the archers made no attempt
to notch new shafts.

"Now I'm curious," quipped Vorto.

"You there!" called Kye across the courtyard. "Is this surrender?"

Still the Gothans said nothing. They were fifty yards away at least,
and Vorto wondered if they had heard the question over the wind.

"My God," grumbled Vorto. "They surrender as poorly as they
fight."

And then the spiked gate of Lokken's castle began drawing
upward. The Gothan guardians parted like waves, revealing the
murky insides of the keep. Vorto and Kye both strained to see past
the gathering snow. A small figure emerged from the darkness.
Thinking it was the duke, Vorto's heart leapt with excitement. But
then he saw the crimson uniform of the Gothan military and knew
the man wasn't Lokken. This soldier was old, far older than the
duke, and slightly stooped. He walked past the guardians of the
fortress without regard, heading straight for Vorto and his army.

"What's this?" asked Vorto. He drew himself erect, then handed
his battle axe to Kye. "Who are you?" he demanded of the soldier.
"And what business have you with me?"

Without ceremony, the soldier stopped mere feet from the general
of Nar.

"You are Vorto?" he asked pointedly. "Old man, I asked you a
question," warned Vorto. "Do you speak for Lokken?"

"I speak for the duke, yes," replied the soldier. "I am Larius,
Counselor-at-Arms for the Walled City. You are Vorto, are you
not?"

Vorto smiled. "I am your master and lord high executioner, dog.
Servant of Heaven and Archbishop Herrith." The general glared
down hard. "Where is your duke?"

"The duke awaits you in his throne room," said Larius. "I am to take
you there."

"A personal invitation? Oh, how gracious. I accept, Gothan. Take
me to the pig."

Colonel Kye cleared his throat. "General . . ." "Be fearless, Kye,"
said Vorto. "We are in God's hands. Counselor, lead on. Kye, you
come with me."

Larius of Goth made a disdainful face but said nothing more. He
turned his back on the legions and headed again for the fortress
gates. Vorto followed, as did Kye, with the ten soldiers that
shadowed the general everywhere in tow. When they reached the
gates, Vorto and his entourage dismounted, handing their horses
off to the Naren infantry. The soldiers of Goth eyed them balefully.
Vorto watched Larius disappear into the fortress. Inside, the great
hall was lit with torches and lined with perfectly positioned soldiers,
all in uniforms of bright crimson. They had their swords drawn and
held erect at their sides, so that they looked more like toys than
things of flesh. Vorto hesitated at the threshold.

Larius paused to regard him.

"Come, General," ordered the soldier impatiently. "They won't hurt
you. They have their orders."

Vorto stepped unflinchingly into the hall, spurred on by the insult.
Colonel Kye was equally deliberate. At the far end of the hall was a
set of open doors. Larius led the intruders through the hall, and
when he reached the doors he stepped aside. "The duke," he said.

Vorto stepped into the room. At the other end of the expansive
chamber he saw Lokken, sitting upon his modest throne. At his
right hand was the austerely beautiful Kareena. Her eyes flashed
when she glimpsed the general. At the feet of the duchess were
two small girls, Lokken's daughters, looking stricken and confused.
The duke himself seemed surprisingly composed. There were no
guardians in the chamber, no soldiers of any kind. Only Lokken and
his brood. Vorto strode noisily into the chamber, his armor dripping
Gothan blood. When he came to the small dais he paused, choked
up saliva, and spit the wad in Lokken's tranquil face. With perfect
composure, Duke Lokken wiped the spittle away.

"So," grated Vorto. "This is where the king sits, eh?"

Lokken said nothing.

"Oh, you treacherous thing. You are abhorrent in the eyes of God!
How is it you dare defy the will of Heaven?"

Still the duke was silent.

"Say something, you arrogant maggot!"

But it was Kareena who responded. She lunged at Vorto,
screaming, her nails raking his face. Vorto hissed and caught her
arm, twisting it and driving her to her knees. His other hand slapped
her face, splitting her lip.

"No!" cried Lokken, leaping from his throne. He grabbed his wife
and drew her into his arms.

"Control your woman, Lokken," warned Vorto, "or I will take her
back with me and teach her manners myself."

"Don't you touch her!" Lokken seethed. He rose to his feet and
faced the towering general. "You're here for me, butcher. Me
alone."

Suddenly Vorto understood. "Is that why you surrender? To spare
your family, dog?"

Lokken grimaced. "Yes. Spare them, and no one else dies today. I
can kill you now just with a word, Vorto. But I won't. Not if you agree
to spare my kin." "It is for Heaven to judge, not I." "Spare them,"
Lokken begged, "and you can walk out of here alive. With your
men."

Vorto's eyes narrowed. "Threats from a traitor. How horrible to
hear."

"I'm no traitor," said Lokken. "I am loyal to our emperor and his
memory. You're the usurper, Vorto. You and your bishop. Call it
what you will, but I fly the flag of Nar."

"Oh, yes," crooned Vorto. "The flag. You're keen on flags, aren't
you, Lokken?" Vorto turned to his waiting men. "Take him," he
ordered. "The females, too."

At once his waiting legionnaires seized the royal family of Goth,
dragging them after Vorto who was exiting the chamber.

"Not my family!" the duke cried as the men took hold of him. "God,
not them!"

"God doesn't hear you," said Vorto over his shoulder. "Not them,
please!"

"Not them," agreed Vorto. Outside the chamber he found the
worried Larius again. The man looked about to faint. "Counselor,
your master has something to tell you."

"Duke Lokken?" gasped Larius. "Tell him, Lokken. About our
agreement . . ." Lokken looked relieved. He tried shrugging off the
grasp of the soldiers, but they wouldn't yield. All the Gothan
guardians watched their duke, their jaws slack. Duchess Kareena
was in tears, as were her two children.

"Safe passage," said Lokken at last. "For all of them. If they let my
family live, all of you will let them go. Promise me, Larius."

"My Duke . . ."

"Promise me!"

"Promise him," urged Vorto. "Or they all die right now. And even if
you kill us, my legion will burn Goth to the ground."

"My Duke, it's your death. . . ." Larius begged. "Don't make me do
this."

Duke Lokken finally shook off his captors. When they tried to seize
him again, Vorto put up a hand to stop them. He let the duke go to
his man and clasp his hands firmly on the soldier's shoulders.

"I die," said the duke. "You hear me? I die. And no one else after
me. Now promise me, my friend. Safe passage for these Naren
beasts. It's my last order. Will you carry it out?"

Larius' expression collapsed. "I will, my Duke. My . . . friend."

"No archers, no cavalry," pressed Vorto. "Nothing 'til we reach the
gate, old man. Is that understood?"

"Aye," said Larius. "I hear you, Naren."

"Good for you." Vorto smiled sharply. "Then, to the tower. I want to
see these flags of yours up close, Lokken. Take us there. Now."

Once again the soldiers tried to take hold of him, and once again
the duke shrugged them off.

"I won't drag you if there's no need," said Vorto. "Or your bitches.
Let's go."

Lokken took hold of his young wife's hand. "My love," he choked.
"I'm so sorry I did this to you." He went down to his knees to his
crying daughters, who looked to Vorto like twins of no more than
four. The children didn't seem to know what was happening. He
kissed them both on the forehead, wiped away their confused
tears, then stood to face his executioner. "I'm ready."

"Take us to your flags," Vorto ordered. "Your family can watch you
die, or they can wait here. I don't care which."

Kareena would not let go of her husband. "I want to be with you,"
she pleaded.

"No." The duke's voice was icy. He spared her one last kiss—one
last, long look—then went down the corridor. Vorto and his men
followed. Larius tried to follow too, but Kye kicked at him. "Just the
duke," snarled the colonel. With a bravado that impressed Vorto,
Duke Lokken never wavered. He led them directly to a spiral
staircase within a tower of gray granite, a dark place lit with
sconces which sent up an oily smoke. As they disappeared into
the spire, Duchess Kareena uttered a wailing, agonized sob. But
Lokken remained as unbending as steel. Without a word he guided
the Narens up the stairs. When he came to the top of the tower he
pushed open the door and let an icy breeze blow in.

They were atop the tallest spire in the city, with all of Goth burning
at their feet. Vorto stepped out onto the roof. In the center was the
flagpole that had caused them all such grief. And at the top of the
pole, hideously aglow in the coming dawn, were the two offending
flags of Goth. The old flag of Nar made Vorto shudder with
disgust. He stared at it for a long moment, then bowed his head
and prayed.

"Dear God, Lord of all things, give me strength to destroy this
travesty. God of mercy and light, be with us, Your servants."

No one else prayed with Vorto, but all except Lokken inclined their
heads. When he was done praying, Vorto sighed and looked at the
duke.

"I give you one chance to redeem yourself, Lokken.

Here and now, will you renounce the Black Renaissance? Will you
accept Heaven as your salvation? Your lord Biagio is a sodomite
and a devil. He lies with men and defies the church of Nar. For your
soul, Lokken, renounce him and his works."

Lokken stared at Vorto, and then the duke was laughing, shaking
his head in disbelief.

"Mad," he declared. "You are truly mad. Oh, I pity you, Vorto. I pity
all of Nar. You're under a spell, can't you see? You've fallen for a
myth."

"God and Hell are no myths," said Vorto. "Save yourself from the
eternal burning. Renounce Biagio so your soul may rest."

The duke was resolute. "If there is a Hell, then I would gladly burn
there. Better that than to grovel to Herrith's church."

It was the answer Vorto expected. "So be it." He went to the
flagpole, undid the knots, and quickly lowered the flags. Lion's
Blood came down first, and this the general crumpled into a ball
and threw off the ledge. Taken by the wind, the crimson standard
of Goth drifted out of sight. Vorto went back to the pole and cut
down the Black Flag. It was the most unremarkable standard in the
Empire, nothing more than a field of black fabric, but it held
generations of evil in its stitching.

"Bind him," the general ordered. At once his soldiers cut off
lengths of rope and tethered the duke's wrists behind his back. As
they worked Vorto mumbled over the Black Flag, praying in High
Naren to exorcise its unholy powers. Then he grabbed hold of the
flag and tore it in two. Lokken watched the destruction, unmoved.
Vorto stuffed the two halves in the duke's lapel.

"You want to fly your flags, Duke? You want to defy Heaven? Then
fly your damnable flags!"

Colonel Kye pushed the bound Lokken toward the flag pole. Two
more soldiers made a noose of the rope and looped it around
Lokken's neck. They gave it a quick jerk to tighten it, bringing the
duke to his toes.

"No regrets, Lokken?" taunted Vorto. "None at all? There's still
time, demon. But the clock is ticking fast away. Tick tock, tick tock .
. ."

"Damn you and your bishop both, butcher. I will see you in your
Hell!"

"Yes, yes," agreed Vorto. With a wave of his hand he ordered the
legionnaires to tighten the rope. Lokken's pale eyes protruded
from their sockets and his tongue darted out for air. He held his
breath halfway to the top before letting out a belching cry. His feet
kicked the rest of the way, and when at last he reached the top,
Duke Lokken of Goth was dead. Vorto looked up at him, satisfied.
Now all the Walled City could see his folly.

"God have mercy on you," said the general quietly. But it was no
less than the heretic deserved. Someday, Vorto pledged, he would
do the same to Biagio, and then at last Nar would be free of its
dynasty of tyrants. Weary to the bone, General Vorto turned to his
loyal colonel. "Kye, come. There is still work to do."

Vorto left the rooftop first, eager to be gone from the dead duke's
bulging gaze.

General Vorto quietly led his legion out of the Walled City. True to
his promise, Larius called back the archers from the towers and
the tattered remains of Gothan infantry. Their city was in flames
anyway, and all hands were needed to stem the growing fires.
General Vorto rode resolutely past the astonished faces of the
civilians, enduring muttered insults and the tearful, spiteful looks of
children. The sun was higher now, bright and burning away the
earth's snowy sheen. And the wind had fled with the night. As he
reached the city gates, Vorto looked to Heaven for guidance.
Beyond the staggered clouds he saw the gray-blue sky. God was
speaking to him, as He had been for months now. On the dying
breeze he heard the Lord's breath. Vorto nodded, understanding.

When he was safely clear of the city, Vorto called over Colonel
Kye. His second trotted closer, then closer still when he heard
Vorto whispering.

"Kye, it's time. Get the men away from the city. But leave the ram.
Keep it near the gates to block it."

"The ram?" Colonel Kye looked over his shoulder to where the
giant weapon waited, still blocking a good portion of the ruined
portal. On either side of it men and horses squeezed through.
"We're leaving it behind?"

"We're leaving it exactly where it is. Gather the lieutenants. Have
them ride for the launchers and tell the gunners to make ready."

Colonel Kye seemed stricken. "General . . ."

"It is the will of God, Kye. This place reeks of evil. It must be
cleansed."

"General, you promised Lokken you'd spare them. His family . . ."

"His family bears the same taint he did," said Vorto firmly. "And so
does all of Goth. We came here to stop the Renaissance, to
stomp it out like a fire. I won't leave the job half done."

Kye's expression hardened. "Sir, may I speak freely?"

"You always do," snapped Vorto.

"Sir, this is genocide. It's murder."

"Murder?" Vorto flared. "Who said anything about murder? This is
salvation, Colonel, make no mistake. The Black Renaissance is a
tumor. If you had a disease in your flesh, would you not carve it
out? This is what we're doing here. We're saving Nar. Stop being a
dullard, Kye. See the truth for once!"

Silenced by his general's implicit threat, Kye merely looked away,
toward the hills around the city where the deadly launchers awaited
their orders.

"Wait until we're clear," said Vorto. "Then send up the signal
rocket."

Kye nodded sullenly and trotted off, but Vorto called after him.

"Kye . . ."

The colonel turned to face Vorto. "General?"

"It's not easy to do the work of Heaven, Kye. No for me, not for
anyone. Pray for strength. He will provide."

"Yes, General," replied Kye dully.

The colonel rode away.

Duchess Kareena of Goth, newly widowed, stood on the rooftop of
the fortress tower, watching her dead husband pendulate in the
breeze. The tightness of rope about his throat had turned his face
a curious purple, making it scarcely recognizable, even to the
woman who had borne him three children. The tower roof was cold.
Except for a few stray flurries, the snow had stopped falling. Larius
drew his dagger and began cutting his dead master down. Good
Larius, the only person in the world Kareena could bear to be with
for this gruesome task. Downstairs her daughters were weeping,
inconsolable. Her only boy was probably dead, a casualty lying
blood-soaked on the wall. Kareena trembled. Somehow, she had
tamed her tears, but a terrible fog had descended, drawing out the
time of things. She was in her twenty-ninth year and had never
thought she could love this much-older man, but now that he was
gone she wondered what life there could possibly be without him.

Around the city, Vorto's army had retreated as promised, a fact that
astounded Kareena. She hadn't expected the butcher to be good
to his word. As morning flooded the valley, she could see them
riding away, satisfied to have murdered her husband. The duchess
stifled a sob and went to the flag pole, helping Larius draw Lokken
down. His body had gone cold. Kareena cradled him and lowered
him to the ground, cursing as she fought to free the noose.

"Oh, God," she moaned. "My husband . . ."

Lokken's eyes were wide. Unseeing, they stared at her. Larius put
a hand over them and closed the lids. The old soldier knelt, kissed
his master's forehead, then backed away, leaving his mistress to
grieve. Kareena held Lokken's head to her bosom and rocked him.
Was she leader of Goth now? she wondered. Would Vorto return
for more vengeance? Kareena stroked her husband's head,
brushing strands of hair from his lifeless, distorted face. Larius
walked over to the edge of the rooftop and looked out over the city.
Wet snow blanketed the horizon, punctuated with fire and smoke.
Far below, Kareena heard the wails of her people, the aimless,
bewildered cries of children and their mothers. Soldiers moved
through the avenues, fighting back the fires with blankets and
bucket brigades. Kareena closed her eyes and mouthed a
prayer—not to the new God of Nar but to the old, when God was
mild. Before the death of Arkus, she had loved the church. She
had even made a pilgrimage to Nar City to see the great Cathedral
of the Martyrs and to hear the words of Herrith. But in the ruins of
the old Empire, something had gone horribly awry.

A sound in the distance halted Kareena's prayers. A popping in the
hillside, followed by another and another still. Kareena craned her
neck to see. The sound was all around her suddenly. Panicked,
she laid Lokken down and hastened to Larius' side. The counselor
was scanning the horizon.

"Larius? What is it? What's that sound?"

"My lady, I don't know. Cannons?"

"Cannons? Oh, no, that can't be."

"I don't see flashes," agreed Larius. "But the sound—"

Overhead an object whistled past. Larius grabbed his mistress and
pulled her to the ground. Kareena screamed as another missile
hissed, slamming into the tower wall. There was a sound like
exploding steam, The far-off popping in the hills intensified.
Kareena pulled free of Larius and ran to the stone railing.

"What is it?" she screamed. She put her hands to her ears to
banish the sound. "Larius, what . . .?"

All around Goth, green smoke exploded, its emerald fingers
crawling through the streets. The strange bombardment had the
city looking skyward. Men screamed, tearing at their eyes as the
relentless vapors engulfed them. On the wind came the sweet
smell of something evil. Kareena sniffed at the air, too late to know
the poison she was breathing. Fire climbed into her nostrils,
burning out the membranes. Her throat constricted and a flood of
tears rushed from her eyes. She staggered from the wall, reeling
backward into Larius. Desperately she grabbed for him. The old
man's eyes were filled with blood. Horrified, unable to breathe or
scream, Duchess Kareena looked down at her stained dress and
realized that her tears were crimson.
TWO
The Golden Count

H e was called the Mind Bender. The name had been given to him
by his former master, Arkus of Nar, and Savros bore it proudly, and
referred to himself as such even in the presence of good imperial
ladies. He handled his tools as a painter would a brush, delicately
and with the flair of genius. Some said he was mad, but all agreed
that he was peerless in his work, one of Nar's rare artisans.
Soldiers envied his deftness with a knife, and women fainted when
he told his dark tales. He had known his true vocation since his
boyhood.

Simon watched the Mind Bender work, aghast at the love he had
for his craft. His spidery fingers crawled over his victim's flesh, his
arsenal of narrow scalpels twirling between his digits like sharp
batons. Simon knew he was watching a master, and despite the
howls of the thing hanging in chains from the ceiling, it was wholly
fascinating to witness.

"It's so easy," whispered the torturer. His tongue darted out to lick
the man's ear. "So easy to die . . ."

The voice was honey, sickly sweet and cloying. It rose from the
Mind Bender's throat like a song, teasing the man and compelling
him to talk. But the man was almost past coherence. Only Triin
gibberish trickled from his lips now, but Savros the Mind Bender
wasn't finished. He produced another blade from his white vest and
made his victim behold it, turning it slowly in the dungeon's feeble
light so the flicker of the torch glowed orange on its edge. Simon
stood motionless in the corner of the cell, awaiting the prisoner's
end.

Like all Triin, this one was perfectly white. Savros had been
delighted when he'd seen him. For him the white skin was a canvas
to be stretched out with chains. Promptly he had set to work, using
his knives to carve out screaming figures on the man's naked back.
There were almost twenty of them now, forming a twisting, living
mural. Blood dripped relentlessly onto the floor, and little bits of
Triin flesh clung to the Mind Bender's boots. But Savros seemed
not to notice them at all, and Simon wondered as he watched the
spectacle if this was what Hell was like.

"Beautiful," remarked the torturer as he regarded his prized
scalpel. He put it up to the Triin's gray eyeball, now hazed with
fatigue and pain. "There is a smith in the Black City who works for
days to make just one of these for me. He is the finest blade-
maker in Nar." Savros tested the edge with his fingertip and
grinned. "Oooh; sharp."

Savros no longer bothered speaking Triin. His victim was past
comprehension, and he knew it. But this was the best part.
Disgusted, Simon fought to keep focused. He was Roshann, and if
he looked away Biagio would surely hear about it. So he steeled
himself and watched while Savros caressed a tear-stained cheek
with the thin blade and crooned his song, and the Triin man in
chains trembled against the coming death.

"Just do it," Simon growled, his patience snapping. Savros turned
his laughing eyes to the dark corner where Simon was lurking. A
ripe web sack filled with newborn arachnids clung defiantly to the
ceiling overhead, but Simon didn't stir from his spot.

"Shhh," urged Savros, putting a slender finger to his lips. The air
was thick and smelled of treacle; too close for Simon's liking. The
Mind Bender's voice rang in his brain. He had been hearing it for
hours and his feet ached from standing. Outside in the real world,
the sun was probably up. If he could have, Simon would have run
from the place and vomited, but there was dirty business still to do.

"If you have your information, kill him," ordered Simon. "He's still a
man. Treat him like one."

Savros seemed shocked. "You brought him here for me," he
reminded Simon. "Now let me do my work."

"Your work is done, Mind Bender. Get yourself a goat from the
farm if you need something to butcher. He was a Triin warrior.
Leave him some honor."

"Why so squeamish?" taunted Savros. The thin blade rolled
between his fingertips. "Don't they teach interrogation in the
Roshann?"

Simon stepped out of the shadows. In the center of the cell was a
small table set with the Mind Bender's implements, a curious
collection of metal objects with points and pincers, all arranged
neatly on a silver tray. Beside the gruesome platter stood a pitcher
of rose water. It was a strange habit of Savros' to dapple his
victim's lips with the cool liquid and make them agonize for more.
Simon pushed the torturer aside and lifted the pitcher to the Triin's
mouth, pouring the water over his lips and tongue. The man let out
a thankful whimper.

"What are you doing?" asked Savros.

Simon ignored him, lifting another blade from the table even as he
continued to pour. This one was less beautiful than the others. It
was wide and heavy, with a toothy edge like a butcher's saw.
Simon grasped it tightly, leaning forward so that his lips almost
brushed the captive's ear.

"Good death, warrior," he said simply, then plunged the jagged
blade into the Triin's heart. There was a quick rattle from the
prisoner's throat. The hands spasmed into fists, shaking the
manacles and the long, stout chains. The eyes widened, focused
on Simon for a moment, then swiftly dimmed. Simon put down the
pitcher, then the knife, and calmly stared at Savros. The Mind
Bender's jaw dropped.

"You've killed him," Savros sputtered.

"You're like a cat playing with a bird," said Simon sharply. "I won't
watch such nonsense."

"I wasn't done with him!" Savros wailed. He rushed over to the limp
body and searched for a pulse. "I'm going to tell Biagio about this!"

"I'll tell him myself. Now what did he say? I heard you mention
Vantran. Is he in Falindar?"

Savros wasn't listening. He ran his long fingers over his victim's
back, admiring his artwork and feeling the waning heat of the
corpse on his face. Simon shifted impatiently. In the days when
Savros served the emperor he had been one of Arkus' favorites, a
member of his privileged "Iron Circle." Now he was in exile like the
rest of Biagio's loyalists, stuck here on Crote. None of them liked
being here, but Savros seemed to be faring the worst. The Mind
Bender had spent his entire life in the Black City plying his dark
trade. He was accustomed to the belching smokestacks of war
labs and the dankness of dungeons; the clean ocean air of the
island seemed to depress him. But Biagio still cared for him, and
that meant he had sway with the count. Simon knew not to push him
too far.

"Savros," urged Simon. "What did he say? Is Vantran in Falindar?"

"He was so beautiful," replied Savros absently. "I want another."

"Vantran—"

"Yes, yes!" flared the torturer. Savros released the dead man and
turned toward the table, pulling bloodied implements out of his vest
and placing them on the silver tray with a petulant frown. "It's as you
suspected, spy." He spit out the word like a curse. "Vantran is in
Falindar with his wife."

"What else?" pressed Simon.

"Oh, learn the damned language! Or weren't you listening?"

Simon bristled but said nothing. Of all the people who had fled with
Biagio to Crote, only Savros understood the clicking language of
the Triin. It was, he had explained once, "necessary to know the
tongue of his subjects." And Savros had a genius for language
Simon could only marvel at. This had been Simon's first mission to
Lucel-Lor, and he hoped his last. He had tried to learn at least a
few Triin phrases, but Savros was a poor teacher and Simon an
unwilling student. The animosity between them had only grown
from there.

Simon regarded Savros carefully, watching him turn a white towel
red with the gore from his hands. He caught a glimmer in the Mind
Bender's preternatural eyes, a spark of something hiding in the
blazing blue irises. There was something more.

"What else?" said Simon. "There is something, I can tell."

"Can you?" taunted Savros. "You are Roshann, Simon Darquis.
You are supposed to be observant. What have I learned? Can you
guess?"

"Stop fooling," ordered Simon.

Savros surrendered with an evil smile. "There is a child," he said
with satisfaction. "Vantran has a daughter."

Simon's heart sank. "A daughter? How old?"

"Very young; a baby really. Maybe a year. Maybe older, I don't
know. But she lives with them in the citadel." Savros put down the
soiled cloth. "Looks like you'll be going back, eh?"

Simon grimaced. That was the last thing he wanted.

"Vantran still expects something," Savros added. "You should tell
the Master that. Tell him to stop bothering with this vendetta and
get us off this bloody island."

I will, thought Simon darkly. He took a final look at the dead man
dangling from the ceiling. The lifeless eyes were open and staring
at him blankly. An invisible breeze made the corpse sway and the
chains rattle. Simon felt unclean. It had been a long and miserable
journey back from Lucel-Lor, and this warrior had borne his
indignity proudly. Trussed up like a pig in the ship's stinking cargo
hold, he had hardly said a word or eaten a crumb. Simon looked at
the man's emaciated body, ruined by the Mind Bender's insane
artwork. Only Savros had been able to break the Triin's iron will,
and he had done it in mere hours.

"What was his name?" asked Simon quietly.

Savros looked at him incredulously. "What?"

"His name. What was it?"

"I taught you that phrase," Savros reminded him. "Didn't you ask
him yourself?"

Simon shook his head. He hadn't wanted to know the man's name
before.

"Hakan," said Savros. The torturer sighed. "What a waste. He could
have lived so much longer."

"Hakan," Simon repeated. Then he glanced at Savros and said with
venom, "I'm glad I killed him."

Without another word Simon hurried out of the cell. He slipped
through the iron gate separating the dungeon from the rest of the
catacombs and passed by the count's wine cellars, where a
thousand barrels of priceless vintages slumbered and sweetened
the air. Most were from Biagio's own vineyards, a nectar sought
after throughout the Empire. The count had an army of servants
tending his grapes, and here in the cellars collared slaves toiled
with the heavy barrels and tasted the wines for their perfection. The
slaves did not acknowledge Simon as he passed them. They knew
he was a favorite of the count's, but he was not a Naren lord. He
was Roshann, and that meant he was Biagio's servant, hardly
different from themselves.

Past the wine cellars was a monolithic staircase of carved granite,
its steps worn smooth by centuries of traffic. Simon ascended
quickly, anxious for some fresh air. He pushed open the door at
the top of the steps and was soon in the servants' section at the
back of the count's sprawling home. It was indeed morning. Fine
strands of sunlight splashed through the crystal windows and onto
the red tile floor. Simon could hear the rattle of iron pots in the
nearby kitchen as the slaves set to work on breakfast. He went to a
window and glanced outside. The count's mansion was set on a
hill, and from here Simon could see the rolling vineyards to the
west and the sparkling ocean far in the distance. He drew a breath
of the sweet air and closed his eyes. The Triin's dead face still
haunted him. Worse, he was exhausted. He longed for sleep—or
even to pull off his boots and rest his blistered feet—but he knew
his master was waiting for him. The thought made Simon shudder.
He had only spoken to the count briefly when they had arrived the
night before, then had followed Savros into the dungeon.

Biagio had been correct about the Mind Bender's thoroughness.

"God," hissed Simon, closing his eyes. He still smelled of blood.
Eris would smell it too. A little moan passed his lips. She would be
worried about him. But she would have to wait, just a little while
longer.

A kitchen girl passed by him. Simon grabbed hold of her elbow,
startling her. "The count," he said. "Where is he?"

"The Master?" the girl stammered. There was a basket of eggs in
her hands that she barely managed to hold still. "In the baths, I
think, sir."

He let her go with an apologetic smile, realizing what a sight he
must be with the spray of blood staining his tunic. They were still
not used to their guests from the Black City, these servants of the
count, and though Simon had lived in the mansion on and off for
years, he was still treated like an outsider.

He proceeded through the mansion and out a covered walkway of
red brick trimmed with flowers and magnificent statues. The
pungent scents of the gardens wafted over him. He brushed at the
wrinkles in his clothes self-consciously. Biagio abhorred
untidyness. And in this part of the castle, even the slaves were
better dressed than Simon. This was the east wing, the count's
own sanctuary, where very few people were welcome. Simon
doubted that Savros or the other Naren lords had even been
invited here. So as he approached the white building—an artisan's
dream of stone and gold—Simon instinctively slowed his pace,
quieting his footfalls. In Biagio's garden, only the birds were
allowed to speak. Already, industrious gardeners had begun their
morning work, shaping giant rose bushes and plucking out weeds.
A thrush nesting in a peach tree whistled disapprovingly when it
sighted Simon. Simon glared back at it, wishing for a rock.

The walkway ended near a bronze arch crowned with thorny vines.
Here a giant eunuch with a spiked halberd guarded the way. The
soldier stepped aside when he noticed Simon, and Simon passed
under the arch and into a narrow courtyard. Skirting the courtyard,
he headed for the baths. In moments he saw the cedar door to the
steam house, its tiny window dappled with condensation. The
tubular chimney spouted moist smoke into the morning. A pair of
lavender slippers had been left at the foot of the door. A single
matching robe hung from a wooden peg.

Good, thought Simon as he approached. He's alone.

He knocked gently. The wood felt warm under his knuckles. After a
brief silence, he heard his master's yawning reply.

"Come," commanded Biagio's velvet voice. Simon cracked open
the door. A rush of steam struck his face. Another man might have
been shocked by the temperature, but Simon knew his master's
affectations and had expected the scalding. He blinked against the
perfumed vapor, peering into the steam house. The room was
dark, lit only by the glow of a brazier used to heat the rocks. In the
corner of the room, stretched out like a lounging cat, sat Count
Renato Biagio, naked save for a modest towel draped over his
groin. Sweat glistened on his golden skin, and his amber hair hung
long and wet around his shoulders. His impossibly blue eyes
snapped open when he heard Simon enter, and a welcoming smile
played across his beautiful face.

"Hello, my friend," said Biagio. The voice was alien, inhuman, with
the timbre of an expensive instrument. Simon heard it over the hiss
of steam, a hypnotic melody bidding him forward. Even after all
these years, that voice sometimes made him tremble.

"Good morning, Master," replied Simon. "Am I disturbing you?"

"You never disturb me, Simon," said Biagio. "Come in. Let me see
you."

"I'm sorry, Master. I'm filthy. I'll come back when I have dressed for
you."

Biagio seemed to love this. "Let me see you," he said again.
"Open the door."

Reluctantly, Simon opened the door and stepped into the heated
chamber. All at once the steam engulfed him. Biagio's blue eyes
widened.

"Indeed! You've gotten too close to the Mind Bender, I see. You
look hideous, Simon."

"Forgive me, Master. I was anxious to give you news. I will return
shortly."

He turned to go, but Biagio stopped him.

"Nonsense," said the count. "This is a bath, after all. Strip off those
things and join me." He patted the place on the bench beside him.
"Here."

Simon stifled a curse. He could already feel Biagio's hungry eyes
tracing him. "I couldn't, my lord. I would only offend you."

"Stop playing the tart, Simon," said the count. "I insist you join me.
Now undress. There's a towel behind you."

There was indeed another towel. Simon removed his clothes and
lunged for the scrap of cloth, wrapping it tightly around his waist.
The steam was unbearable. Simon felt its heat bite into his skin. He
watched as Biagio lifted the dipper from the bowl and poured more
liquid over the burning rocks. A plume of watery smoke gushed
from the stones. Biagio sighed and closed his eyes, drawing in a
breath. Like all of Arkus' former associates, the count had a disdain
for cold. It was an odd side-effect of the drug they used to sustain
themselves. Even in the longest days of summer, Biagio's skin
was winter cold. The same alchemy that had turned his eyes blue
had converted his blood to ice water. It had also made him
immortal, or very near. Simon supposed the count was at least fifty,
but he looked no more than half that age. Here in the baths, with his
body fully exposed, Biagio seemed a mythical creature. He was
not a big man, but his muscles were hard and corded and flexed
fluidly beneath his skin. The count was proud of his body and liked
to show it off, especially to Simon.

Simon sat down beside his master, the hot wood of the bench
scalding his backside. He shifted his towel so that Biagio would
see as little of him as possible. Biagio opened a single eye and
smiled at him, slipping a frigid hand over Simon's.

"I'm glad you're home, my friend," said the count. "I've missed
you."

"It is good to be back," replied Simon. Already the heat was
working on him, making his eyelids droop. "Crote was never such a
beautiful sight. When we saw it from the ship I thought I'd weep.
You know how little I like the water."

"And Lucel-Lor? How was that foul place?"

"Distant," joked Simon. "And different. They are a strange breed,
Master. You should have seen the one I brought back for Savros.
His skin was like milk. His hair, too. They are more than just fair.
They are . . . freakish."

"He is dead now, the one you captured?"

Simon nodded. "I killed him myself. Savros has a disgusting way
about him. I couldn't watch him any longer. But the Triin had given
up all he had. I made sure of that before I killed him."

Biagio laughed. "Our Mind Bender is so like a child. He was looking
forward to working on a Triin. I'll take a look at this creature before
he is disposed of. I want to see one for myself. Arkus was always
enamored with them, and now Vantran has chosen to make his life
with them. I would like to know what the fuss is about." The count's
face clouded with concern. "I have heard they are very beautiful. Is
that so?"

"Beautiful, Master? To other Triin, I suppose. I didn't see many of
them. When I knew this one was from Falindar, I took him and left."

"You were right to, of course," said the count, easing back against
the wall. "It's been a while, but I'm sure Vantran still expects
something from me. It was lucky you weren't seen. You've done
very well, my friend. As always. Now, what news?"

Simon steeled himself. "As suspected, Vantran is in the citadel at
Falindar. He lives with his wife, a Triin."

"Yes," whispered Biagio. Everyone knew Vantran had betrayed the
Empire for a woman. "The wife. Good . . ."

"This warrior was one of those guarding the citadel. He wore the
same indigo blue as the others from the region. Savros says there
are many more like him in Falindar, probably guarding Vantran."

"The Jackal is a hero to them, no doubt," spat Biagio. "That boy is
bewitching. What else?"

For the smallest moment Simon meant to lie, but that would have
been unthinkable. He was one of Biagio's Roshann, a Cretan word
meaning "the Order." He was elite, and that meant he owed his
master everything. Especially the truth.

"There is a child," Simon blurted. "A girl. She's Vantran's."

Biagio gasped. "A child? The Jackal has a daughter?"

"If the Triin can be believed, he does. She lives with him in the
citadel. But I think she is rarely seen. Perhaps Vantran does still
fear you. This Triin seemed to know what I was doing there. I could
see it in his eyes when I captured him."

Biagio laughed and clapped his hands together. "Wonderful! A
child! I couldn't ask for better! To take her . . . now that would be
pain, wouldn't it, Simon? That would be beautiful."

It was the suggestion Simon had expected. "Only if she could be
gotten to, Master, and I don't think that's likely. If she is in the
citadel, she is sure to be heavily guarded. Better that we simply
assassinate Vantran. If he goes out for a hunt or—"

"No," said Biagio sharply. "That is not pain, Simon. That is not loss.
When Vantran betrayed Arkus, he sentenced him to death. And he
took Arkus away from me. I loved Arkus. I will never be the same,
and neither will Nar." The count looked away with disgust. "You
disappoint me."

"Forgive me," said Simon softly, hurrying his hand onto Biagio's. "I
know how you grieve, Master. The emperor's death still stings us
all. I merely thought to suggest a revenge that is possible. To take
his daughter or his wife is—"

"The only revenge fitting," said the count. "He must suffer as I have
suffered. I will take from him what is most precious, just as he took
Arkus from me." Biagio squeezed Simon's hand hard. "Understand
me, my friend, I beg you. I am alone here but for you. These
others don't know me. They follow me out of ambition alone. But I
must have your devotion, Simon."

"Always, Master," said Simon. "You know you have my loyalty. The
Roshann will always be with you."

And it was true. Even as Simon doubted his fealty, there were
others in Biagio's secret society scattered throughout the fractured
Empire. Biagio had formed them from the dust of Crote's farms,
used them to overthrow his father and later to serve the emperor.
No matter what became of Biagio or his designs on the throne, the
Roshann would always be his. He was their founder, their god, and
their guiding light. Biagio was the Roshann, and his agents adored
him.

"It does no good to dwell on Arkus' death, Master," consoled
Simon. "Think on other things. We need you. Nar needs you. Only
you can make the Empire whole again."

Biagio gave a chuckle. "No one can fill the Iron Throne like Arkus
did. But I will try if I can."

"Soon?" probed Simon.

"Time is a luxury we have that our enemies do not, my friend. We
have Nicabar's fleet to protect us, and all the wealth of this island.
Herrith and his cronies cannot touch us here. And we have the
drug." Biagio's face became sardonic. "I wonder how Herrith is
feeling these days. By now his withdrawal should be quite
unbearable. Bovadin thinks it might ultimately kill him."

"Fine," said Simon, wiping the sweat from his brow. "That would
make a quick end to our exile."

"But not as sweet as the end I have planned for him," countered
Biagio. "Trust me, my friend. The usurpers have some surprises
coming to them. Let them suffer without the drug and wonder what
we've cooked up for them. Herrith always said suffering is good for
the soul."

They both laughed, imagining the portly bishop starving for the life-
sustaining potion. Since Biagio and his loyalists had fled to Crote,
there had been no one left in Nar who could synthesize the drug.
Herrith might have the throne, but Biagio had Bovadin, and the little
scientist had always been tight-lipped about the formula. More
importantly, the count had Admiral Nicabar. The commander of the
Black Fleet had made their exile possible. His dreadnoughts had
abandoned Nar and Archbishop Herrith, and even now the
admiral's floating war machines could be seen bobbing darkly on
the horizon, patrolling the waters around Biagio's island. Crote had
become their adopted homeland and the count had been more
than gracious. They all lived like kings here, sharing Biagio's wines
and fine foods and being attended to by his servants. In their
homesickness they had even dubbed the tiny island "Little Nar."

"I have been away a long time, Master," said Simon. "What other
news from the Black City? Does Herrith sit on the throne now?"

"Not alone. It is as I suspected. He has co-opted Vorto to act in his
stead. The general pretends to be emperor now, though he
doesn't dare call himself thus."

Simon raised a worried eyebrow. "Then there is a chance of the
army joining us?"

"There was never that chance. Vorto is too ambitious to let the
throne go. And we never cared for each other, even when Arkus
was alive. He knows the only way to seize power is to side with
Herrith." Biagio sneered. "Our bloody bishop is a clever man. It is
land versus sea now."

"Then we must be sure of Nicabar's loyalty, Master. If we lose his
navy, we are doomed."

Biagio seemed shocked. "Simon, you surprise me. Danar is canny,
but he has never been traitorous. He's my friend, as you are. I
won't have you speak against him."

"It's my duty to look out for you, Master," explained Simon. "I will
watch him, not because I doubt you, but because I care for you.
We'll need his navy if we're to have any chance at all against
Vorto's legions."

"Oh, Simon," laughed the count. "You are my mother hen. Do you
think I've not been busy while you were gone? There are wheels in
motion." He made a circular gesture with his finger. "Vantran is not
the only one I have designs for. Herrith and Vorto will soon see
what it means to trifle with Count Biagio."

A grin split Biagio's face, and Simon felt suddenly foolish. Of
course his master had been hard at work. How could he have
doubted it? It was a cerebral work, and difficult to penetrate, but it
was clever and cruel. It was why men pledged themselves to him,
why Simon had become a Roshann agent himself. Biagio was
brilliant. Not like the scientist Bovadin or the demented Savros.
Biagio had been born with a genius for secrets. Arkus himself had
seen it, and had made the count his closest counselor. In the days
of the old Empire, Biagio's Roshann, his "Order," were more
feared even than Vorto's military. His was an invisible army, a
legion of ghosts.

Simon settled back, letting the hot air loosen his muscles. It felt
good to be out of the dungeon, and even better to be free of the
ship. He had spent most of the voyage below-deck, trying to keep
his stomach from thundering up his throat. And all the while he had
daydreamed of the Triin in shackles in the hold, and wondered why
he had participated in such a thing. These days, it wasn't enough to
tell himself he was Roshann. For some reason, he seemed to be
developing a conscience.

"May I ask you something, Master?" he ventured.

"Of course."

"We saw no Lissen ships on the entire journey home. I was
wondering what has become of them. Do you know?"

Biagio glanced at Simon. "I think you already know the answer to
that, my friend." "So they've begun their attacks?" "Nicabar has told
me they have been hitting Nar shipping lanes for some time now.
While you were gone they raided Doria."

Simon was astonished. "So close to the Black City. What's Nicabar
done about it?"

"Nothing," said Biagio icily. "You know that Simon. Don't look at me
with such villainy. You must trust me. It is all part of my plan."

"Nar will not be able to defend itself from them, Master. Not without
a navy." "I know this." "Yet you do nothing?"

Biagio's blue eyes flared a warning. "I won't explain myself, not
even to you. It wasn't I who stole the Empire, remember? Our
people have Herrith to blame for the Lissen attacks."

"But the Black Fleet can stop them, my lord. We talking about
innocents. . . ."

"That's enough," said Biagio, putting up a hand. "Really, Simon,
sometimes I think I indulge you too much. You have upset me now.
My bath is ruined."

Simon lowered his eyes. "I'm sorry, Master." Biagio continued to
pout but said nothing more. Simon got up to leave. Then, "Where
are you going," asked the count sharply.

"I thought it best to leave you now." "Are you going to see her?"
There was so much jealousy in the question Simon could only
shrug. "If I may, Master." Biagio looked away. "I don't care." Simon
hovered near the door. "My lord, if you don't wish it . . ."

"You have been very rude to me today, Simon. Yes, yes, go to
your woman. But remember who it is makes this relationship
possible. It is by my grace that you may consort with her. You are
Roshann, Simon. You are supposed to be devoted to me only. I
tolerate this infatuation only because I care so much for you. Don't
abuse me."

"Yes, my lord," said Simon sheepishly.

"Oh, just go," bid Biagio, waving him away. "But be around
tomorrow. I want to spend some time with you too."

Simon headed for the door, but Biagio called after him yet again.
This time the count's tone was softer.

"Simon," began Biagio. There was real concern in his eyes. "This
is difficult for you, I know. But I ask for your trust. I know what I am
doing."

"I have no doubt, Master."

"In a few days I will know more. We will all sup then together, and I
will try to explain things to you all. Wait until then before you judge
me too harshly."

"As you say," replied Simon with a bow. He backed out of the
chamber, leaving his master encased in the scalding steam.

Simon waited until mid-morning to see Eris. She would be worried
about him, but he wanted to bathe properly and discard his soiled
shirt. Because he was Biagio's favorite, the closets in his
chambers bulged with fine clothes to choose from, and he
selected a light shirt of red Cretan silk. He shaved his beard,
combed his hair, and did his best to pick the dried blood from
beneath his fingernails. While he dressed servants brought him a
breakfast of milk and biscuits which he promptly devoured, and
when he was sure his master had left the baths and started in on
his day's work, he returned to the east wing of the mansion. There
he found Eris alone in the music room, absently stretching against
the exercise bar. Her green eyes seemed to stare into nothingness
as she warmed up her muscles. Simon paused in the doorway to
watch her. She looked sad, and that made him wistful. He wished
he had plucked some flowers from the garden for her. Stealthily he
slipped over to the piano and depressed a key. Eris looked up,
startled by the note, and beamed when she noticed him.

"Hello, sweetling," he said softly. "Simon!" Eris freed her leg from
the bar and darted over to him, wrapping her arms around him and
burying her head in his chest. Simon groaned and kissed her dark
hair, loving its lilac scent.

"I'm sorry, my love," he whispered. "I couldn't see you earlier. I
arrived last night, but—"

She hushed him with a kiss. Simon stole another, and when they
were done he looked at her hungrily.

"Oh, I've missed you," he said. "How are you? Has he been
treating you well?"

The girl laughed. "Of course. Why wouldn't he? I'm his prize."

"You're my prize," Simon purred, lifting her off her feet and twirling
around the room. Eris squealed with delight. "You see? I can
dance too!" Simon sang, spinning across the tiled floor. He came
to rest on the piano bench, setting the little dancer upon his lap as
he nibbled at her neck. Eris giggled some more, then tossed back
her head and groaned. It had been endless weeks since they had
touched each other, and neither of them could stem the tide.

"Not here," cautioned Eris. "Not now." "Tonight, then," Simon
insisted. "When he goes to sleep."

"Yes, tonight," she agreed. "Oh, my love, I was so worried. . . ."

"Do not be," said Simon. He cupped her face in his hands and
stared into her eyes. "Look at me. I told you I'd come back, didn't
I? And here I am."

"Yes," she said breathlessly, wrapping him in her arms. "Don't
leave me again."

He grimaced. "You know I can't promise that. Don't make me lie to
you."

"I know," said Eris. "But you're back now, and there's nowhere for
any of us to go, not until the Master moves against Nar. And that
may be months yet." She sighed dreamily. "Months together . . ."

"Or less," interjected Simon. He didn't want to shatter the moment,
but she had to know the truth. "I don't know what Biagio has
planned for Herrith, or even Vantran. He may need me for
something."

"Not yet," begged Eris. "Not so soon. You've just returned. Tell him
to wait."

Simon laughed. "Oh, yes, he'd love to hear that. Sorry, Master, but
your slave doesn't want me to go. You can put off all your plans,
can't you? You can? Wonderful!"

"Plans?" scoffed Eris. "Does the Master have plans? You wouldn't
think so from the way everyone is acting."

"Then they don't know him," said Simon. "The Master always has a
strategy. And I think he's going to tell us about it, in a few days. At
least that's what he told me."

Eris traced her finger over his lips. "Mmm; then that gives you time
to talk to him about us, doesn't it?"

"I can't. He's already angry with me. I can't ask him for anything
now."

Eris uncoiled her arms from his neck. "Simon, you promised. . . ."

"I know, but it's different now. He's too obsessed with Vantran. I
think he wants me to go back to Lucel-Lor."

"No," Eris shrieked. "You said you would ask him when you
returned. He already knows about us anyway. He won't refuse you
this. Not you. I've seen him with you, Simon. He can refuse you
nothing. He's in love with you. . . ."

"Stop," Simon warned, putting up his hands, "Don't say it. I know
what the Master is. But I am Roshann, Eris. No Roshann agent has
ever married before."

"He will make an exception for you," said Eris evenly. "I'm sure he
will."

Simon wasn't sure at all. He loved Eris; he had ever since Biagio
had purchased her and brought her back to Crote, but he had taken
an oath to the Master long ago. He was already married to the
Roshann. He was bound to the Order for life, and such exceptions
simply weren't made. More, they were never requested. He had
promised Eris he would ask Biagio to bend the rules and stretch
their strange friendship, but now that he was back under the count's
dark wing his enthusiasm had chilled. Biagio was too enamored to
share him with a woman.

Simon fingered the golden collar around the girl's slender neck.
Except for that unwanted piece of jewelry, she hardly looked like a
slave at all. Her skin smelled of expensive oils and perfumes, not
the coals of the kitchens. She was Biagio's pampered pet, his
prize dancer, and he had paid a royal ransom for her. He adored
her—not in the way Simon did, but as a collector would adore any
fine piece. There were portraits and statues aplenty in Biagio's
rambling mansion, all of them priceless. But Eris was his greatest
possession. She was perhaps the finest performer in the Empire,
a prodigy not unlike Biagio himself. When Biagio looked at her,
Simon knew, he was seeing some of Heaven.

"I will speak to him," said Simon sullenly.

"When?" Eris pressed. "After he sends you away again?"

"If he sends me away again," Simon corrected. "I don't know what
he has planned yet. It may be he has nothing for me. I'm very
popular around here, it seems. You both like to keep me close."

It wasn't a joke, so Eris didn't laugh. She watched as Simon rose
from the piano bench and went to a window. Outside, larks were
singing. It had been hot when Simon left for Lucel-Lor, but now the
island was cooling, hinting at a seasonal change. That's all Crote
ever did—hint at autumn. Simon wanted to escape outside, to lie
with Eris under an oak and stare at the clouds like children. He
wanted to be away, to stop being Biagio's top man. He wanted to
be normal.

"I'm changing," he muttered. Eris slipped up beside him and took
his hand, but Simon stayed focused on the panorama through the
window.

"You're tired, my love," offered Eris. "Rest now. Come to me
tonight if you wish. Or do not, and just sleep."

Simon chuckled. "You're not hearing me. I'm changing, Eris. I'm
not sure I belong here anymore. The Master is different these
days. All he thinks of is revenge. That drug has driven him mad.
And we are all caught up in his insanity."

"Do not say such things," Eris cautioned. "Someone may hear
you."

"It doesn't matter. Everyone knows that Biagio has gone mad. Do
you know he had me kidnap a man from Lucel-Lor? I brought him
back with me. Savros spent the night torturing him to find out where
Vantran is."

Eris blanched. "What happened to him?"

"I killed him," said Simon. "I had to. Savros was playing with him. It
was sickening. I had to stop it."

"You were merciful to him," said Eris softly. "You see? You are a
good man, my love."

"A good man?" scoffed Simon. "I am Roshann. There are no good
men in the Roshann. And if I am good, then I don't belong here."

She took his hand, and there was endless forgiveness in her sea-
green eyes. "You do what you must, as do I. We are his. To defy
him is death."

Simon feigned acquiescence. "You're right," he said, hoping to
end the conversation. "I was ill on the ship. It has unbalanced me."
He kissed her hand. "I'm sorry to greet you like this. I promise you,
I'll be a different man tonight."

"Do not come if you don't wish to," she said gently. "Or if you think
it will upset the Master. I'll understand."

"I will be there," said Simon. He let his hand slide gently out of
hers. "Look for me at midnight, near the garden wall. Now, get to
your practice. Biagio wouldn't want me keeping you from work."

They spared each other a final kiss before Simon left the music
room, his heart thundering with anticipation.
THREE
Richius Vantran

R ichius Vantran drew back on the reins of his gelding and brought
the beast to a halt near a grove of berry bushes. Here in the hills
around Falindar the breeze was stiff, and if not for the wind he
might never have noticed the bloodied swatch of cloth skewered
like a flag onto the gnarled branch. He spotted it from atop his
saddle, took a wary look around, then dismounted.

It was tranquil save for the buzz of the wind; the animals of the hills
had fallen into a disquieting hush. Not far away, Lucyler and Karlaz
were following him, stealthily scanning the land, but somehow
Richius knew their search had finally ended.

The sun was bright on the mountains. Richius shaded his eyes and
turned the tapering cloth in the light to examine it. It appeared to
have been torn from a well-worn shirt, like the sturdy kind the
farmers wore. It wasn't indigo so it wasn't Hakan's, but it wasn't
weathered either, and the dried blood still had color. Triin blood, he
supposed, unless the farmer had been doing some slaughtering of
his own. Richius looked around. Not far above, the rocky hill
disappeared into what looked like a cave. He craned his neck to
see, but the entrance was dark and hidden behind an avalanche of
stones. The horse, seeming to read his mind, gave an unhappy
snort.

"Don't worry, boy," said Richius to his mount, going over to the
beast and scratching its ear. "We're not going in there."

The gelding dropped its head, letting Richius tickle its neck. A
horse was a rare commodity in this part of Lucel-Lor, and this one
seemed to appreciate its station. The land was rugged here, and
most of those who had owned horses had eaten them during the
lean days of the war. This one was a Naren beast, given to Richius
by an old comrade. It had an impeccable gait and an easy manner
that reminded him of home.

"Richius?" Lucyler and Karlaz were coming up the hill on foot, their
white Triin faces shining in the sun. Richius hurried over to them.

"Quiet," he cautioned. "I've found something."

He handed the shred of cloth to Lucyler. The Triin's gray eyes
narrowed as he inspected it. Lucyler nodded knowingly and
passed the tatter to Karlaz, who sniffed it and grunted.

"Where did you find this?" Lucyler asked.

Richius gestured to the bushes. "There, near the rocks. It was in a
branch." Together they walked to the bushes where Richius
showed them the spiky twig that had impaled the cloth. It was a
stout bush with thorny appendages reaching out in all directions,
but there were no other fragments of cloth. Several more branches
had been snapped away and lay strewn on the rocky ground.
Karlaz ran his hand over the top of the bush, examined the dirt, and
grunted again.

"Tasson," whispered the lion-master knowingly. It was the name of
the beast they were hunting, a Triin word meaning "gold." Just as
Richius had dubbed his sturdy horse Lightning, the lion riders
always named their enormous cats. Karlaz knelt down and put his
face to the earth, drawing a breath. Then he dug a finger into the
dirt and tasted the soil. Seemingly satisfied, he looked up at
Lucyler and nodded.

"What was that?" Richius asked. Then, in the Trim's own tongue,
he said, "Karlaz? What is it?"

"Urine," Lucyler explained. "The cats always mark where they have
been. Karlaz can taste it. He thinks it is very near."

Richius pointed toward the cave's maw. "Up there," he guessed.

Karlaz seemed to agree. The trio reached for their weapons. Both
Triin undid the jiiktars from their backs while Richius freed his giant
sword Jessicane. Lucyler chuckled when he saw the monstrous
blade.

"A good weapon for slaughtering lions," he remarked. "Not much
else."

Richius drew an unsteady breath and wrapped his hands around
the sword's hilt. He was under six feet tall, and the sword stood
almost as high as a man. It had been made decades ago for his
father, and even after months of practice with it the huge blade
could still exhaust him.

"This is not Hakan's," said Lucyler glumly, tucking the soiled cloth
into his own shirt. Hakan had been missing now for weeks, and
while some assumed that Karlaz's rogue lion had devoured him,
the lion had only escaped a few days ago. They all hoped the
warrior would return to the citadel with some bizarre story of having
fallen into a well or being injured in the mountains, but as the weeks
passed each story seemed equally absurd.

The rogue lion, however, had already killed two people. One was
its rider, who had probably been more shocked than anyone by his
mount's sudden madness. The other was a farmer from a nearby
village. Richius hadn't known either man, but he had seen the
incredible damage done to the lion rider's body. A single swipe of
the beast's paw had decapitated him. The farmer hadn't been as
lucky. His children claimed he was still screaming when the cat
dragged him into the forest.

Richius didn't expect to find Hakan in the lion's lair. He didn't think
he had fallen into a well, either. Hakan was a Triin warrior, one of
Falindar's best, intimately familiar with all of Lucel-Lor's dangers.
Some said the lion had found him, some said snow leopards, but
Richius suspected a more sinister creature had gotten to his
friend, a monster with golden hair and blue eyes and an insatiable
appetite for cruelty.

"We're not going to find him here, Lucyler," said Richius.

"He was out hunting," Lucyler reminded Richius sharply. "He might
have come along here on his way back to the citadel."

"It's been too long, Lucyler. No one goes out hunting for two
weeks. Even if—"

"Eeashay!" Karlaz snapped, silencing them. The leader of the lion
people crouched down, motioning them to do the same. Richius
realized what the man had planned.

"No," he hissed. "Are you mad? We can't go in there after it!"

Lucyler looked at Richius sternly. "We have to. The thing is a killer."

"But not in there," argued Richius. "It'll have us trapped."

"Karlaz thinks it might be sleeping. It is the best time."

Richius shook his head. "No way. Now that we've found it we
should get help. It's going to take more than the three of us to kill
it."

"Karlaz will kill it," said Lucyler. "We just have to protect him."

Richius closed his eyes and mumbled a prayer. The sight of the
decapitated lion rider sprang into his mind, making his stomach
pitch. Karlaz was certainly a capable fighter, but even he was no
match for one of his lions. Though he was twice the size of
Richius, the lion was three times the size of him. Worse, this one
was mad. It would not recognize its master when it saw him, and it
would not hesitate to attack.

But he also knew Lucyler was right. The thing had already killed two
men, and would kill again if not stopped. They had tracked it for two
days and now they had it trapped. Richius felt the weight of
Jessicane in his fists. The old blade hadn't been bloodied in over a
year. He hoped it would only be the cat's blood that stained it this
time.

Karlaz went first, shimmying up the rocky incline toward the mouth
of the cave, his big body scraping against the stone. Next was
Lucyler, as silent as the cat itself as he picked his way up the
slope. Richius was the last and the clumsiest, trying vainly to keep
his sword from banging against the rocks and announcing their
arrival. When they had all slithered up the cliff face, they paused at
the opening of the cave and peered inside. Darkness shrouded the
inner chamber, but they could nonetheless see that it was vast and
moist and filled with ledges and dentate stalactites. Not far inside,
where the sunlight surrendered to the endless rock, they saw the
unmistakable outline of a human torso. There were no legs to the
thing, just two bony stumps encased in ragged flesh. The face was
gone. Karlaz had once explained this odd practice of rogue lions.
For some inexplicable reason, the dead eyes of their victims
enraged them, so they always went for the face first.

"I think we've found it," Richius quipped. He stood up and peered
farther into the blackness, but could see nothing more than the
ruined corpse and the endless gloom of the twisting cavern. Karlaz
proceeded into the cave, his twin-bladed jiiktar held out before him.
Lucyler and Richius followed, quickly engulfed in the cavern's
dripping darkness. Already vermin had set to work on the farmer's
body. Maggots swam in the cavities of its nose and eyes, and
Richius could hear the squeaking of well-fed rats. Karlaz cursed.
"The lion is farther in," said Lucyler. "Be ready." It was advice
Richius didn't need. All his senses were alert, picking up each tiny
sound in the cavern. They stalked farther into the darkness, until
the mouth of the cave became a far-off circle of brightness and
they could barely see their feet beneath them. For Richius
progress was slow and treacherous, but the two Triin moved with
inhuman accuracy, picking their way instinctively over the terrain.
Richius tried to focus on them, to use their white skin and hair as
beacons. They were in a vast chamber of blue-gray rock where the
air was dense and the stones rose from the earth like grotesque
statues. Pockets of blackness honeycombed the walls where
narrow tunnels twisted into nothingness, and the roof perspired a
viscous green water that echoed as it splashed into pools a
hundred feet below. But they found no lion.

"Where is it?" asked Richius. "I can't see anything." He was getting
nervous now. He could barely see the entrance to the cave, and
the heat of the place made him sweat. Lucyler was licking his lips
and scanning the chamber, while Karlaz had his eyes closed tight
and was sniffing the dank air. When at last his eyes opened, the
lion-master seemed confused. He growled something Richius
barely heard.

"He does not know where the lion is," Lucyler whispered. "The air
is too thick. He cannot smell him."

"We should go then," said Richius. "We aren't safe."

Lucyler shook his head. "No. We have to find him. You stay here,
Richius. You will not be able to see if you go any further. Karlaz and
I will start searching the tunnels."

"What? Just the two of you? Forget it. I'm coming with you."

"No," insisted Lucyler. "You would be blind in there. Stay here."

Richius started to protest but Lucyler and Karlaz quickly
disappeared into a large tunnel, leaving him alone in the echoing
chamber. He let Jessicane's tip droop to the floor. In Aramoor, he
had been a king, albeit briefly. But here he was just a pink-skinned
human, an outsider with none of the physical prowess of his Triin
hosts. He loved Lucyler like a brother, but at times like this he
resented him.

Richius busied himself with searching the chamber. It was true
what Lucyler had said; he was nearly blind. But he picked his way
along carefully, watching the shadows and the ledges overhead,
listening for the throaty notes of the lion's breath. Somewhere in
the darkness a frog or a snake splashed through a filthy pool, and
he could hear the whistle of the wind as it skirted through the hills.
Yet still he could find no trace of the monster, and he wondered
suddenly if the lion was stalking him instead. Uneasily he looked
up. There was nothing on the ledges. He started off toward the
tunnel where Lucyler and Karlaz were, then heard a panicked
whinny from outside.

Lightning!

"Lucyler!" Richius screamed, dashing for the mouth of the cave.
"I've found it!"

Rocks and dust flew from his feet as he scrambled back through
the darkness. He had Jessicane raised as the sunlight splashed
across his face. Below the cliff edge, he heard the horse's manic
cry, and peered down to see the beast stalking his steed, trapping
it between two ridges. The thing's hind legs were taut with coiled
muscles, its body poised to pounce.

"No!" Richius screamed, flinging himself from the cliff. The lion
glanced upward and widened its yellow eyes. A paw came up a
moment too late as Jessicane fell. The paw split open and Richius
hit the ground, rolling away from the enraged creature as it
bellowed in pain.

"Run!" Richius screamed, but Lightning wouldn't move. He merely
stood in mute terror, watching the combatants. The lion opened its
mouth and roared, baring its pointed fangs. Richius hurried to his
feet and raised his sword, waiting for the beast to jump. The lion
lowered its head. Richius took a step back. Giant haunches poised
to spring. Jessicane trembled. . . .

And then a whoop came from above, followed by a blur of muscled
flesh. Karlaz was in the air. He slammed into the monster's side,
driving his jiiktar into flesh. The lion pitched in agony and batted the
man away, its eyes alight with hatred. It sprang for Karlaz, and the
lion-master met the charge, colliding with the creature and
wrapping his sinewy arms around its neck.

Dumbfounded, Richius could barely move. Lucyler slid down the
ledge and hurried toward the melee. Richius hurried after him,
sword in hand. But the beast was a blur, thrashing wildly as it fought
to toss Karlaz from its back. Unable to get a clean blow, Richius
and Lucyler circled, jabbing at the beast. Karlaz had lost his
weapon. The creature roared and fought to dislodge the man, but
Karlaz's iron limbs were wrapped implacably around its throat.
Blood sluiced from the lion's back and its ruined paw, and its eyes
bulged from the pressure around its windpipe. But still it fought and
at last threw Karlaz from its back, dashing him against the rocky
ridge of the cave.

Lucyler raced forward. The Triin moved with impossible grace,
slicing his razor-thin jiiktar into the beast's hindquarters. The lion
spun and thrashed, but Lucyler struck again, this time slicing its
throat. The lion gasped. Its yellow eyes dimmed. Then Karlaz was
on his feet again, jiiktar in hand. He raised his weapon and plunged
it into the lion's brain. A fountain of blood sprayed from the skull.
The beast collapsed at his feet.

Karlaz dropped his weapon to the dirt. He knelt down beside the
dead lion, put his bloodied face against its body, and kissed its
hide. Then, with Richius and Lucyler watching, the lion-master of
Chandakkar hung his head and wept.

Richius and Lucyler returned to Falindar without Karlaz. The lion
rider stayed in the forest to bury the creature and take its teeth for a
necklace for his son. It was an odd custom, but Richius respected
it, so he left Karlaz alone to grieve. He liked the lion riders. He liked
their simple ways and purity. For years they had been outcasts
from the rest of the Triin, a nomadic tribe from faroff Chandakkar
who wanted nothing more than to be left alone. Nar's invasion had
changed all that, and now the lion people were Lucel-Lor's
benefactors. They stood watch over the Saccenne Run, the only
land route into Lucel-Lor.

Like all the Triin warlords, Karlaz had come to Falindar to meet with
Lucyler. Lucyler was master of the citadel now. Kronin, the former
warlord of the region, had no heir, and the people knew and
respected Lucyler. Lucyler had accepted the position reluctantly,
and said on numerous occasions that he had only one reason for
taking it—peace.

And Lucel-Lor was at peace now. The revolution that had brought
the warlords together had held even after the Narens were
defeated. Lucyler took no credit for this, but Richius knew his Triin
friend was proud of the accomplishment. He had worked tirelessly
to keep the tenuous alliance from tattering, and even the warlords
appreciated his efforts. From time to time they came to the citadel
to meet with Lucyler, to discuss whatever difficulties they were
having. Lucyler, they knew, could refuse no one.

But Karlaz hadn't come to the citadel to beg a favor. The man who
had served Lucyler most asked the least from him, and so he had
been invited to Falindar because he had never seen the
spectacular place and because Lucyler simply wanted to show him
some small measure of appreciation. There wasn't much in the
citadel these days, but it was still a breathtaking sight and its
servants could provide a fine meal. Lucyler had ordered that Karlaz
be treated like a king, a reward for the sacrifices his people were
making to keep Lucel-Lor safe.

The first few days had been wonderfully good. Then the lion went
rogue. Karlaz couldn't explain it any more than to say it happened
sometimes to older beasts. There was a fragile link between lion
and rider and on very rare occasions it was severed—either by
disease or some feline senility. Richius grieved for Karlaz. He had
come to love the cats that kept them safe from Nar, and he could
not erase the memory of Karlaz's profound sorrow. He and Lucyler
rode back to Lucel-Lor under a pall, neither of them speaking.

Falindar was beautiful. They rode up the long, wide path leading to
the citadel and looked at its perfectly turned spires shining brightly
in the sun. In the distance the surf pounded, filling the air with brine,
and a flock of gulls passed overhead, winging their way to the
ocean. On the grounds of the castle they could see the milling of
servants. Blue-jacketed guardians stood watch in the towers, their
milky hair long around their shoulders.

Richius ached to see his wife and daughter again. Dyana would be
worried about him. She always worried, and he loved her for it. He
turned to Lucyler who was trotting along silently beside him. The
Triin's face was long and distant.

"I'm going," he told his friend. "I'll see you tonight, maybe?"

Lucyler shrugged. "Maybe. I have things to do."

"All right," said Richius. He started to go, then abruptly stopped
himself. Lucyler glanced at him questioningly.

"What?"

"I'm very sorry," said Richius. "I know you didn't want this."

Lucyler smiled awkwardly. "You are right," he said, gesturing
toward the citadel. "I wanted none of this."

"I meant Karlaz," Richius corrected. "And Hakan. But it's not your
fault. Remember that, all right?"

Lucyler spied the citadel. "Sometimes this is all too much for me.
And we still do not know where Hakan is. Gods, what will I tell his
wife?"

"I'll go with you," offered Richius. "Come. We'll do it now."

"No," said Lucyler. He straightened up in the saddle. "I have to do
this myself. If I am going to be master of these people, I have to
act like it."

"What are you going to say?"

"That he is still missing," replied Lucyler. "What else can I say?"

Richius grimaced. "You know what I think."

"I know," said Lucyler darkly. "And I do not believe it. It has been
over a year, Richius. I think you fear ghosts."

"Lucyler—"

"No," snapped the Triin. "Stop it now. Stop it and get on with your
life."

It was Lucyler who sped off this time, hastening toward the waiting
citadel. Richius bit back a curse, but did not pursue his friend.
Instead, he lingered until Lucyler vanished into the citadel. These
had been difficult days for Lucyler, and they had changed him. He
had never been jovial, but now the pressures of his unwanted
position had evaporated what little good humor he had. Richius
missed his old friend. He missed the man Lucyler had been. In
Aramoor, Richius had known how crushing the responsibilities of
kingship could be. It was the one thing about his usurped
homeland he didn't miss.

When he was certain he would not encounter Lucyler in the
courtyard, Richius made his own way up the winding road toward
the citadel. There he saw Tresh, Dyana's friend and nurse, sitting
under an immense oak tree, a pile of knitting in her lap. She was an
older woman of at least forty, but her eyes were bright and youthful.
Lost in her needlework, she did not see Richius ride up to her until
the shadow of his horse crossed her face.

"Richius!" she said with relief. "You are home!" Like many of the
Triin in Falindar, Tresh spoke the Naren tongue fluently. She was a
holdover from the days when Lucel-Lor had believed the words of
Nar's manipulative emperor, when Narens and Triin had crossed
into each other's lands under the guise of friendship. The former
ruler of the citadel had made all his servants learn the Naren
tongue, supposedly to make his Naren guests feel welcome.
Whatever the reason, Richius was grateful for the dead Triin's
insight. He spoke the Triin tongue well these days, but not
perfectly. He got off his horse and smiled down at Tresh, who put
her knitting aside and patted the ground next to her.

"You look tired," she remarked. "Sit. Rest." "I can't, Tresh," said
Richius. "I'm looking for Dyana. Do you know where she is?"

"She is with the child. They are playing." Tresh grimaced. "Behind
the north tower."

Richius blanched. "Outside? Tresh!"

"I know," said the nurse miserably. "But she would not listen to me,
Richius. She never does. I told her you would be angry. . . ."

"Look after my horse," Richius snapped. He raced toward the north
tower. A few friends waved and called to him, but he ignored them
as he crossed the courtyard and soon found himself near the back
of the citadel.

Here the north tower rose out of the earth, dwarfed only by the
endless sea beyond it. It was a secluded part of the castle, and
Dyana liked to come here and think while their daughter played.
Sometimes she would sit Shani on her lap and they would watch
the ocean together, and Dyana would relate long stories. This
happy recollection did nothing to soften Richius' mood, however.
Even when he saw them his rage did not diminish. They were
walking along the cliff, Shani's little hand in her mother's as she
toddled shakily alongside. The warm breeze stirred Dyana's hair,
making her look beautiful. Richius bit his lip. He did not want to love
her just now. He wanted to be angry.

"Dyana," he called out. Dyana lifted her face and peered through
the sunshine. She waved back happily when she recognized him,
pulling the little girl's hand and making her laugh. They met halfway
to the cliff, and Richius bent down and picked up his daughter and
held her close.

"Richius," said Dyana innocently. "When did you get home?"

"Just now," replied Richius stiffly. She offered him a kiss but he
turned away, storming off with his daughter toward the citadel.
Behind him he heard his wife sigh.

"Richius, please . . ."

"I don't want to talk, Dyana," he said as he walked.

"Did you find the lion?"

"Yes."

Dyana hurried up to him and seized his sleeve. "Tell me," she
insisted. "Are you all right?"

"Everyone's fine," said Richius. Shani had her hands on his face
and was tracing his nose with her tiny fingers. She giggled when
her father put her on his shoulders.

"Why are you angry?" Dyana asked.

At last Richius stopped and faced her. "You know why," he said.
"Lord almighty, Dyana, what were you thinking? Don't you hear
anything I say? It's dangerous out here."

"It is not," said Dyana. She touched his arm again but he shrugged
her off.

"Don't," he warned.

"You are angry," replied Dyana, "but for no good reason. We were
safe out here, Richius. Look . . ." She pointed up to the tower
where a pair of Falindar's blue-garbed warriors paced a watch.
"They would see any trouble before it got to us. There is nothing
here. There is nothing anywhere."

Exasperated, Richius started back to the castle. "Don't argue about
this anymore, Dyana. When I'm not around, you stay in the citadel.
Understand? Don't go outside again without me. Especially not with
Shani."

This time Dyana hurried to block his path. "I will not be a prisoner in
my own home, Richius. Not anymore. It has been over a year.
Nothing is going to happen to us."

"You just don't get it, do you? You don't know what he's like. A year
is nothing to him. He's the head of the Roshann, Dyana. If you
were a Naren you'd know what that means." He shook his head.
"But you're not Naren. None of you are. Just me. So why won't any
of you listen to me, damn it?"

"Easy," urged Dyana. She brought up a hand to caress his cheek,
and this time he did not pull away. "You look tired."

She hefted Shani from his back and set her down. Shani teetered
but did not fall. Richius smiled. He hadn't wanted to come home
like this. All through the ride back he had dreamed of seeing them,
and now he had shattered the moment with his rage.

"Oh, lord, you're right," he groaned, dropping to the ground. "I am
tired." He reached up and pulled his wife down next to him. Her
hand felt small and insubstantial in his own. "Sit with me, and let me
tell you what a bastard I am."

Dyana chuckled. "An ogre," she agreed. But then her face became
serious and she rested her head against his shoulder. "I am glad
you are home. I was worried about you." She hesitated before
asking the expected question. "What happened?"

"We found it, near a cave," said Richius. "It's dead. Karlaz killed it."
"Good."

"It got a farmer this morning near the river bed. We found him in
the cave. He was dead, too." Dyana curled closer to him. "My love .
. ." "No, I'm all right." Richius was watching Shani toddle around
them, picking up sticks and tasting them. He had already given up
trying to break her of this habit. Now he simply watched out for what
she ate. "Karlaz stayed behind to bury it. You should have seen
him, Dyana. I swear he was heartbroken. I remembered losing a
horse when I came home to Aramoor after the first war. My father
had already died, and I was lost and afraid. But my father had given
me Thunder, and he meant everything to me." "What happened?"
asked Dyana. "We went out riding one morning. It had snowed the
night before and we were going through the forest when a pack of
wolves attacked." Richius' voice trailed off. "They killed Thunder.
They dragged him out from under me and killed him."

"Richius . . ."

"That horse meant everything to me," Richius continued. "He was
one of my best friends. That's how it was for Karlaz, I think. Like
losing a friend." He tightened his arm around Dyana; she smelled
of the sea. "We have both lost a lot, Dyana," he said. "I don't want
to lose any more. I don't want anything to happen to you. Can you
understand that?"

"Of course."

"I'm sorry I was angry, but if anything ever happened . . ."

She hushed him. "We are fine. We are all safe here, Richius.
Nothing can happen to us."

"You're wrong," said Richius. "Biagio is not a man. He is a devil,
and he's still powerful, no matter what we hear. In Nar, everyone
fears him. And his Roshann."

"He is nothing now, my love," said Dyana. "He is broken, an
outcast."

"If only," chuckled Richius. "No, not him. He'll never give up the
throne that easily. And his agents will always be loyal to him. In Nar
there's an expression—'the Roshann is everywhere.' It's said that
Arkus had Biagio place a Roshann agent in every Naren court, to
keep an eye on them and make them afraid. They are everywhere,
and they can reach us even here."

"Richius, it has been too long. And if he is fighting for the throne,
why would he bother with us? I think you worry too much. I doubt
we are so important to him."

"But Arkus was important to him. He loved the old man, and he
blames me for his death. I was sent here to find magic to save
Arkus. Biagio will never forgive me for betraying that trust."

"He is too busy with that bishop," insisted Dyana. "It is the bishop,
yes?"

Richius shrugged. "I don't know," he said bitterly.

"God, we're so blind here! I've heard nothing since the Lissens left
to fight Nar."

The mere mention of Liss made Dyana stiffen. "Let us not speak
of them," she implored. "Please. Not today."

"Not today? And not tomorrow? Then when?"

Dyana closed her eyes. "Never."

"Dyana . . ."

"Please, Richius. I cannot bear it. I know you want to join them, but
I hope they never come back for you."

Her love was unendurable. He put his lips to her forehead and
deposited a gentle kiss, caressing her shoulders and trying to
comfort her. Liss was a subject that always drove them apart, and
the recent rumors that the island kingdom had at last begun its
assault on Nar had made Dyana even more skittish. She called
them pirates now, much the way Biagio had. She hated them,
forgetting all they had done for Lucel-Lor in its struggle against the
Empire. Dyana had stopped seeing them as allies. To her, they
were warmongers who only wanted to take her husband away.

"It's been a long time, Dyana," Richius said. "Longer even than I'd
hoped. I told you I would have to go eventually."

"Eventually," she said. "It sounded so distant then." But it was how
it had to be. For Richius, there was no alternative. He had tried and
failed to convince her, and knew now that he never would. It
changed nothing. His heart still yearned for vengeance—for his
trampled homeland, and for Sabrina, who still came to him
sometimes in dreams, screaming. They had murdered her, his first
wife, simply out of hatred for him. Biagio had ordered it. Arkus was
dead, as was Blackwood Gayle. But the golden man of Nar still
lived. And while he existed, they could never be safe.

"You are not happy here," Dyana said. "I have tried. I thought Shani
and I would be enough. I thought time would help you. But you do
not want peace."

It was a miserable thing to say, but Richius recognized the truth of
it. "I'm sorry," he said gently. "It is just the way of things."

"No," countered Dyana. "Things are the way you make them. If
Prakna comes back for you and you go, it is your decision. Do not
call it fate, Richius. You want this vengeance. You are letting it
destroy you . . . and us."

"What would you have me do?" he flared. "Let Aramoor stay under
Nar's heel forever? Live like a coward while the Lissens do my
fighting? I am the king of Aramoor."

Very slowly, Dyana released herself from his embrace. "There is
no more Aramoor. It is part of Talistan now. And you can never
change that. Liss cannot help you get it back."

"But they fight," argued Richius. "They stand up for their honor."

"They fight only for revenge," said Dyana. "Nar no longer threatens
them, so why must they attack? Because their hearts are full of
poison, as is yours. They go to avenge the deaths of loved ones,
yet they can never make them live again. And if you join them you
leave me and Shani behind, to be alone." She looked away. "It
makes me wonder when you say you love us."

This brought Richius to his feet. "Never doubt that. I gave up
everything to be with you. I love you, Dyana. Shani, too. More than
anything."

"Except revenge." She got up, dusted the dirt from her dress, and
went over to where Shani was fixedly examining a cricket. "We will
go inside now," she told her husband over her shoulder. "We will
lock ourselves in the bedchamber for you."

There was so much ice in her voice, Richius could only let them
leave. When they were gone he turned his attention to the ocean.
Somewhere, the navy of Liss was under sail, their schooners
armed and eager to exact their toll on the Black Empire. Maybe
Prakna was on one of those ships. And maybe the Lissen
commander was thinking about the Jackal of Nar.
FOUR
The Iron Circle

T here were portents enough, Biagio supposed. He simply hadn't
heeded them.

Biagio's Roshann—his "Order"—had warned him for months
before the emperor's death. Blinded by his mission to save Arkus
from old age, Biagio hadn't seen Herrith's rise until it was too late.
Even before the emperor had slipped into dementia, Herrith had
been laying plans with Vorto and convincing Naren noblemen to
join him. Sure that Arkus could never die, Biagio had let the bishop
play his dangerous game. For this he blamed himself, and no one
else. Nar had fallen into the hands of a zealot, and the Black
Renaissance was being erased.

Biagio liked being home again. He adored Crote almost as much
as Nar City. Since overthrowing his father, he had spent precious
little time on his island, and this forced exile from Nar had made
him see the place differently. He valued it more, as his father had,
and even the olives and grapes seemed sweeter somehow. The
winds off the sea were warm and good for his condition, and the
recent weeks of sunshine had returned his skin to its natural
bronze. More, the tranquility of Crote had eased his knotted mind.
It had given him time to think. Count Renato Biagio moved with
feline grace through the marble corridors of his villa, his heels
clicking loudly on the ornately tiled floor. The sculpted eyes of
masterpieces watched him pass, a dozen priceless sentinels
purchased or looted from around the Empire. At the end of the
corridor was a staircase twisting down into darkness. Biagio was in
that part of his mansion forbidden to guests, a wing that was his
alone and more splendid than any other. Except for the slaves and
servants who occasionally disturbed him, only one other person
now shared this space with the count.

Biagio took the stairs two at a time, his mood buoyant. Torchlight
quickly enveloped him. The chirping of birds fell away in the
distance. Near the bottom of the stairs were a pair of tiny shoes,
discarded haphazardly in the corner. Biagio could hear the sounds
of tinkering up ahead. He took the last step softly and peered
through the smoky light. The hallway opened into a cavernous
workroom lined with tall bookcases and shelves stuffed with
curiosities. The floor was littered with tools and bits of junk: spools
of rope; metal fasteners; a small, dirty anvil. The torches on the
wall tossed up flames and shadows, giving the place a sense of
gloom, and the ceiling was high and stained with soot. In the center
of the room stood a stout oak table, and on the table was a bizarre
apparatus, a vaguely cylindrical thing of metal and hoses, almost
organic in complexity. Its shiny tubes hung limply off the tabletop,
and its domed head bore a spring-loaded lever that looked to
Biagio like a door handle.

Crouched beneath the table was Bovadin, his eyes gazing up
through a cutout in the wood. The scientist's naked toes balanced
a long, saw-toothed cutting tool, while his small hands worked on
the hoses burgeoning from his creation. He squinted in frustration
as he peered up into the center of the apparatus, both hands
working to stuff in metal hoses. When he heard Biagio arrive, he let
out a frustrated curse and barked, "What is it?"

Biagio took a wary step forward. He didn't like bothering the
scientist, especially during such important work. The room was
cool and the count rubbed his hands together.

"I need to speak to you," said Biagio.

"Now?"

"Yes."

Bovadin sighed. The foot with the cutting tool started sawing away
at a length of hose. Biagio watched, fascinated at the freakish
precision. It was like watching an ape work.

"Well?" pressed Bovadin sourly.

"I have news," said Biagio, striding toward Bovadin. When he
reached the table he studied the bizarre machine, running his
hands over its smooth surface. With its appendage-like hoses, it
seemed like a silver octopus. "It's good news," Biagio continued
as he examined the thing. "You'll be happy."

Bovadin's squeaky voice rang from beneath the table. "Happy?
Does that mean we can all go home?"

"Your fuel is here. Nicabar just arrived."

There was no more tinkering under the table. Biagio smiled and
dropped down to see Bovadin's face. The scientist stared at him in
relief.

"Did he get it all?" asked Bovadin. "Three shipments, like I asked?"

"Three shipments," agreed the count. "Just like you asked."

Bovadin beamed. "Oh, thank Heaven."

"Thank me," Biagio corrected. "And Nicabar. He could have blown
up his whole damn ship carrying that cargo so far south for you. He
didn't run into any Lissens, though. I suppose that's some good
fortune."

Bovadin nodded. "Your duke in Dragon's Beak has done well,
Renato. I'm sorry I doubted you."

Biagio's smile widened. "I'm often underestimated. Duke Enli has
strings just like any other man. I just needed to pull the right ones. I
knew he still had the fuel you needed. I remember when your war
labs agreed to his order."

"So do I," said the scientist. "But I would have thought it long gone
by now. Even so far north the fuel breaks down, becomes
dangerous. Duke Enli was taking a chance keeping it so long."

"Duke Enli's kept every weapon ever shipped to him, my friend.
Fear of his brother, I suppose. I knew he'd still have the fuel. I just
needed Nicabar to persuade him."

"He hasn't unloaded it yet, has he? I should be there for that."

"Be as close as you like," said Biagio, grinning. "I will be nowhere
near you at the time."

The count rose to study the device again, marveling at its intricacy.
The little genius had outdone himself this time. The thing was
heavy and the table bowed slightly under its weight. Loaded with
fuel, it would certainly be heavier yet. And such unstable fuel; how
would he keep it cool?

"How does it work?" asked Biagio. "Show me."

"Renato, I'm busy right now."

"What are these hoses for?"

"Later."

"Take a break, little man," insisted the count. "I want an explanation
of this thing. It intrigues me."

Bovadin groaned but rose, brushing his knees of dust and metal
filings. Once again playing the monkey, he climbed onto the table
and stood over his invention, proudly walking around it. He was not
much taller than the device and the scene was oddly comical, but
Biagio had vast respect for Bovadin. The little scientist had created
the war labs; he had invented the flame cannon and the acid
launcher and, most importantly, he had created the drug that kept
them all from aging.

"Explain it to me," Biagio said. "How does it work?"

"Oooh, now that's a secret, my friend. And I don't really think you
could grasp it."

"Don't patronize me, midget. Tell me."

Bovadin laughed gleefully, and his filthy face split with a grin. "It's
simple really. Beautifully simple. I'm very proud of this, Renato.
Very proud . . ."

"I'm glad for you," said Biagio dryly. "But will it work?"

"Oh, it will work," promised Bovadin. "I plan to test it. That's why I
wanted three crates of fuel. It will be working flawlessly by the time
it's delivered." Bovadin looked at the count skeptically. "If it's
delivered as you say."

"It will be," replied Biagio. "Don't worry. I've already made those
arrangements with Duke Enli. It's all coming together as planned."

"I'll make a deal with you, Renato. I'll explain how the device works
if you explain to me what's going on. I'm getting tired of your little
island. I want to go home to Nar. Soon."

"Soon enough, my friend. The wheels are in motion. More than that
I can't explain to you now."

"When, then?"

"Tonight," said Biagio. "Now that Nicabar has returned I can tell you
a bit more. We will all sup together tonight. I will explain myself."

Bovadin seemed surprised by this. "Oh? Has Nicabar brought
news from the Empire?"

"Some news, yes," said Biagio, trying to evade the inquiry. He
didn't like having his plans questioned, especially by someone with
a mind as keen as Bovadin's. "Enough news for me to act on, at
least. Now . . ."

The count pointed a finger at the device. "Tell me about this
machine of yours."

"As I said, it's simple." Bovadin pulled on the lever at the thing's
domed top and opened it like a hatch. Two iron hinges groaned.
"This is where the fuel goes. It loads like an ordinary flame cannon.
Same basic idea. But the fuel doesn't just stay in the fuel chamber
like a cannon. It's dispersed throughout the device by its own
pressure. That pressure keeps the fuel moving through the hoses."

"Uh-huh," replied Biagio. Already he was regretting his inquiry. "Go
on."

The scientist fingered a little mechanism in the middle of the thing,
a thin metal rod protruding from the device. "This is the starter," he
explained. "It will be set for a delay of one hour. Once this lever is
moved from side to side, the countdown will begin."

"It needs to be set easily, Bovadin," the count reminded him. "That
starter piece can't be hidden."

"It won't be. Not if you deliver it as you said you would. The starter
rod will be attached to the archangel. The angel has a large wing-
span, remember? It will hide the lever behind it. When the angel is
moved, the device will start."

Biagio chuckled at the midget's ingenuity. He remembered the
marble archangel over the gates of Herrith's cathedral. Bovadin
had built the device exactly to plan. Now it was up to Biagio to see
its delivery. The count had spent long weeks devising the perfect
means of getting the device to Herrith. Biagio was pleased with
himself. The angel would be innocuous and wouldn't arouse
Herrith's suspicions. And it would be easy enough for Lorla to set.

"What about the fuel?" asked Biagio. "How will you keep it cool?"

"The hoses," Bovadin explained. "The fuel will run through them
constantly, getting contact with the outside air." He pointed out the
tiny vanes in each hose.

"See here? I designed the hoses myself. Strong, and the vanes
increase air flow. The fuel will stabilize once I get it inside. But it
shouldn't be jostled, either. You know that, right?"

"I know that," said Biagio. The scientist had reminded him a
hundred times. He, in turn, would remind everyone else. There
were a great many people involved in this scheme. The device
would pass through untested hands before reaching Herrith. For
Bovadin's sake, Biagio tried not to look worried. The inventor had
enough on his mind.

"I'm impressed," said Biagio finally. "You've done a fine job, my
friend. I only wish I could be there to see it used."

"When we take back Nar, you'll get to see the crater it leaves,"
joked Bovadin. His blue eyes sparkled. "It will be like the sunrise,
Renato."

"Mmm, sounds perfect." Biagio closed his eyes, imagining the
sun's scalding heat. If everything went properly, Herrith would see
the device at work. And when he did, it would crush his very soul.
"Remember—Herrith mustn't be killed. I want him alive."

"Don't worry. Herrith should be out of the cathedral by then, giving
Absolution."

"If he's not, my plan will fail. . . ."

"Stop fretting," directed Bovadin. His smile sharpened. "Everything
will work. I just need to test it."

"Let me know when you're going to test this thing," Biagio said. "I
want to be alerted of any danger."

"There's no danger. The device can't really work unless it's filled
with fuel. The tests will only use a little, just to see how it works.
Test for leaks, that sort of thing."

It was all too technical for Biagio, who waved the remarks away.
"Even so, I want to know. My whole life is in this place now. I don't
want it going up in smoke. And don't test it alone. I'll get you some
assistants. I don't like you tinkering away down here by yourself.
You look terrible. You need more sun."

"Assistants?" scoffed Bovadin. "Kidnap some of my workers from
the war labs if you want to get me help, Renato. I don't need help
from your olive pickers. I spend so much time down here because
I've got work to do. I'm the one making the drug, remember, and
trying to finish this damn machine. Savros and Nicabar—"

"Enough," snapped Biagio. "Everyone is busy, my friend. Tempers
rise. I understand that." He let his voice take on its honey-sweet
tone. "Now, you will be at dinner tonight. And dress for it for once.
Put some shoes on. I want a civilized evening."

"Renato—"

"I'm tired too, Bovadin. I want to go back to Nar. And I don't want to
bicker. Get some rest. Sleep. I will see you tonight."

Simon spent the bulk of the day sleeping. Still exhausted from his
long trip and the night in Savros' dungeon, he found his bed an
impossible enticement, and slept deeply and soundly until the sun
slipped below the horizon. He hardly dreamed at all, but when he
did the faces he saw in his mind were white and frightened. Hakan,
the Triin he had captured, came briefly to haunt him. He asked
questions in his arcane tongue, begging to know why Simon had
abducted him, why he had delivered him to the madman with the
knives. As Simon awoke he recalled the dream, and was suddenly
glad it was time to get up. He crossed his chamber and went to the
window. The carpet was cool on his bare feet. Outside in the
distance he saw moonlight on water and the ubiquitous profile of
the Black Fleet. Another ship had joined them. Bigger than the rest.
Darker, too. Simon recognized the Fearless at once. Nicabar's
flagship.

The admiral was back from Dragon's Beak. Simon smiled to
himself. His master would be in a good mood tonight, maybe good
enough to grant favors.

"After dinner," Simon reminded himself gently. "Take it easy . . ."

Eris would be so pleased, and he loved her too dearly not to ask
this of the Master. Simon knew of no other Roshann agent who had
married, except when it was convenient for a role, but he knew he
was more than just an agent to Biagio. In some strange way the
two men were friends. And Simon was no slave. He was a free
man who had served the count long and loyally, and free men had
the right to ask for rewards. Though Biagio's aristocratic blood kept
them from ever being equals, Simon knew he had a special place
in his master's heart. Tonight he would exploit it.

Hurriedly he cleaned his face and hands. The splash of water
revived him. Biagio would be expecting him soon, so he combed
his hair, giving himself a cursory check in the mirror. The Master
was looking forward to the evening, and Simon wanted to look his
best. If Biagio were at all disappointed in him, his favor might be
declined. When he was satisfied with his appearance, Simon went
to his closets and selected a fine shirt and trousers. He completed
the outfit with a broad leather belt and a shiny, supple pair of thigh-
high boots. Simon grinned at his reflection, then left his rooms to
find Biagio.

The mansion was characteristically quiet. As he moved through the
halls, Simon could hear the muffled sounds of servants in the
distance and the delicate smells wafting from the kitchens. His
stomach grumbled slightly, reminding him of his appetite. Crote
had the finest food and chefs in the Empire, that's what all Cretans
thought. Simon's own mother had been an extraordinary cook,
though she was not native to the island. He missed her whenever
he was hungry. Sometimes he missed Crote too much to ever
leave again, and if they never returned to Nar, Simon wouldn't
object. Nar was cold and tall, whereas Crote was warm and flat, a
good place for a man to settle. Eris would love it here, Simon was
sure. So far she had only known the gilded cage of Biagio's
mansion, but if just once he could take her to the markets or walk
with her along the shore, she would fall for his magnificent island.

Simon crossed the hallways to the count's private wing, passing
the avenue of sculptures and the walls hung with tapestries. A vast
window looked out over the grounds, flooding the corridor with
purple moonlight. Here in the Master's wing, the air was sweet and
smelled of lilacs. Open windows funnelled in the briny scent of sea
water. When he was a boy, Simon would look up at this white
palace on the hill and imagine the wealth of the man inside. The
vision had fueled the young boy's dreams, had drawn him to
Biagio's glamour. He had been poor then, hungry for gold and the
power it could buy. And all the while as he grew to manhood, the
white palace on the hill taunted him with its magnificence. Now,
years later, Simon still felt a rush when he walked its halls.

When at last he came to Biagio's private chambers, he found the
double doors open. Simon peered inside. Biagio was seated on a
red leather chair near the window, his back to the door, slowly
draining a glass of sherry. The count's golden hair glinted in the
reflected moonbeams. Before Simon could knock, Biagio spoke.

"I've been sitting here, thinking," said the count softly.

Simon hesitated. Was that an invitation? Carefully he inched into
the chamber, drawing closer to his master. Biagio's breathing was
languid, as if he were drunk or very close to sleeping.

"Master?" probed Simon. "Are you all right?"

"Oh, I'm quite all right, dear Simon. Just relaxing. It's beautiful here,
isn't it?"

Simon stopped a pace behind Biagio's chair. "Yes, very beautiful.
I've been thinking that myself, lately."

"I wish I could spend more time here. I've been away too long,
neglected things. . . ."

"The call of duty," replied Simon lightly. "Nar has needed you."

"Yes." Biagio put down his sherry. The jeweled hand beckoned
Simon closer. As Simon approached Biagio looked up at him, his
preternatural eyes glowing a furious blue. "I want you to stay close
to me tonight. And I don't want you to say anything. Just be near."

Simon shrugged. He was always near his master. "Of course. You
don't have to worry about that, my lord."

"The others are growing restless. And Nicabar has brought news
with him from Nar. I'm worried how they might react. Stay close.
Remind them of my strength. Things are going forward, but the
others can't always see that. I need them to trust me. Or I need
them to fear me. I don't care which."

"My lord, I will be with you. Always." Biagio smiled warmly, one of
his wild, insane smiles. He put up a hand for Simon to take. "You're
my finest friend," he said. "Come. Let's go to dinner."

Simon took the count's hand and lifted him from the chair. Though
loose clothing gave him a delicate look, Simon knew his lord was
far from frail. The drugs he took to keep him vital had other side-
effects. Besides the color of his eyes, Biagio was among the
strongest men Simon knew, possessed of an almost super-human
vigor. No one could run farther or longer without becoming winded,
and no one could lift more weight above his head. Still, the count
liked being pampered, and very rarely bragged about his strength.
He ate sparingly and only of the freshest foods, and the wines he
chose were always from his own, well-controlled vineyards. In old
Nar, Biagio had enjoyed a reputation as a fop, but no one ever
called him that to his face.

The head of the Roshann had dressed for dinner. His sable-
trimmed cape made a peculiar rustling sound as he rose from the
chair, and his luxurious hair hung loosely around his shoulders.
Nearly all of his digits boasted a shiny bauble, and his teeth
gleamed when he smiled, giving him the uneasy appearance of a
prowling wolf. The count inspected Simon. A grin of approval
graced his face.

"Ready?" Simon asked.

Biagio nodded. "Let's go."

As always, Count Biagio took the lead, exiting the chamber with a
graceful stride that made his cape billow out behind him. Simon
kept back the customary pace, close enough to hear his master yet
far enough back not to overshadow him. Not that overshadowing
Biagio was possible. The count shined like a beacon.

They crossed the corridors quickly, leaving Biagio's personal wing
behind and entering the main living area of the villa, where the
count's Naren guests were quartered. This part of the mansion was
only slightly less garish than Biagio's own. A pair of gilded glass
doors hung wide at the entrance, bidding Biagio and Simon
forward. Over the huge, octagonal table was a chandelier of blue
and white crystal that glinted hypnotically in the candlelight. Biagio
slowed a little before entering, and a practiced, theatrical smile
appeared on his face. The servants in the dining room paused
when they saw him. The men seated around the table looked in his
direction. Simon dropped back a step and let Biagio make his
entrance.

"Good evening, my friends," crooned the count. He opened his
arms to the gathered Narens. "It's good to see you. Thank you all
for coming."

Each of the Naren nobles greeted their host, their uniformly blue
eyes watching him coolly. Simon quickly sized up the group. At the
far end of the table was Savros. The Mind Bender rose from his
seat and beamed. Next to the torturer sat the diminutive Bovadin.
Too fascinated with his plate of appetizers, the scientist remained
seated. Biagio seemed not to notice the snub. He was pumping
the hands of another man, a giant in the uniform of the Naren navy.
Nicabar, Admiral of the Black Fleet, embraced Biagio with a good-
natured laugh.

"Renato," said Nicabar. "You look well."

Nicabar's chest was a rainbow of ribbons and medals he had
earned in countless campaigns. Biagio seemed to disappear in his
embrace. Simon watched Nicabar carefully, studying the hard face
for any trace of insincerity. The count and the admiral had known
each other many years. Biagio counted Nicabar among his closest
friends. Together they had left Nar to Herrith and had orchestrated
the secession of the Black Fleet. They had even convinced
Bovadin and Savros to join them. They were, in Simon's
estimation, an odd and dangerous team.

"I'm so glad you're back, my friend," said Biagio. The count placed
a kiss on Nicabar's cheek. "And undamaged."

"Good to be back," said Nicabar, "though sailing the Empire's
oceans was a pleasure. I miss them, Renato."

This got Bovadin's attention. "We all miss them," he said peevishly.

"Please, sit," Biagio bid Nicabar, ignoring Bovadin's jibe. The count
took the admiral's arm and led him back to his seat. Simon
followed, and when Nicabar was seated he pulled out his master's
chair for Biagio to sit. Only when they were all seated did Simon
take his own chair, the one at Biagio's right hand.

"Let's have wine," suggested Biagio. A clap of his hands brought
servants from the shadows, collared men and women expertly
balancing silver platters and flagons of Crote's fragrant vintages.
As usual, Simon was served last. He waited for them all to take a
sip before tasting the wine himself. It was typically excellent, and
he watched the strange gathering as he sipped. From his position
across the table, the midget Bovadin seemed hardly more than a
disembodied head. Savros was chatting aimlessly with him.
Nicabar was silent as stone. Of the four, only Biagio was married,
to a woman he had left behind in Nar City. Countess Elliann hadn't
shared her husband's lust for power, and had disappointed him by
siding with Herrith. Now no one knew exactly where she was, and
Simon doubted Biagio even cared. Nicabar was fond of saying he
was married to the sea, and Savros was far too bizarre for any
woman. Bovadin had the excuse of his affliction to ward off
wedding bands. To Simon, the little man belonged in a grotesquery
anyway. But not the golden count. He was handsome in an
androgynous sort of way, and Elliann had never minded the way he
bedded both women and men. Like him, she was of noble birth,
and equally fickle in matters of the bedroom. What she hadn't
liked—what had appalled her about her husband—was his desire
to continue the Black Renaissance. Elliann wasn't a warrior. She
was a pampered she-wolf who wanted only perfumed sheets and
the good things of her birthright. She belonged in Nar. Not
surprisingly, Biagio had let her stay.

The others had actually given up very little. Herrith knew how close
they were to Biagio, and would never have let them live. Even
Nicabar, Naren hero though he was, had stood beside the Count of
Crote far too long to be safe from the bishop's assassins. And
Simon knew how he and Vorto hated each other. It was that old
rivalry, the legions against the navy, and neither would surrender or
bow to the other. When Arkus died and Herrith stole the throne,
Nicabar had simply ordered his Black Fleet out of Naren waters. It
had left the Empire easy prey to the marauding Lissens. Part of
Biagio's "grand design," Simon supposed. There were still some
nations loyal to Biagio, but they were few and probably dwindling.
Since returning from Lucel-Lor, Biagio had only dropped tantalizing
hints of their situation. Tonight, Simon hoped, they would all have
some answers.

Biagio raised up his crystal goblet. "My friends, let me speak," he
said. He shot a glare at Savros to silence the torturer. "I want to say
thank you. I want you to know again how much I appreciate your
patience and loyalty."

They all raised their glasses. Even Bovadin, who snickered slightly,
agreed to the toast. But when the drinking was done, the midget
was the first to open his mouth.

"What news from Nar, Admiral?" he asked pointedly. "Renato says
you've learned things."

Nicabar started to speak but Biagio raised a quieting hand. "I'll tell
you all the news from Nar myself," he said. "Danar has brought
news, it's true, but I want you all to understand me first. I know
you're growing impatient. I know you all want to return home to Nar.
But there are things in the works, things I can't tell you about."

"Hopefully things that will get us home," said Bovadin sourly. "I've
built the device for you, Renato. I've kept making the drug. I want to
know everything that's going on. I insist."

"The device," said Biagio calmly, "is not a subject I care to talk
about tonight."

Device. Simon tucked the word in the back of his brain. He had
known Bovadin was working on something, but had yet to learn
what. The count continued.

"I called us together because of some news Danar's heard from
Dragon's Beak, and because I want to assure you all that I'm in
control. Things are going according to my plans. I want you to
believe that." Biagio looked troubled suddenly. "Still, what Danar's
heard may make you doubt that."

"The Lissens?" asked Savros.

Danar Nicabar shook his head. "No, not just the Lissens."

"Herrith," Bovadin guessed.

Biagio took a contemplative pull from his glass, then leaned back in
his chair. "Yes, Herrith. I'm afraid the news from Nar isn't good
these days. Herrith has been making . . . trouble."

"Trouble?" said Bovadin. "What does that mean? Renato, stop
fooling. What's going on?"

"Genocide," said Biagio. There was no more humor in his
expression. "What does your mighty brain tell you about that,
Bovadin?"

Bovadin laughed. "He's wiping out the loyalists. We all knew that
would happen. That's why we came here."

Biagio sighed. "Does the term Formula B mean anything to you?"

Bovadin stopped laughing. His insectoid face went ashen. Biagio
leaned forward and hissed, "Yes, your experiment seems to work,
my friend. Too bloody well."

"It was used?" demanded Bovadin.

"Two weeks ago," answered Nicabar. "In Goth. Vorto had Lokken's
forces surrounded. They surrendered, because they had no
choice. Vorto went in, killed Lokken, then gassed the city." Nicabar
looked down into his glass. "Only a few survivors. All blind."

Bovadin was dumbfounded. "I can't believe it," he said. "They got it
to work. It's incredible."

"Incredible?" spat Biagio. "Is that your word for it, Bovadin? You
left a lot behind for them to build on, didn't you? You promised me
they would never get Formula B stable."

"I . . . I don't know what happened," sputtered the scientist. "There
aren't many people in the war labs with the knowledge to continue
the work. I thought for sure it would be too dangerous for them to
go on without me."

"Herrith must have changed their minds," said Savros. The Mind
Bender's brow furrowed. "I wonder how."

"It doesn't matter," said Nicabar. "He's got the formula. First Goth.
Then what? Vosk? Or Dragon's Beak?"

Biagio drummed his thin fingers on the table. "Apparently Herrith
takes his mandate from Heaven seriously. My people in Nar City
say he's determined to wipe out the Renaissance. Completely. He
won't rest until there's nothing left of it. Or us."

"Then we have to move quickly," said Bovadin. "Now."

"We are moving," said Biagio. "Don't doubt that. As I've said, there
are plans in the works to stop this madness. But it's going to take
time. You all have to be patient."

"We have been patient," flared Bovadin. "Renato, in a few months
there may be nothing for us to go back to. We have to act. We
have the navy, and the device is almost ready. I say we strike
back."

"Is that the best you can think of, Bovadin? How can we strike
back? True, we have the navy. And yes, some of the nations are
still on our side. But Vorto controls the land, not us. His legions are
loyal to him, and to Herrith. We can't win with force. Not that way."
Biagio tapped his skull with a finger. "We have to use our brains.
Thankfully, I have been."

Challenged, the tiny genius got out of his chair. To Simon he
seemed no taller. "Really?" said Bovadin. "And what have you
come up with? I for one am tired of your riddles, Renato. I followed
you because you said you would win this struggle. But I don't see
you winning. I see you hiding."

Biagio's smile was terrible. "You followed me because if you didn't,
you'd be dead now. Sit down, my friend. You're making a spectacle
of yourself."

There was just enough steel in the voice to make Bovadin obey.
He returned to his chair, brooding.

"We won't get anywhere by arguing," Biagio went on. "And after all,
there's no need for it. My plan is simple. I have agents poised to
help us, and allies sympathetic to our cause. Duke Enli of Dragon's
Beak has given us the fuel we needed for your device, yes,
Bovadin? He is still on our side. And there are others."

"What others?" asked Savros. The Mind Bender had been
studying the argument with detached fascination while he ate, his
tongue scooping oysters from their shells.

"Others who I'm sure will come through for us," Biagio replied
evasively. "Others whom I trust."

"The girl?" asked Bovadin.

"Yes," said Biagio.

"What girl?" pressed Savros.

"Oh, my dear Mind Bender, you would have loved this one." Biagio
chuckled and brought a dainty hand to his mouth. "A truly beautiful
thing. Too young for you, I think, but smashing."

"Renato?" said Danar. "What girl?"

"A very special girl, my friend. Someone Herrith won't be able to
resist. He has a fondness for children, you remember. I think this
one will steal his heart."

Baffled, Admiral Nicabar lowered his drink. "Explain yourself. Who
is this child?"

Count Biagio steepled his hands. Everyone hung on his words,
even Simon. Bovadin, however, seemed less interested, as if he
already knew the story.

"A long while ago," Biagio began, "when Arkus was still alive,
Bovadin and I set up an experiment of sorts. An experiment
regarding the drug. An experiment with children."

Bovadin began to squirm.

"It was a secret project of the war labs," the count continued. "We
wanted to know if the drug could stop the aging process entirely.
Bovadin thought the drug might work better on children."

"Their metabolisms are different," Bovadin jumped in. "I found that
the way they process the drugs isn't the same as adults, probably
because their bodies are still developing."

"We were able to arrest body development," said Biagio. "Rather
successfully, with one child in particular."

Nicabar was plainly shocked. "My God. How many of these freaks
are there?"

"Just one, now," replied the count. "We had to abandon the
experiment when we fled Nar. But we saved one. A very special
girl. One that I knew I could use against Herrith when the time
came."

"Abandon?" asked Savros. "I don't understand. What happened to
the other children?"

Bovadin looked away. The truth was sickeningly obvious.

"There was no choice," said Biagio. "We couldn't risk being
discovered, especially by Herrith. Only the girl was spared." The
Cretan looked around the table warily. "And don't accuse us of
crimes, my friends. The experiment had a noble purpose. We
were trying to save Arkus, and perhaps save ourselves. We're all
still getting older, no matter how slowly. And if not for this girl, we
wouldn't have a weapon against Herrith."

"Where's the child now?" asked Nicabar.

"Duke Enli is taking care of her. And that's all I will tell you."

"Enli mentioned none of this to me," said the admiral. "God, you
keep such secrets, my friend. Don't you trust anyone?"

Biagio looked hurt. "Dear Danar, I trust you all. In fact, I have
something very special to entrust to you. Another mission. To Nar
City, this time."

"Nar City?" laughed Nicabar. "A love note for Herrith?"

"Not a love note, no. But it is for Herrith."

The admiral frowned. "Renato . . .?"

"I want you to take the Fearless and some of your dreadnoughts to
the Black City. I have a message for the bishop I want you to
deliver personally."

"What message?"

"A letter, asking Herrith to sit down and talk peace with me."

Now they were all astonished. Even Simon's jaw slackened. Biagio
looked about the room, grinning like a madman.

"This isn't a joke, my friends. You should say something."

"I don't know what to say," sputtered Nicabar.

"Is this your plan?" asked Bovadin incredulously. "To surrender?"

"Don't be ridiculous," said Biagio. He beckoned a servant over to
refill his glass, then rolled the goblet between his palms. "It's just
part of my grand design, you see. Herrith will never accept. He will
eventually, but not right away. Gradually we will pressure him to
come here. But first he'll think we're weakening. And that's all I want
for now. The girl and the Lissens will do the rest for me."

"But why me?" asked Nicabar. "Why can't one of your agents
deliver this message?"

"Because they can't sail the flagship," said Biagio. "And it's two
messages, really. One is for Herrith. The other is for the Lissens. I
want them to see the Fearless. I want them to think it's out of
Cretan waters."

Exasperated, Nicabar shook his head. "Renato, you're not making
sense. Why would you want the Lissens to think Crote's
unguarded? The Black Fleet is probably the only thing keeping
them away from here. Besides, I thought you wanted them to
attack the Empire."

"I do," said Biagio. "Trust me, Danar. The Lissens have been
attacking Nar, and I say let them continue. But let them also think
we here are unprotected. Let them think we've come to the aid of
the Empire. It's all part of the plan."

"Oh, yes," muttered Bovadin. "The 'grand design.' Sounds like
nonsense to me. What are you trying to do, get us all killed? If the
Black Fleet leaves, the Lissens will swarm over Crote. You know
that, Renato. They blame you as much as anyone for the war."

Biagio put up his hands. "Enough. Danar, you will do this thing for
me. You will leave in a few days. But you are not to engage the
Lissens or sink their ships. Do you understand that?"

Confused, Nicabar nodded glumly.

"Say it."

"I understand."

Biagio smiled. "Good. Now . . ." He picked up a fork and plunged it
into an oyster. "Let's eat."

Evenings on Crote were always warm. Winter was coming, but not
to this island. The trade winds off the ocean drew in the southerly
air, keeping away the frost and making the flowers bloom
throughout the year. In the damp of spring, lovers walking through
the ancient avenues could hear the calls of night birds and the
exotic music of insects. But it was cooler now, slightly, and the
creatures of the island slumbered. Along the beach meandering
past Biagio's villa, Simon heard only the tranquil rhythm of the
ocean. His master Biagio walked a few paces in front of him, the
gentle surf lapping at his boots. They were both full of oysters and
stuffed duck, and the heaviness in their guts had made them quiet.
It was very late now. Even the moon had started to dip. A train of
clouds crossed its path, turning the ocean black. Simon felt his
eyelids drooping. He had hoped to go to Eris tonight, but the
dinner had taken longer than he'd hoped, and Biagio had wanted
his company.

For over an hour they had walked along the beach, barely speaking
a word to each other. The Master seemed troubled. Occasionally
he dipped his jeweled hand into the sand, retrieving a shell or
stone, then pitching it into the water, but mostly he just walked,
slowly, aimlessly, making Simon wonder what plots he was
hatching in his mind.

"Simon?" the count called over his shoulder.

"Yes, my lord?"

"I'm getting tired, but I don't want to go back yet. You know what
that's like?"

Simon shrugged. He had no idea what Biagio meant. "Yes, I think
so."

"It's a nice night, isn't it?"

More nonsense. "Yes, very nice."

"Come closer," bade Biagio. "Walk with me."

Simon did as requested. Together they strode along the beach
and let the water soak their boots, while Biagio kept his eyes on the
horizon. The silhouettes of Nicabar's Black Fleet bobbed in the
blackness. To the east where the land hooked around, Simon
could see the lights of Galamier, the town where he'd grown up
and where he'd first learned to pick pockets. Galamier was very
dim tonight and glowed a hazy orange. Simon's eyes lingered
there, and Biagio's melancholy was suddenly contagious.

"I think they doubt me," said Biagio.

Simon grimaced. "It's a lot to ask of them. They don't know you as
I do."

"Yes," Biagio agreed. "But I have plans, you see. Great plans for
Herrith and that dog, Vorto. I can't just kill them as Bovadin
suggests; that would solve nothing. Herrith would be dead and we
would still be stuck on Crote. One of our enemies would rise to the
throne. We must destroy them all."

"Of course you're right," said Simon.

"I have many enemies in Nar these days."

"And many friends, my lord."

Biagio chuckled. "That number is dwindling, dear Simon. Lokken's
death proves that." The count's expression hardened. "And there
will be Talistan to deal with, too. They will not accept me as
emperor. Tassis Gayle is like Herrith. He thinks I am not 'man
enough' to be emperor!"

"They are both fools, Master."

"Yes." Biagio kicked at the sand with his boot. "Duke Lokken was a
good man. Loyal. He knew what the Black Renaissance was about,
what Arkus was trying to achieve. He died a hero. I won't forget
him."

"He'll be avenged, my lord."

"Oh, indeed," said Biagio. He turned to Simon and clasped his cold
hands on his shoulders. "Look at me, Simon."

Simon looked. Biagio's eyes were impossibly bright. "Yes?"

"Whatever else you hear from the others, whatever you may think
of my plan, I promise you it will work. I don't just intend to kill
Herrith. I plan to destroy him—and all his sycophants. When we
return to power, there will not be anyone else to contend with. Not
Herrith and his sick church, not Vorto and his legions, not anyone.
My grand design will take care of them all, Simon. All of our
enemies."

"I believe you, my lord," said Simon. "I truly do."

"But you worry. You think I'm letting the Lissens attack Nar out of
spite. It's not spite, Simon. It's part of my plan. Can you understand
that?"

Simon smiled. "I don't have your gift for such things. But if you say
it's so, then I believe it. Without question."

Biagio's expression melted. "Thank you, my friend."

Simon felt his courage cresting. His mouth dried up as he fought to
form the words. Biagio started back off toward the villa.

Now, Simon screamed at himself. Do it now!

"My lord?" he said weakly.

"Uhmm?"

"May I ask a favor?"

"Of course."

Simon hurried to catch up. He stayed one pace behind the count
as he framed the request. What he was asking bordered on
impossible, but he and Biagio were friends. Almost.

"Simon," said Biagio. "Stop dallying and ask your question."

Simon wet his lips. "It's about Eris, my lord."

The count's pace slowed perceptibly. "Oh?"

"You see, I am very fond of her."

"Yes, I know," said Biagio. The old, familiar jealousy crept into his
tone.

"My lord, what I want to ask is . . . difficult." Simon stopped walking
and lowered his eyes. Biagio stopped, too. The count stared at his
servant curiously.

"You started this," Biagio warned. "Finish it. Go on and ask your
question."

Simon straightened and stared directly into Biagio's eyes. "I love
Eris, my lord. I've loved her since you purchased her. I want to be
with her. I want her for my wife."

Simon waited for the rage, but it never came. Biagio's expression
was serene for a moment, and then a different emotion overcame
him, one not of anger but of sadness. For a moment Simon
thought his lord might weep. Biagio looked away.

"This seems sudden," said the Cretan. "I'm . . ." His voice trailed
off with a shrug. "Surprised."

"I know it's asking a lot, my lord. It's not tradition, I know. But I do
love her." Simon bowed his head, then fell to one knee in the sand.
He took Biagio's cold hand and kissed it. "My lord, I beg this of
you. Let me have Eris. I've served you loyally. I always will. You are
my greatest passion."

Biagio scoffed. "Not as great as the dancer, though. Get up,
Simon. You're embarrassing yourself."

Simon rose but kept his head bowed. Biagio turned his back to
him. For a long moment the count stared off into the horizon, hardly
breathing as the breeze stirred his golden hair. The ocean came
and retreated, and Biagio just stood there like one of the statues in
his mansion, cold and unapproachable.

"Simon, I will do this thing for you," said the count at last. "Because
I care for you. Do you know that? Do you know how much I care for
you?"

Simon knew. "I do, my lord."

"Eris is my prize, my property. There is no other dancer like her in
the Empire. But I give her to you, Simon. I break with the traditions
of the Roshann, for you."

"Thank you, my lord. You are truly great. . . ."

Biagio turned to face him. "But in return, you will do something for
me."

"Anything," agreed Simon quickly. "Ask me anything, my lord. I will
do it willingly."

"You will go back to Lucel-Lor. You will find Richius Vantran. And
you will steal his daughter for me."

"What . . .?"

"That's it, Simon. That's my price for the woman. Bring me the
Jackal's daughter."

"But my lord, Vantran is guarded. I could never get that close to
him. There's no way—"

"You underestimate yourself, my friend," laughed Biagio. "You can
do it. You're my best agent, the only one who can pull it off. Get
into Vantran's confidence. Find out his plans. Make him trust you.
Then, when his guard is down, take the child."

"But why?" sputtered Simon. "What do you want with the girl?
She's just a baby. . . ."

"I want what I've always wanted," Biagio roared. "I want Vantran to
suffer! He took Arkus from me. Now I will take what is precious to
him. It is justice, Simon. Nothing more."

Simon fought to control himself. It was madness, not justice, but he
couldn't say so. Not now. Eris was almost his. They could marry.
Biagio had agreed.

"My lord, even if I could get into his confidence and steal the baby,
how could I possibly get back here with her? We're a long way
from Lucel-Lor."

"A ship of the Black Fleet will take you to Lucel-Lor. While you're
there, it will stay behind to patrol Triin waters. It will be there when
you need it to return."

You've got this all planned, don't you? thought Simon bitterly. The
master puppeteer at work.

"My lord," said Simon cautiously. "Think again on this, please. Your
vengeance against Vantran is clouding your mind. There are other
things to worry about. Herrith and Vorto—"

"Are being dealt with," snapped the count. "But Vantran has gone
on too long without tasting my wrath. It's time for him to suffer.
Time for him to pay for what he's done." Biagio stepped closer to
Simon, until their noses almost touched. "He killed Arkus, Simon.
He betrayed Arkus and the emperor died because of it. And all for
a god-damned woman. Now I will take what has come from their
cursed union. In the name of Arkus, I will take it!"

Simon stood very still.

"You will do this for me," Biagio continued. "And in return I will give
you the dancer. That is our bargain. Do you accept it?"

"Yes," said Simon sadly. It was the only word he could manage, for
his voice had abandoned him.

"You will leave in a few days," said Biagio. "I will look after Eris for
you."

And with that the golden count turned from his servant and strode
away.
FIVE
The Conscience of a King

T he citadel of Falindar stood on a cliff overhanging the ocean,
erupting from the rocky earth. In all the vastness of Lucel-Lor there
existed no other structure as high or as splendid, nor any with such
a pedigree. It had stood for centuries on its perch, weathering wars
and the occasional hurricane, housing the royal family of Lucel-
Lor—that long lineage of Triin noblemen that had called
themselves Daegog. The Daegogs had ruled Lucel-Lor from
Falindar, showering themselves in wealth and taxes, and had
watched apathetically as the warlords of their land methodically
carved up the nation and claimed territories of their own. In the era
of the warlords, the last of the Daegogs had merely been
figureheads, rulers in name only, until finally there were no more of
their greedy clan. There were only the warlords and their
squabbles.

But Falindar remained. Like the memory of the Daegog, the citadel
was permanent, and in these days of peace, the warlords looked to
Falindar for strength and guidance and asked favors of the man
who now called the place home. The new master of Falindar had
taken the job reluctantly. The death of the old master had made
any other choice impossible.

Richius Vantran knew the sad chronicle of Falindar. He knew the
warlords personally and had fought with them against Nar, had
watched Triin comrades die at the hands of his Empire. Lucyler,
Falindar's new master, was his closest friend, and the two had
become like brothers. Yet still, long months after the war, Richius
was no closer to understanding the Triin. In Aramoor, his
homeland, he had been a king. A poor one, he believed, but a king
nonetheless. He had not been an oddity because of his pink skin.
There had been servants and responsibilities to occupy him, and
the days were quickened by demands. He had despised the
kingship the death of his father had thrust on him, but it had defined
his life. It had given him purpose.

All men need a purpose. Richius' father had told him that, and it
haunted him. But in Falindar, the days dragged and the nights were
unbearable. Richius had become little more than another of the
castle's ornaments. He was still Kalak, the Jackal, and a hero to the
Triin, but they seemed not to notice or need him anymore. In the
months since Lucel-Lor's victory over Nar, Richius had rested and
gained weight. He had watched the growth of his daughter, and had
speculated about the goings-on back in the Empire, but he was
isolated. Lucyler busied himself with the famines and the
reconstruction of the Dring Valley—and the other territories scarred
by the war—and he rarely had time for his Naren friend. Richius
watched Lucyler with envy, remembering fondly what it was like to
be busy. He helped when he could, loading carts full of grain and
patrolling the grounds around Falindar, but he was nagged
constantly by the feeling that he was simply in the way.

He spent most of his days with Shani, idling the hours away. Shani
was leading a pampered life. She was Kalak's daughter and so
wanted for nothing, and Richius wondered sometimes what type of
woman this would make her. Her face had some of his features,
and that marked her as something more or less than Triin, but she
could never go to Nar and discover the other half of her heritage.
Aramoor was now firmly in the hands of the Empire. Unless he
could create a miracle, she would never see the place her father
considered home. Biagio had seen to that. Even exiled, the golden
count had influence. Aramoor was ruled by Talistan now, just as it
had been before the little nation had broken free. A new governor
had been appointed to replace Blackwood Gayle—the iron-fisted
Elrad Leth. Richius didn't know Leth well, but he knew his
reputation. Aramoor was suffering under him, certainly.

Today was a day like any other in Falindar. Dyana had spent the
morning playing with Shani and trying to teach the girl her first Triin
phrases. Shani could barely gurgle, but Dyana was convinced she
knew the word mother. Feeling melancholy, Richius had gone off
riding. Before leaving he had made Dyana promise that she and
Shani would not leave the grounds of the citadel. Reluctantly, his
wife agreed.

So Richius rode for an hour and more under the cool afternoon
sun, losing himself in the colorful show of Lucel-Lor's autumn. He
rode until he reached the forest far to the east of Falindar, an
ancient grove of tangled trees with bark like stone and black
branches. Here is where he had left Karlaz to weep, when the lion-
master had slain his rogue mount. Karlaz had not returned to the
citadel. Instead he had remained in the woods.

And perhaps it was this that drove Richius to the forest. Lonely but
not truly wanting to be alone, Richius steered his steed into the
heart of the forest, past the village where the rogue lion had
attacked, and finally to the range of mountains where he and
Lucyler had left Karlaz behind.

Richius had barely arrived at the mountain lair when he heard
Karlaz's unmistakable voice, singing. It was a low, droning chant,
strangely joyous, and Richius followed it, hoping not to disturb the
warlord. He tracked the voice to a clearing by a shallow lake, where
Karlaz, his hair wet and matted with filth, knelt in the mud and
cupped water in his hands, letting it dribble over his face as he
sang. Richius reined in his horse a safe distance from the warlord,
observing the odd ritual from the safety of the trees. Karlaz
continued with his song through three more handfuls of water.
When he was done, he laid his palms down on the soft ground,
stooped, and kissed the earth. Then he raised his head. He did not
turn, but instead sniffed the air like an animal.

"Kalak?" he guessed.

Richius grimaced. "Yes," he replied in Triin. He formed his words
with effort, speaking slowly as he made the Triin language. "I am
sorry, Karlaz. I did not mean to disturb you."

"You are not disturbing me. My prayer is done." Then the warlord
chuckled. "But if the Gods heard me, I know not."

"Gods hear very little, I've learned," said Richius. He understood
most of what the warlord was saying, filling in the rest with his
imagination. "I can leave if you want."

"Kalak, you have come a very long way. To find me?" "Yes."

"Why?"

Richius dismounted. Still Karlaz did not turn to face him. "Because
I need to speak with someone," said Richius. "Because I am
troubled."

"And you chose me?" This intrigued the warlord enough so that he
turned his head. There was a curious smile on his face. "I am not
the village wise-woman. Why me?"

"I am not sure," said Richius with a shrug. "Maybe because I have
no one else who would listen. Or understand. I am—"

"Troubled. Yes, so you have said. Come." Karlaz patted the wet
ground next to him. "Sit with me."

Richius grimaced. "In the mud?" Again the warlord beckoned
Richius forward. "I have been watching you, Kalak. You live among
us, but you are not Triin yet. I will teach you something. Come."

Reluctantly, Richius picked his way over the rocky ground toward
Karlaz. At the warlord's insistence he knelt down beside him.
Immediately his knees disappeared with a sucking sound, the
water soaking through his trousers to the skin. "Now what?"

"Shhh," Karlaz directed. "This will calm your mind. But you must be
quiet. You of Nar, you are never quiet enough. You cannot hear the
silence." Karlaz made a cup of his hands again. "Do this," he said.
"Yes, that is good. Now . . ." He dipped his hands into the water
until his hands filled, watching as Richius did the same. But when
Karlaz dropped the cold water over his face and chest, Richius
balked.

"Karlaz, I am not very religious. I do not want to pray."

"Shhh," said Karlaz. "This is not prayer. No. This is for you, not the
Gods. When we do this thing, we are the center of the world."

It was all cryptic nonsense, but Richius did as the warlord asked,
raising his hands to his face and letting the water slowly dribble out.
Not surprisingly, he felt no different, but he dipped his hands in the
water again and repeated the process three more times along with
Karlaz. Richius stole a glance at the lion rider, whose eyes were
closed in contemplation. "What are we doing?" he whispered. "We
are becoming part of the earth," said Karlaz. "Part of the soil, part
of the water. Part of the sky if you look at it. Look at the sky, Kalak.
Keep your eyes open and look."

Richius looked. He poured the water over his face, straining not to
blink, and watched the blueness of the heavens blur in the
waterfall. He felt giddy suddenly and he laughed.

"Good!" Karlaz encouraged. "You see? You are part of the earth
now. Part of nature. Now sing with me."

Again Karlaz began to chant, elbowing Richius to join him. Richius
joined in, shyly at first, then stronger as the mood swept him. It was
still nonsense, but he loved it. He loved being part of nature, and
he imagined the water washing him clean, carrying away his sins
and his past. He chanted with the warlord for long minutes, and
when Karlaz stopped singing Richius went on alone, louder until
the birds flew from the trees and his song wasn't a chant suddenly
but a pained, cathartic cry. . . .

Richius let all the frustration blow out of him, and when he was
done he opened his eyes and glanced at Karlaz, horrified. The
lion-master stared at him.

"Troubled," murmured Karlaz.

Richius was breathing hard. "Yes. Oh, yes . . ."

He had no other words. He was a prisoner of his memories.
Aramoor flashed before him, perfect and green, and the shattering
sight of Sabrina's head in a box, staring. A gift from Biagio. He had
never truly loved her but he loved her now, and he feared suddenly
that she would never be silent, that her screams would echo
endlessly. He brought his hands to his face and covered his eyes,
willing the images away, but they remained, just as they had always
remained.

"Karlaz," he said shakily. "I am alone here. I am like you. A stranger
in Falindar."

The warlord took Richius' chin in his hand and pulled him closer.
"You are not alone, Kalak. Hear me? Kalak can never be alone
here. You have a wife, and a daughter. I have seen them with you."
He smiled, and the expression was surprisingly gentle. "Kalak is
not alone."

"Dyana," Richius nodded. "Yes, she is wonderful. I love her, but
she does not understand. She does not know what I am going
through."

The warlord's grin broadened. "Always men talk about the wife that
does not understand. Triin men are the same. They should listen to
their wives more. The females know more than we think."

Richius nodded, somewhat ruefully. "Yes. But I have tried to speak
to her, and she will not hear me. She does not want to listen to what
I have to tell her. To her, it is just bad news."

The warlord's eyes narrowed to scrutinize him. "I have been
watching you, Kalak. I have seen you at work, and I have heard the
way the others talk about you. I know that you were married before;
that Dyana is not your first wife. The guards, they talk. They say that
you are unhappy here, and that your heart is full of vengeance. And
you walk alone at night, in the courtyard. I have seen you."

It was all true, so Richius didn't deny it. Those nighttime walks had
been his only means to exorcise the demons that always came to
him in sleep. But suddenly the warlord's perception made him
uneasy. He got up from the ground, brushing the mud from his
knees and wiping his filthy hands on his trousers. Karlaz looked up
at him, but did not rise.

"I have disturbed you," said Richius. "I am sorry. I will go now."

He turned to go, making it halfway to his horse before Karlaz called
after him.

"Now Kalak runs," said the warlord. "And he still has no answers."

Richius turned. "Karlaz, I . . ."

"Yes?"

"Talking about this is hard for me."

Still Karlaz stared at him. "If you go, you will only be frustrated. And
then you will tell your wife that you are frustrated, and you will both
be angry. You came to talk. So talk. I will listen."

It was an odd invitation, but of all the Triin warlords Richius had
known, only Karlaz had seemed like kindred. Perhaps it was why
the other warlords had always shunned him; he was nothing like
them at all. Richius lingered between his horse and the stream,
contemplating what to say. He could think of no tangible reason for
coming to Karlaz. He just wanted a companion. Amazingly, Karlaz
seemed to read his mind. The man rose from his knees and strode
over to him.

"Lucyler is a good man," he said. "I trust him. But he is busy these
days with great matters. The other warlords, they look to him for
answers to their silly feuds. They eat up his time with nonsense. He
has no time for you. And this discourages you."

Richius laughed. Perhaps Karlaz was a magician. "Yes," he
admitted. "That is right, I think. I feel alone here. I am not Triin, and
I am out of place. And . . ." He stopped himself, wondering if he
should go further. The warlord cocked his head inquisitively.

"And?"

"I have dreams," said Richius. "Bad dreams. Of home. Of my first
wife, Sabrina. It is all inside me, in here, crying to get out. I do not
belong here. Since the war with Nar ended, I have done nothing for
my people in Aramoor. They think I have betrayed them, and they
are right. Sabrina died because of me." He looked away, horrified
at what he was admitting. "I am cursed, Karlaz. Everyone who
trusts me dies, but I always live. That is my curse—to live while
everyone else dies."

Karlaz's brow wrinkled. "Narens are superstitious. Curses and
portents—they are nonsense. It does you ill to speak so. I know of
your wife, Kalak, the cruel thing they did to her. Your vengeance
must be great. It is right to feel your anger. It is what a man should
feel."

"It screams at me, Karlaz. Sometimes it is all I think about. I need
to be doing something for Aramoor, something to avenge what
they did to Sabrina."

"But you have avenged her," said Karlaz. "I have heard the story of
the man with the metal face, the one called Gayle. You battled and
killed him. She is avenged, Kalak. You cannot slay a man twice."

"Would that I could," spat Richius. He would love to have that
pleasure again. Often he remembered his sword cutting through
Gayle's skull and the look of astonishment on the baron's face. But
Blackwood Gayle had only been a pawn, a puppet on Biagio's
strings. Gayle was dead but Biagio lived on, and had yet to answer
for his crimes.

"There is another man," Richius explained. "The one who ordered
her death. I know you do not know much about Nar, but this one is
a devil. He is a Naren nobleman. He was the emperor's closest
advisor before the old man died. His name is Biagio."

Karlaz tried to wrap his tongue around the name. "Beeagyo," he
managed to say. "A bad man?"

"Oh, worse than bad. Evil. Do Triin believe in Hell? Because he is
from Hell, I swear it. He ordered my homeland overrun, and he
gave it to Talistan to rule."

Karlaz folded his arms over his chest. "Where is this Beeagyo?"
he growled. "In the Empire?"

"I am not sure," said Richius with a shrug. "The news I hear from
Nar is not very reliable or recent, but I have heard he is in exile.
After the emperor died, there was chaos in Nar. Biagio had to flee,
probably to his island. There is a bishop in power now, a holy man
you might call him. Not a friend of Biagio's. But not a friend of mine,
either." He sighed. "I cannot really explain this to you. It is
something you have to see to believe, but Nar is run by evil men.
Not just bad or cruel, but truly evil. Their souls are black, you see?
Black like death. They have to be stopped."

The warlord looked at him suspiciously. "By you?"

"Maybe," said Richius. "Why not?"

"One man alone against an empire. That sounds like a fool's
crusade, Kalak. And you are an outlaw in Nar, yes? Show your
face, and you are dead. Your wife is widowed, your daughter
fatherless. That is not being a hero."

"But I would not be alone. I would go with the Lissens. I would join
in their fight."

"The Lissens have left our waters. They do not come to Lucel-Lor
anymore."

"But they might be back. Their commander told me so. He said I
could join them if I wanted."

"And what did you say?" asked Karlaz, looking like he already knew
the answer.

"I told him that I would help if I was needed. Can you understand
that, Karlaz? You helped the other Triin to fight Nar because they
invaded your land. You were willing to die. Should I not be at least
as brave as that?"

"It is different, Kalak."

"Why?" asked Richius hotly. "Why is defending Aramoor any
different from defending your village?"

"It is different," repeated the warlord firmly, "and I will not argue this
with you." Then he sighed and his face became mournful. "You
have much to think on, Kalak. You should talk to the sky."

For a moment Richius thought that his Triin had failed him. Talk to
the sky? "What does that mean?"

"In Chandakkar, when a man is troubled, he talks to the sky. He
goes away from all others, like I have been doing here. I have had
things to think on. I have been talking to the sky."

And to the mud and water and trees, thought Richius wryly. "Karlaz,
I am not understanding you. You want me to go away? Leave
Falindar?"

"For a time, yes. Talk to the sky. Listen to what it tells you." The big
man poked his finger into Richius' chest. "Listen to what this tells
you. Your heart, Kalak. Your heart."

Dyana Vantran was barely twenty years old, but she had seen a lot
in her brief lifetime. The daughter of wealthy Triin parents, she had
been bred as an aristocrat, had learned the tongue of the Naren
Empire, and had been married to a man who slew her father. She
had been a refugee, a prostitute, a symbol of derision, and the
object of more than one man's madness. She had survived two
devastating wars. Yet in all the roles she had played, she was only
happy in her current incarnation—the wife of Richius and the
mother of their small daughter, Shani. She was satisfied in
Falindar, and despite her best attempts to understand her
husband's moods, she could not understand why Richius wasn't.

Dyana remembered empty stomachs, and her bitter past made her
grateful for the bounty of Falindar. No one in the citadel ever
hungered—especially not Shani—and they were sheltered here
from the violent whims of the warlords. Lucyler had done an
admirable job as Falindar's master, and because of his friendship
with Richius, he had made sure they wanted for nothing. And they
enjoyed the respect of the people in the region; Richius was a hero
here. But he never saw it that way, and it irritated Dyana. In the last
few months he had grown distant and moody, his eyes always
drifting toward the sea, where Dyana knew he searched for Lissen
ships. He was still a good father and attentive to their child, but
something had changed. She had fallen in love with a man with
boyish charm, and she missed his eagerness, his innocence. He
was somehow diminished. These days, Richius was quiet. He
shared precious little with her, leaving her to wonder what went on
in his head. When they had first married, she could read his
expressions easily, but no longer. He had erected a wall around
himself that even she couldn't scale. They made love in perfect
silence.

That night, Dyana was asleep when Richius finally returned to the
citadel. It was very late, and she had gone to bed alone, as had
become her custom. Shani was in a nearby room, also sleeping.
Dyana heard the door to her bed chamber open. She cracked one
eye to glimpse Richius in the threshold, moving furtively in the
moonlight. He peered at her through the darkness, checking to see
if he had awoken her. Dyana didn't move. She listened as Richius
stripped off his clothes, then washed quietly from the basin by the
window. After pulling on a nightshirt, he very carefully slid into bed
next to her.

"I was worried," said Dyana.

There was a long pause before she heard Richius sigh.

"I'm sorry," he offered.

"It is late." She stole a glance out the window. The moon was dim.
"Almost morning. Where have you been?"

"Out. Thinking."

"Thinking? You have been gone all day." When he did not answer
she rolled over to touch his shoulder. He seemed reluctant to face
her. "Richius," she whispered. "Tell me what is wrong."

"Nothing that you can help, Dyana. Go back to sleep. I'm sorry I
woke you."

"I cannot sleep. Not now." She gave his shoulder a shake. "Please
. . ."

At last he rolled over to look at her, his face grim and exhausted.
He stank of the fields.

"I know you are unhappy here," Dyana said. "I know you want
revenge. But I cannot let you, Richius."

Richius' voice was barely a whisper. "Dyana, I love you. And I love
Shani. You're everything to me. So why am I so restless?"

"Bad memories," she said. She stroked his head, hoping to soothe
those burning recollections. "War does this to a man. It will pass. I
know you cannot believe that now, but it will. You need time to
heal."

"Every night I think of going back to Nar," he said. "Back to
Aramoor. I've abandoned them all, Dyana. I let them die. And I
hear them screaming at me, accusing me. Even Sabrina."

Sabrina. Dyana glanced away. She had never told Richius how she
shared his guilt over her death, though she had never even met the
girl. But he had abandoned Sabrina and Nar for her, and for that his
wife had been murdered. Dyana's hand trembled a little and she
pulled it from his brow.

"Sabrina is dead," she said coldly. "You cannot bring her back."

Richius stared at her. "I know that. But there are crimes to answer
for. Someone has to pay."

"Someone is paying, my love," said Dyana. "You."

"Dyana . . ."

"No," snapped Dyana. "Stop and listen to me. Sabrina is dead. And
Aramoor is gone. You live here now, Richius. You live among the
Triin because you cannot go home again. This is all there is for
you." She looked away. "I am all there is for you."

A lumbering guilt assailed her. She had said it. And it had felt good.
But now, in its aftermath, came a terrible silence. Richius was
staring at her. She could feel his eyes through the blackness. He
resented her and she knew it.

"You came back here for me," she said glumly. "But that was your
choice, Richius. I never asked you to. You thought it would make
you happy, but nothing makes you happy. And now you blame me
for your misery."

Richius sat up. "I don't," he insisted. "Don't say that."

"You do. I see it when you look at me. You want to go off and fight
Nar with the Lissens, but you do not care what will happen to us.
And you do not see the danger, because you are blind with hate.
Nar is pulling itself to pieces, and you want to be part of that."

"Aramoor is my land, Dyana. I'm the king."

"You are not," said Dyana. "Not anymore. And no matter what you
do to Nar, even if you kill your Count Biagio, you will never get
Aramoor back." Her shoulders slumped. "Why do you make me be
so cruel? Why do I have to tell you this, when it should be so plain
to you?"

Richius' bravado melted away. "I just want to do what's right," he
said weakly. "But I don't know what that is."

Dyana shrugged. "Nor do I. But I want you to be whole. I want my
husband back."

Gentle as a breeze, he slipped an arm around her. Dyana
shuddered at the touch. He put her head down against him and
stroked her white hair, and she was like a child in his embrace, frail
and adored. She didn't want him to see her cry. She wanted to be
strong for him.

"The Triin have an expression," he said. "Talking to the sky. That's
what I have to do, I think."

"What?"

"I have to talk to the sky. You don't know that expression?"

"Where did you hear that?"

"From Karlaz. He says it's what Triin men do when they're troubled.
They go off and be with nature for a time. They look for answers."

"In Chandakkar, maybe. I have never heard that before." She
pulled herself free of him. "Is that what you want to do? Leave
Falindar?"

"Yes," he said.

"Alone?"

"It wouldn't be much good if I weren't alone, Dyana. I need to think.
I need to get away from here for a little while. I have a lot inside I
need to sort out. Is that all right?"

"I cannot stop you."

He tried to smile. "You're angry."

"Yes," said Dyana. "You are always telling me what danger I am in,
and now you say you want to leave. What about Biagio? Are you
not worried about him?"

"Lucyler will look after you," said Richius. "And if you do as I say,
stay inside while I'm gone, nothing will happen to you." He gave her
an imploring look. "Please, don't fight me on this. Let me go with a
clear conscience. I'll be back to you."

Dyana sighed. She didn't need him to swear it. She knew how
much he loved her and Shani.

"How long will you be gone for?" she asked.

"I don't know. A week or so, I suppose. Not much longer."

"Where will you go?"

"I don't know that either, really. I thought of going to Chandakkar
with Karlaz. He's leaving Falindar soon. But he said I should be
alone. . . ." Richius laughed. "It's probably all some spiritual
nonsense. But I want to try. I just want to—"

"Be alone. Yes, I know." Dyana went back to him and curled
against him. It was warm in his embrace, wonderfully safe. It
always had been. "Go," she said to him. "Go and talk to the sky.
See what it has to say."

"Ah, now you mock me. . . ."

"I do not," she said. "People are very different, Richius. Some find
their way in the company of family. Others need to be alone. You
are one of those. You always have been, I think."
SIX
The Twin Dukes

L orla didn't know her last name. She didn't know if she had
siblings, and she didn't know who her parents were or why they had
given her into the care of the labs. She had vague memories of
them, and that was all. Her mother, whom she could only recall with
the opaque quality of a dream, had been a short woman and not
very attractive. Her father had been stout, with dark hair. More than
that she simply couldn't recall, and it bothered her
sometimes—usually when she was feeling lonely, which of late had
been happening to her more and more. On the road to Dragon's
Beak, it seemed her fractured memories were all she had.

An ever-darkening sky had dogged them for days. Daevn, her tight-
lipped guide, had kept their pace brisk to out-distance the storm,
but a cold rain had fallen on them anyway, and Lorla blew onto her
hands often to keep them from freezing. She had fled Goth with a
wool cloak and a fat pair of mittens, but they were travelling north
and winter was coming. Soon it would be too cold to go on, and
Lorla craved hot food and a warm place to sleep. They had not
bedded in any of the villages they'd passed. She supposed her
mission was too grave to risk being seen by anyone, so she had
stayed to the forests while Daevn bartered for provisions, and
together they had camped each night beneath the starless sky,
keeping their fires small so as not to attract attention. Lorla was
tired of the tiny fires. She wanted a blaze.

Trying to keep the wind from her face, Lorla pulled the hood of her
cloak around her mouth and nose. She hated the cold. She had
been warned by her teachers that her body was delicate, and
particularly susceptible to the winter. She wondered if Daevn was
not aware of the temperature, or if her strange body had simply
conjured up the frost of its own imagining.

The pony she had named Phantom was warm, and Lorla clung to it,
crouching low against its neck. Phantom was a good companion,
and Lorla hoped she could keep the beast when they got to
Dragon's Beak. In the lab she had been allowed precious little, but
Lokken had been good to her, treating her like one of his own
daughters. But the duke was dead now, certainly. Duchess
Kareena, too. They had heard no news of Goth, not even in the
villages where Daevn had stopped. At least that's what Daevn had
claimed. Lorla's eyes narrowed on Daevn. He had been
suspiciously quiet since coming from the last village. Lorla thought
to question him, then stopped herself. Daevn had been given
orders to escort her, nothing more, and had made no effort to
comfort her or even speak to her. She supposed this was best for
her mission.

Whatever her mission was.

I will get to Dragon's Beak and be warm there, she told herself.
And the duke there will take care of me. Lokken said he would.

She wondered if Duke Enli was anything like Lokken, and if
Dragon's Beak was anything like Goth. She had adored Goth. The
Walled City had been a wondrous place to spend a year, like being
on holiday. So much better than the war labs and the atrocious
women who had raised her. But it had all been for a purpose, Lorla
knew. She was something very special. In the labs they were fond
of the word destiny. Lorla had destiny, they had told her, and the
memory made the girl sit up straighter in her saddle. Whatever the
Master had planned for her, she would not disappoint him.

Even so, her mind wandered. In Goth there had been other
children for companionship, and though she had been much their
elder mentally, she missed them. She wondered if Dragon's Beak
had children. Perhaps a boy her own age . . .

Lorla stopped daydreaming, admonishing herself for the thought.
Her own age. What was that, really? She could count up the years
easily enough, but that didn't seem to make sense, not when she
looked down at her stunted body.

Stop it! she ordered herself. She needed to focus, the way they
had taught her to. The cold was getting to her; they had warned her
it might. She struggled out of her fantasy and blew into her hands.
She wanted to stop and build a fire, but it was early in the afternoon
and a long road awaited them. Daevn had said they might reach
Dragon's Beak by nightfall.

"Hot tea," she murmured. "Hot with honey. And bread." She
laughed. Might as well throw that on the table. She imagined a feast
spread out before her, in a dining room of warm wood with a fire
blazing in a hearth. Lorla sighed softly, enjoying the game. Despite
her years, she still had a child's imagination, though she was aware
of the awakenings of her mind and body, at this age where most
girls had their blood cycles. Lorla's body was too underdeveloped
to bleed like a woman's, but it had its own curiosities. The words
from the labs came back to her again—she was something very
special.

To Lorla's dismay, they did not reach Dragon's Beak that night. The
sun had disappeared behind a swathe of clouds, quickening the
arrival of night, so at dusk they found a place at the roadside to
break. Daevn used his hatchet to clear a place for them in the
brush, then let the horses trample down the tall, dead grass. He lit
a fire—a big one, at Lorla's insistence—and made them a meal of
bread and dried sausages, a delicacy he had acquired in the last
town. Because they would soon be in Dragon's Beak, they did not
pick at their rations but instead ate their fill, and Lorla slept soundly
until morning.

A dreadful gale blew from the north as they set out. The sun
glowed without warmth, impossibly pallid on the gray horizon. Lorla
clung close to Phantom's neck, gleaning what comfort she could
from the animal. The road soon became desolate. This far north,
winter had already stripped the trees naked so that they seemed
burnt and barren. A little sense of dread grew in Lorla. No one had
told her about Dragon's Beak, but the mystical name had conjured
up a different image in her mind, and she didn't like the reality.
Lokken had told her only that Dragon's Beak was very far north and
often full of snow, and that it was shaped like a dragon's long snout
protruding into the sea. It was a single kingdom ruled by two dukes,
the twins Enli and Eneas. Each duke had a castle of their own.
Duke Enli's was on the dragon's lower jaw. His brother's was on the
upper. Lorla had pictured fairy-tale spires and stained glass, but
the dreariness around her reminded her more of spider webs and
decay.

They rode on for an hour more, until at last Lorla could smell the
sea. The road ahead forked. Daevn stopped his horse. The road
was thick with trees and both directions looked equally
unappealing. He looked over his shoulder at Lorla.

"Dragon's Beak," he said.

Lorla grimaced. "Which way?"

"Either way. We're taking the south fork, to Enli. The north fork
leads to Eneas."

Lorla had a thousand questions. "Do you know Enli, Daevn? What
is he like?"

Daevn was typically unhelpful. "I have never met the duke," he
said. "I have never been to Dragon's Beak."

"It's quiet here," said Lorla. She looked ahead and saw only a
canopy of dead branches closing over the road. "Where is
everyone?"

"Smart enough to get in from the cold. Now stop talking so we can
do the same."

Without waiting for her, Daevn sped his horse down the road.
Phantom kept pace, and soon they were on their way to Enli. The
trees grew tall, reaching high into the sky, a tangled home for wide-
eyed mammals and enormous, black-feathered grackles. Lorla
stared skyward, marveling at the maze of branches above her
head. The wind had abated some, slowed by the thickness of
trees, and brown leaves tumbled toward them, dry and dead and
held aloft by the breeze's breath. The air was brackish, moist with
sea water. Lorla licked her lips and tasted salt. When the canopy
thinned to reveal the sky, she saw a great blanket of storm clouds
waiting.

"Daevn?" she asked nervously. "How far are we from the castle?"

Daevn shrugged. "Dunno."

"It's going to rain. Hard."

A moment later the sky exploded with rain. The road quickly filled
with water, turning to mud beneath the horses' hooves. Lorla
peered through the downpour for Daevn.

"Come on," he shouted. "It can't be much farther."

Lorla shivered beneath her garments, already soaked through. The
fingers in her mittens had turned to icicles. Phantom moved sure-
footed through the storm, following Daevn's horse. A flash of
lightning cracked the sky, followed by a rumbling detonation of
thunder. Lorla closed her eyes and wished the storm away, but
only got another bolt of lightning for her troubles. She hurried
Phantom to Daevn's side.

"Should we stop?" she asked.

The big man shook his head. "It won't last." He glanced at her
through the rain and smiled. "Don't worry. It's only thunder."

"I'm not afraid," she lied, not wanting him to think her a coward. "I'm
just wet. And cold, and tired of this ride. Find the castle, Daevn."

Daevn bowed sarcastically at her. "Oh, yes, my lady. What do you
think I'm trying to do?"

They rode on in silence, sloshing down the narrow lane, until at last
the rain slackened.

"There," Daevn declared. "Look."

Lorla followed Daevn's finger toward the horizon. Atop a hill and
shrouded in mist was a castle of red stone. Lorla peered through
the rain. It was tall and dark and it frightened her, and she knew
from her melancholy feeling that the dismal sight was Enli's home.
The Duke of Dragon's Beak did not dwell in the fairytale house she
had imagined, but rather in a dreary nightmare of cold brick and
dark windows, a single, monolithic tower jutting from the earth.
Even against the beauty of the sea it was a cruel vision, as if it
meant to mock the ocean with its own vast ugliness. Lorla bit her
lower lip, then noticed the flag flying atop the castle.

"Daevn, look. He flies the Light of God. Do you see?"

Daevn was circumspect. "I see it," he said. Clearly he had
expected the Black Flag to be waving in Dragon's Beak. "But I trust
Lokken even now, girl. If this is where he wants you, then it's no
mistake."

"But—"

"Trust him, Lorla," he said. Then he laughed and added, "You'll be
warm again soon. And tonight I might sleep with a real woman!"

The insult struck Lorla like an icy slap. A real woman? What did that
mean? She scowled at the soldier but he seemed not to take her
meaning. Instead Daevn rode off, his horse trotting through the
mud toward the castle on the hill. When he noticed Lorla wasn't
following, he turned around and waved to her.

"Coming? Or do you want to drown out here?"

"Drown," she mumbled. Suddenly anything seemed better than the
castle. But she was frozen and exhausted, and that made her snap
the reins. Phantom jumped forward at her command. The little
pony seemed as eager as Daevn to be out of the damp. The road
widened some as they approached, and they passed by small
houses and storefronts, all quiet and shuttered. A few candles
burned dimly in the windows. Lorla felt invisible eyes staring at her,
but each time she turned to face them they had vanished.

When they reached the hill, she noticed the pine trees lining the
roadway, great guardians that loomed over them and cast crooked
shadows in the feeble light. Beneath them the gray gravel of the
path crunched under the steady pressure of horses' hooves, and
the rain was cold and steady. Lorla glimpsed the castle gates
through the mist. They were high up on the hill now, with the fitful
ocean far below. Two sentries stood at the entrance, their bodies
encased in ugly black armor, their faces hidden behind reptilian
helmets. In their fists were bladed halberds. Lorla looked up at the
towering castle. There was a distinct list to the structure, as if it
were waiting to topple. Gargoyles perched on the high ledges,
spouting rain water, and a bloom of rubbery lichens grew from the
mortar, turning the red brick yellow. The riveted wooden gates
were closed up tight. Both guardians fixed their stern gazes at the
riders. Daevn rode forward, his hand raised in friendship.

"We are from Goth," he called to the men. "I am Daevn of the
Walled City, here to see your duke."

The sentries nodded. "Dismount," one of them ordered. He
stepped forward while his brother opened the gate. Daevn got
down from his horse, bidding Lorla to do the same. The guardian
took the reins of his mount and stared at Lorla, who wasn't sure yet
if she trusted him.

"Come on, Lorla," urged Daevn. "Get down so we can go inside."

Lorla got down from Phantom's back and handed the pony over to
the armored man, who looked at her questioningly. She hurried to
Daevn's side. The other guardian had opened the gates, letting
loose a flood of orange torchlight. It was all the encouragement
Lorla needed. She entered and found herself in a huge chamber of
gray stone, where armored men strutted with sidearms and
laughed amongst themselves. A few women moved through the
halls in the distance. When they noticed Lorla they paused to
regard her, apparently struck to have a child in their midst.

"Wait here," ordered the guardian. "I will tell Duke Enli you've
arrived."

"He's expecting us, I think," said Daevn. He looked around the vast
chamber. "We could use a place to sit and rest."

"The duke will be down quickly, I'm sure," said the soldier. "He'll
see to your needs himself. Just wait here."

Daevn and Lorla watched the soldier go, stung by his gruffness but
grateful to be out of the rain. Lorla gravitated toward one of the
giant torches on the wall, reaching high to warm her hands. She
pulled off her drenched mittens and massaged her fingers. Her
joints were stiff, her fingertips blue. She felt cold water drip from
her hair and trickle down her neck, and hoped that the duke could
get her fresh clothes. She slid her soiled cloak off her small
shoulders and felt its surprising, water-logged weight. Daevn was
nearby, talking to the soldiers. They were peculiar-looking men,
she decided, but she liked their fancy helmets. Forged into the
likenesses of dragon heads, each bore engravings like scales and
two obsidian gems for eyes. Their armor was spiked and black,
like the legionnaires of Nar, but bulkier and more noisy. Lorla
watched them clank around, fascinated by the sound.

"Lorla?"

Lorla jumped when she heard her name. Coming down the hallway
was a tall, thin man with dirty hair and a wide smile. He wasn't
dressed like a soldier but instead wore a warm cape of wolf's fur
around his shoulders. He headed toward her, one hand
outstretched. Daevn stepped between them.

"Are you the duke?" he asked rudely.

The man grinned at Daevn but did not answer. He craned to look
over Daevn's shoulder at Lorla. "Lorla, yes?" he asked. "How are
you, child?"

"Fine, sir," said Lorla. She looked him up and down. He had a nice
face. Daevn cleared his throat noisily. The man regarded him.

"Yes, the bodyguard. Welcome, both of you."

"The name's Daevn," said Daevn coldly. "From Goth. Are you
Duke Enli?"

"No, I'm not," said the man. "My name is Faren. I'm one of the
duke's servants. I've come to collect you both. The duke is very
pleased you're here. He would like to see you both at once."

"Can we have something to drink?" asked Lorla anxiously. "Some
hot tea?"

"What are all the soldiers for?" asked Daevn. "Is there some
trouble?"

Faren walked past Daevn, ignoring him. He bent down to one knee
to be at Lorla's level. "Tea we have aplenty, dear Lorla. And fresh
milk, too. I can have the maids bring you some if you want."

Lorla tried not to cringe. Milk was for babies. "Just the tea, please,"
she said. "If you don't mind."

"Whatever you want," said Faren. His smile was impossibly broad.
"Come. Let's get you out of those wet things and into something
warm." He put out his hand for Lorla. When she didn't take it, his
smile dimmed.

"Where is the duke?" asked Daevn.

"I will take you to him. This way, please."

Lorla shot Daevn a questioning glance, but the big man only
shrugged. They followed Faren out of the great chamber, past
kitchens filled with fine odors. Another grand hall greeted them, this
one with many doors of dull oak. One of the doors was open.
Through the entrance Lorla saw the dancing shadows of a burning
fire. The smell of crackling alder drew her forward. Faren stopped
at the threshold, bidding Lorla to enter.

"This is the duke's sitting room. Please go in. The duke will be
joining you very soon."

Lorla walked inside, drawn like an insect to the blazing hearth. It
was the most comfortable room she'd ever seen, with bookcases
full of manuscripts and big, cushy chairs of worn leather. The room
smelled of age and expensive tobacco. On one of the small tables
a pipe rested, its bowl full of ashes. But the most dominant feature
of all was the portrait over the hearth, a huge oil painting of two
young men, each the mirror image of the other. They were on
horseback, both dressed in resplendent armor, their heads naked
and their swords dangling at their sides. It was a magnificent
painting.

"Wait here please, Lorla," said Faren. "The duke will be here
shortly. Meanwhile I'll have a maid bring you that tea you wanted,
and some biscuits, eh?"

"Thank you," said Lorla.

"I'd like some tea too," said Daevn sourly. "If it's not too much
trouble."

Faren said, "Actually, Sir Daevn, the duke would like to speak to
you alone first. If you would follow me, please?"

"Daevn?" asked Lorla, alarmed.

"It's all right, girl," said Daevn. "Stay here; I'll be back with the duke.
Enjoy your tea and biscuits." Daevn looked at Faren. "You got
some clothes for the girl? She's soaked to the bone."

"Of course," said Faren. "Lorla, make yourself at home. I'll get you
some dry clothes."

Lorla said a soft good-bye, then turned her attention to the
marvelous room. There were trinkets on the tables, some old rings
with clouded gems, and dozens of dusty books, enough to occupy
a hundred years. Lorla loved to read. She had gone through all the
books and manuscripts in the labs—at least the ones she had
been allowed to read—and she had devoured Lokken's library.
She wondered if Duke Enli would let her read his books, or if he'd
be stingy and keep them to himself. On one of the large chairs she
found a small scarlet blanket. When she touched it the fabric sang
of warmth. It was supple, like the leather of the chair, and Lorla put
it to her face, burying her nose and sniffing it. The blanket held all
the perfumes of the room. Shivering, Lorla stripped off her
drenched clothes and dropped them to the floor. Quickly she
jumped into the chair, and her small body seemed to vanish in its
embrace. The leather cushion creaked as she sank into it. She
covered herself with the blanket and surveyed the room from her
new vantage. Once again the painting over the hearth seized her
attention. Lorla stared at it for a long time. She liked the horses, but
she wasn't sure about the men.

Soon a maid arrived and set down a teakettle on the table next to
Lorla. Noticing the pile of wet clothes on the floor, the woman
assured Lorla she would bring some dry garments. Cheerily she
poured Lorla a cup of tea and placed it in her small hands, then
waved a plate of sweet-smelling biscuits beneath her nose. Lorla
chose the biggest one and put it in her mouth, holding it between
her teeth as she warmed her hands on the teacup. The maid left
with a smile, leaving Lorla once again to puzzle over the portrait.
She was getting warm quickly, and it felt good. A drowsy mood fell
over her, making her eyelids droop. She watched the portrait as
her eyes fell closed. . . .

"You like that picture?" boomed a voice.

Lorla snapped awake, so suddenly the cup in her hands jostled tea
over the rim. She looked down at the stained blanket sheepishly,
then up at the man in the threshold. It wasn't Faren, but a much
broader man, big through the shoulders, with jet hair and a shiny
black beard. He had a stern face and eyes that smoldered when he
stared. Now he stared at Lorla.

"I'm sorry," Lorla offered. She set down the cup and jumped out of
the chair, keeping the blanket wrapped about her naked body.
Suddenly she was embarrassed. "I ruined the blanket."

"It's just a blanket," said the man. He stepped into the chamber and
closed the door behind him. All at once a strange silence
enveloped them. Lorla inspected the man.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"I am Duke Enli, Master of Red Tower." He tried to smile but
managed only a crooked grin. "Your host. For now."

Duke Enli came closer, looking over Lorla. His beard glowed in the
hearth's orange light and the many rings on his fingers twinkled.
Like Faren, he wore a cape to shield him from the cold, a long
garment trimmed in crimson and fastened around his throat with a
golden broach—a shiny, fanged dragon's head. The duke had big
hands that he spread toward Lorla in welcome.

"Little Lorla," he said. "I'm glad you made it safely. I've been
waiting for you. And this weather had me concerned."

Lorla nodded. "It was cold."

"Cold?" laughed the duke. "This is not cold, girl. To me, this is like
summer. But yes, you look wretched. Faren has ordered clothes
for you, and there's a warm bed waiting."

"Thank you, sir."

The duke looked down at her, his eyes glinting with curiosity. "How
old are you?" he asked. "Seven? Eight?"

"Almost sixteen," said Lorla indignantly. The duke's eyes widened.

"Sixteen? God almighty, you don't look a day over eight. I swear,
not a day." He dropped down to inspect her more closely, running
one of his big fingers over her cheek as if she were a house pet.
"Remarkable," he chuckled. "Truly remarkable."

"Duke Enli, where is Daevn?" asked Lorla.

"Ah, well . . ." Enli retracted his finger and attempted another smile.
"Daevn is resting now, Lorla. I actually wanted to speak to you
alone."

"Alone? But Faren said—"

"I know," interrupted the duke. He gestured toward the chair. "Sit
down, Lorla."

Lorla did as the duke asked, keeping a cautious eye on him. He
was quiet for a long time, contemplative, and sighed as he took his
pipe from the table. He stuck it between his teeth and took a seat in
one of the other chairs. As he chewed on his pipe he watched her,
fascinated. Lorla could read his incredulity.

Something special, she told herself.

"I don't want you to worry about Daevn," said Enli finally. "He
brought you here, and for that I'm grateful. But his business is
done; I'll be sending him away."

Lorla grimaced. "Duke Enli, I'm not sure I trust you."

Enli laughed. "Great God, you don't talk like an eight-year-old, do
you? You're as suspicious as your master." He took the pipe out of
his mouth and pointed it at her. "I see now why Biagio wants you.
You're a beauty, aren't you? And smart."

"Thank you," replied Lorla dryly. She wasn't sure it was a
compliment.

"What about your eyes? Why aren't they blue?"

"I don't know," said Lorla. "Should they be?"

"How much do you know about yourself, girl? How much have they
told you?"

The question vexed Lorla. She didn't really have memories, just
fractured bits. Ghosts mostly, and feelings.

"I am sixteen and I look eight," she said. "I get cold even when it's
warm. I remember Duke Lokken perfectly. I liked it in Goth. More
than that, I can't speak of. The labs were a secret place."

Enli's smile was evil. "Oh, yes. I've heard about Bovadin's war labs.
And your parents? What were they like?"

"I don't know. I don't remember. Is this important?"

"No, I don't suppose it is," said Enli. "What is important is what you
and I are about to do, little Lorla. What we're going to do will shape
the destiny of the Empire forever." He leaned forward in his chair
and his voice dipped to a conspiratorial whisper. "How does that
make you feel?"

"All right," replied Lorla. She didn't feel anything, and wondered
why. She wanted to please the Master. That was all. "I'm here to do
the Master's bidding," she said. "I was told you would help me. You
will explain it to me, won't you?"

"Oh, yes," said the duke. "Tell me something, Lorla. Have you ever
met Biagio?"

"No, sir."

"And yet he is your master? You don't doubt that?"

"No, sir," said Lorla, surprised by the question. "He is the Master."

"Yes," Enli sighed. "Of course." He seemed to withdraw into
himself. "You're perfect," he murmured. "Purely perfect . . ."

"Duke Enli, will I be able to read these books? I mean, may I?"

"If you wish," said Enli. "You will be staying here for a little while.
You should make yourself at home. I have things to do before I
take you to Nar."

"Nar? I'm going to Nar?"

"Not right away. There are things I need to work out first. It will be a
few weeks yet. But yes, you will be going to Nar with me."

Lorla leaned back in her chair, astounded at the news. She hadn't
seen the Black City in over a year, not since leaving the lab to go
live with Lokken. And she had never actually experienced Nar.
There had been few windows in the labs. Windows were for the
older people, the workers. Lorla's mind raced. What great things
did the Master want from her?

"I haven't been to Nar in a long time," she said dreamily. "Not since
going to Goth. I will like this."

Duke Enli scowled. "It will be difficult, Lorla. What Biagio wants of
you is no trifle. You must be absolutely dedicated. Do you
understand that?"

"Of course I do," Lorla shot back. "I know what I am, Duke Enli. I'm
something very special."

"You certainly are," said Enli. "I saw you looking at the painting
when I came in. Do you know who those two men are?"

"Yes," replied Lorla. She looked again at the portrait, searching for
a resemblance. "Which one is you?"

"On the left. Not that it really matters. My brother is still my perfect
twin, even today." Enli's lips twisted in disgust as he examined the
portrait. "Eneas has a scar on his cheek. Look closely, you'll see it.
That's the only difference between us. That and the Renaissance."

"Your brother lives in a castle too; that's what Duke Lokken told me.
Is it red, like this one?"

"No," said Enli. "Eneas lives in the Gray Tower, just across the
channel. You can see it from some of the other rooms. We rule the
forks of Dragon's Beak separately. We always have, really, even
when Arkus was alive." The duke looked at Lorla sharply. "You
know who Arkus is, don't you?"

It was a silly question. Lorla cleared her throat dramatically. "Arkus
of Nar, Arkus the Great. Arkus, founder of the Black Renaissance.
The Beast of Goss, the Plague of Criisia. The Conqueror—"

"All right," Enli barked, putting his hands to his ears. "I meant no
insult, girl. Just wondering who—or what—I'm dealing with in you.
But you must get a lot of that, eh? People underestimating you?"

"I suppose," said Lorla. "I'm not what I seem." She looked again at
the painting. "How old are you there, you and your brother?"

"Twenty," said Enli. "I remember because our mother had that
picture commissioned for her birthday. She wanted something of
us together." The duke sighed. "We didn't hate each other then."

"You hate your brother?" asked Lorla. "Really?"

"Hell, yes," said Enli. "For a girl who knows so much you astound
me with ignorance. Everyone in Nar knows about the twin dukes of
Dragon's Beak."

Lorla frowned. "I don't."

"Well, I'm not going to explain it to you. It's a private matter, and it
has no bearing on your mission with Herrith." Enli stopped himself.
"Herrith, the bishop. You know of him, don't you?"

Lorla nodded. "The bishop is why the Master sent me to Goth,"
she answered. "When Emperor Arkus died, I had to flee the labs.
The Master sent me to Duke Lokken for protection. But he flew the
flag of old Nar and was killed." Lorla regarded Enli sharply. "He
didn't fly the Light of God. Like you do."

"The Light of God is an abomination," said the duke. "And I don't
fly it out of loyalty. It is all part of something greater, Lorla."

"What?"

"I will tell you. Soon. And you will have your revenge against the
bishop for chasing you from Nar. You more than any of us will have
a hand in Herrith's comeuppance. Believe what I tell you and do as
I say, and you will make your master very proud. But you have to
be patient, all right? I have business with my brother first."

"Your brother?" Lorla asked, puzzled. "But Duke Lokken said you
would help me. Your business with your brother; will it interfere with
the Master's plans forme?"

"Not even a wee bit," the duke assured her. "For you see, the plans
are really one and the same." Enli got out of his chair and went
over to Lorla. Kneeling down beside her, he took her hand and
looked into her eyes. "Lorla, you have to trust me. What we're
going to do together will be the marvel of the Empire. And when
your master returns to Nar, we will both be rewarded. The Master
might make you a queen! Would you like that, Lorla?"

He was talking to her like a little child, and it irked her. Still, she
rolled the idea over in her mind. Being a queen might be wonderful.
Maybe it would make her desirable to men, even. And maybe she
could have a family of her own.

"A queen," she sighed. "Yes, if the Master lets me, I would like
that."

Enli squeezed her hand and smiled. "Then you shall have it, little
Lorla. You and I, we shall take back the Empire for Biagio. You and
I will resurrect the Black Renaissance, and not even Herrith's foul
God will stop us."

Daevn waited in the castle's library for nearly an hour, assured by
Faren that the duke was "on his way." He rested on one of the
library's soft chairs and enjoyed a meal of hot soup and freshly
baked bread, and flirted with the maid who had brought it. His
request for dry clothes went unheeded, although he was assured
by Faren that the maids were trying to find him something suitable.
To Daevn, suitable would have been anything dry. It didn't even
have to be clean. But they had set a fire for him in the library and
that felt good, and he gorged himself on the soup and bread while
he waited for Enli.

After almost an hour had passed, Faren came back into the
chamber. The man spread his hands apologetically. "I'm so sorry,"
he offered. "But Duke Enli is feeling very poorly tonight. A bad fish
from the kitchen, perhaps. He won't be able to see you now. In the
morning maybe."

Daevn dropped his spoon into the empty soup bowl. "Where's
Lorla?"

"I assure you the girl is unharmed," said the ever-smiling man.
"She has been given a room of her own. I think she's already
asleep. I've made arrangements for you to have a room next to
hers. You can see her if you like."

Daevn picked up what was left of the bread and got to his feet.
"Show her to me," he said, trying and failing to sound polite. It
wouldn't do to upset his hosts too much. With Goth destroyed, he
had nowhere else to go. "And Faren, those clothes?"

"Waiting for you in your bedchamber," said Faren. He stood aside
and gestured toward the threshold. "If you care to go . . .?"

"Now, yes," said Daevn. He walked past the servant toward the
door, and was almost out of the room when he felt the sharp tug at
his throat. Daevn's hands shot to his neck. He was being dragged
backward. A wire, or a rope . . . Faren was grunting, pulling him off
his feet. Daevn tried to scream and couldn't. His throat muscles
strained, gasping, but the wire was there, cutting into his flesh,
making the smallest gulp of air impossible. He fought to dig his
fingers under the garrote, but Faren was thrashing like a shark,
dragging and pulling, making the wire dig deeper until it cut the
flesh.

"You're a strong one, eh?" growled Faren. "Like reeling in a big
fish!"

Daevn gulped for breath. Faren pulled harder still. Daevn's knees
buckled.

"No one must ever know this thing we do!"

Daevn heard the words without understanding.

And then there was oblivion. He felt the distant sensation of the
wire slicing his windpipe. Remarkably, it was hardly painful at all. . .
.
SEVEN
The Prince of Liss

O n the oceans of Nar, the days were short and the nights were
long. Here in the north of the world, autumn had all but perished,
and the white caps on the water grew taller as winter crawled
closer. The Black Empire, that vast and criminal place, spread out
in an endless sprawl on the horizon, but for the sailors of Liss the
sight of so much land was far from comforting. They had put to sea
months ago, leaving behind the ruins of their homeland and their
sad wives, and had only their bright memories to comfort them in
the cold quarters of the schooners. It was a bold and heartless
mission, and many of them, barely boys, were untested. But battle
was making men of them.

Fleet Commander Prakna had a single porthole in his cabin. It was
a cramped room in the forecastle, and the round pane of glass was
hardly the size of his head. But for Prakna, the porthole was a
looking glass into another world. On quiet nights like this, when the
lateness of the hour had hushed the sailors on deck, Prakna would
stare out his window at the hazy glow of Nar, and wonder about its
inhabitants. After ten years of war, he still found his enemies
inscrutable. He would lose himself in the sight, lulled by the
constant rocking of his ship, and recall his memories. And
sometimes he would dream; of food and fresh fruit, of the warmth
of the Hundred Isles, of the friendship of his wife and their lost
lovemaking.

Prakna was weary. Like pirates he and his fleet patrolled the coasts
of Nar, a great wolf-pack sharpening their teeth on imperial
shipping. Prakna had been making good on his pledge to bring his
enemy to its knees. Without the Black Fleet to protect them, the
shores of Nar were his for the raiding. But only the shores, for the
land was still dominated by Nar's army. In time, Prakna hoped, the
strife inside the Empire would crack it in two, but until then they
would sail the Naren waters and take what they wished, and make
the Narens pay for what they had done.

Tonight was like any other for the fleet commander. His ship, the
Prince of Liss, drifted lazily over the ocean. His tiny cabin was cold.
A single candle burned in a hurricane glass on his desk. Above his
head, the shallow ceiling creaked with the slow motion of the
vessel, and a salty spray had opaqued his window. The blankets
on Prakna's bunk were disheveled, the symptoms of another
restless night, and Prakna sat at his desk, his pale face lit by
candlelight, waiting for another dawn. A sheet of yellow paper lay
on the desk in front of him. Prakna stared at it. Quite possibly, the
letter would never reach its intended recipient. Yet Prakna had
written it anyway. When he wrote, it was like she was here with him.
He looked it over, then dipped his pen in the ink well to continue.

I will come back when I can. The Narens are not so strong without
their navy, and I don't believe the Black Fleet will abandon them
forever. Nar is still their home. And I know the pull of home, my
love. When we have lured the fleet away from Crote, I will come
back.

Prakna frowned at the last line. Bold promise. But one he wanted
desperately to keep. J'lari would be needing him. Since the deaths
of their sons, she had become like a ghost. He thought of writing
about the Narens he'd killed, the vengeance he had taken, but then
thought better of it. J'lari didn't like war. She had begged him to
stay home. But he was the fleet commander, and there was no way
the armada could sail without him. So he had left her. Long months
ago.

When I return I will have gifts for you. I have a ring and other
jewelry I've taken from the Naren women. You should see the
women here, my love. They are not at all like the fine-boned girls of
Liss. They are all big here and hard. The sight of them makes me
miss you even more. And when they see us, they are horrified.
They wonder why their navy won't protect them, and they scream at
the sight of our ships.

Prakna loved their screams. He loved the terror the sight of his
armada engendered in the Narens.

We have taken few losses. We are strong, so do not worry about
me.

A lie, but Prakna wrote it anyway. Each time they raided a town their
numbers diminished. They were not soldiers, his men of Liss.
They were sailors. It was why they needed Vantran.

My love, I miss you. I miss our sons. If you knew the truth of my
heart, you would not wonder why I do this thing. Men are different
from the wives they leave behind, and I cannot help this vengeance
that moves me. Tell the women of this ship's crew that their
husbands do not fight for themselves, but for the honor of Liss.

Liss the raped. That's what they were calling his homeland now.
The Hundred Isles had been ravaged by the Narens and their
decade-long blockade, but she had never surrendered or lost her
honor. She had stared down the dragon of Nar, defying the Black
Empire and its voracious ruler, Arkus. For ten years Liss had hung
on, alone, while the rest of the world watched the butchery, too
afraid to challenge their imperial masters. Except for the Triin of
Lucel-Lor, only Liss had out-lived Arkus. And now that Arkus was
dead and his Empire in chaos, Liss was ready to rise from its
ashes.

Sweet wife, I hope you're sleeping well tonight. I hope it's warm in
Liss and that the morning sun will be fair. And remember my
promise. You will see me again.

He signed it very simply, Prakna.

The fleet commander stared at his writing, returning the pen to the
ink well. This letter would join the others in his drawer until a ship
could be spared to return to Liss. That was happening less
frequently now. They were very far north, and Prakna wanted them
well prepared for the Black Fleet's return. For months they had
been raiding the Naren coasts, hoping to lure Nicabar's
dreadnoughts out of Crote's harbors. They had made some
impressive gains, sunk over thirty merchant vessels. Eventually,
Prakna knew, Nicabar would have to respond. He had never met
the admiral but he knew his mind. He knew the captain of the
Fearless could never live with such disgrace.

"We will take Crote," he whispered. "We will . . ."

It was the perfect base, ideally situated to attack the Black City. If
they could take it, they could turn the tide of the war forever. But
first they had to lure away the Fearless.

Prakna pushed the letter aside and leaned back in his chair. The
Fearless. His one great nemesis. Not even the Prince of Liss was
a match for that marvel. The flagship of the Black Fleet was like
nothing he had ever seen—a floating fortress, indomitable.
Unsinkable, they said. Prakna wondered. Nicabar and his ship had
been the bane of the Lissen navy. A secret weapon meant to
destroy them, the Fearless had been the cornerstone of the Naren
blockade. She was slower than her sister dreadnoughts, but that
was like saying a mountain was slow. She had a hull of spiked steel
and twin long-range flame cannons, and she had sunk every
schooner sent against her.

Like the Fire Bird.

Off the island of Meer, the Fire Bird had met the Fearless. A lucky
shot from a cannon and she had burned, sinking in minutes. Some
of the crew had made it to shore. But the waters of Meer were
warm, good for sharks. Prakna closed his eyes. He had never
wanted both his sons to serve on the same vessel. The news had
come to him a week later. J'lari had been a ghost ever since.
Silent. She and Prakna didn't make love anymore. To her, it
seemed a waste. She was too old to bear him more sons. And
Prakna had changed, too. The death of his boys had murdered his
conscience, and he knew it. So he had been the one to whisper
vengeful musings in the ear of his queen. He had rebuilt the navy
and formed the armada. And when the word came to sail, he had
been eager. There was nothing left for Prakna now but the honor of
Liss.

Bleary-eyed with fatigue, Prakna laid his head down on the desk.
He felt the rhythmic swaying of the vessel through the rafters,
heard the hard slap of water against the hull as the Prince of Liss
cut through the waves. His eyelids drooped as sleep took him. He
hoped he wouldn't dream. . . .

A knock at the cabin door awakened him. Prakna's eyes slowly
opened. Not more than an hour could have passed. The room
remained dark. The candle still burned in its protective glass.

"Yes?" he said wearily.

The little door creaked open and Marus peered inside. Prakna's
first officer smiled apologetically when he noticed his
commander's head on the desk. "Prakna?"

The commander lifted his head and waved his friend inside.
"Come in, Marus," he croaked. "I wasn't sleeping."

"You were," Marus corrected. "I'm sorry to disturb you."

"What is it?"

"A ship. Twenty degrees off port, running parallel to us."

"What kind of ship?"

"Too far to tell," said the officer. "But I thought you should know."

It was standard practice with Marus, and Prakna appreciated it.
Marus was a fine officer—the kind of man a captain needed at his
side. They had served together for years, and had known each
other since their teens. When the time had come to pilot the
Prince, Marus had been Prakna's first choice. And there was more
to their kinship than just time. Marus had lost a boy, too.

"Go topside and wait for me," said Prakna. He looked around the
room for his boots. "I'll be up."

Marus left the room and closed the door. Prakna located his boots
beneath his bunk and slipped them on his feet. Outside the window
he saw only darkness, but he knew that dawn was on their heels.
He wondered what the light would bring. Another Naren ship.
Merchant, almost certainly. Their course was bringing them near
Doria again, a main seaport of the Empire. They had already raided
Doria once, and the success of the campaign had sent a
shockwave through the local shipping concerns. Prakna had
ordered his patrol to keep near the city, waiting for the inevitable
return of the merchant vessels. The fleet commander smiled to
himself, pleased with his tactic.

He pulled on his coat, blew into the hurricane glass to extinguish
the candle, and left his chamber. Out in the empty gangway he
found the little ladder leading above deck. He ran up the ladder and
pushed open the hatch, then stepped out onto the forecastle. A
biting wind struck his face. Around him, the ocean roared. On the
forecastle deck he located Marus. With him were two crewmen,
both ensigns, both staring out into the darkness. Marus had a
spyglass pressed to one eye. A single oil lantern flickered in the
breeze. The Prince of Liss pitched violently as a swale slammed
against her hull. Prakna joined the group, squinting as he scanned
the distance portside. As the Prince rose on a wave, he glimpsed
something far away. Cabin lights, he guessed. Marus handed him
the spyglass.

"Too dark to see much," said the officer. "Not a warship, though.
No escorts. She sails alone."

Prakna brought up the spyglass. The horizon was black and it took
a moment to spot the vessel, but he caught a hazy glimmer. Big.
Slow. But not a warship. Prakna's heart sank a notch. He hadn't
really expected to see her here, but he was disappointed anyway.
He collapsed the spyglass and handed it back to Marus.

"Signal the other ships," he said. "We'll pursue until it's light. Then
we'll see what we're dealing with."

"Aye, sir," replied Marus, who immediately started barking orders
to the men. The deck snapped alive with activity. Amidships the
seamen cranked levers to trim the sails, while signalmen flashed
messages with flags to the other vessels of the patrol. The Prince
of Liss lurched to port as the pilot spun the wheel, turning the
rudder in pursuit. She was in the lead, with a dozen of her wolf
pups following. Prakna glanced to starboard. The first slivers of
sunlight struggled over the horizon, lighting the Naren Empire. He
had charted a course back to Doria, and he could see the
landscape of the Dorian territories, infinitesimally small in the
distance. To port was the blackness of the ocean, endless and
deep. They were tacking north by northwest, into the wind. The
heading had slowed them, but Prakna knew his schooner could run
down whatever was out there. Nothing in the Black Fleet could
outrun his schooners. During their long war with Liss the Narens
had tested countless ship designs, yet still their vaunted war labs
had been unable to develop a fast-enough keel. It was the one
tactical advantage the Lissen navy had over their well-armed
adversaries.

The Prince of Liss and the rest of her patrol pursued the unknown
vessel for another hour, until the light grew. Prakna and his officers
stood on the forecastle deck at the ship's prow, leaning over the
railings as the sun illuminated their prey. The fleet commander had
his eye fixed to the spyglass again. He could see the vessel clearly
now. She was a big bastard, with wide mastheads and her sails full
of air as she tacked to catch the wind. From her center mast flew
the flag of Nar, the new one called the Light of God. Beneath that
was the triangular standard of Doria, a yellow field bearing a single
sword. Clearly, this was no warship. Amidships she was fat and
multidecked, with huge cargo holds. Prakna closed the spyglass
and made his deduction.

"Slaver," he said distastefully. "Probably sailing out of Bisenna."

Marus nodded. "Slaves. Poor wretches. Should we break off
pursuit?"

"Pursue and overtake."

"Sir?"

"Those are my orders, Marus."

"Yes, sir. The Vindicator and the Gray Lady are closest."

"Have them approach port and starboard. We'll lead."

"Aye, sir," said Marus, then went off to carry out his commander's
orders.

Prakna held tight to the rails as the Prince of Liss leapt forward, its
razor-shaped keel slicing through the ocean. The Vindicator and
Gray Lady broke free of the patrol and joined her, their steel-
covered prows ready to ram. The fat slaver ship had obviously
seen them and was maneuvering sloppily to evade. Marus shouted
orders at the crew as the Prince ran headlong after the fleeing
vessel. The sea-serpent flags of Liss tore at the masts as the
schooners devoured the ocean. Sailors ran about the deck,
drenched in spray, pulling ropes and trimming sails. The Prince's
massive spritsail groaned and swelled with air. Off the port bow the
Vindicator lurched ahead, while her smaller cousin, the Gray Lady,
churned up the waves.

"They see us," Prakna shouted to Marus.

Marus looked distressed. "Aye, sir. That they do."

"No sentiment, Marus," Prakna called back. "They're not just
slaves—they're Narens!"

It wasn't a slaver ship that Prakna desired, but for a time it would
slake his lust. Even now, with the Empire wasting, Nar still dealt in
slaves. It sickened Prakna. All Narens sickened him. In the
conquered land of Bisenna, the Naren nobles harvested slaves like
grain. Prakna had heard the tales. Some of his own countrymen
had been enslaved, taken away to the Black City to toil in the filthy
foundries of the war labs. To Prakna, it was a fate worse than
death.

The Prince of Liss maneuvered closer to the fleeing slaver. Prakna
could see the men on her deck now, wide-eyed with fear at the
sight of the marauders. To the slaver's port side the Vindicator was
narrowing the gap, its steel prow ready to ram. The Prince of Liss
drew nearer. The Gray Lady tacked to the slaver's starboard.
Prakna shouted to Marus, ordering the Prince ahead of their quarry.
The schooner lurched as the captain spun the wheel. Abaft the
forecastle, Prakna's sailors readied their cutlasses and clung to the
railings.

Today we are pirates, thought Prakna. Like the Narens always say.

But they deserved nothing better, not even these wretches from
Bisenna. To Prakna, they were simply Narens. They were of that
hedonistic, evil race that enslaved their own and raped others. If he
could, he would have burned them all alive.

Obviously outmatched, it didn't take long for the Naren slaver to fly
its white. The big ship slowed as its sails slackened. Naren sailors
were waving on its deck, signaling their surrender. Prakna was very
still. The Prince of Liss churned forward. The Vindicator and Gray
Lady swept wide, maneuvering to ram. Over the roaring surf
Prakna could hear the muffled cries of the Naren sailors. He took a
long breath, and for the smallest second reconsidered.

Then he gave the order.

"Signal the Vindicator," he shouted to Marus. "Ram her."

Marus nodded grimly. Along the deck the order was passed. The
signalmen flashed their colored flags. A quick reply followed from
the Vindicator. The schooner changed course by mere degrees,
pointing her shining steel prow at the hull of her prey. Like a giant
shark the vessel swam forward, ever faster as her sails took up the
wind. The men on deck braced themselves. Gray Lady broke
away, paralleling the lumbering slaver, while the Prince of Liss took
up position in front of her. The captain of the Naren vessel was
screaming, frantically waving off the Vindicator. Prakna shook his
fist.

"Now!"

Vindicator's prow slammed the helpless slaver. The crack and
groan of wood shuddered as the slaver's hull imploded. Screams
went up from her deck and cargo holds. Vindicator bobbed upward
as her prow tore through planking, rising like a rhino horn to open
the fatal wound. The Prince of Liss circled in front of the crippled
slaver, her crew silent.

"Look at that," muttered Marus.

The Naren ship trembled as the ocean poured into her, drowning
her lower decks and holds. Naren sailors abandoned the doomed
vessel as she listed starboard. The Gray Lady bore down on the
sailors as they bobbed aimlessly in the water, shocked and
panicked. Prakna watched as the Gray Lady's keel flattened the
sailors. The Vindicator ripped free of the ruined hull, pulling out a
gory mess of wood and pitch as she fought to change direction
before the wreck could drag her down.

Prakna crossed his arms over his chest, satisfied. The Prince of
Liss slowed as it circled the Naren ship. The big slaver was listing
badly, sucking in water. She groaned and shook as the ocean
consumed her, pulling her relentlessly down. A medley of shouts
rang from her decks as the men raced to abandon her, throwing
themselves over her broken railings.

The flooded cargo holds were silent.

Vindicator had broken free and was slowly sailing away from her
victim. Gray Lady circled around for another pass. Wild-eyed
Narens swam in all directions, desperate to escape the hunting
schooners. Some swam toward shore, foolishly attempting the
impossible distance. Others merely floated there, astonished, as
the keels of the warships smashed in their skulls.

In a few short moments, the Naren vessel was gone. Prakna's jaw
clenched. She was a god-cursed slaver. She deserved to go
down—with her crew and cargo. The fleet commander watched the
bubbling ocean until all that was left of the ship was froth and even
that vanished away. He turned away from the railing and found
himself looking at Marus. The first officer's expression was grave.

"She carried slaves," Prakna mumbled, more to himself than to
Marus. "To work in the war labs. To build ships . . ."

"Yes, sir."

Prakna swallowed. "Return to patrol," he said softly. "I'll be back in
my cabin."

"Aye, sir." Marus let his commander walk away. But Prakna took
only a few steps before Marus called after him.

"Prakna?"

Prakna stopped to face his friend. "Yes?"

"Next time," said Marus, "it will be the Fearless."
EIGHT
Dark-Heart

O n board the Intimidator, Simon Darquis whiled away the hours
topside. Around him, the everyday tedium of sea-life went on
oblivious to his presence. He was the special passenger of Count
Renato Biagio, and that was all any of the crew needed to know
about their strange shipmate. Simon did what he could to stay out
of their way, but he needed to be out in the sun, to let its weak rays
redden his skin and let the wind chafe his face. Because his
stomach couldn't stand the endless rocking of the ocean, he found
the self-imposed starvation easy; everything that went down his
gullet came right back up anyway. It had been three agonizing
weeks since they had set out from Crote, and Simon hadn't
downed a decent meal since. Always thin, Simon was now gaunt,
precisely the look required for fooling the Jackal. He had hung his
disguise—the uniform of a Naren legionnaire—from one of the
mastheads, and he occasionally bundled it in a net and trolled it
overboard. Like his own flesh, the uniform needed to be well
weathered if he were to look his part. He had a pair of standard-
issue boots in his cabin too, the soles so worn that his toes almost
touched the earth. Simon had come up with the ruse himself, and
Biagio had approved it.

Simon didn't know the Jackal of Nar and bore him no grudges. In
an odd way he even admired Vantran. He had thrown the Empire
into chaos, had abandoned his kingship in Aramoor, and had
forged the Triin into an army capable of defeating Vorto's legions.
And all for the love of a woman. Had circumstances been vastly
different, Simon imagined, they might have even been friends. But
Simon was Roshann, and Biagio's vengeance was unstoppable.

He hadn't explained his mission to Eris. She could never
understand it anyway, and if she knew the truth it might have ended
her love instantly. Despite her proximity to Biagio, the innocent girl
knew very little about the Roshann's business. And it wasn't exactly
a bargain he had struck with Biagio. Whether or not he married the
dancer, Biagio expected this of him. Eris was merely a prize for
years of good service. She was also the Master's way of showing
his unique affection for Simon. Simon knew this and shuddered at
it. But he had been honest with Biagio. He loved Eris, and would do
anything to marry her—even steal a child. Truthfully, he knew the
child would never leave Crote alive. If she left the island at all, it
would be in pieces. Biagio was fond of sending people heads.

His lord was a monster; Simon knew that now. As he watched the
waves go by from the deck, he realized that he served a madman,
someone whose mind had been devoured by drugs. Biagio hadn't
always been this way, and Simon mourned his memory. In the early
days of the Roshann, when Biagio was young and Simon but a
boy, the count had been a hero to the people of Crote. He had
brought the island into the folds of the Empire, had fed the
peasants with endless shipments of supplies from the mainland,
and had given Crote something it desperately desired—respect.
With Biagio at the emperor's right hand, it was no longer
fashionable to call Cretans olive pickers or drunks. They were the
people of the Roshann, feared and dangerous. And for that one
great gift the people of the island adored Count Biagio, and would
forgive him anything.

Even insanity.

It was a cold day on the deck of the Intimidator. The cruiser cut
through the churning waters effortlessly, her sails full of air. Simon
stood at her stern and watched the cruiser's wake. She was a fine
ship, newer than most in the fleet. Not as grand as the Fearless, of
course, but far better suited to their secretive task. They had
rounded the cape of Lucel-Lor and were heading for Falindar.
Captain N'Dek wanted no mistakes, so he kept his vessel far from
shore. In these waters, N'Dek had told Simon, there were giant sea
serpents and squids capable of dragging even the Fearless
beneath the waves. N'Dek was a vicious man, prone to alarming
lies, but Simon kept one suspicious eye on the deep anyway. For a
man raised on an island, he detested the sea.

Soon they would be in Lucel-Lor. Simon relished the thought of
solid ground beneath him, but the idea of his mission frightened
him. It was impossible, after all, and he really didn't expect to
succeed. Vantran would be suspicious of everything. He had
outlived the emperor, he had slain the Baron Blackwood Gayle,
and, most incredibly, he had outwitted Biagio. It seemed
impossible to Simon that such a quick-witted man would let a
stranger steal his daughter. But there was one thing Simon was
sure Richius Vantran suffered from. He was Naren. And that meant
he was alone in Lucel-Lor. With no one of his kind to talk to, he
would certainly be desperate for a fellow countryman. It was a
gamble, Simon knew, but it was a good one. He would play on
Vantran's sympathies, work his way into his graces. Vantran would
get used to having a friend. Then, like a cobra, Simon would strike.

I am without morals, thought Simon. God help me.

It was why he was good at being Roshann, why Biagio had come
to lean on him. Simon's last name was no accident of fate. He had
chosen the designation Darquis carefully. In the tongue of Vosk,
where his mother had been born, the word meant "dark-heart." To
Simon, it seemed the perfect tag for a man without conscience.

No, Simon corrected himself. Not without conscience. Not
completely. He felt remorse for this mission, just enough to make
him human, and that pleased him. If he were a religious man he
would have prayed for forgiveness, but the new God of Nar was
deaf to Cretans. So he remained silent and merely watched the
warship's wake, marveling at its size. The wind whipped his
bearded face and sucked the moisture from his lips. Over his
shoulder the sun was descending, heralding night's return, and the
men on board called to each other and busied themselves with
work. Simon thought of Eris, of her sharp face and perfect breasts.
She had the legs of a goddess, long and slender, and Simon felt
desire rise up in him until he was awash in his own loneliness.
Soon he would take the Jackal's daughter and he would be free of
this longing forever. He and Eris would wed. Simon closed his
eyes and smiled, then heard the footfalls on the deck behind him.

"See any serpents?" asked N'Dek. The captain shouldered up to
Simon and stuck an elbow in his ribs. "Good place to vomit, eh,
Darquis?" jibed the captain. "Perhaps we should move your bunk
up here."

Simon laughed. Despite the man's sardonic personality, Simon
liked him. He was witty and strange, and had a reputation among
his crew as a hard but fair captain.

"Don't stand too close to me, N'Dek. I might empty myself on your
pretty uniform."

"If you emptied anything it would be water only," said the captain.
"You should eat more. A strong wind and you'll go overboard."

"I can't eat," said Simon. "Not the swill your galley serves. I've tried,
and all it does is come back up."

"It's not the food," said N'Dek, pointing a sharp finger into Simon's
shoulder. "It's you. You're a weakling, Darquis. Like all land
fighters." The captain cackled, baiting his hook, but Simon didn't
rise to it.

"You're right," said Simon calmly. "That's why the legions are still in
Nar, and the Black Fleet is sailing around safe little Crote. A pity
Vorto's men can't all be as strong as you, N'Dek."

N'Dek's expression soured. "I should pitch you over the rail for
that, Darquis. But then, Biagio might be angry if I killed his favorite
spy."

There was a curious stress on the word favorite that made Simon
squirm a little. "What's it like to be the count's messenger boy,
N'Dek? Good job?"

"I am not a messenger boy," hissed N'Dek.

"Biagio should get himself some pigeons to deliver his messages.
They'd certainly be faster than this wreck."

"Darquis, you astonish me. I'm the captain of this vessel. I could
leave you stranded with your new Triin friends. How would you like
that, eh? Marooned with the gogs? I'll just tell the count you were
lost, or that you never came back. That would be a shame, wouldn't
it? If you were lost?"

"Not so big a pity, N'Dek. At least I wouldn't have to endure this trip
again."

N'Dek laughed. "Not much longer, spy. I've taken new bearings.
According to my rutters, we should be reaching the citadel in the
next two days."

"Two days? Are you sure?"

"If the winds hold, yes. We'll stop before Falindar, of course. Don't
want to be seen."

"The watchtower," Simon reminded him. "Leave me at the tower."

N'Dek nodded impatiently. "Yes, yes . . ."

"You can't overshoot, N'Dek," said Simon. "The citadel is too damn
high. If we get too close we might be seen."

"You presume a great deal," smoldered the captain. "I don't need
your help to chart a course. Stick to your poisons and daggers,
Roshann."

Simon accepted the warning. N'Dek was a playful man, but could
only be pushed so far. Like all of Nicabar's captains, this one had a
sore spot for Roshann agents, an umbrage he hid very poorly.
N'Dek didn't like hiding in Crote. He wanted to be back in Nar,
aiming his guns at Vorto's legions and the Lissens swarming the
Empire's coasts. He endured the disgrace of cargo voyages
because Admiral Nicabar ordered him to, but he bore a heavy
resentment toward the Count of Crote and all his Roshann agents.

"You've been out here all day," said N'Dek at last. "Go below and
get some rest. You'll need it for what's ahead."

It wasn't worth arguing, so Simon didn't. He was exhausted, weak
from lack of food and the constant rising of his stomach. The air
was better topside, but he heard his bunk calling. He nodded and
turned from the captain, making his way toward the gang ladder. He
had almost reached it when he heard N'Dek's snipe.

"Oh, Darquis, I almost forgot. We're having octopus tonight. Care
to dine at my table?"

"Burn in Hell, N'Dek."

Simon spent the next day in his cabin, resting, wondering how near
they were to Falindar. At around sundown, a little nervous flutter
started growing in his stomach. He was always nervous before a
mission, and he always appreciated the anxiousness. It kept him
sharp. But this was different. As he lay in bed and watched the
sunlight fade, he thought of Eris and their future, and he hoped it
would be a life without regrets. His parents had loved each other,
and when his father had died his mother had wept in agony, and
told him how she hadn't regretted one moment of their lives
together. Now, as he lay in bed, ill with sea-sickness, his mother's
face kept coming to him, and he thought of Eris on the island with
the mad Biagio, and of Savros who loved pain, and the little midget
with the clever mind.

And Simon was afraid.

That night he hardly slept at all. When morning finally came he
greeted it like an old friend. If the winds were fair, they would reach
their destination that day. He dressed quickly and found his
appetite returning. Up on deck N'Dek and his officers were pacing
amidships. The sails were half-masted. The Intimidator moved
slowly through the waters, like some great shark stalking prey.
Simon hurried over to the captain, who flashed him an
apprehensive smile.

"Good morning, Darquis. Look over my shoulder."

Simon paused, doing as N'Dek asked. It was a foggy morning and
visibility was poor, but Simon saw the shape of land in the distance,
unmistakable even in the mist. He took a deep breath and looked
at N'Dek.

"That it?"

"Yes," nodded the captain. "According to my rutters. Any of this
look familiar to you?"

Simon shook his head. He couldn't see the watchtower, and he
wondered at the accuracy of N'Dek's charts. Though he had been
here before, he was no expert on Triin terrain.

"I can't see anything from here," he said. "Can you get me closer?"

"We're piloting in. Get your gear together, Darquis. If this fog holds
you can row ashore without being seen."

"Agreed," said Simon, returning to his cabin. Again that feeling of
fear pecked at him, and he shook his head to be rid of it. He didn't
really have gear, just his ragged disguise, and as he slid into it he
made sure not to put any more tears in the threadbare fabric. He
found his shabby boots beneath his bunk and slid these on too,
and then completed his ensemble with the only weapon he would
allow himself—a legionnaire's dagger. This he tucked into his belt.
There was a mirror in the cabin and he inspected himself in it. His
appearance made him smile. Weeks of sea-sickness had made
him suitably gaunt, and his skin was chapped and weathered. His
hair was filthy too, matted to his head by the accumulation of ocean
salt.

"You can do this," he whispered to his reflection. "You must. For
Eris."

For Eris. He drew a breath, held it, then left the cabin. The
Intimidator was closer to shore now. Simon could barely see the
scratchy outline of the Triin coast. This region of Lucel-Lor was
called Tatterak. It was where Falindar stood. There had been a
warlord here once, a Triin named Kronin, but he had been killed in
the Naren invasion. According to the Triin Hakan, a man named
Lucyler was Falindar's new master. Simon recited these facts like a
mantra, searching for anything useful. If he truly had spent a year
wandering Lucel-Lor, he would have known these things and more.
One mistake, and Vantran would know the truth.

The cruiser sailed ever closer to land. When it was near enough to
row ashore, N'Dek ordered the anchors lowered. The great
weights dropped into the ocean with a splash, dragging down
rattling chains. Simon waited at the railing for N'Dek's orders. The
captain's face was unusually serious as he stepped up to Simon.

"You ready?"

Simon nodded. He still couldn't see the tower through the fog, but
the light was increasing, threatening the haze. He would have to
disembark quickly.

"I'll have two men row you ashore. Find the tower as soon as you
can. You'll be given a signal lantern and some flint. Hide them well.
You'll need them to signal us. We'll be waiting out here for you in
forty days."

"Forty days," Simon echoed. "All right."

N'Dek looked at him hard. "Forty days precisely, Darquis. Don't
make any mistakes. I'm already uncomfortable in Triin waters
alone. If there are still Lissens around—"

"There are no Lissens."

"If there are Lissens," continued N'Dek ruthlessly, "they will chase
us out of here and you'll be on your own. If you miss the date, we
sail home to Crote without you. Do you understand that?"

"I understand," said Simon. "Thanks."

"Don't blame me for this rotten task," said the captain. "I don't envy
you, it's true. But I've got my own crew to worry about."

"And your own skin. Yes, I know. Don't apologize, N'Dek. I meant
what I said. Thanks for taking me this far." Then he jabbed a finger
into the man's chest and added, "Just be here when I get back."

Surprisingly, N'Dek returned the grin. "I'll be here in forty days. You
have my word." The captain put his hand out for Simon. "Luck to
you, spy."

Simon took the hand and shook it. "And to you," he said, then left
to find the waiting rowboat. The little craft was dangling from the
side of the Intimidator, ready to be lowered into the water. In it
were two sailors, one of whom held a sack of provisions. Simon
stepped gingerly into the rowboat, almost slipping as it swayed
beneath him. When he was safely aboard, one of the sailors
ordered the boat lowered, and it slowly began its descent. Simon
watched N'Dek as the rowboat hit the water. The sailors took up the
oars and began rowing toward the foggy shore, leaving behind the
looming warship. In a short moment the Intimidator was
shimmering in fog. Simon looked toward shore. There he saw the
harsh terrain of Lucel-Lor coming into focus.

"God," he muttered. "I had hoped never to see this place again."

The sailors rowed without comment. Simon's eyes darted
suspiciously around the rocky inlet, but all he saw were birds and a
swarm of mosquitoes. Then out of the mist the watchtower grew. It
was just as he'd left it, ancient and leaning, a dilapidated spire from
the old days of the warlords, rising out of the craggy earth. Simon
pointed at it.

"There," he whispered, directing the sailors. The little vessel turned
and headed for the tower, and in a moment slid onto the gravelly
shore. The two sailors pulled in the oars and waited for Simon to
depart. Simon took up his sack of provisions, spared a last glance
at the ocean where the unseen Intimidator was anchored, then
stepped from the rowboat. At once the cold ocean soaked into his
worn-out boots.

"Tell your captain not to miss his rendezvous," he said. "I'll be back
here in forty days."

One of the sailors nodded. "Just use the signal lantern. We'll come
for you."

You'd better, thought Simon bitterly. He pushed the little rowboat
back out to sea and watched the sailors fade into the mist, then
turned and waded toward the shore. Lucel-Lor, tall and forbidding,
rose up before him, shriveling his bravado. This was an ancient
world, strange beyond imagining, and the people here were unlike
any race in the Empire. Some said they were sorcerers, but Simon
wasn't superstitious. He knew only that they were a mystery, a race
that Arkus of Nar had tried to understand and failed. Simon moved
quickly toward the brush, hiding himself in a grove of trees, then
made his way to the abandoned tower. He had found it on his first
mission to Lucel-Lor and it had made the perfect hideout. Too far
from any villages, the tower never got visitors, not even curious
children. It had a haunted quality to it, the kind of place seen in
nightmares. It had no door but its stairs were sound, and Simon
could climb to its top and see for miles.

About the tower was a clearing. Simon reached it quickly, then
surveyed the tower from his hiding place in the trees. He saw no
one; heard nothing. He sniffed the air for campfires and smelled
only the ocean. Satisfied, he moved stealthily out of the trees and
crossed the twenty yards to the tower, dashing across its
threshold. Once inside, Simon stopped. Blackness enveloped him.
He could hear the wind outside and the throbbing of his heart. The
sack in his hand quavered. Something was wrong. Simon cursed
himself.

Easy, you damn fool. There's nothing here.

His eyes adjusted to the light. Whoever had abandoned the place
had left only stale air behind. There had been war in this region
when the tower was built. There were towers like this one all
throughout Lucel-Lor—great perches where watchmen could spy
on the movements of their enemies. Lucel-Lor had endured a long
and violent history, not unlike the history of Nar. They were a cruel
people too, sometimes. Simon gave a nervous laugh. The
similarities were striking.

He laid the sack down on the brick floor and began rummaging
through it. The lantern and flint were there, as promised, along with
a water skin and some dried meat and bread. Hardly enough to
subsist on, but then Simon wasn't supposed to look like he'd been
eating from ample supplies. He removed the lantern from the sack,
struck the flint repeatedly to make it spark, then set the precious oil
in the lantern aflame. The wick caught quickly and the fire died
down, leaving a warm glow. Simon took up the sack, held the
lantern out before him, and began making his way up the narrow
stairway. Once he had left behind the entry chamber, all was dark
but for the steady glow of his lamp. Along the walls were iron
sconces and torch holders, now rusted away, and the mortar
between the bricks had dissolved to dust. As he walked, Simon
dragged his hand along the wall, feeling the imperfect stone.

When at last he reached the top of the spire, he was in a round
chamber full of shattered windows. A fierce wind blew in from the
ocean, chilling him. He dropped his sack on the ground and
shielded the gentle flame inside the lantern with his hand. Lucel-
Lor, vast and impenetrable, was at his feet. He went over to one of
the windows and looked outside. Morning sunlight poured over the
earth and the sea to the north. To the south was rocky earth,
patched with autumn forests and the ever-rising slopes of small
mountains. Simon felt a rush of insignificance. Here at the top of
the world, he realized again how small he was, and how fleeting
time could be. Someday the ocean would reclaim the land it had
forfeited to men, and this proud tower would tumble, forgotten.

Still shaky from his ordeal on the Intimidator, Simon decided to
rest. Vantran would wait, and he needed to stop his head from
swimming. He opened the glass of the lantern and blew out the
small flame, not needing it up here in the sunlight. Simon leaned
out of the broken window and let the warming rays strike his face.
Beneath him, the world was solid again.

He went from the window and put his lantern back in the burlap
sack. Pulling out the crusty bread, he ate some sparingly, so as not
to get sick. Then he settled back against one of the filthy walls and
went over his impossible plan. The citadel of Falindar was miles
away, a full day's hike. That would give him time to get more grimy,
to pick up some of the land's odors. This afternoon, when the sun
was high and warmer, he would leave the tower. He would make
his way to Falindar and Richius Vantran, and he would begin his
elaborate charade.

He would take the Jackal's daughter, he resolved. He would. And if
Herrith was right and there truly was a Hell, he would burn for it.

That afternoon, Simon left the tower and began his trek toward
Falindar. The sun that had looked so promising earlier had failed to
materialize into anything more than a hazy orange ball, and within a
few hours Simon was shivering. His feet ached too—the result of
shoddy boots—and he knew that blisters were boiling up on his
skin. But these were small annoyances. He was free of the
confines of the ship, out in the air again, and he was grateful for the
feeble sun and the fresh breeze. Tatterak was different from the
other Triin territories. It was colder here, starker, and the trees
were enormous. Simon moved slowly but with purpose, aware of
every sound. He was in a valley between two hillsides, a green
place thick with yellow flowers and blown leaves. The tall grass felt
good against his thighs, and as he walked he brushed the tops of it
with his palms. A school-boy smile played across his lips. This was
a pristine land, not at all like Nar City with its smokestacks and
choked avenues. It was as if the Triin had forgotten this place, or
had left it fallow.

By late afternoon Simon had made it through most of the valley. He
had almost reached its end when the smell of something
dangerous alerted him. Simon stood as still as a cat, and quickly
determined the source of the smell.

"Fire," he whispered.

Nearby? He cocked his head to listen, heard the breeze and the
chirping of birds. Up ahead was another line of trees—big pines a
mile deep. Guessing the smell was coming from the forest, he
approached it warily. Then he caught the first sight of smoke.
White and thin. And close by. A campfire, certainly. Simon
steadied himself. He would go around, he decided, and avoid
whoever was here. But when he turned to go he saw a man with an
arm full of firewood.

Simon froze.

The man dropped the firewood and stood gaping at him. Not Triin.
Simon didn't move.

Not bloody Triin!

"Who the hell are you?" barked the man. He was shorter than
Simon but broader in the shoulders, dark-haired, and as he spoke
he surged forward, one arm reaching for his blade. Simon put up
his hands, his mind groping for his pretext—the one he'd
rehearsed so long.

"Don't you move!" the man roared. He had his broadsword drawn
and held it out in both hands. Simon raised his hands higher above
his hands.

"Easy," he urged. "Take it easy. . . ."

The man was dressed like a Triin, but was unmistakably Naren.
Simon stopped moving backward and let the stranger approach.

"I'm unarmed," he said loudly. "Just a dagger, in my belt. A dagger,
all right?"

"Don't you move," repeated the man. He had the tip of his sword at
Simon's throat now. "Or I swear to God I'll cut your miserable
throat!"

"I'm not moving," said Simon. "Not a hair."

The man looked him up and down, then his hand flashed out and
grabbed hold of Simon's collar. He dragged Simon to his knees,
then flung him down. Simon's chest hit the ground with a painful
thud. The man put his foot on his neck and leaned.

"Stop!" Simon gasped.

"Shut up!" snapped the stranger. He bent down and fixed his knee
into Simon's back, pressing down hard and putting the edge of his
sword to Simon's throat. With his other hand he grabbed a fistful of
hair and jerked back Simon's head.

"Who the hell are you? Tell me quick or I'll break your neck."

Simon calmed himself, retreating into his training. "My name is
Simon," he said calmly.

"Simon what?"

"Simon Darquis. From Vosk."

"Liar!" flared the man. He slammed Simon's face into the ground.
At once Simon felt blood gushing from his nose. He cried out and
the man jerked his head back up. "Tell me the truth, you Naren pig!
What are you doing here?"

"I . . . I'm a deserter," Simon stammered. "From the Naren legions.
Like you?"

This caused another outburst from the stranger. "Now you listen to
me, you dirty little weasel. I'm no deserter. And you're not either,
are you? Are you?"

Simon could hardly breathe. "I am," he gasped. But inside he
laughed. He couldn't believe his good fortune. "I swear it. My name
is Simon Darquis. I'm a lieutenant."

"With whom? What regiment?"

"They're gone. I told you. . . ."

"With the Naren legions?"

"Yes!"

"I'll snap your neck if you move," whispered the man. "Now you tell
me everything. Why are you here? Who sent you?"

"No one sent me," Simon managed to croak. "God! You're killing
me!"

Enraged, the man Simon supposed was Vantran violently rolled
Simon onto his back and put the tip of his sword under his chin.

"I'll run you through if you don't tell me what I want to know," he
growled. His eyes were wild, like a rabid dog's. Simon was
breathing hard. Suddenly he wasn't sure if he could convince
Vantran.

"I swear to God I'm no one," he gasped. "Please, I swear it. I'm
just a deserter. I left my regiment behind. A year ago. More,
maybe. I don't know . . ."

"Then what are you doing here?" barked Vantran. "Why did you
desert?"

Simon shrugged as though he was too afraid to answer. "To be
free. To get away. I wandered here. That's all. . . ."

There was a softening in Vantran's face. Simon relaxed a little. It
was working.

"I meant no harm," he added. "I swear it. If this is your land—"

"Quiet," snapped Vantran.

"Let me go," Simon begged. "I'll leave; go back the way I came.
Please . . ."

"I said be quiet!" Vantran pulled the blade away, but only slightly.
"Tell me the truth," he ordered again. This time his voice was
almost desperate.

"What can I tell you?" Simon cried. "I'm a deserter. I'm Simon
Darquis!"

"If you're lying I'll find out about it, Simon Darquis. I will, and then
you'll be sorry." Vantran didn't move his boot from Simon's chest.
"Did Biagio send you?"

Inside, Simon's smile widened. "What the hell are you talking
about?"

"This is a game, I know it is. All right then, don't tell me." He took
the blade from Simon's neck. "You'll come back with me," he
declared. "Or I'll cut you down. Do you understand?"

"Back with you? Where?"

"Stop with your questions," said Vantran. He rose to his feet,
careful to keep the sword near his prisoner. "Get up."

Simon got up very slowly. Vantran reached over and pulled the
dagger from his belt, sticking it in his own. He gestured toward the
trees where his campfire burned.

"That way," he ordered. "Move."

"Why? Where are we going?"

"Just move." Vantran seemed nervous. Simon struggled to keep
his glee in check. The bleeding of his nose made it easy to look
helpless. He walked toward the trees and the smell of smoke,
Vantran's sharp blade at his back. There was a distinct tremor in
the young man's voice. Good. Vantran would be easy to keep
unbalanced. And that wildness in his eyes—he was restless.

"Where are you taking me?" Simon asked again. "Tell me."

"Why should I?"

"Your camp is nearby. I smelled it. That's why I was coming this
way. I am hungry."

"And you're going to get a lot hungrier, my friend."

They walked on until at last they reached Vantran's campsite. It
was a pleasant place, well worn, as if Vantran had spent some time
there. Next to the campfire was a blanket and some utensils, and
there was a horse tethered to one of the pine trees—a strapping,
tawny creature that turned its eyes on them as they approached.
Simon moved close to the fire. The heat felt good against his skin.

"Sit," ordered Vantran.

Simon did as directed. Vantran remained standing, staring down at
him. The sun was sinking quickly. Vantran's face was lit with worry,
and he didn't speak for a very long time, but instead simply
watched his captive. Simon returned the stare, mustering up all his
contempt. He ran a sleeve over his nose and found that the wound
was worse than he'd thought. Pain shot through his face and a dull
throbbing hammered his ears.

"You broke my nose, you bloody bastard."

Vantran sighed. He rested the sword point on the ground and
leaned on its pommel. "Do you know who I am?"

Simon nodded. "I think I do. You're Vantran, aren't you?"

"You answered that quickly."

"Who else would you be?" Simon's eyes surveyed the young man.
"Look at you, all dressed up like a Triin. I guessed who you were
when I saw you."

"I bet you did. After all, you were looking for me, weren't you?"

"Vantran, I'll tell you something. All this time in Lucel-Lor has made
you crazy. I can see it in your eyes. Now I don't know who the hell
you think I am, and I don't really give a damn. I just want to be on
my way. Would that be all right with you?"

"Stray from that spot, and I'll cut your head off. Do you
understand?"

"Piss on you."

Vantran scowled. "You lousy assassin. Don't you lie to me. I know
who you are. Biagio sent you!"

"Biagio!" Simon railed, half laughing. "Like I said. You're insane."

"Yes, insane. And you're just some poor wandering deserter, who
just can't stand the thought of going back home to Nar, right? You
expect me to believe that?"

"Believe whatever you want," said Simon. "I really don't care.
Frankly, I'm enjoying your fire."

"You're from Vosk?"

"That's right."

"A lieutenant?"

Simon nodded. "I was with the regiment sent to help Blackwood
Gayle find you."

The mere mention of Gayle made Vantran twitch. Simon watched
him, reading his expression, and for the smallest instant he pitied
the man. What Blackwood Gayle had done to Vantran was
legendary. Amazingly, Vantran lowered his sword, almost dropping
it from his fingers. He slid down onto the ground in front of Simon,
his shoulders slumped, his eyes dim and clouded.

"I don't know what to believe. Are you who you claim? Maybe. If
you're not, then I'm dead already, aren't I? If you're an assassin,
then Biagio knows where I am."

Simon scoffed. "Do I look like an assassin?"

"I've seen the count's handiwork. I know how clever he can be."

"Clever enough to turn starving deserters into killers, then?" Simon
jabbed a finger at himself. "Look at me. I'm a rag. All the grain
fields from here to Ackle-Nye were burned. I've been living in
bloody caves, eating anything I can catch or pull off a tree. You
think I'm one of that bastard's pampered Roshann? I should live so
long!"

Vantran gazed into the sky, considering the sinking sun. "I have to
take you back with me to Falindar, but it's getting dark. We'll stay
here tonight and leave in the morning."

"Falindar?" croaked Simon. "Oh, no. I'm not going to that god-
cursed place."

"You're going. You're my prisoner now."

"In hell," spat Simon. "What if I say no?"

Vantran shrugged. "I'll just drag you there."

Simon grimaced. "I'm hungry."

"Sorry."

"Are you just going to let me starve?"

The young man looked at Simon. The harshness in his face began
to ebb. "No, I suppose not."

The sun dropped behind the mountains; night blanketed the valley.
Richius Vantran sat stretched out on the ground near his fire, his
face awash in dancing firelight. On the ground near him was a
plateful of half-eaten game bird. Simon watched the young man
pensively. They had shared a meal together in utter silence. Simon
had devoured his portion instantly. Now he felt full and satisfied.
More, he was surprised at how quickly he was wearing Vantran
down. The fool had even untied his hands so he could eat. When
the meal was over he had tied them again, but the simple act of
trust told Simon he was already winning.

It was late now, and the gray day had given up to a clear night with
a bright moon. The cold fingers of autumn crept up to the
campsite, held at bay by the glowing fire, and the trees in the valley
moved with the stirrings of night creatures. Richius Vantran ate his
supper slowly, pensively, occasionally raising his eyes to look
across the campfire to where Simon was sitting. It was necessary,
Vantran had explained. He didn't trust his prisoner, especially in the
dark, and wouldn't have been able to sleep any other way. Simon
had protested but only just enough to look convincing. Too weak in
appearance to fight Vantran, he had let the young man bind him
again after eating. Simon tried vainly to get comfortable against a
tree trunk, his booted feet outstretched toward the warming fire.
His wrists ached and his head swam. His nose still throbbed but
the bleeding had stopped and Vantran had taken the care to wash
some of it away with a damp cloth. The gesture had made Simon
wonder about the man. How old was he now? Nearly twenty-
seven? Not so young anymore, yet he sometimes acted like a boy.
Simon liked his muddled innocence. He watched Vantran through
the flickering fire, his brown eyes full of questions. Simon was safe
now; he knew it. Vantran was no killer. And the way he had wiped
Simon's face had betrayed a dangerous sympathy. Already his
skepticism was eroding.

"I'm still hungry," Simon said finally. "You gonna eat all that bird?"

"You've had your share," said Vantran.

"I'll need more food if you're going to march me to Falindar. I might
collapse on the way."

"It's not that far."

"I won't be able to make it, I tell you. Let me share your horse."

"Tell you what—you tell me who you really are and I'll think about
it."

"What's wrong with you, you bloody fool? I've told you everything.
You're just not listening."

Richius Vantran yawned and stretched his arms into the air. "I'm
too tired for this. In the morning we'll talk more."

"That's it?" Simon railed. "You're just going to leave me tied up all
night? I'm a legionnaire of Nar, damn it! I want some respect!"

"A legionnaire? Oh, yes, sir!" Vantran wrapped his arms around his
knees and grinned. "You have the nerve of a bull, my friend.
Legionnaire, indeed. Even if you were one, you're a deserter. A
traitor."

"Oh, yes," said Simon. "And you'd be an expert on spotting traitors,
wouldn't you, Jackal?"

The smile vanished from Vantran's face. "Don't call me that."

"Why not? That's what they were calling you in Nar. You know that,
don't you? Frankly, I think it suits you."

"I'm Richius Vantran, King of Aramoor. Call me king or Vantran or
anything else, but don't call me Jackal. I won't allow it."

"King," scoffed Simon. "There is no Aramoor, Vantran. Not
anymore. How much do you know about the Empire anyway?
Blackwood Gayle's family took over your country. It's a province of
Talistan now."

"I know that."

"What do they call you here?" Simon asked. "Do they call you
king?"

"No," the young man admitted. "They don't."

"No. Because you're not a king. Even the Triin know that, Jackal.
They call you Kalak here, don't they? That's their word for you, isn't
it?"

"You are an obnoxious creature," Vantran declared. "Be quiet and
let me sleep."

"What are you doing out here?" Simon pressed. "Why are you
alone?"

Vantran rolled his eyes. "Lord, you talk too much."

"Do you live in Falindar?"

"I live with my wife."

Simon smiled wickedly. "Yes, your wife. You left your kingdom for
her, didn't you? We all knew the story. Blackwood Gayle told us
what you'd done. She must be something, eh?"

"Fellow, I'm going to tell you this one more time. I don't want you
talking anymore tonight, all right? And I don't want you ever
speaking about my wife. I don't trust you, and I'm not going to tell
you a blessed thing. So save your breath and go to sleep."

Simon leaned in closer. "Who do you think I am? Really now, tell
me? You think I was sent to kill you?"

He watched Vantran grimace at the question.

"I have enemies," said the man. "You might be one of them. I don't
know. But I can't take any chances."

"Biagio sent us all here to find you, to bring you back alive. That
was part of our mission. We were supposed to find magic to save
the emperor, but Gayle and Biagio wanted you captured. I admit
that. But that was a long time ago, Vantran. And as far as I know,
I'm the only Naren left in Lucel-Lor besides you." Simon offered a
gentle smile. "You've been hiding for a year now, I can see that.
You're unbalanced, fearful. I can see it in your eyes."

"Are you a mystic too?" asked Vantran sarcastically.

"I don't need mysticism to see you're afraid. Maybe you should be,
I don't know. But not of me. I swear this to you, Vantran. I'm just a
deserter."

Vantran looked at him skeptically. "That's impossible. Legionnaires
are loyal."

"So are kings," chided Simon. "Yet here you are."

There was a contemplative silence. Vantran's hard eyes softened
with understanding, and Simon watched him coolly, reading his
weakening defenses. The young man buried his chin in his knees
and stared into the fire, and suddenly he was miles away. When he
spoke it was out of a fugue, his tone emotionless.

"So why did you desert, then?" he asked softly. "What happened
to you?"

"Nar happened to me, Vantran. Nar and its misery. I never
belonged in uniform. I joined because I had nowhere else to go,
and I needed to eat. But when they sent me here, I realized I didn't
belong with them."

"That's not an answer." The young man was still distant, staring
blankly into the flames. "What made you leave?"

Simon looked into the fire too, recalling his pretense. He had
expected these questions. "Ackle-Nye," he said softly. "Do you
know what happened there?"

Vantran merely nodded.

"It was butchery, plain and simple. When we came through the
mountain pass, the Triin there tried to defend themselves against
us, but they had nothing. We burned the city to the ground. We
killed everything. I . . ." Simon paused theatrically, choking on fake
emotion. "I murdered children. Little ones no taller than my knee. I
was ordered to do it but that didn't make me feel better about it.
And when we were done we lit the whole place on fire."

"The burning city," Vantran echoed. It was what Ackle-Nye was
called that night of the massacre. It was said the flames of the city
could be seen across the world.

"That's right. They were beggars and refugees and old women,
and we killed them. I will never be the same again, Vantran. So
don't you lecture me about being a traitor. What I did took courage.
I can never go back to the Empire. I'm stuck here."

Vantran turned his eyes on Simon. "You made your choice," he
said. "Live with it."

"I have been living with it," said Simon. Then he cocked his head
inquisitively and asked, "What about you?"

As expected, Vantran balked at the question. "I've been just fine,"
he said. "Not that it's any of your business."

"You live in Falindar?"

"Yes."

"With the warlord?"

"There is no warlord in Tatterak anymore. Not since the old one
died."

"Then who are you taking me to see?" Simon asked. "Why am I
your prisoner?"

"Because you can't be trusted. I don't know if what you've told me
is the truth, or if this is all some elaborate lie of Biagio's. Either way,
I want to keep an eye on you, Simon Darquis. That means you
have to come back with me to the citadel. You will speak to the
master there, Lucyler. We'll both decide what to do with you."

"Triin justice?" flared Simon. "That's your idea of fair? They'll slit
my throat just for being Naren!"

"Maybe," said Vantran casually. "Maybe not." He smiled faintly at
Simon. "I want to believe you, I really do. But I can't. If you were
hunted like me, you would understand that."

"Rubbish," sneered Simon. "You're not hunted any more than I am.
It's all in your imagination. You're living in fear of nothing, and now
you want to drag me into your illusion. That's all this is—one man's
fantasy. I pity you, Vantran."

The young man's face hardened. "Pity yourself," he said.
"Because if I find out you're lying, nothing on earth will save you
from me."

Then Richius Vantran rose and stalked off into the darkness,
leaving Simon alone by the fire. Simon watched him go, watched
the night and his own black mood swallow him, and knew with
certainty that his mission would succeed.
NINE
The Cathedral of the Martyrs

I n the center of Nar City, near the shining Black Palace across the
river Kiel, the great Cathedral of the Martyrs rose above the
polluted avenues, its metal steeple reaching for heaven over the
constant smoke of the war labs. Ancient gargoyles stalked its
ledges, their stone eyes fixed on the metropolis around them, and
windows of stained glass cast colorful shadows, bathing the
streets in rainbows. A century of rainstorms had rubbed the
limestone smooth and turned the copper green, and when the sun
was bright the cathedral glimmered like a star through the haze of
the capital. Ten thousand slaves had labored ten years to construct
it, and even in the current chaos of Nar she was an ambition, a
destination for pilgrims from around the Empire. Each holy day the
square around her filled with believers eager to hear the word of
God and to gain absolution for their wicked lives.

Archbishop Herrith understood the importance of the cathedral. It
was more dear to him than scripture, more dear even than his life.
He believed that God truly dwelled within its walls and vaunted
steeple. It was where, he presumed, God lived on earth. He was
nearly fifty now, and had spent the majority of his years in this holy
place, walking its halls and greeting the faithful. It was where Naren
nobles took wives, where Richius Vantran, the Jackal of Nar, had
been made king, and where, Herrith hoped, the Lord would take
him when he died. In its many tabernacles Herrith had seen many
things—miracles certainly, like the weeping God-Mother and the
bleeding chalice, and these things were precious to him too. They
gave him strength. And in these dark days, Herrith needed
strength. He needed God to speak to him in a clear voice, without
being muddled by interpreters and priests. Herrith spent long hours
in prayer now, fasting and begging Heaven to hear him, and
wrestling with the things God the Father had told him to do.

On this day, like any other, Herrith saw to the functioning of his
majestic cathedral. He had acolytes to oversee and an army of
cowled priests, and a thousand tedious details nagging for his
attention. He was worn from the war in Goth and his ongoing feud
with the traitor Biagio, and he longed for some solitude, to be
merely a priest again, a servant of the Almighty. He had spent the
morning with General Vorto listening to details of the soldier's
campaigns, and his head ached from Vorto's voice. Herrith moved
through the cathedral's gilded hallways, hoping no one would see
him. It was Seventh Day, the day the cathedral opened its private
chambers for confession. This, the most intimate of sacraments,
had been taken from Herrith by the pressures of his lofty office, but
on rare occasion he participated in it and heard the sins of his
flock. Today the archbishop needed to hear confession. He
needed to know there were others in the world who sinned.

Herrith pulled his white silk cowl closer around his face as he
walked like a whisper down the golden corridors. Father Todos, his
assistant, was waiting for him in one of the confession chambers.
A very special confessor was with him, hidden from sight in the
booth. But Todos had thought he'd recognized the voice, and so
had summoned his master to hear the confession himself. It was a
private confession, the confessor had explained, and so he had
come to the private chambers.

Naren nobles and men of high rank were allowed the privilege,
leaving the less fortunate of the flock to crowd into the main
tabernacle and wait for acolytes to hear their sins. Herrith had
always thought it an odd separation, but he had allowed it because
it had been the will of Arkus. In the wake of the emperor's death,
the archbishop had thought it best to leave the private chambers
available. He needed the goodwill of the nobles. Too many of them
had already sided with Biagio. Goth had been the latest, and worst,
of the secessionists, and Herrith prayed mightily for no more
fractures in his weak coalition. God's hand was vengeful, he had
learned, and the pain of it was destroying him.

Across the great hall where the painter Darago worked tirelessly on
his latest masterpiece, the private confession chambers stood
apart from the public tabernacles. Herrith moved cautiously through
the hall, careful not to disturb the artist's tools. Because it was
Seventh Day, Darago wasn't working, but his implements—his
brushes and knives and pots of colors—all remained behind. As
he walked through the hall, Herrith glanced up at the ceiling he had
commissioned. Soon Darago would be finished and the great hall
would be open once again to the public. They would see the work
of the master-painter, and they would know with certainty that God
existed. For without divine inspiration, no man could paint like
Darago. His ceiling was like staring into Heaven itself.

Herrith's gaze lingered on the ceiling for a long time. He craned his
neck to survey the fresco, some of which was draped with cloth to
hide it from curious eyes. There were panels even the archbishop
hadn't seen yet, for Darago was an intensely private man, moody
like all artists, and though Herrith regularly pestered him about his
progress, Darago kept his secrets locked away, constantly
promising Herrith that he would be pleased with the results. Herrith
was already pleased. The ceiling was the masterpiece he had
imagined. It was the perfect gift for God.

God had delivered Nar to him. God had killed the immortal Arkus
and had banished the demon Biagio. God's was the glory, and
Herrith wanted to repay his heavenly Father. He had commissioned
the ceiling years ago, well before the first cracks in the Iron Circle,
but it seemed fitting to him that Darago was finishing now, when
Herrith's hold on Nar was becoming final. It was all divine, the
bishop decided, part of a design more vast than them all. The
Black Renaissance that had relegated the Lord to nothing more
than a means of controlling Nar had been almost entirely
vanquished, and God had spoken to General Vorto and brought
him into the fold. God was good and powerful. God wanted the
Black Renaissance dead. And Herrith, who had dedicated his life
to the service of Heaven, was not about to disappoint his Lord.

He slipped through the hall to a secondary chamber guarded by a
consecrated statue. Saint Carlarian the Confessor watched him
enter with marble eyes. When he was inside the chamber Herrith
lowered his cowl and looked around. The room was empty. He had
expected Todos to be waiting for him. The bishop crossed the
room and peered through the door leading to the confession
chambers. Father Todos was outside one of them. His eyes were
closed in prayer.

"Todos?" asked the bishop.

The priest's eyes snapped open. He put a finger to his lips to quiet
his master. Then he pointed into the confession booth.

"In there," he mouthed silently.

"Who?"

Todos went over to his master and whispered a single word. "Kye."

Herrith frowned. He didn't need Kye backing away from their grim
work. Without his leadership, the legions might splinter.

"I thought you should know," said Todos apologetically. "I'm almost
certain it's him. The voice . . ."

Herrith nodded. Kye's voice was unmistakable—a low-pitched
rattle, the result of a Triin arrow through his neck. It took an
experienced ear to understand him now.

"You did the right thing," said Herrith gently. "Thank you."

"He's been waiting," said Todos. "But I'm not sure you should hear
his confession, Your Holiness. He will recognize your voice."

"Let him. He will be talking to God, not me. Go now, my friend.
You've done well."

"Thank you, Your Holiness."

Herrith watched his assistant leave. He loved his old friend dearly,
but wanted no witnesses to what was about to happen. Kye was an
unbeliever, and he needed to be convinced. And although Herrith
knew he had a placid reputation, God demanded things of him
these days, things that often changed his personality. It wouldn't do
for his underlings to hear him rage.

Take care, he reminded himself as he walked into the booth and
closed the door behind him. You need this one.

Like he needed Vorto and all his soldiers. They were the only thing
keeping together the fragile coalition of Naren nations. Fear of the
legions had kept Biagio's loyalists in check. Fear was the fist of
God. Without the army to prop up his church, Herrith knew, Biagio
and his hateful Renaissance would triumph.

In the small chamber was a comfortable stool for the attending
priest. Herrith took a seat and looked at the mesh screen
separating him from the man on the other side. He barely made out
Kye's shadow as the colonel sat opposite him, patiently waiting.
The bishop said a silent prayer, crossed himself, and softly bade
his penitent to speak.

"Go ahead, my child."

There was a long delay as the man on the other side of the screen
adjusted himself.

"Yes, Father," he croaked. "I'm here because I think I've sinned."

Herrith closed his eyes. The voice was obviously Kye's. "How long
has it been since your last confession, my son?"

"I've never had confession, Father. This is my first time."

"I see. Don't be frightened, then. I will help you."

Herrith knew Kye was listening intently, trying to decipher the voice
on the other side of the booth. There was a long pause before the
colonel spoke again.

"I don't know where to begin," he said shakily. "Perhaps I should
go."

He knows it's me, thought Herrith. Fine.

"Don't leave. God doesn't care if you know the rituals. He only
cares that you speak from your heart. Can you do that for Him?"

More silence. And then, "Yes. Yes, I can."

"Good, my son. We are listening, God and I. Tell us your sins.
What troubles you so to bring you here?"

"I have never been a believer," said Kye's disembodied voice. "But
I need God now. I need to know if I'm damned for what I've done."

"What have you done?"

"So much," moaned the colonel. "So bloody much . . ."

"Tell me," urged Herrith. "Tell God."

There was a sigh from the other side of the chamber. Colonel
Kye's shadow lifted a hand to its head and rubbed. His breathing
was erratic, unstable. It quavered as though he was about to weep.
Archbishop Herrith said nothing, letting the colonel compose
himself.

"I've killed so many people," said Kye. "Your Holiness, there is
blood on me. So much blood . . ."

"You know who I am," said the bishop. "Does that not frighten you,
Kye?"

"Yes, it does," admitted the colonel. "But you should know what
we've been doing for you. You should know the blood we've
spilled. It is like a river, Holiness."

Herrith began to tremble too, not with rage but with remorse. He
had already heard the reports from Goth. Formula B had worked
better than promised. And he had given that order himself. If there
was blood on Kye's hands, then Herrith was drenched in it, too.

"The horror," Kye went on, his voice breaking. "God have mercy on
me for what I've done." His shoulders slumped and he began to
gasp, until at last the sobs overcame him and the booth rang with
his anguish. "Tell me there's a God," he begged. "Absolve me,
Holiness."

"There is a God more powerful than you or I, Colonel Kye. A God
whose plan might seem harsh to us both, but who makes demands
on us sometimes. You are pure in His eyes, Colonel. You are one
of His soldiers, not Vorto's. Trust in Him. You are doing His work."

Even as he said it, Herrith wondered. Kye seemed to take no
solace in the words. His sobs went on and on, until Herrith could
hardly understand the babbling of his raspy voice. Kye was
mumbling about children and screams, and something about
mothers dying. Goth, the city of death, where nothing lived or could
live anymore.

"It is God's will," said the bishop, trying to comfort Kye. "They are
in His hands now. Death is a doorway. You know that, don't you?
The righteous of Goth are with Him now."

"Oh, no," moaned Kye. "How can children be righteous? How can I
do such evil work? I am damned! Forever damned . . ."

The Archbishop of Nar seethed. "Listen to me," he thundered.
"God's work is not evil. It is a cleansing of this vile world. Goth
stood with the devil Biagio. They flew the Black Flag, in defiance of
the Lord. You are on the righteous side, Kye, make no mistake.
We are ridding the world of cancer."

Kye fought to calm himself, clearing his throat of phlegm. "I'm just
a man," he said. "I'm not a priest, I'm not a God. I know nothing of
Heaven. I can't be asked to do its work."

"You listen to me," insisted Herrith. "God is more real than you or I,
and He knows your heart, Kye of Nar. He knows if it's pure. You
fear the damnation of Hell for doing His work, but you don't see the
glory of what you're doing."

"I see only slaughter," agreed Kye, "and dead faces in my
dreams."

"But what you see is only earth," pressed Herrith. "It is the
nothingness of this existence. There is another life after this one,
Kye. And those who do the work of the Lord exalt in their next lives;
those who do not will suffer the endless fire. You will not go to Hell
for destroying Goth's children. You will go to Heaven for saving
them!"

Kye was silent. He leaned his head back against the wall and
stared up at the ceiling, and would not speak a word or utter the
smallest sound. The sobs had left him. He was suddenly a shell,
unmoving, and Herrith watched his silhouette mournfully, and all the
colonel's dark regrets became his own.

"It is in the holy book, my child," said Herrith softly. He heard his
words and knew he was talking to himself. "Serve the Lord and be
rewarded. We defy Him at our peril."

"I do not defy Him," said Kye. "I question Him."

This time Herrith was without an answer. He considered the
soldier's words carefully, groping for a response, but of late he had
questioned Heaven, too. Herrith had found solace in scripture, but
only a little. Like Kye, he grieved. But God's word was plain. Biagio
was a sodomite and sinner. He lay with men. And the Black
Renaissance he prescribed spoke of the emperor as the highest
power, a heresy the bishop had let thrive for too long.

"It is unwise to question the Lord," said Herrith finally. "If you ignore
the portents, Kye, you do so at your peril."

Kye's voice was a whisper. "Is it so clear to you?" he asked. "If you
had been at Goth, it would be different, I think. I have never seen
anything so terrible, Holiness, and I have seen a great deal. Your
Formula B cannot be of God. I swear, it must be of the devil."

"It is the inspiration of faithful men that created the formula," said
the bishop. "It can only be of God."

"That's a lie," snapped Kye. "I know Bovadin made the formula
first. The war labs only perfected it."

"But God is perfection. And the formula does His work." Herrith put
his face to the screen. "Oh, sweet Kye. I feel your agony. Do not
think I am as heartless as that. I am God's servant on earth, after
all. I care for children here in the cathedral, and I know it all seems
impossible to you. But we are not always to question the will of our
Father. The Black Renaissance is a terrible thing, and it runs
through our land like a wound. We must burn it out of our flesh
because there is no other way."

"Children, Holiness," said Kye. "Without skin. Without eyes." He
put his hands to his head. "And they won't stop screaming at me.
They won't stop. Make them stop, Holiness. Take them away from
me. . . ."

Herrith knew that he could not. He had heard the same screams in
his own head and no amount of prayer could silence them. They
were relentless, these children of Goth. In death they were louder
than in life.

"They are like dark angels," said Herrith. "Ignore them and they will
be powerless over you. Rebuke them, Kye. You do the work of
God. You need not answer to these phantoms."

Kye seemed to nod slightly. "Then I am absolved?" he asked.

"There is nothing to absolve you of. Go with God, Colonel. Rejoice
in the work you do. And look to Vorto for guidance. He will help you
understand."

Vorto was a butcher and Herrith knew it. But his name had a
magical effect on the legionnaires who served with him. The
general was legendary. And Kye, who was certainly less than a
legend, admired Vorto. He could gain strength from him. Vorto
could be an example to them all. "Do you understand what I have
told you, my son?"

"I think I do," rasped Kye. "And God help me, I will try."

"God asks only your love," said the bishop. "Love him, and He will
help you. You will see that. And you'll see also that what we're
doing is not a lie but the greatest truth Nar has ever known. I
promise you, Colonel. I swear it to Heaven."

Kye rose unsteadily to his feet. He put his face to the screen and
stared through it at Herrith. "You have a law about this place," he
said. "I know you do. Everything I've said to you is secret, isn't it?
My men must never know of this conversation. Nor General Vorto.
That is so, yes?"

"Yes," said Herrith. "That is so."

"And you will never convey this talk to anyone, not by lips or by
pen?"

"Of course not," said Herrith, mildly annoyed.

"Swear it, Your Holiness."

"What?"

"Swear that you will never speak of our conversation today with
anyone. Swear it to Heaven right now."

Herrith raised his hand to the screen and said, "As you have said,
so do I swear."

Satisfied, Kye turned and quit the chamber, leaving Herrith in the
dimness. The archbishop closed his eyes and leaned back against
the wall, and all the misery he had heard in Kye's voice came
washing over him. A red, unstoppable torrent of blood, and he had
been the one to unleash it. The war labs had perfected Formula B
under his orders, and Vorto and Kye had launched it against Goth
because he had told them to. He wondered bleakly if what he
heard really was the voice of God, or just the subtle whispers of his
own vengeful mind. He put a hand to his forehead, striving to drive
away the evil thoughts.

So many children. The duke's own daughters. The Duchess
Kareena. How innocent were they? he wondered. He remembered
Kareena's glowing face, how young she was and how she had
pilgrimaged to Nar to see the great cathedral. He had spoken to
her then, and her only confession was that she had waited too long
to see God's house. She had knelt and kissed his ring and he had
adored her, for she had perfect beauty, the kind of grace that
comes from Heaven.

And now he had murdered her.

All of Goth was a wasteland; that's what Vorto had said. And the
reports from people like Kye echoed that truth. The horrible
formula loosed by the war labs had worked more perfectly than
anyone had foreseen. But it seemed to Herrith that his general
suffered none of the guilt of his underlings. Vorto had come back
to Nar City wearing a smile. Now Herrith wept, and he could not
erase that smile from his mind or the evil images portrayed by Kye.
There was an orphanage not far from the cathedral, a place that
Herrith had built himself and sustained with church monies. He
adored children. But children became adults, didn't they? And
didn't their parents sometimes poison them beyond repair? The
Black Renaissance had been like that; an artful knife slipping
through the ribs of God's people. Herrith had prayed mightily for its
end, and all God had given him was Formula B. No peace, just this
awful weapon. So it had been a sign. Bovadin himself had been
unable to perfect the formula of his own creation. But the war labs
had done it without him, and that was truly astonishing. That, Herrith
had decided, was a miracle.

How hard it was now to live with that deduction. Herrith buried his
hands in his face. God was real, and sometimes he gave men
burdens. But Herrith knew they were never more than the man
could handle, so he focused his mind on Heaven and his Father,
and cried out in silent desperation.

Holy Father, help me. Help me bear this thing I do. I do it for you,
Lord. You get the power and the glory. Forever and ever. I beg
You, fortify me for this bloody work. Make me strong and wise.
Turn my hand to gentleness as soon as You are able.

He crossed himself and fought down his sobs, and when he
opened his eyes he was still alone in the confessional, and the
world was deathly quiet. This happened to him sometimes now.
Since stopping the drug, he lost control more often than seemly.
The drug had checked his emotions, just as it had checked the
progress of his aging. Without it, keeping himself together was a
constant, tumultuous battle.

"Biagio," he growled. That bastard was to blame for all of this. The
golden count went on taking the drug and spitting in God's face. He
claimed to love Nar but he was a lying sodomite, orchestrating the
Empire's destruction from his island lair. Herrith trembled at the
thought of his ageless foe. Biagio had always been Arkus' favorite.
Together the two of them had made religion meaningless. They
had used it as a tool of control but had never truly believed. And
God had finally tired of them both. Arkus the immortal had died.
Biagio the devil was banished. Herrith took a steadying breath,
composing his fractured emotions.

"Wise work to do," he reminded himself. He wiped his tearing eyes
with his silk sleeve. "No time for nonsense. God is watching me,
always. I can't fail Him. I—"

"Your Holiness?"

Herrith bit down on his lip. Todos? Frantically he wiped the
remaining tears from his face and tried to look natural. Todos was
right outside. The priest knocked lightly on the door.

"Your Holiness? Are you in there?"

"What is it?" Herrith snapped.

"Your Holiness, please. I must speak to you urgently. Something's
happened."

Todos sounded suitably scared. Herrith cursed under his breath.
"Heaven and Hell, Todos, I'm busy! What do you want?"

"Please, Holiness. You have to come. It's the Fearless."

It was like hearing that God had returned. "What?" sputtered
Herrith, rising from his stool and pulling open the door. Todos
seemed not to notice his master's appearance. "What did you just
say?"

"It's the Fearless, Holiness. In the harbor! And she's not alone.
There are four other ships with her, very close. What should we
do?"

Herrith was stunned. What was Nicabar doing in the Black City?
Was this an invasion? He had to tell Vorto, prepare the troops.
Lord, it was unthinkable!

"What's he doing?" Herrith asked.

Todos shrugged nervously. "I don't know, Holiness. The ships just
appeared. I came and got you as soon as I heard."

"And there are five ships you say? That's all?"

"I think so, yes. Holiness, I'm not sure. But we have to do
something."

Herrith grit his teeth. "We do indeed, Todos. We have to find out
what that bloody bastard is doing here!"

Admiral Danar Nicabar stood on the deck of his warship and
watched the harbor as the little boat rowed toward him. Next to the
Fearless, her four smaller sisters stood at anchor, their guns
trained on the city. The Cathedral of the Martyrs, that tall and
terrible structure, loomed high, its silvery-green steeple reflecting
sunlight. Nicabar had ordered the flame cannons turned toward the
cathedral. Even the long-range guns of the Fearless were too far
away to reach the church, but the admiral had known that the threat
of firing would get Herrith's attention. He had in his vest the letter
from Biagio, waxed closed with the count's own seal. It had been a
long and blessedly boring voyage from Crote, and Nicabar was
pleased to see his home port again. Little had changed. The labs
still choked up plumes of noxious smoke. Nar City's broad
avenues had filled with curious onlookers, all pointing at the
returning fleet. Noble men and ladies shouldered up to beggars on
the docks to better see the Fearless. Vorto's legionnaires had
gathered too, a whole garrison of them. Vorto himself was nowhere
to be seen, an unexpected pleasantry. Nicabar had always
despised the general.

The dreadnoughts Notorious and Black City bobbed alongside the
Fearless. Behind them in the harbor were two light cruisers, the
Iron Duke, captained by Nicabar's long-time friend Dane, and a
smaller warship, the quick sailing Relentless. Both cruisers slowly
patrolled the harbor, ready for any unexpected surprises. Nicabar
had no idea how close the Lissens might be to Nar City, and he
didn't want to be caught unaware. Though the guns of the Fearless
could outmatch any Lissen schooner, there were only two
dreadnoughts.

The little rowboat drew closer. Nicabar could see its passenger
now. As requested, his sailors had brought back Father Todos,
Herrith's aide. The admiral smiled, surprised that Herrith had
agreed to the exchange. He didn't think the bishop trusted him so
much, but it was the only logical exchange. Herrith wasn't about to
step aboard the Fearless, and if they were to talk, Nicabar needed
to feel safe. He knew Herrith and Todos were like brothers. The
Holy Father would never willingly let anything happen to Todos.
Nicabar breathed a sigh of relief. The mere sight of Todos told him
there would be no tricks.

"It's him," said the admiral confidently. Lieutenant Garii nodded.
The lieutenant held a small metal box, plain and unadorned, barely
the size of a man's hand. A gift for the Archbishop of Nar. "Have
him come aboard, Garii," ordered Nicabar. "I want him to feel
welcome. Give him whatever he needs—food, drink, anything.
Understood?"

"Aye, sir," said the lieutenant. The young man called out to the
sailors in the rowboat to come alongside. A rope ladder was
lowered amidships. The sailors in the rowboat waved and
shouldered the little craft up to the warship. Father Todos looked at
the hulking Fearless, his jaw set. Nicabar stared down at him,
grinning. Todos was a decent man. He believed in his church and
that made him an enemy, but in the days of Arkus they had almost
been friends. The admiral had no desire to hurt this gentle man,
and hoped Herrith had planned no betrayals. If he did and Nicabar
was captured or killed, Todos would die.

The sailors in the rowboat helped the priest shimmy up the rope
ladder. Nicabar went to greet him. Halfway up, the Father noticed
his host and stopped.

"Come ahead, Father," boomed Nicabar. "Nothing will happen to
you, not by my doing."

Father Todos grimaced but continued up the ladder anyway.
Admiral Nicabar extended out a hand, which the priest reluctantly
accepted, and pulled him aboard. The sailors in the rowboat
remained behind, waiting for the admiral. Father Todos cleared his
throat nervously and stared at Nicabar, trying to look brave.

"I'm here, as requested," said Todos. "God protect me."

Nicabar chuckled. "You have my protection, priest," he said.
"Nothing will happen to you, so long as nothing happens to me." He
looked out over the docks to where Vorto's garrisons were
pompously arranged. "Safe passage through those legionnaires,
to the cathedral and back again. That's the deal, right?"

"Yes," said Todos. "The archbishop will be waiting for you. Have
your talk with him quickly. Take care of your devilish business and
return to your ship. I won't leave until you come back."

"I'd say not," laughed Nicabar. "It's a long swim." The admiral
turned to Garii and took the metal box from him. Todos noticed it,
eyeing the thing suspiciously.

"What is that?" he asked.

"A gift for your bishop," replied Nicabar. "From Count Biagio."

Todos made a disgusted face. "He won't accept it. It's an insult.
How dare that demon try to buy the bishop's pardon!"

"There's food and wine aboard, Father. Lieutenant Garii will see to
your needs. Be comfortable. I will return when I can."

"What news do you bring the bishop, heretic?" asked Todos. "Has
your twisted count come to his senses?"

Nicabar bristled but tried to ignore the insult. He backed down onto
the rope ladder, tucking the metal box under his armpit. "You'll
know when you get back to the cathedral, Todos. Enjoy my ship's
hospitality."

"Admiral? "said Todos.

Nicabar stopped and looked at the priest. "What?"

Todos crossed the air in front of him. "Go with God."

"Yes," said Nicabar dryly. "As you say." Then he dropped down
below the railings and out of Todos' sight, lowering himself on the
rope ladder until he reached the rowboat. The sailors on board
fumbled to help him but he shook off their hands. They heaved
away from the Fearless and sat down, taking up their oars and
rowing toward shore, but Nicabar remained standing, ever defiant
as he faced the legionnaires gathered to greet him. He was
resplendent in his perfect uniform of black and gold, and the
ribbons and medals on his chest gleamed in the sunlight. In his
vest pocket was the note to Herrith, while in his hands he held the
little silver box, the gift Biagio had ordered him to present to the
bishop. Nicabar smiled, wondering how Herrith would react to the
present. It would be unexpected, certainly.

Almost at shore, the rowboat skidded toward a dock lined thickly
with waiting soldiers. The heavily armed men did not bow or show
any deference to Nicabar as he stared at them. They merely
waited, stone-faced, while their brothers behind them held back the
curious push of spectators who had gathered to gape at the
returning admiral. Danar Nicabar smirked at the crowd and the
helmeted soldiers, but his cocky smile vanished when he noticed
the carriage waiting for him. It was a large conveyance, one of the
dead emperor's own, trimmed in jewels and pulled by four white
stallions. And near the carriage, looking down from his great black
warhorse, was General Vorto, battle axe strapped across his back.
It had been nearly a year since Nicabar had seen the general, and
Vorto's ugly features hadn't softened a bit. More huge than ever in
his brawny armor, Vorto still seemed like one of Nar's
statues—cold and sterile and completely immovable. The general
trotted his charger toward the dock as the rowboat slid into a slip.
Admiral Nicabar waited for his sailors to cleat the boat before he
stepped onto the dock. Vorto was waiting for him, watching
mischievously, but he did not dismount from his snorting beast.

"Welcome home, Danar," boomed the general. There was a
mocking quality to the voice. "It's so wonderful to see you again."

"I would say the same, but I would be lying," said Nicabar. He didn't
bow to the general or show any of the usual niceties. Not
dismounting for him was clearly an insult, and Nicabar had no
intention of showing the butcher any respect. "I've come bearing a
message for His Holiness, Vorto. I have nothing to discuss with
you."

"Our discussion can wait then, seaman. But I promise you—we will
talk again. Get in the carriage. I will take you to the cathedral."

Nicabar looked around at the swelling crowd. "You and your bishop
have cast quite a spell on these people. I suppose I should
congratulate you. But it won't last. That's my promise to you." The
admiral gestured to his flagship anchored in the harbor. "Take a
good look at my vessels. If anything happens to me, they have
orders to open fire. They'll blast a hole in Nar City so big even you
could walk through it."

"God forgive your blasphemy, Danar. Truly, I pity you. Get in the
carriage. Just for today you have my word—you will be unharmed."

Vorto's word was meaningless, but Nicabar got into the carriage
anyway. It was empty, and the plush velvet seats were unbelievably
comfortable. Nicabar sat down and leaned out the window. A few
bold Narens in the crowd waved to him and he waved back,
suddenly delighted with the strange homecoming. He had missed
Nar. Life at sea was only bearable when you had a home to return
to, and he had none. Losing the Black City was like losing a
beautiful woman. She was unforgettable.

Vorto barked orders at his columns to depart, and the carriage
lurched forward, bearing Nicabar away from the docks and through
the avenues of Nar City. Colossal skyscrapers rose up quickly
around him, burying him in their shadows. Haze and fire obscured
the sky as the towering smokestacks vomited up clouds. In the
distance, Nicabar saw the towers of the Black Palace, former
home of Arkus, and the giant mausoleum on its great lawn, built by
Biagio to remember his beloved emperor. Sunlight played on the
river Kiel, that wide, polluted waterway, and as the carriage crossed
the iron bridge Nicabar gazed across the river through his open
window, seeing all the splendor of sprawling Nar feeding from the
Kiel's banks. The Cathedral of the Martyrs rose into view, blocking
out the sun behind its girdered steeple. The carriage rolled over
the bridge and was swallowed by the church's shadow. At the head
of the column, General Vorto guided the procession through the
Avenue of the Holy, toward the great open gates of Herrith's home.
A thousand people had gathered around the cathedral to catch a
glimpse of the admiral, and Nicabar's heart sank at the sight of
them. He was one of them, and not at all like the languid Cretans
he was forced to live among. At that moment, he would have given
anything to end the stalemate.

But this was a war of ideals, he reminded himself, and his resolve
strengthened as the garish cathedral loomed. It was both glorious
and terrible, and the fanatic at its core was two-hearted, with one
made of gold and the other of iron. Herrith was Nar's perfect
master, inscrutable and capable of the most far-reaching atrocities
even as he fed the city's starving children. Arkus of Nar had been a
butcher too, but what Herrith had done to Goth had made the
emperor's worst massacres seem pale. The tales coming out of
the Walled City had made even Biagio's blood run cold. Nicabar
detested Herrith almost as much as Vorto himself. Vorto he hated
because the general was stupid. Like a good dog he followed
Herrith's edicts blindly.

General Vorto stopped the march just outside the cathedral's
doors. The portals of oak hung open, but Nicabar could see
nothing inside the church's secretive folds. A group of acolytes
waited, their faces obscured in white cowls. The priests seemed to
float there, bodiless. Nicabar got out of the carriage, still clutching
the metal box. At last Vorto got down off his horse. The general
came up to Nicabar and scowled.

"This is a holy place, Admiral," he said. "I would ask that you show
it some respect. If you don't, I will pull your head off your shoulders
with my bare hands. Do you understand?"

Nicabar gave Vorto his best stone face. "You are still the same
brute, aren't you, Vorto? I would advise you strongly not to threaten
me again. The Fearless hasn't fired her cannons in a while. We
could use the practice."

Vorto chuckled. "God would strike you down before you fired a
shot. He protects this place. It is free of your villainy."

"I would like to test that theory, General. And I will at the smallest
opportunity. Now take me to Herrith and stop babbling. I'm already
sick from the sight of you."

Vorto turned from Nicabar and strode toward the cathedral and its
waiting priests. Nicabar followed, as did two of the general's
bodyguards, both fully armored and bearing drawn swords. The
general bowed deeply to the ghostlike priests, who did not speak a
word but simply led them into the cavernous cathedral. The vaulted
ceiling rose up above them in a magnificent arc, gold-leafed and
detailed with the finest manmade minutiae. There were angels and
demons, white-bearded images of God and bare-breasted reliefs
of His Mother. Bright lamps lit the ceiling and the frescoed walls,
and the altar far in front of them burned with incense and a chalice
filled with flaming liquid, the symbol of eternal life for Herrith and
his believers.

The expansive chamber was empty, and as they walked their
footfalls echoed loudly off the walls and statues, and the sounds of
the crowd outside died off behind them as they reached the altar.
Vorto and his men all fell to a knee before the altar, as did the
legionnaires. But despite the general's earlier threat, Nicabar
remained standing. When they had finished their short prayer, the
priests led them out of the chamber into a corridor and then to an
endless flight of stairs that seemed to ascend into Heaven itself.
The legionnaires stayed behind.

This was a private area. Only the highest ranking soldiers were
allowed here, and only then by invitation. The stairs went up in a
ceaseless spiral, but after long minutes of climbing they finally
ended, spilling them into another hallway. This one was lined with
stained glass—a marvelous wall of transparent colors depicting
scenes from the holy book. Nicabar could barely see through the
glass but he could tell they were very high. His fingers tingled a
little with the cold draft.

They came at last to a door at the end of the hall. The priests
entered without knocking. Vorto said nothing, waiting patiently for
the acolytes to return. At last they did reappear, opening the door
wide for the general and Nicabar. Nicabar peered around Vorto's
enormous girth and saw inside the chamber. It was another big
room and flooded with sunlight. An immense window made up the
entire far wall, showing off the expanse of the Black City. And at
the window, staring blithely through the clear glass, was
Archbishop Herrith, his hands clasped casually behind his back.
The priests left the room and disappeared back down the hall.
Nicabar waited. Vorto wasn't moving.

"Enter, my friends," said Herrith at last. His voice was pure, like the
sunlight he bathed in. It seemed to Nicabar that the bishop had lost
some weight, no doubt a result of the drug withdrawal. He
snickered to himself, pleased with the image of Herrith's mortality.

His eyes would be dim now, like Vorto's. General Vorto finally
moved into the chamber. Nicabar followed him. He had never been
in this chamber and he marveled at the huge window, tall as a tree
and wide as a river. From here he could see all of eastern Nar City
and the ocean beyond, with his small armada bobbing in the
harbor. Vorto went to the bishop and dropped to his knees.
Without turning from the window Herrith listlessly put out his hand.
Vorto seized it and kissed it.

"Your Holiness," said the giant softly. "I've brought him for you."

"Yes, thank you, my friend. I noticed." Herrith turned his head and
rewarded Vorto with a smile. "Arise, General. Admiral Nicabar . . ."

Nicabar didn't bow or crack the smallest smile. He simply walked
into the center of the room, saying, "I have a message for you,
Herrith, from Count Biagio. I would like to give it to you and be on
my way."

Herrith smiled serenely. "Danar, it's been so long. Please, let's not
talk like enemies." He gestured to a table at the far end of the
room, a sunny spot complete with plates of breakfast foods and
cups of steaming beverages. "I've arranged a meal for us. I would
like to sit with you awhile."

"I'm not hungry," said Nicabar.

"Pity," said Herrith, going to the table and sitting down. "I am.
Please . . ." He gestured to one of the chairs. "If you don't sit with
me I will take it as an offense, old friend. And we have so much to
talk about."

"We have very little to talk about, Herrith. I have a message, and
that is all."

"Sit down, you blasphemous fool," seethed Vorto, barely
containing his rage. "I warn you, Nicabar . . ."

"I don't take well to warnings, Vorto," said Nicabar coolly. "And I
don't care to speak long with either of you. Herrith, will you accept
my message or not?"

Herrith was folding a napkin onto his lap. "Yes, yes. Of course I will,
Danar. But there's time enough to eat, surely? I can't believe you're
not weary from your voyage." He picked up a pastry from the table
and popped it into his mouth, sighing with satisfaction. "Oh, now,
that is good. Really, Danar, you should have something."

"Very well," agreed Nicabar, already tired of the argument. He sat
down at the table across from Herrith and laid down his silver box.
The bauble immediately caught the bishop's attention.

"What's that?" asked Herrith through a mouth full of pastry.

"This is a gift," replied Nicabar. He slid the box across the table to
Herrith. "From Count Biagio."

"A gift? Is this your message?"

"No." Nicabar slipped his hand into his uniform and pulled out the
letter Biagio had given him. "This is my message, sealed with the
Count's own seal. You'll recognize it, I'm sure. That other thing is
merely a gift, as I've said."

Herrith picked up the box and shook it like a child, a wide smile on
his face. "What is it?" he asked, listening to it rattle.

"Holiness, please," said Vorto. He held out his hands for the box.
"Give it to me. I will open it for you."

"You will not!" laughed Herrith. "It's mine."

"It may be a trick, Holiness. Something dangerous from the Cretan
devil. Please, let me open it for you."

Herrith's eyes narrowed on Nicabar. "Is it a trick, Danar?"

"No trick," said the admiral. "Just a present. And perfectly safe, I
promise."

"Hmm, just the same . . ." Herrith handed the box over to Vorto. "I
think you should open it, my friend. The devil is the father of lies,
after all. Be careful, though."

Stupidly brave, Vorto opened the box quickly and peered at its
contents. Nicabar watched the general closely, gratified by the look
of terrible awe on his face.

"Mother of God," he whispered.

"What is it?" pressed Herrith.

Vorto turned his blazing eyes on Nicabar. "You sinful snake," he
seethed. "I should kill you for this!"

"Enough!" thundered Herrith. "Vorto, what's in the box? Give it to
me, I insist!"

"Holiness . . ."

Herrith snatched the box from Vorto's hands and looked inside.
He, too, was awed by its contents. But the bishop didn't anger. He
simply stared at it longingly. It was a vial of Bovadin's life-
lengthening drug, perfectly blue in its clear glass container, shining
and desirable and worth a fortune. Herrith took the vial from the box
and turned it in the sunlight, his hand trembling as he inspected it.

"Heaven help us," he said. "What have you brought me, Danar?
Damnation in a bottle?"

"You know what it is, Bishop," said Nicabar carefully. "And it's not
from me. It's from Biagio. Personally, I would never have given it to
you, but the count insisted."

"Of course he did!" raged Vorto. "That blackhearted beast. He
wants to see us all dependent on his fiendish brew again. Damn
him to Hell!"

Herrith held up a calming hand. "Be easy, my friend." He continued
admiring the beautiful liquid with his dull, dead eyes. Once Herrith's
eyes had blazed a brilliant blue, but they were flat now, desolate,
less than alive. A familiar fire grew in them as they looked upon the
drug. "Ah, Danar," sighed the bishop. "Should I curse you or praise
you for bringing me this? You and Biagio are devils, to be sure."

"That's a goodly supply, Herrith," said Nicabar. "Enough to bring
you back to how you were. Bovadin mixed it strong for you, so it
would last. But it has to be administered slowly. If not, you'll die."

"He won't be using it," snapped Vorto. "You may take your poison
back with you, dog."

Herrith put the vial back in the box and closed the lid. But he did not
return the gift to Nicabar. Instead he kept it near him, guarding it
with a firm hand. "Sit down, Vorto," he said softly. "We are arguing
too much. I didn't want it to be this way." He picked up the letter but
did not open it. Instead he handed it to Vorto. "Read this for me,"
he directed. "Out loud, so we all can hear."

Vorto took a chair next to his master and opened the letter,
breaking the wax seal. He looked it over suspiciously for a
moment, then started to read. " 'My dear Bishop,' " he began. " 'I
hope this letter finds you well. I hope, too, that you are taking good
care of the city and the Empire. These are dark days for us all, and
I will not lie to you and say that I do not miss the Black City. I do,
with all my heart.' " Vorto stopped to sneer at this. "Heart," he
scoffed. "What heart?"

"Go on, please, General," ordered Herrith. The bishop kept his
eyes on Nicabar as he listened.

" 'We are not so different, you and I,' " Vorto continued. " 'Our past
has made us enemies, but our future holds promise if we work
together. There are things I can offer you, and would give you
gladly. Bovadin's drug is merely one of these. None of us need
die, dear Herrith.' "

Herrith interrupted Vorto with a chuckle. "He's a long-winded one,
isn't he?"

Nicabar said nothing.

"Go on," said Herrith. "Let's see if he ever says anything useful."

Vorto continued reading. " 'I propose a meeting between all the
Naren lords, to take place here on my island of Crote. It is the only
safe place where I know I will not be harmed. We can discuss our
differences amicably, and make a new beginning. I urge you to
consider this offer carefully. We can rule Nar together, as Arkus
would have wanted. The drug can be yours again. Nar can be
strong.' " Vorto looked up from the paper. "That's it," he declared.
He tossed the letter onto the table before him. "You've got an
audacious master, Nicabar. How dare he think he can buy us off
with promises of peace? And a meeting in Crote? Is he serious?"

Nicabar did not address Vorto, only Herrith. "I am to wait for your
response and then return to Crote with your answer," he said. "I will
wait aboard my ship in the harbor. Get me your answer by the
morrow."

"There's no need to wait," said Herrith simply. "I already have my
answer." Herrith reached across the table and picked up the letter,
crumpling it into a ball and bouncing it over to Nicabar. "The answer
is no."

Nicabar smirked. "As I thought. Biagio is too good to you, Herrith. I
told him not to bother offering you peace, but he insisted.
Apparently he thinks you have a brain somewhere in that thick skull.
I do not."

"If and when I decide to talk peace with that hellspawn, I will say
when and where. These are not his terms to dictate. I'm no warrior,
but it's the victor who makes terms, isn't it?"

"You will not be victorious, Herrith," said Nicabar calmly. "You don't
have the means. The nations of Nar will never follow you, because
they simply don't believe your fairy tales. And now you have Liss to
deal with." The admiral winked sardonically. "And I know what a
handful they can be."

The mere mention of Liss erased all pleasantness from the
bishop's face. "It is your fault what happens with Liss, Danar. They
raid our coasts and you do nothing. They sink our ships and you do
nothing. You say you are an Admiral of Nar? I think you are
laughable. If you were truly the hero some say, you would be
defending Nar."

"But I am, Holiness," said Nicabar. "I'm defending it from you."

"Blasphemer," rumbled Vorto. The general rose from his chair,
toppling it over. "Show some respect in this house of God, or I
swear I will kill you!"

"Sit down, Vorto," directed Nicabar. "You're very tiresome. Bishop,
as I've already explained to this primate, anything that happens to
me will be revisited on the Black City a hundred fold. The Fearless
has her guns trained on the cathedral. She might be able to reach
it, or she might not. Either way, the city burns. So I would be very
careful what you or your dog soldier say to me, because I am sick
of being threatened."

Herrith considered the implication, searching the tone for a bluff.
When he found none he gestured for Vorto to sit. Reluctantly, the
general retrieved his toppled chair and took his place beside the
bishop. Herrith drummed his pudgy fingers on the silver box.

"What shall I do?" he mused aloud. "I had hoped our talk would be
beneficial, Danar. Shame on me, but I had actually hoped you had
come to your senses and seen the truth about your count. It's been
so many years that you have been friends with him. Can't you see
the truth yet?"

"The truth?" asked Nicabar. "Or your truth?"

"They are the same, Danar," warned the bishop. "My truth is the
honesty of God, the bread of angels. Biagio is a sodomite, a
sinner. Even his marriage was an abomination. He lies with men.
You know this, yet you defend him? A full-blooded man like
yourself?"

"Aye, I know the truth of him," said Nicabar. "And truly, I don't care.
Neither did Arkus. It may be a sin in your eyes and in the vision of
your mythical God, but not in mine. He is a friend. And a far better
one than you ever were, Herrith."

"A warning, Danar," said the bishop. "Biagio's time is past. The
Black Renaissance died with Arkus. And its small remnants are
being dealt with."

"Yes," hissed Nicabar. "Like Goth."

Herrith's face hardened. "Like Goth," he echoed. "It is God's will."

An icy hand seized Nicabar's heart. Something was horribly wrong
with Herrith. Perhaps the drug had rotted his mind like it had
Biagio's, or maybe it was the awful withdrawal. Either way, it
seemed an impossible task to talk rationally with this man who
believed his own genocidal messages.

"Very well," said Nicabar, rising from his chair. "Then our business
is concluded."

The bishop spread out his hands. "It seems so. Please give the
count my answer, Danar. And tell him that I will pray for the repose
of his soul."

"I'm sure he'll appreciate that," quipped Nicabar. "And shall I thank
him for the gift? Or will I be taking that back with me as well?"

Vorto's eyes shifted to the box, then to Herrith, then back again.
The bishop's hand curled over the gift greedily.

"I think I should hold on to this," he said. "And after all, it's a gift.
Thank Biagio for his thoughtfulness."

Vorto blanched. "Holiness . . ."

"Shut up," growled Herrith. "Danar, thank you for coming to see
me. You may not believe this, but it was a pleasure. The general
will escort you back to your ship now. Safe journey, old friend."

Nicabar left the chamber without saying good-bye, trailed by the
dumbfounded Vorto. As he left, he stole a glance over his
shoulder to see Herrith caressing the box.
TEN
The Assassin's Promise

A fter a morning of travel, Richius and Simon returned to Falindar.
The spires of the citadel were a welcome sight to the men, who
were both exhausted from each other's company. Seeing that his
odd companion was hardly in shape to make the trip, Richius had
let Simon share his gelding's back, and they had each walked while
the other enjoyed the comfort of the horse. It had been the only
choice left to Richius. Simon seemed near collapse. And Richius,
well rested from a year in Falindar, had welcomed the exercise. So
while Simon rode, Richius walked and considered things.

Out in the wilderness, he hadn't found the answers he was
searching for. Despite Karlaz's advice, his talk with the sky had
been a one-sided conversation. And although he was eager to see
Falindar again, part of him dreaded confronting Dyana. She would
be expecting some change in him, and would be disappointed.

Simon had proved a pleasant enough travelling companion.
Inquisitive but thoughtful, he often fell into the same contemplative
silences as Richius, and only occasionally did they get on each
other's nerves. Because Simon couldn't travel tethered, Richius
had undone his bindings. Simon had repaid the favor by doing
nothing threatening. He explained to Richius that he really had
nowhere to go anyway, and though he feared the citadel's violent
reputation, the promise of a roof and warm food spurred him on.
Richius almost liked the deserter; if that's what Simon truly was.
After a full day together, Richius still wasn't sure about the Naren,
and his doubts troubled him. He knew Biagio's capabilities. Every
Naren had heard the stories. The Roshann were everywhere.
Ruthless and subtle, Biagio's secret society permeated every
strata of imperial life. They were like the air. Invisible. Inescapable.

And so it was that when they arrived at the citadel, Richius at once
took the awestruck Simon to see Lucyler. As master of Falindar, it
would be Lucyler's decision to cast judgment on the stranger, to
determine whether he was a spy or if the citadel's hospitality
should be extended to him. But Lucyler was preoccupied upon
their return. The warlord Ishia had come from his mountain keep to
seek counsel from Lucyler, and Lucyler was locked in his meeting
chambers with strict orders not to be disturbed. Given the
opportunity to see his wife and child, Richius went to his own
chambers. Simon was relegated to a guarded room, left there to
wait. He said good-bye to Richius with a worried smile, and Richius
couldn't help but try to ease his fears.

"If you're telling the truth, nothing will happen to you," he promised
as he shut the door. A Triin warrior had been stationed outside the
room. Meals, clothing, and a bath were ordered for Simon, and
Richius went off to see Dyana. His wife was pleased to see him,
though there was still tension between them. Little Shani gave him
a hug that made things better, but not completely. Richius and
Dyana slept together that night, but still with that strange wall
separating them, and in the morning Richius went off to see
Lucyler. His Triin friend had risen early. Ishia, warlord of Kes, had
ridden out of the citadel, and the warriors of Falindar were buzzing
about him. Richius listened, troubled by the talk. Ishia's ongoing
feud with the warlord Praxtin-Tar hadn't calmed very much in these
peaceful days. If there was trouble in Kes, Lucyler would almost
certainly be dragged into it.

Richius went to Lucyler's chambers, a group of rooms on
Falindar's ground floor. Once they had been the offices of Tharn,
the citadel's former master. Lucyler hadn't done much to the
chambers. Tharn's many books still collected dust on shelves, and
piles of Naren manuscripts lay huddled in the corners. The only
personal touch Lucyler had added was a ceremonial jiiktar. He had
placed the weapon on the wall, and when the sunlight came
through the windows its twin blades gleamed. Richius arrived at
Lucyler's rooms expecting to find them empty. Instead he found a
Triin warrior at the threshold, the same one he had left with Simon
the night before. The door to Lucyler's room was open. Richius
peered inside and found to his great dismay that the master of
Falindar was not alone.

Simon was with him.

The two were talking amicably. Richius stood in the doorway,
dumbfounded. Simon's broken nose was dressed with a clean
white bandage. It made him seem comical and unthreatening. As
ordered, he had been given new clothing—traditional Triin garb,
completely inappropriate. Lucyler looked up at Richius and flashed
a smile.

"Richius, greetings. I expected you."

"Did you?" said Richius. "How nice."

"Sit," said Lucyler, waving him toward a chair. Richius shot Simon a
barbed glare. The Naren merely grinned.

"Lucyler, how did he get in here?" Richius asked.

"I sent for him. I would have sent for you, too, but I knew you would
be on your way. Do not look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I have betrayed you. I wanted to see this Naren for myself,
without you around to make up my mind for me. Please, sit down."

Reluctantly, Richius pulled up one of the room's wooden chairs
and sat down next to Simon. The Naren gave him a ragged smile.

"Good morning," he said innocently. "Sleep well?"

"Stop," Richius warned. "Just stop right now. Don't start with your
games." He looked at Lucyler caustically. "This was supposed to
be an interrogation, Lucyler. Why didn't you tell me you were
meeting with him?"

Lucyler raised his eyebrows. "An interrogation? Richius, I am not
the Daegog. What would you have me do? Put him in the
catacombs?"

"Maybe," Richius said. "A few days down there might loosen his
tongue. Lord, Lucyler, why didn't you talk to me first? I have things
to tell you."

"I am sure you do. No offense, old friend, but you see too many
phantoms."

Richius struggled to control himself. For months Lucyler had been
accusing him of paranoia, and he didn't want to play the part, not in
front of Simon. But Lucyler had never been to Nar. He didn't know
the genesis of Richius' fears.

"Lucyler, listen to me, please," he said, trying to stay calm. "I don't
know who this man is. He might be what he claims, or he might not.
But I brought him here because I didn't want him running free in
Lucel-Lor. If he is one of Biagio's men, he's dangerous."

The Triin seemed insulted. "I have no intention of being foolish. I
brought him here so I could talk to him. Alone. But you are right, I
think. I cannot tell who he is. Maybe he is telling the truth, or
maybe—"

"I am telling the truth," Simon insisted, exasperated. "What's with
you bloody people? Look at me!"

"I have looked, Simon Darquis," said Lucyler. "I have looked and
listened. But I still do not trust you. To be truthful, the only Naren I
trust is in this room, and it is not you. I know what your Empire is
capable of, their deceit. And Richius has told me about Biagio's
grudge. You may simply be one of his dogs."

Simon shook his head, laughing mirthlessly. "You're all insane.
Truly, you are. If I wanted to kill Vantran he'd be dead by now.
Lord, the fool breaks my nose, then lets me ride his bloody horse!
You think it would take a Roshann agent to assassinate him? A
baby could do it with a sharp toy!"

"I let you ride because you looked so damned feeble," said
Richius. "And because I wanted to get you here sometime before
spring. Don't mistake our talks for trust, Simon. I don't trust you,
and neither does Lucyler." He looked to his friend for support.
"Right, Lucyler?"

The Triin shrugged. "You think I know? You are the Naren, Richius.
You tell me. I have talked with him for nearly an hour. What he tells
me sounds possible at least." Lucyler turned to Simon. "You are a
deserter, yes?"

"Oh, for God's sake . . ."

"Answer me," ordered the Triin.

"Yes, for the last bloody time, I'm a god-damned deserter."

"And how did you get here?"

Simon rolled his eyes. "From the south."

"And who saw you?"

"A lot of people saw me," said Simon. "Don't be stupid, I couldn't
hide forever. I needed food, water. But I didn't talk to anyone, not if
I could help it. I don't speak the language, now do I?"

"Where did you get food?"

"I stole it when I could. Hunted some." Simon turned to Richius.
"You still have my dagger? I want it back."

"You'll get it back when I'm ready to give it to you," said Richius.

"The south, you say?" pressed Lucyler. "South where?"

"How the hell should I know? I came through Dring with the rest of
Gayle's men. After that I left them. This isn't my land, Triin. I don't
have any maps. I just walked. I wandered for a year, and then I ran
into Vantran. Now here I am."

Richius listened, searching for a gaff and finding none. It was all as
Simon had already claimed, flawlessly unchanged. Despite the
cautious inner voice warning him otherwise, he began to believe
the Naren's tale. Or maybe he simply wanted to believe. He
missed the company of Narens. The long ride back with Simon had
proved that to him. Simon was one of his own kind. Being with him
was something like being back in Aramoor. . . .

Richius scolded himself suddenly, angry for such thoughts. Simon
might still be a danger—not only to him but to Dyana and Shani.
Biagio was just evil enough to plan something so elaborate. But
then Richius found himself looking at Simon and his emaciated
face. Maybe he was merely what he claimed. . . .

"Simon," he said carefully. "I want to believe you. I think you know
that. But I just can't. Not yet."

Simon shrugged. "Jackal, I don't really care what you believe. If
you want to think I'm some demon or ghost, go ahead. But I won't
be held prisoner here." He glared suddenly at Lucyler. "You hear
me? I'm a legionnaire of Nar. So if you're going to kill me, do it now
and get it over with, because I'm tired of being threatened. But I
won't be thrown into some stinking cage."

"First of all," bristled Lucyler, "you do not give orders here. I do. I
am Lucyler of Falindar, master of this citadel. That makes me your
master. I could kill you in an instant, Simon Darquis, do not doubt
that. And I will if you give me cause. So do not tempt me."

Simon seethed. "So I'm your prisoner then? For what crime?" He
pointed at Richius accusingly. "Because he sees ghosts?"

Lucyler's eyes flicked to Richius. "You brought him here, Richius.
What do you want me to do with him?"

"I don't know," admitted Richius. It seemed an impossible
decision. He wondered why he had even bothered dragging the
Naren to Falindar. With his broken nose and pale complexion,
Simon looked no more a threat than a child or some crippled
beggar. And when he looked at Richius with his bewildered eyes,
Richius thought he glimpsed something innocent there, something
confused and afraid. If this was an act, it went beyond clever.

"I've done nothing, Jackal," said Simon. "Not to you or anyone
else. I just want to be left alone. That's why I deserted, to be free. I
won't be thrown in some Triin dungeon. I'd die first."

"You don't listen very well, do you?" said Richius. "I'm not the
Jackal. Call me Kalak if you have to, that's my Triin name. Or call
me Richius or Vantran. But if you call me Jackal one more time . . ."

"What? You'll have one of your Triin followers murder me? Yes,
I've seen the way they bow and scrape around you, Jackal. No
wonder you deserted. You're like a bloody king here."

Richius laughed. "You see, Lucyler? We should shackle him up
just for talking so much."

"I do not care what you decide," said Lucyler sternly. "I am leaving
this in your hands, Richius. Simon, until then you are confined to
your rooms. You are not to move out of them, do you understand?
There will be a warrior guarding you. Step out of your chamber, and
he will kill you. I promise that."

Richius wasn't satisfied. "That's it? That's all you're going to say?"

"Yes," snapped Lucyler. "Lorris and Pris, you brought him here,
Richius. He did not follow you home like some stray cat. He is your
problem, not mine." The Triin frowned. "I have enough of my own
problems to deal with."

"Well then?" pressed Simon. "What do you say, Vantran? What will
you do with me?"

Richius got out of his chair, glaring at Lucyler. "Come on," he said
to Simon. "Obviously coming to the master of Falindar was a bad
idea. I'll take you back to your room."

"Am I free?" asked Simon, unwilling to leave the chamber.

"Not yet," said Richius. He moved toward the door. The warrior
positioned outside the room stepped inside to escort Simon.
Simon blanched at the sight of him.

"Master Lucyler," he urged. "Please help me. I'm not a criminal. I
swear it."

"Then you should not have deserted," said Lucyler. "I leave this
with Richius." He looked up at his old friend. "Richius, stay please.
Simon, you go with the warrior." Lucyler spoke in quick Triin to the
warrior, who nodded and grabbed hold of Simon's sleeve,
dragging him from the room.

"God damn it, Vantran," spat Simon. He shrugged off the warrior's
grip and stood firm in the doorway. "Let me go!"

The warrior regained Simon's sleeve and pulled him roughly out of
the room. All the while Simon glared at Richius, until at last he had
disappeared down the hallway. He was a wildcat, this Simon
Darquis, and Richius liked him. He smiled in spite of himself as he
listened to Simon's lingering curses.

"Close the door, Richius," said Lucyler softly.

Richius did as his friend asked, then hovered over him, refusing to
sit. Lucyler's face was drawn and haggard, like a father who's spent
too much time with bickering children. "Please," he said, "sit down."

Richius glared at him.

"No? You will not sit? Fine, you stubborn fool. Then just stand there
and listen to me. I am very tired, Richius. You think I do nothing all
day, but you are wrong. And then you bring this Naren to me and
ask for justice. What should I do? You want me to kill him for you?"

"Of course not," scoffed Richius. "But I could have used a little
more support, Lucyler."

"I have given you support!" Lucyler railed. "Ever since you came
here with Dyana. And all you do is complain. You sulk like a child
because you feel out of place."

"Are you a mind-reader now, Lucyler?"

"I do not have to be. What you are thinking is obvious. But that is
not my fault or Dyana's, and it is not right for you to blame us."

"I don't," said Richius.

"You do. I see it in your eyes. And now this Simon Darquis, what
should I do with him? He is your problem, Richius. I resent you
trying to make him mine."

"All right, I'm sorry," said Richius. "But I didn't know what I should
do."

Lucyler shrugged. "You broke his nose. Maybe that is enough."

They both laughed, and Richius pulled up a chair, sitting close to
his Triin friend. These were rare moments now, when they could
both get together and laugh, and Richius wanted to savor it. In
these days of politics and power, getting a laugh from Lucyler was
like getting a golden coin.

"What's the matter, Lucyler?" Richius asked. "Something's wrong, I
can tell."

"How was your trip?" Lucyler countered, evading the question. "Did
you find your answers?"

"No," Richius sighed. "I was about to come home anyway when I
found Simon. Really, I don't know why I went. To think, I suppose."

"And what did you discover?"

"Lucyler, why are you asking me this? I'm all right."

"You are not," said Lucyler. "Do not lie to me, Richius. You are
troubled and it is obvious. But I do not think I can help you.
Whatever you need can only come from inside."

Richius grinned. It sounded like more of Karlaz's supernatural
nonsense. "You're avoiding the subject," he said playfully. "Tell me
what happened with Ishia."

"Oh, that one," groaned Lucyler. The master of Falindar leaned
back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. "He says Praxtin-Tar is
massing troops west of Kes. Over two hundred warriors, maybe
more."

"Ishia sees ghosts the way I do," joked Richius. "And he's always
insulting Praxtin-Tar. Do you believe him?"

"Believe him? I have to. I am lord of Tatterak now." Lucyler closed
his eyes. "He wants me to go and talk to Praxtin-Tar, to mediate a
new truce between them. He thinks that by seeing me and the flag
of Falindar, Praxtin-Tar will know he cannot invade Kes. Not without
a fight."

"Will you go?"

"Yes," said Lucyler. "I have no choice." He opened his eyes and
looked at Richius sadly. "I have worked too hard keeping the
peace to let it crumble. And I am weary, my friend. All this is too
much for me sometimes."

Richius nodded. "I know, Lucyler."

"Do you? I wonder. You want me to use my armies to get Aramoor
back for you, but I cannot. You want me to help the Lissens against
Nar, but I cannot do that either. What do you really think of me,
Richius? Do you hate what I have become?"

"Not at all," said Richius. "God, don't ever say that. You're like my
brother, Lucyler. I'll always support you. And those other things;
don't explain yourself. What I want wouldn't help Lucel-Lor, and
that's where your loyalty has to lie; I know that."

Lucyler smiled feebly. "This is hard for you, living here with us. I am
sorry for that. I did not want you to be unhappy here."

"Stop," Richius insisted. "I'm not unhappy."

"You have something else to worry about now," said Lucyler. "I was
not joking about this Naren being your responsibility, Richius. You
must decide what is to be done with him."

"But I don't know what to do with him," said Richius. "Maybe I
shouldn't have brought him here, but I didn't think I had a choice. If
he is who he claims, he needs our help. I can't explain this, Lucyler,
but I was actually glad to see him." Richius grimaced. "I must be
losing my mind."

"And what if he is not what he claims? What if he really is one of
Biagio's assassins?"

It was an impossible question. Richius steepled his fingers,
considering the possibility. "Then I am dead, I suppose. But
wouldn't I have been dead already? I mean, what Simon said
makes sense, doesn't it? He could have killed me a hundred times
by now if he wanted to. And his story seems to hold together. It's
believable, at least."

Lucyler frowned. "But do legionnaires desert?"

"Maybe," said Richius. "Do kings?"

"So? Is that your decision, then? You will let him go?"

"I didn't say that," Richius corrected. "I don't know."

"All right," said Lucyler, failing to hide his disappointment. "Then
maybe when I return Simon Darquis will still be here. And maybe
he will not."

"Maybe."

"This is bad business, decisions. I do not want to go to Kes. I do
not want any more war in Lucel-Lor either. But I have to do what is
right," Lucyler looked away. "And so do you."

"What if I don't know what's right?" Richius asked. "What then?"

"Then you make the best decision you can, and live with the
consequences." Lucyler smiled. "Richius, let me tell you
something. As a friend. May I?"

"All right."

"You have a life here in Lucel-Lor. But you do not see it, because
you are always looking over your shoulder. Someday, you will have
to stop looking backward and start looking in front of you again.
And you must do it before you ruin yourself."

Richius was silent. Then he asked, "When are you leaving for
Kes?"

"The day after tomorrow. Ishia needs me quickly. I told him I would
come."

Richius nodded grimly. "I have to go," he said. "I have something
to do."

"Are you going to talk to Simon?"

Richius was almost out the door. "Sort of," he called over his
shoulder, then left the room. He walked quickly to the room where
Simon was being held. It was in the castle's eastern wing, a dreary
place that had long ago been stripped of valuables to pay for the
war against Nar. The halls were narrow here and darker than the
castle's other corridors. It was where the Daegog's servants had
lived, that former ruler of Lucel-Lor that had once called Falindar
home. Richius found Simon's room easily. It was the only one
guarded. The warrior at the door looked bored, but he brightened a
bit when he noticed Richius.

"Greetings, Kalak," he said in Triin. "You wish to speak with the
Naren?"

"Yes," said Richius. "I want to take him somewhere. Is that all
right?"

The warrior laughed. "He is your prisoner, Kalak. You may do with
him as you like." The Triin opened the door and stepped aside for
Richius to enter. "Shall I come with you?" he asked.

"No," said Richius. He peered inside the spartan room. Simon was
laid out on the bed, his eyes closed. But when he heard Richius'
voice he raised his head.

"Wait here," Richius said to the guard, then walked inside without
closing the door. Simon swung his feet over the edge of the bed.

"What do you want?" he asked pointedly.

"I want to talk to you," said Richius. "I want to show you
something."

"What?"

"Come with me," said Richius. "Please."

"Vantran . . ."

"Simon, please. Do me this favor all right? It's important."

He didn't wait for Simon to rise, but instead left the chamber and
proceeded down the hallway. As he'd hoped, Simon followed,
albeit suspiciously. The Naren swiveled his head and surveyed the
corridor, looking for a trap, but when he realized there was none he
hurried up to Richius' side.

"Where are you taking me?" he asked.

"Outside. Like I said, I want to show you something."

The hallway spilled them into another just like it, then into Falindar's
great entrance chamber—the high-ceilinged marvel that greeted all
the citadel's visitors. The gates to the castle were open, as they
always were on fair days, and autumn sunlight poured in. Richius
led them outside, considering his plan. It had come to him in a
flash of desperate inspiration, and now that he was outside he
fretted over its soundness. Every morning Dyana walked with
Shani. If it was warm outside like it was today, they would sit in the
courtyard and play together, and Dyana would read from one of
Tharn's books. If Richius' hunch was right, they would be outside
right about now.

"Vantran," probed Simon. "What is all this?"

Richius put up a hand. "Don't talk. You'll see in a moment."

Simon grumbled but said no more, letting Richius lead him out into
the courtyard. As always, there was the ubiquitous milling of
warriors and workers, of horses being shoed and lovers whispering
in shadows. Richius went to the edge of the courtyard where it was
green and the land fell off down the hillside. Among the trees he
found Dyana, sitting with Shani against a rock. His wife had a book
in her hands. Richius slowed his pace so that Simon could see
where they were headed. The Naren whistled as he caught sight of
Dyana.

"Who is that?" he asked, mesmerized.

Richius didn't answer. He walked up to Dyana and his daughter and
pointed at them both. Dyana looked up, startled.

"Richius?" she asked. She noticed Simon and her expression
grew curious. "Who is this? What is wrong?"

"Simon," said Richius desperately, "this is my wife, Dyana. And that
little girl is Shani. That's our daughter. I want you to look at them."

"Richius, what are you doing?" Dyana asked.

"That's my family, Simon," Richius went on. "That's why I'm
here—why I left Nar and why I stayed behind when the war was
over. Look at them. Are they not beautiful?"

"Yes," Simon whispered. "Yes, they are."

"They're everything to me," Richius said, his voice breaking. "I love
them. Do you know what that means? I love them, Simon."

"What do you want me to say?" asked Simon. He seemed
desperate to leave. "Yes, they're your family. I understand. Why
are you showing them to me?"

"Because I have no choice but to trust you, and I don't want to. I
want you to see what you would be destroying if you harm them.
Look!"

Dyana became indignant. "Richius, what is going on? What are you
talking about?"

"This is the Naren I told you about last night, Dyana," said Richius.
"He's the one I think might be here to kill me. Or you, or Shani. I
want him to see you both. I want him to see why I betrayed Arkus
and Biagio. Are you looking, Simon?"

"Yes," said Simon soberly. His shoulders slumped and all the
cockiness had gone out of him. He offered Dyana a thin smile.
"They are beautiful. You are lucky."

"Yes." Richius reached down and offered out his hand to Dyana,
who took it hesitantly while she spied Simon. "Biagio knows how
much I love this woman. He might also know about Shani; I'm not
sure. Whoever you are, Simon Darquis, I need your word. Lucyler
is going away in two days, and he won't make a decision about you.
He wants me to decide your fate, and I can't do that. I don't know
who you are."

"Richius?" said Dyana. "What are you saying?"

"Look at them, Simon," said Richius. "Remember their faces. Then
give me your promise you won't harm them. Are you looking?"

Simon's voice was a whisper. "Yes. I'm looking."

"Promise me, then. Please."

"Would you believe me if I gave it?" asked Simon softly.

"I would have to," replied Richius. "I don't have a choice. I can't
keep you as prisoner, and you have nowhere else to go. If you
leave Falindar you'll starve or freeze to death in the winter. Just
give me your promise. I'm begging you."

Simon's haunted eyes moved over Dyana and Shani. To Richius
he seemed distant, as though his mind was skipping back over the
years of his life, blowing the dust off his past.

"You have my word," he said. "Nothing will happen to them by my
hand. I swear it."

"Again," Richius insisted. "Swear it again, before God."

Simon crossed himself. "Before God, I swear it."

And then Simon smiled at Dyana, a sincere expression that lit his
solemn face. Then he turned and left the tiny family, disappearing
back into the courtyard.

Richius watched him go. Dyana was tugging at his hand, insistently
dragging him down next to her. He dropped listlessly to the ground
as he stared after the departing Simon.

"Richius?" Dyana pressed. "What is going on?"

"I don't really know," said Richius gently. He still did not look at her.
"But don't worry. We'll be safe, I think."
ELEVEN
Enli's Angel

D uring the endless nights of autumn, the Red Tower of Dragon's
Beak was a solitary place. The ocean breezes pounded
mercilessly against the castle's degenerating bricks, making the
evening candles flicker. The warm smell of the kitchens and the
hearths drew crowds of soldiers and servant boys eager to stay
warm. This far north, the sun sank quickly. And Red Tower was too
big for a person the size of Lorla. At night she slept alone, far from
the chambers of Duke Enli, in a haunted corridor of squeaky doors
and formidable drafts. Hidden under her thick blankets, Lorla would
listen to the dark music of Dragon's Beak, and would wonder about
the timeless castle.

Since coming to Red Tower with Daevn, she had seen precious
little of her host. The lord of the castle was always preoccupied. At
first Lorla had not minded the solitude, because she was tired from
her long journey and she had all of the tower to explore. She had
almost full run of the place, and she exploited the duke's good
intentions, forming polite friendships with the kitchen staff and the
stable boys and getting to know her new home. The Red Tower
was nothing like Duke Lokken's castle at Goth. That one was bright
and predictable. She had adored the Walled City, but Enli's tower
was a treasure trove, a maze of windy tunnels and twisting halls, of
giant windows stained like rainbows and endless doors to forgotten
chambers. There were artifacts of old wars, rusty weapons and
mementos stacked high in cellars, dusty closets full of clothing and
moths, and balconies engulfed in vines, with thorns as big as
thumbs and crimson flowers that seemed oblivious to the cold.
And there were books, enough to last Lorla a lifetime—yellowed
tomes ripe with the scent of old leather and full of faded writings.
Lorla had collected her favorites and had stacked them beside her
bed. Some were in High Naren, and because she had learned a
smattering of that dead language back in the labs, she was able to
practice the tongue again, something she hadn't done for months.

Lorla was looking forward to her trip to Nar City, where she hoped
to visit the labs again, but Enli hadn't spoken of her mission, and
Lorla had not asked. She had learned not to be too inquisitive. That
was one of her most important lessons, and her teachers had been
adamant on the point. The Master had plans for her. That was all
she needed to know. And the Master had entrusted Enli with her
mission. She would not question the duke, for she knew he had her
best interests at heart. But she missed Enli. She missed his voice
and the direct way he spoke to her. The others in Red Tower
weren't like him. They were all polite and pleasant, but Lorla
sensed an avoidance in them, an almost fearful quality that made
her wonder about her appearance or mannerisms. At mealtimes
she would eat alone in a small chamber off the kitchens. The other
children of the castle, and there was surprisingly few, ate together
or with their parents, but not so with Lorla. Lady Preen brought her
meals to her, and never sat down to share the food. Lorla ate her
bread and soup staring out a window, with only the startling view to
ease her loneliness. Lady Preen was a plump and pleasant house
servant, a cook and cleaner mostly, but she was not a friend to
Lorla, nor were the soldiers who constantly drilled in the courtyard
or the stable boys who groomed their horses, and the children of
Red Tower were pensive like their parents, always quiet when
Lorla was around. They did not shun her precisely, for they always
offered her a kind word, but never once did they spare her any
more than the most basic courtesy. By Lorla's reckoning it had
been at least two weeks since she'd arrived at the castle, and the
magic of the place was wearing off. She wanted to see Enli.

But Enli was almost never seen, and when Lorla did catch a
glimpse of him he was with his soldiers. Curiously, the number of
men in the castle seemed to grow almost daily. Now when Lorla
looked down into the courtyard she counted more of the soldiers
with their fancy dragon helmets. More horses, too. So many, in
fact, that Duke Enli had no time for her. So far he had come to her
only once. She had been in bed, reading, and he had sat down on
the edge of her mattress and had spoken kindly to her, stroking her
hair the way she thought her mother might have, and had
apologized for his absence.

It was necessary, he had explained to her.

As he had told her when she had arrived in Dragon's Beak, he had
business with his brother. That first, then they would go to Nar City.
Duke Enli had kissed her good-night. The memory of the touch
burned in Lorla.

On the first afternoon of her third week in Dragon's Beak, Lorla
decided to go looking for the duke. It was a typically gray day, and
she had made the decision over another lonely meal in the little
room off the kitchen. Lady Preen had told her that the duke would
be leaving soon, and when Lorla had asked her why, the house
servant had simply shrugged as though she didn't know. More
precisely, Lorla was sure, Lady Preen had dropped a secret, and
was a very poor liar. So Lorla finished her food and left, telling
Lady Preen she was going to her room to read. But Lorla didn't
take the hallway back to her chamber. Instead she skirted off in the
opposite direction, to the north side of the castle where Duke Enli's
personal chambers were. Lorla had never been in this part of Red
Tower before; Enli had politely forbidden her. She felt
nervousness in her stomach as she moved quietly down the
deserted corridor, but Enli was kind. He wouldn't be mad at her.

Much to her surprise, Lorla found that the north side of the castle
was much the same as the rest of the place, although slightly
colder and quieter. The familiar sounds of castle life fell off behind
her as she made her way down the halls, all lit with oil lamps that
stained the ceiling black with soot. The walls were faded brick, and
family memorabilia lined the way, old swords and suits of armor
guarding closed doors, each baring the furious reptilian crest of
Dragon's Beak. Lorla moved silently, suddenly frightened. She
thought to try one of the doorknobs, then hesitated. She didn't want
to startle Duke Enli or get him angry. But she didn't want to turn
around, either. That strange loneliness pushed her on, deeper into
the forbidden halls. She glanced behind her uncertainly and was
relieved to find no one there. She felt tiny, ridiculously out of place,
as though the house were made for giants. The doors loomed up,
taunting her to try them. Lorla reached out for one cold doorknob
and gave it a wary turn . . .

. . . and found the room exquisite.

She stood in the threshold, wide-eyed and thunderstruck. Before
her was a magnificent chamber, with a high ceiling like a cathedral
and walls lined with endless bookcases, all stuffed full of
manuscripts. Light flooded in from two tall windows, setting the
mahogany shelves aglow, and a monstrous hearth blazed against
the western wall, crackling comfortably and filling the room with
heat. Above the hearth was another of the duke's curious artworks,
this one of a golden-haired woman, her green eyes looking down
serenely on Lorla. Near the window were two big chairs, more
enormous than Lorla had ever seen. Soft and lulling, they
beckoned Lorla to rest on them, to pull a book from the shelves
and lose herself in their leather embrace. In the center of the room,
near a table and some neglected teacups, was a pedestal cage
housing a sable-feathered raven that squawked when it noticed
Lorla. Yet despite the bird and the blazing hearth and the dirty
teacups, the room seemed empty. Lorla stepped unsteadily into
the chamber, leaving the door open behind her. The raven watched
her, its beady eyes tracking her every move.

"Hello?" called Lorla softly. "Is anyone here?"

To her great relief, no one answered. The library was indeed
empty. Again she chanced another step. The raven gave a
disapproving caw. Lorla put a finger to her lips.

"Shhh," she ordered. "Be quiet. I'm not going to hurt you. I just
want to look around."

Her eyes scanned the towering bookcases. There was a ladder for
reaching the highest shelves. Up and up they went, touching the
ceiling. Lorla spun around to see them all, an astounded smile on
her face. Enli had said nothing of this. There were already books
aplenty to occupy her in the other rooms, but this was spectacular.
She laughed, unafraid of who might hear her, and the raven joined
her, cackling.

"How lovely!" she exclaimed.

As she spun she caught a glimpse of the portrait, watching her.

"And you, lady. Who are you?" she asked the painting. The
woman's face was bright like the sun. Her long, golden locks fell on
her shoulders and emerald dress, and her ruby-painted lips
seemed to move with smiling animation. Her green eyes were
lashed long and sensually, and they watched Lorla without
judgment. Lorla walked up to the portrait, craning her neck to see it
better.

"You're very beautiful," Lorla whispered. A forlornness washed
over her. "Who are you?"

She wished the portrait could answer and ease her solitude. But
the painting was only a painting. The raven rustled its feathers
noisily. Lorla turned from the portrait and went to the bird, studying
it. Its black eyes turned on her, full of mirth.

"Who are you?" it said in its startling bird-voice. Lorla jumped back,
delighted.

"You can talk?" she asked. "That's wonderful!"

"Wonderful. Wonderful. Who are you?"

Lorla laughed and clapped her hands. "Oooh, you're so beautiful,
bird. What's your name?"

"Wonderful. Wonderful."

"Yes, yes," said Lorla. She tried to talk slowly so that it might
understand. "What is your name?"

This time the bird only cawed, stretching out its wings with a bored
yawn.

"My name's Lorla," she said, pointing to herself. "Looorlaa. Can
you say that?"

The bird said nothing.

"All right then, don't talk. I don't care." She turned around and
pretended to ignore it. A second later it spoke again.

"Lorla."

"Yes!" cried Lorla.

"Angel! Angel!" cawed the raven. It shuffled back and forth on its
perch impatiently. "Wonderful."

Lorla brightened. "Angel? Is that your name?"

"Lorla. Wonderful."

"No, no, not me. Is that your name? Angel?"

"Angel," the raven echoed. "Angel."

Lorla put her face to the cage and smiled at the bird. "Well, hello
then, Angel. I'm pleased to meet you. I'm new here. Did Duke Enli
tell you about me?"

The bird said nothing.

"I'm Lorla, from Goth. Well, from Nar City. That's where I was born,
I think. But I moved to Goth to live with Duke Lokken. Now I live
here in Dragon's Beak. But not for long. Duke Enli is taking me
back to Nar City soon. Angel, have you ever been to Nar City?"

"No, he hasn't," said a voice. Lorla jumped. In the doorway was a
young woman, fresh-faced and lovely. "He hasn't been anywhere
but Dragon's Beak," she said, stepping into the room. "He was
born here. Like me."

"Who are you?" Lorla asked.

"I should ask, rather, who you are, don't you think? But I already
know who you are . . . Lorla."

She was stunning. Worse, she was exactly the woman pictured in
the portrait. Lorla stared at her, oddly terrified.

"I'm sorry," she stammered. "I shouldn't have come here."

"That's right, you shouldn't have. Didn't anyone tell you this part of
the castle was forbidden?"

"I was just looking around," Lorla explained.

The young woman undid the latch on the raven's cage and put her
hand inside, offering the bird a finger. The raven jumped on and
she pulled it out of it cage, whistling gently to it. Lorla watched,
fascinated. The bird was perfectly tame and cocked its tiny head
for the woman to scratch it.

"My sweet one," she purred happily. "Did Lorla frighten you?"

"I didn't," said Lorla indignantly. "I didn't even touch him."

"Lorla," cawed the raven. "Wonderful."

The woman smiled. "Cackle likes you, I think." She reached out her
hand and touched Lorla's shoulder. The bird hopped on. Lorla
giggled excitedly.

"Oooh," she cooed, feeling its scratching talons through her dress.
The sensation wasn't painful, just strange. The raven began
nibbling on Lorla's hair.

"Cackle?" said Lorla. "Is that his name?"

"Yes," replied the woman. "We call him that because of his laugh.
Have you heard it?"

Lorla nodded, carefully so not to disturb the bird. "I think so. But I
thought his name was Angel. He told me so."

"Oh, no," said the woman. "That's not his name. That's just
something he says sometimes, when people look at the painting."
She gestured to the magnificent portrait above the hearth. "That is
Angel."

"That's you," said Lorla. "Isn't it?"

"No. My name is Nina. That's my mother. Her name was Angel."

"She's very beautiful," Lorla said. "And you look just like her."

Nina reached up toward the painting, then withdrew her hand. "It's
my father's favorite painting. He has so many of them, but only this
one of her." Nina turned to Lorla and frowned. "You shouldn't be in
here. Duke Enli wouldn't approve. This is his private library."

"Yes, I'm sorry," said Lorla. She turned her shoulder toward Nina,
offering her the raven. "Could you? . . ."

With an outstretched finger Nina summoned the bird, who leapt
from Lorla's shoulder back to its mistress. Nina stroked its head,
looking at Lorla for an explanation.

"I shouldn't have come here, I know," offered Lorla. "But I was
looking for Duke Enli. I have to speak to him. Do you know where
he is?"

The woman grinned. "Do you know who I am, Lorla?"

"I don't think so," said Lorla. "Should I?"

"Duke Enli didn't mention me?"

Lorla grimaced, perplexed by the odd question. Duke Enli hadn't
really mentioned anything. If he had, Lorla might not have come
here, looking for answers. "You're Nina," she said simply. "That's
all I know."

"Lorla, I'm Duke Enli's daughter. I live here with him. Didn't anyone
tell you that?"

"His daughter?" asked Lorla, embarrassed. "Lady Nina, no one
tells me anything. I'm too little to get much interest here. I'm very
sorry." She made a poor effort at curtsying. "I'm pleased to meet
you." She looked up from her bow nervously. The duke's daughter
was smiling.

"You have an honest face," said the woman. "I think I can trust you.
But you shouldn't take lightly what my father orders. He's a very
private man. He doesn't like having people in this part of Red
Tower. Hardly any of his servants are allowed in here. If he told you
not to come, you should have listened."

"But I needed to see him," Lorla argued. "I need to talk to him.
Lady Preen says he's going away soon. And he's supposed to be
taking me to Nar City. I want to know what's happening."

Nina's face dimmed a little. She put Cackle back in his cage, then
went to sit in one of the chairs by the window. She sighed and
stared at Lorla pensively, as though thinking very hard. Finally she
stretched out a hand.

"Lorla, come here," she said gently. "I think we should talk a little.
Like girlfriends, all right?"

"Yes," said Lorla. "Yes, I'd like that." She went and sat beside Nina,
jumping into one of the chairs. Like all the duke's furnishings, this
one swallowed her. "What do you want to talk about, Lady Nina?
You can tell me anything. I'm good with secrets. They taught me
about secrets in Nar, how to keep them and all. I won't tell anyone."

Nina's expression was haunted. "Yes, I believe that," she drawled.
"Tell me something. Do you know why you're here?"

Lorla shrugged. "Your father the duke is taking me to Nar City. I
have work to do there for my master, Count Biagio."

"What kind of work?"

"I don't know," answered Lorla honestly. She didn't like sounding
ignorant, but she thought it best not to lie. "Your father hasn't told
me yet. That's also why I'm looking for him. I've been here a good
while now."

"How old are you?"

It was the same tiresome question everyone asked. Lorla
answered, bracing herself for the reaction. "I'm sixteen."

Nina's eyes went wide. "Sixteen? But that's impossible. I mean,
look at you. . . ."

"I'm sixteen, Lady Nina. I'm sure of that."

The lady arched a brow. "Yes. Yes, of course you are. I meant no
offense, Lorla. But when my father told me you were here, he
wouldn't tell me why. I thought you might know. I'm sorry."

The apology wasn't necessary; Lorla rarely took offense. "I know
that I'm different, Lady Nina," she said. "Please don't act
uncomfortable around me. The others here do, and I don't like it."
She leaned forward in the chair. "You're very pretty. Like your
mother. I wish I were like you."

Nina chuckled. "But you are pretty, Lorla. You're very pretty."

"No," said Lorla darkly. "I'm pretty like a little girl is pretty. I can
never be like you. You're . . ." Lorla searched for the word. "Full."

Nina blanched. "Full?"

"You're full grown, up top. And taller than me. I don't know if I'll ever
be taller. But I'm special. You see? I'm very special. That's what
they say about me in Nar City."

The duke's daughter put up her hands, unwilling to listen further.
"Lorla, stop. I shouldn't have asked you anything. I'm sorry. Let's
not talk of this anymore." Nina tried a crooked smile. "No one here
talks to you, you say?"

"I think they're all afraid of me. But I don't know why."

"Oh, I don't believe that," said Nina gently. "They probably just
know my father brought you here, and don't want to say anything
wrong to you. My father can be very strict. The servants are afraid
of him, not you."

"Afraid of him? But he's so nice. And he talks to me, because he
knows what I am. That's why I wanted to see him. Can you tell me
where he is?"

"You can't see him, Lorla. Not today. Lady Preen was right. My
father is going away for a little while. Not too long, but he's very
busy. He won't be able to speak to you."

"But it's important," said Lorla earnestly. The big chair tried to hold
her back as she leaned forward imploringly. "Can't you tell him that
for me? Or can your mother?"

"Lorla, don't ever say that again," ordered Nina. "My mother is
dead. You must never speak of her in front of my father. Do you
understand that?"

"Yes," said Lorla, confused. "All right." She glanced up at the
portrait of the beautiful Angel, her eyes darting between Nina and
the painting. They were so much alike it disturbed her. "I won't
mention her to your father. I promise. And I'm sorry for you, Lady
Nina."

"That painting is all we really have of my mother. My father
cherishes it. That's why he keeps it in here, to himself. He loved
her very much."

"What happened to her?" Lorla asked. "Can you tell me?"

"That's a long story. And I'm not sure it's suited to someone so
young."

"But I'm not so young, remember? I'm sixteen. Almost a full
woman like you. How old are you? Seventeen maybe?"

"Eighteen. And you should mind your manners. It's not polite to ask
a woman her age."

Frustrated, Lorla folded her arms. "If I had a mother, I'd talk about
her," she said. "I wouldn't hide her from people. And she's such a
pretty woman. She should be in the main dining hall or someplace
better than this. It's not right to lock her away in here."

Nina chuckled. "My, you don't talk like an eight-year-old, that's for
sure!"

Lorla grinned. "I'm surprised your father didn't warn you."

"Oh, but he did. Well, sort of. He told me you were smarter than
you look." Nina sighed. "I'll tell you about my mother if you want. It's
not such a great secret. Lots of people know the story of Dragon's
Beak. But you can't tell my father I told you. He wouldn't want me
telling this story, not to you."

"Why not?"

"Because I think he has plans for you. I'm not supposed to know
because I'm his daughter and he protects me from things, or at
least tries to. But there's a lot going on in the Empire these days,
and my father is part of it. You're part of it too, I'd wager."

Lorla couldn't help but be intrigued. "Part of what?" she asked
eagerly. "Something important?"

"You'll find out in time, when my father is ready to tell you. But I
want your promise, Lorla. You musn't say anything to my father
about what I tell you."

"I won't." Lorla leaned forward, anticipating the story. "Promise."

Nina glanced around the room suspiciously. Lorla loved the
intimacy of it. "Have you heard about my Uncle Eneas?"

"He lives in the Gray Tower," said Lorla, remembering what Enli
had told her. "He's your father's twin."

That's right. And you know how similar they are, just like in that
painting in my father's study. You've seen that, yes?"

Lorla nodded. "I've seen it. I don't like it."

"Nor do I." Nina laughed. "My Uncle Eneas doesn't come around
here very much: In fact, I haven't seen him for years. He and my
father don't speak anymore. Not since they killed my mother."

Astonished, Lorla fell back in her chair. "Killed her? You said your
father loved her."

"Oh, he loved her. Loved her to death. She was a lovely woman,
and she had many suitors, or at least that's what I've heard. Lady
Preen was here in those days. She tells me things. But my father
wasn't the only man who loved Angel. So did Eneas, his brother.
They fought over her hand for many months, and it drove them
apart."

"How?" Lorla asked.

"Uncle Eneas was jealous of my father. He never forgave him for
marrying my mother. He accused him of stealing her away from
him."

"Did he? Steal her, I mean?"

"I don't know, really. But I doubt it. My father is a good man, Lorla.
Dangerous sometimes, but honorable. You'll learn that when you
get to know him better."

"If I do," sulked Lorla. Without Lokken and Kareena around to
attend her, she craved the attention of adults, anyone who knew
her true nature. "But tell me more," she said. "What happened to
your mother?"

"As I said, Uncle Eneas thought my father stole Angel from him.
So one night he came to Red Tower to steal her back. He and
some of his men snuck in and tried to take my mother away. They
almost made it, too." Nina's face went ashen. "But only almost."

"Tell me."

"There was a fight. When they got her outside the tower, my
mother screamed. No one really knows how, but she managed to
shout for my father. My father's guards heard her and pursued
Eneas and his men into the night. They were on horses and riding
fast. It was very late and dark. My father ran out of the castle after
them, but . . ." Nina's voice trailed away.

Lorla waited a polite amount of time before speaking. "But what?"
she asked. "What happened?"

"My mother fell from the horse," said Nina blankly. "Broke her neck.
Lady Preen says that my father found his brother bent over Angel,
weeping. She was dead and all Eneas' men had gone back to Gray
Tower, but Eneas had stayed to confront my father. They carried
her back here together. She's still buried on the north side of the
castle, overlooking the sea." Nina made a pale glance at Lorla. "I
was so young then. Barely six years old."

Lorla bit her lip, wanting to comfort her new friend and not knowing
how. Nina's pretty face had lost its glow. Lorla slid out of her chair
and went over to Nina, offering her a weak smile and an uninvited
touch.

"That's very sad," she said softly. "I'm sorry for you. And for your
father."

Nina took Lorla's hand and squeezed it warmly. "That's dear," said
Nina. She patted the space next to her on the big chair. "Here, sit
with me, Lorla. You can comfort me, all right? Lord, I'm such a silly
fool. It's been so long, and I never really even knew her!"

"But that's what it's like," said Lorla. She got into the chair and
pressed against Nina's warm body. "For me it is. I think of my
mother. My father, too. But I don't remember them much. I don't
really remember anything. I just remember leaving Nar City and—"

She stopped herself. Nina was staring at her again.

"So what happened then?" Lorla asked, anxiously shifting subjects.
"Did your father fight with his brother?"

"No," said Nina. "They never fought. But every year on the
anniversary of Angel's death, Eneas would come here to Red
Tower and beg my father to forgive him for what he did. And every
year my father shunned him. Finally Uncle Eneas stopped coming
around. He used to give me gifts when he came, to try and make
up for what he had done. Like that was possible! Wretched man."

"But he doesn't come here anymore?"

"It's been years. Five at least." Nina pointed with her chin toward
the raven in its cage. "Cackle was my last gift from Eneas. After
that I never saw him anymore. He and my father haven't spoken
since."

The story was profoundly sad, and for some strange reason Lorla
wanted to weep. But she did not. She was resolute, just as they
had taught her to be. Special girls like Lorla needed to be strong.
So instead of telling Nina how she really felt, she said the only thing
that came to her lips.

"Cackle was a gift? That's strange."

Nina laughed. "Yes, I suppose it is. But Eneas raises ravens. It's a
pastime of his. He's very good at it, I've heard."

"Raises them? What for?"

"To defend his castle. My father says that Eneas has trained his
birds to fight like falcons. Eneas calls them his 'army of the air.'
They're all over Gray Tower, guarding it from invasion."

"I don't believe that," Lorla laughed. "It's impossible."

"It's true. My father told me so. Everyone knows about it. Except
you, of course. You don't know much about Dragon's Beak, do
you?"

"No," Lorla had to admit. "But it's a good story. And I like birds. I
wish I could see Eneas' tower."

"You'll have to make do with Cackle, I'm afraid. Besides, I'd bet
Cackle is smarter than any of Eneas' other ravens. Father has
spent a lot of time with him, training him. Cackle likes Father better
than he does me, I think." Nina turned to smile at the bird in its
cage. "Don't you, my darling? You love Father, don't you?"

The bird said nothing, but Nina's smile didn't dim.

"Cackle's been a good friend," she said. She looked at Lorla. "I
know how lonely Red Tower can be, Lorla." She squeezed Lorla's
hand again. "Are you lonely?"

The pointed question made Lorla grimace. "Yes," she admitted. "A
little."

"Well, it doesn't have to be so bad for you. You'll be going to Nar
City eventually, and until then you and I can be friends. All right?"

"I would like that," said Lorla. "Very much."

"Good. Then you can start by calling me Nina. Just Nina. Friends
don't use titles. And I won't call you princess, all right?"

Lorla laughed. "Fine . . . Nina."

"And you'll be patient? You won't go looking for my father
anymore?"

That question was more difficult. Lorla needed Enli desperately, to
find out what arcane work he and Master Biagio had planned for
her. But Nina was watching her, waiting for an answer, and Lorla
didn't want to jeopardize her new friendship.

"All right," she agreed. "I won't go looking for Duke Enli anymore.
But can I stay here for a while? Look at some of these books?"

"Is that all you want? To read?"

"For now," replied Lorla evasively.

Nina gestured to the bookcases crammed full with manuscripts.
"Pick one."

It was all the encouragement Lorla needed. She leapt from the
chair and headed for the closest bookcase, climbing the shelves
like a monkey, the only advantage to her embarrassing body.
TWELVE
The Raven Master

G ray Tower stood on the north fork of the dragon's tongue, alone
and frigid on an outcropping of rock. Like its brother, Enli's Red
Tower, Gray Tower was a stoic place. It weathered storms without
a blink and ate the salty lashings of the ocean. It was, like its red
brother, built to separate its lord from the people he governed, to
keep him high and far away from the peasant stock that toiled in his
fields. Duke Eneas loved his Gray Tower. He loved the view from
its high perches, and its grounds filled with oak trees, and its tall
iron gates, always guarded by his raven-faced soldiers—those
men of the fork who pledged themselves to his defense and wore
the black armor. They were loyal and devoted to their eccentric
master, and Eneas treated them handsomely for their service. All
of the north fork were contented. And Gray Tower was well
protected, not only by the guards in their metal garb, but by Duke
Eneas' greatest accomplishment, a force he had literally grown
himself.

His army of the air.

It was an affectation, really. Eneas knew this but liked the ring of it.
Five hundred ravens. They were the terror of the populace. All of
Dragon's Beak knew about the army of the air, and none dared
come to the tower unannounced lest they wished their eyes
pecked out. Duke Eneas slept well in Gray Tower, safeguarded
from his brother's harmful intents and any foolhardy invaders. His
army of the air protected him. They were his children and they did
his bidding, for he was their God and mother, and Eneas needed
only to flex a finger or whistle or turn his head to make them
understand. It was a gift he had enjoyed since boyhood, one that
Enli had envied and feared, and in these years of solitude from his
brother, Eneas appreciated his dominion over the ravens. Five
hundred pairs of eyes watched over him. In Gray Tower, Eneas
could rest.

He had not always feared his brother. Once, the siblings had been
the best of friends. They had shared every secret, and had grown
to love and respect each other. Their mother had been sainted, a
precious jewel of a woman whom they'd both adored, and they had
wept together at her passing and at the death of their father, crying
in each other's arms, unashamed of their tears. In the early days of
Arkus they had both been loyal to the emperor and his Black
Renaissance, and they had flown the Black Flag proudly, divided
by the channel of water but always together in spirit. They had
separate castles but not separate lives, and they wrote to each
other often. They spoke of governing the nation their father had
bequeathed them and they quibbled over where to find the best
wines. Like soldiers together in a crusade, they were closer than
blood.

But that was long ago, before Angel had come between them.

Like most evenings in Dragon's Beak, this one was pensively quiet.
The sun was slipping down and painting the sky crimson. A
determined breeze chilled the grounds around Gray Tower, pulling
at the tree branches and the cloaks of the guardians pacing
through the courtyard. Ravens cawed and waddled along the
bricks, pecking at the seeds lodged between the cobblestones,
ruffling their feathers in deference to the cold. Near the far end of
the courtyard a fire blazed in a pit as wide as a man, its flames
warming the ravens gathered around it. Beside the pit was a three-
tiered shelter, open mostly to the elements but breaking the winds
that blew in from the sea, protecting and warming the duke's
precious birds. Like the ravens, the fire was tended constantly.
Duke Eneas spared no expense for his army of the air, and paid
his handlers well to endure the cold with the birds. Just now the
shelter was sparse of ravens, but Eneas knew they would gather
when the sun disappeared, and would sleep near the warm glow of
the fire, protected from the worst winds. They were hearty birds,
and because they were pampered and adored they never strayed
far from the tower.

As he did every night before retiring, Duke Eneas walked the
grounds of Gray Tower, his bearded face hidden from the cold by
a thick wool cloak. On his shoulder was his ubiquitous companion,
Black, his lead raven and closest friend. Eneas spoke softly to
Black as he walked, telling the bird about his backaches and the
other ailments of growing older, and generally expending energy
on nonsense. As always, Black listened. He was a fine bird, worthy
of his status, and all the other ravens followed him, for they knew
that Black was favored. To mark his status, Black wore a thin silver
chain around his neck, just tight enough to keep it from coming off
in flight. A small medallion dangled from the chain bearing the crest
of Dragon's Beak. Black was clever and a good companion, and
Eneas often abused the bird's silence. When he was sad, as he
was tonight, Eneas would talk without end.

"Winter's coming," Eneas murmured. They had rounded the front
of the sprawling yard and were heading toward the fire pit and
shelter. Black didn't stay outside with the other birds, though. He
slept beside Eneas' bed and ate his meals with the duke. For
Eneas, Black had replaced Enli as his brother.

When he heard his master's comment, the raven ruffled his
feathers. "Cold," clipped the bird. Eneas realized he did not really
know what the word meant. He had just heard Eneas use the term
often enough. Eneas put his gloved hands together and blew into
them.

"Aye, cold," he agreed. He paused in the courtyard to look at the
sun and study its descent. He didn't like winter anymore. His body
rebelled against the cold. And he wondered as he shivered if Enli
suffered as he did, or if his twin had better escaped the ravages of
time. Angel had died in the winter, and whenever the unwelcome
season came Eneas relived those horrible days and martyred
himself over his beloved's death. That day, everything had died.
He stared at the sun and saw Angel's face in it.

"Cold," Black said again. "Cold."

Duke Eneas gave a wan smile. "Indeed it is, my friend. Let's get
inside."

Together they went to the main doors of Gray Tower, passing a
pair of raven-helmeted guards who opened the wooden portals for
them without a word. Inside, Gray Tower was warm. Black flew
from Eneas' shoulder and darted down the hallway to perch on the
mantel of a fireplace. It was very near mealtime, and Eneas could
smell food being prepared. His stomach rumbled at the odor.
Tonight he would eat and retire early, and pray to God that he didn't
dream. Of late, dreams came to him even while awake. He had
taken to writing them down in his journal, and had been comparing
them. He wasn't at all surprised by their unified theme of
loneliness.

Winter was a very lonely time in Dragon's Beak.

Eneas walked past the mantel where Black was sitting, pausing to
warm his hands. He pulled off his gloves and spread his long
fingers, enjoying the warmth. Black closed his ebony eyes as if
thinking. It was a strange magic the two shared. Eneas had been
gifted with this power since his youth. Their father had shown a
smattering of it, and their mother could read the minds of cats, but
only Eneas was truly a master of the trick. Only he could peer into
the primeval brains of birds and know what they were thinking. He
knew now that Black was more hungry than tired, a fact others
would miss from the bird's sleepy countenance. Eneas knew when
his birds were sick or afraid or vengeful, or when they needed
exercise or attention. He was a magician of sorts, and though his
ability had frightened Enli, he himself had never been afraid of it.
He adored his gift just as he adored his ravens. In these bleak
seasons, the ravens were his only true companions. He shared
secrets with them, the sort of things he used to share with Enli. He
told them his thoughts and his memories, and regaled them often
with tales about Angel and the one he called his daughter.

"Hungry, my friend?" he asked Black. The duke stroked an index
finger over the raven's plumage. What passed for a smile crossed
Black's corvine face. He hopped onto Eneas's shoulder, then
playfully nibbled the duke's ear. More than hungry, the nibble
meant. Famished.

"We'll eat now," said the duke. He turned his back on the fire and
escorted Black down the hallway, toward the kitchens and their
waiting meals.

On the south fork of Dragon's Beak, Duke Enli waited. And
watched. He watched the sun go down, watched the eastern half of
the world plunge into darkness, and watched the darkness spread
across the earth until the channel separating him from his brother
across the sea became black and the wind picked up. On the far
side of Dragon's Beak, he could barely see Gray Tower on its
precipice of rock. The water was rising and sea foam licked at
Enli's boots. He was cold and his men were cold, and the little boat
that would convey them all across the channel seemed dubiously
small. The moon lit the land with strands of light; moonbeams
danced on the white caps. Enli opened the door of his lantern and
extinguished the flame. His men did the same. There were six of
them in all, including Enli and not including Cackle, who perched
patiently on Enli's shoulder. The men gathered around the boat
waited for Enli to speak, but he did not.

He trusted these men. He knew they were skilled and would do
their best for him. Yet still Enli fretted over the coming melee. They
had doffed their dragon armor for ease of motion, and all had
some minor experience with clandestine work. Unlike the
mercenaries he was buying with Biagio's fortune, Enli trusted these
men. They were loyal to more than just coins. They had been with
him for years, and he had hand-picked them for tonight's work.
Already the mercenary forces were rolling out of Red Tower, taking
up positions outside Eneas' fork. If all went well tonight, Enli would
order them against Gray Tower. But there was one problem, one
almost insurmountable obstacle. And it had taken Biagio's keen
mind to devise a solution. Now, with Cackle on his shoulder, the
plan had seemed too obvious. But that was Biagio's gift. The count
was cunning. He could see things no other man could, and that was
why Arkus had chosen him to head the Roshann. Some said the
scientist Bovadin had the biggest brain in the Empire, but Enli knew
that wasn't so. Biagio—he was the mastermind. Enli smiled. He
fished a nutmeat from his pocket and fed it to Cackle, who
devoured it greedily. The raven clacked for another and Enli
obliged. Tonight Cackle was more important than any of the others
gathered here on shore. Only Cackle could subdue the army of the
air. Eneas had guardians and a happy populace to protect him, but
he also had his dreaded ravens, and a more bloodthirsty army
existed nowhere else in Nar. There was something evil about
Eneas' ravens, something that made strong men wither. But
tonight, if Biagio's grand design proved correct, the army of the air
would be theirs.

"You're a good boy," Enli crooned to his pet. "Do well for me
tonight, all right?"

"Good boy," Cackle echoed. "Good boy." They waited another
hour, not speaking, until at last Enli felt comfortable with the
darkness and ordered them all into the long boat. Each man had a
short sword and a crossbow that he stowed beneath the seats, and
the two with the strongest backs took up positions near the oars.
Cackle flew into the boat before Enli, staking out the seat nearest
the bow. The duke stepped into the vessel as the last two men
shoved them off. The boat slipped out onto the cold sea. Above
them, Red Tower glowed with candlelight and torches, and Enli
steeled himself as he slowly drifted away from his home, studying
its windows for Nina's silhouette. He did not see her, but he hadn't
really expected to. She knew only that he planned to avenge
himself on his brother, and that all the soldiers who had lately
invaded their home would soon be gone to invade Gray Tower.
Nina was a sensible girl. It was why Enli was convinced she had
grown from his seed, and not Eneas'. She had given him no
trouble at all about his plans to conquer the north fork. But that was
because he had lied to her. He had promised her that her Uncle
Eneas would be spared. Enli knew that if his daughter ever found
out what he was really doing tonight, she would hate him forever.

The notion made the duke close his eyes. He sat down on the
bench next to Cackle and banished the image of Red Tower from
his mind. There was work to do, he scolded himself. No time for
sentiment. The rowers grunted as they fought against the wind and
tide, hastening the boat toward the ever-looming shadow of Gray
Tower. The moon disappeared behind a cloud, deadening the
world. Cackle cawed angrily and bit at Enli's hand, demanding
attention. The duke put out a finger for Cackle to hop onto and
lifted the bird to his shoulder, where the raven rested, contented
for the moment. Enli's soldiers looked about, murmuring darkly.
They fidgeted with their weapons but their movements never rose
above a whisper. It took nearly another full hour to make the
channel crossing, and when at last Gray Tower rose on the rocky
cliff above them, Enli raised his hand to stop the rowers.

"Easy," he directed. "Go slow."

He didn't want to be seen, not by the tower's guards or by any of
the beastly ravens. The duke set his jaw and peered through the
blackness. Lights flickered in the tower. It was early still and the
moon had re-emerged. Carefully, stealthily, the little boat let the
tide pull it toward shore. Enli felt the touch of dread. It had been a
long time since he'd seen Eneas. Curiously, he wondered if his
brother had changed much. A flood of memories crashed into his
brain, momentarily shattering his resolve. He had loved his brother
once. But then he remembered Angel and Eneas' wicked claims
about Nina, and the old ire rose up in him. Tonight, he would have
the revenge denied him for so long. And Biagio's fortune would be
put to good use as the mercenaries fought for the north fork.

The little boat drifted toward shore. The men aboard stopped
murmuring. They retrieved their swords and crossbows and made
ready. The oarsmen steered ashore, directed by the whispering
Enli. To the east side, the duke counseled. Slowly, slowly. There
were rocks and trees on the east side to hide them, and the main
road was there. If his ruse was going to work, it had to be perfect.
The rowboat skidded ashore and Enli's soldiers scurried out,
cloaked by darkness and the outcroppings of rocks. Gray Tower
hovered nearby, just over the stony hills. Enli waited for the boat to
be well grounded before trudging out. Together his men hauled the
boat onto the land and dragged it toward the rocks, where they
wedged it beneath a granite shelf covered with moss. The duke
took the time to study Cackle. The raven seemed unconcerned.

"Go to the road, like I told you," Enli told his men. "Wait for me
there. I won't be long."

"You should come with us," said Faren, one of Enli's most trusted
confidants. "Let the bird go from the road. I don't want to lose sight
of you."

"Just go," said Enli, untouched by the sentiment. He wasn't in the
mood to have his orders questioned, and just now he wanted to be
alone on the shores of the north fork. It had been too many years
since his boots had trod this side of the dragon's tongue. And in
less than an hour his brother might be dead. For the moment, at
least, Enli needed solitude. "I will be there directly," he promised
Faren. "Now go."

The soldiers departed reluctantly, shimmying up the rocks and
disappearing. Enli watched them leave, and when he was sure they
were well away he pulled the note from his pocket. It had been
folded thrice into a tight little package, light enough for Cackle to
convey to Eneas' window. He set the bird onto the rock shelf, then
took the string from his pocket, using it to fasten the note to
Cackle's leg. The bird shifted a bit but did not bite at the string the
way he had previously, a small favor for which Enli was enormously
grateful. He had rehearsed this a dozen times with the clever bird.
He was sure Cackle could do it. He tied the knot securing the note
and stepped away from the raven, inspecting his work. Cackle's
black eyes twinkled.

"All right now," said Enli. "You know what to do. It's all up to you."

The bird seemed to yawn, but he stretched his wings and cast his
master a sober look.

"Angel," cawed the bird. "Angel."

Enli's smile was sardonic. "That's right. For Angel. Now fly, little
beauty. Fly for my revenge!"

With a giant hop the raven leapt from the rock and gathered the air
beneath his wings, going up and up against the wind, determined
to deliver his master's message. Enli watched as Cackle darted
toward Gray Tower and the large balcony overlooking the western
sea, the one with the tower's only marble gargoyles.

Just as he had been trained to do.

Duke Eneas had eaten a hearty meal with his men and Black and
had retired to his chambers early. In Gray Tower, when winter
came, there was very little to do, and men of nobility in the northern
lands generally occupied themselves with books and journals to fill
the long hours. Because his mother had taught him a love of
reading, Eneas often took to his bed early in the dark months,
curling into his sheets with a cup of honey tea while Black watched
over him from an open cage hanging not too near the fire. This
evening, a bit of undigested stew had soured Eneas' stomach, and
so the duke had neglected the tea and instead taken only the book
with him to bed, and even this gave his stomach little solace. As
was his routine, though, he finished several pages before setting
the book aside in favor of sleep. The hallway outside his
bedchamber was customarily quiet, for the folk of Gray Tower
knew their lord's penchant for silence, and so tiptoed past his
rooms so as not to disturb his studies or slumber. The breezes off
the ocean beat against the old glass of his balcony doors, and
outside Eneas could hear the whistle of wind through stone and the
groaning of the gargoyles perched on the ledge. His was the only
balcony in the tower decorated with the grotesques, a gift from the
renowned Darago to celebrate his fortieth birthday. At first he had
thought the gargoyles a pair of monstrosities, but Darago was an
artisan whose works graced the Black Palace and the Cathedral of
the Martyrs and countless other landmarks throughout the Empire.
The emperor had commissioned the sculptures himself. To spurn
a gift from Darago would have been the height of bad taste, and
Eneas had grown oddly attached to the gargoyles over the years.
They were like his ravens now—a permanent fixture of Gray Tower.

It did not take long for sleep to capture Eneas. The book he had
been reading lay on the night table beside him, under the glow of a
single candle. The lulling music of the wind helped calm the duke's
stomach, and very soon Eneas was asleep. He was dreaming of
something he couldn't quite recall when an intrusive tapping
dragged him back to the world. His eyes fluttered open, and for a
moment the sound was gone. The wind? He looked to Black who
had also awakened and was staring at the doors. The duke's own
eyes shifted toward the glass. Outside on the balcony, its beak
pressed against the pane, was another raven. Curious and groggy,
Eneas watched, and a familiarity dawned in his mind. The strange
raven tapped again at the glass, insistent. Eneas frowned.

"What the hell is this?" he muttered. He flung his naked feet over
the bedside and spied the balcony for others, but all he could see
was the lone bird. Black flew from his cage to land on the duke's
shoulder. Eneas stroked his friend for strength. The visitation had
unnerved him and he didn't know why. The raven beyond the glass
was big, as big as Black himself, and with the same intelligent
expression. The duke eased toward the glass doors, then noticed
the object around the raven's leg. A note? He reached out to open
the door, but Black screeched in his ear, stopping him.

"Quiet!" Eneas commanded, frightened by the bird's scream.
"There's nothing to worry about, you jealous beast. It's just a bird."

With Black still protesting, he turned the handle and opened the
glass door. At once the strange raven hopped inside, clicking and
cawing for the duke's attention. Black's talons dug angrily into
Eneas' shoulder, a warning not to be ignored. Eneas stepped away
from the raven, pondering it.

"What do we have here, my friend?" he asked Black. His raven
made an unusual hissing sound, and its ruddy little tongue clicked
at the intruder. Eneas nodded.

"Curious, indeed. You don't trust him."

But the raven who had awakened them would not be silenced. It
hopped around the duke's feet, looking up at him, its wings
fluttering wildly. Eneas had never seen such obstinance in a bird.
Not even Black could be so forceful. He squatted down. The bird
was oddly familiar to him, and the little note tethered to its leg
simply begged to be read. Despite Black's repeated warnings,
Eneas reached out and plucked at the string, carefully loosening it.
The raven stopped fidgeting as he worked, allowing the note to be
freed. After a few delicate moments the tightly folded package
dropped from the bird's leg. Eneas sat back on the floor and
regarded the bird.

"You look familiar to me," he mused, his eyes narrowing. "But then,
I see so many birds. Who are you?"

The raven stopped moving. It simply stared at the duke with its
black eyes. Eneas stretched out his mind and buried himself in the
creature, tapping into its primordial brain. His memory flared with
sudden recognition. A rush of excitement and fear blew over him.

"Cackle," he gasped. "It is you!"

The raven bobbed its head in assent.

"My God . . ."

It was unthinkable. Unimaginable. Cackle. His daughter. But to
make the trip across the sound! Why? In his shock, it took a
moment for the duke to remember the note. Nervously he unfolded
the paper. Still on the floor, his legs bent beneath him, he studied
the perfect penmanship. It was brief. The duke's heart leapt as he
read.

Dear Father,

Father!

Please help. I am outside the castle near the main road, your
brother is pursuing me. I know who I am now. Please come.

It was signed very simply, Nina.

Eneas couldn't stop his heart from thundering. A million questions
raced through his mind, muddled by a million memories. His breath
came in hurried, bewildered gasps. Nina! Here, at Gray Tower.
Outside now, and waiting for him. He turned to look at Black
perched on his shoulder.

"My daughter," he said to the bird. "She's here!"

"No!" Black barked at him. "No!"

Eneas ignored his friend. No one else could have sent Cackle to
him. Cackle had been a gift to the girl; they would have bonded by
now. And Enli was too foolish to ever control the creature. It had to
be his daughter. He stared at the note, wondering what to do.

"She's too afraid to come to the tower," he surmised. No one came
to Gray Tower for fear of the ravens. But she was probably alone
and frightened. He had to hurry to her. He had to bring soldiers and
warn the guardians that Enli was coming. Eneas put his hand to his
mouth. If Enli was coming, they were all in grave danger. And how
had Nina learned the truth of her birth? The duke rocked back and
forth like an anxious child, unable to think clearly. Black was staring
at him angrily, and Cackle's gaze was mad with panic. The duke's
eyes shifted between the birds, not knowing which to believe. If it
truly was Nina, she needed him. Now. And perhaps Black was
merely jealous. . . .

Eneas dipped down and scooped up Cackle, looking at the bird
intently. "Can you take me to Nina?" he asked the raven pointedly.
"Take me to your mistress?"

"Yes-yes," cawed the bird. "Nina. Yes-yes."

"All right then. Take me."

The duke rose and went to the door, practically kicking it open. He
bellowed down the empty corridor for his guards. Enli is coming,
he screamed at them. Awaken the army of the air! Warn the
guardians and ready my horse to ride! My brother is coming. My
daughter is here!

Just outside the shadow of the tower, near the roadside amongst
the overgrown trees, Duke Enli sat spying the path and listening for
the approach of his quarry. Faren and Yory, two of his
crossbowmen, lay on the knoll beside him, their weapons trained
on the road. On the other side of the road were L'rou and Devon,
also invisible, while Jace and Sen were just behind them. His
brother wouldn't come alone, Enli knew, but he wouldn't come with
a whole brigade, either. His mass of men would remain at the
tower, to guard against a coming attack. And Enli would have the
element of surprise. It was dark on the road and that gave them
good cover. Enli could barely see Faren and Yory, and they were
merely feet away. The others had blended in perfectly. The duke
was cold but exhilarated, and the thought of his coming revenge
warmed his soul. Soon, very soon, he would end the charade he'd
been living since Angel's death. Nina would never hear the lies of
her uncle, her so-called father. The thought of Eneas' claims
tightened Enli's jaw.

Angel was no whore, but Eneas had made her sound like one,
soiling her memory. He had vowed to kill his brother for the crime.
Tonight, finally, he would make good on that pledge, and in the
process help to restore Biagio and the Black Renaissance.

"Remember," Enli whispered to Faren. "If there are too many of
them, just let them pass. They'll eventually split up and start looking
for Nina. When they do, we'll kill Eneas."

"And how many is too many?" asked Faren anxiously. He was a
brave soldier, but his master's plan had unnerved him.

"Ten, twelve maybe," said the duke. "No more than a dozen. Don't
worry. It won't be that many. I know Eneas. I know how foolishly
trusting he can be."

His brother would never be able to resist the note, not if he
believed it had truly come from Nina. And believe it he would, for in
their youth Enli had always been the clumsy one with animals. Enli
was sure his brother thought him incapable of controlling Cackle.
Overconfidence. It was just one more of Eneas' flaws.

The mercenaries purchased by Biagio had taken up position just
outside the north fork, barely within Enli's border. When the order
came, they would sweep in and start what promised to be a
protracted battle for Gray Tower. It would have been an unthinkable
folly were it not for Biagio's plan. The army of the air could have
protected the tower indefinitely. Coupled with the might of Eneas'
guardians, the ravens made the castle impregnable. An entire
legion of Vorto's best soldiers might have had trouble sacking
Gray Tower.

But not after tonight.

"Don't let the bird get away," Enli reminded Faren and Yory. "Kill it.
Or capture it. But don't let it escape."

"What if it's not with him?" Faren asked.

"It will be. He goes nowhere without it. Let the bird be your first
target if you like. Just make sure to kill it. Understand?"

Faren grunted angrily. "It's going to be hard in this darkness, my
lord. We'll do our best."

"Do better than that," Enli hissed.

Yory swallowed hard and nodded, returning his attention to the
empty road. Enli took up his own crossbow, stretched out on his
stomach, and propped the weapon up on his elbows, closing one
eye for accuracy. This chance would never come again. His heart
boomed in his temples, and his breath was shallow and edgy.
Unlike the others, he was only a fair shot with a crossbow, so he
quickly decided to go for a bigger target than the raven. He would
plant the bolt in the first soldier to show his face. At this range the
weapons would easily penetrate the chain mail. Enli licked his wind-
dried lips.

Good-night, dear brother. Say hello to Father for me.

A sound in the distance startled him. They all cocked their heads to
listen. Faren put a finger to his lips to caution quiet. A horse. No.
More than one. Coming closer. The duke lowered himself back into
the dirt, disappearing among the tree limbs. Slowly, purposefully,
he lifted his crossbow and snapped closed an eye, focusing on the
black and narrow path.

Duke Eneas wasn't in the mood to quibble. He was on a mission
and in a hurry, and the calls to slow his horse fell on deaf ears. He
had not bothered to draw his sword or wear his raven-helm, for he
wanted Nina to recognize him and not be afraid. His men, however,
were far more cautious. Each of the eight wore a helmet and mail,
and each had their swords at the ready, a single torch held by a
young squire brightening their way. The ravens had been
awakened and were patrolling the grounds, ready for any attack
from sea or land, and the guardians of the castle were on alert,
armed and prepared should Enli's forces charge.

Duke Eneas rode at the head of his column, frantic to find his
daughter before Enli could recapture her. The road before him was
black and featureless, and the wind pulled his red hair out behind
him like a comet's tail. Black waited dutifully on his shoulder,
cawing curses at the other raven leading the way. Cackle was
hopping swiftly down the road, half walking, half flying as he led the
soldiers.

"Keep your eyes open," the duke called over his shoulder. "I don't
know where she is, or if Enli's men have gotten her. Be sharp,
lads."

They were all sharp. They were Gray Tower's best, and Eneas
trusted them to protect him and find his daughter. And when they
did, when they were together again as they should have been for
eighteen years, he would take Nina back to the tower and launch
his army of the air against his brother and have an end to the
decades of madness. Nina would be his at last. Just as Angel
would have wanted.

In the road up ahead, Cackle chittered at them to hurry. Eneas
watched the bird and watched the knolls and trees around him,
frightened of an ambush but frightened more of not finding his
daughter. He didn't know how long ago the note had been sent.
Had Cackle found him quickly, or had all this happened hours ago?
Was Nina already back in Enli's clutches? The thought made the
duke's insides pitch. To lose her now after being so close was
unthinkable.

"Hurry," he called to his men, his voice echoing over the wind.
"We've got to find her!"

Cackle cawed some more. Black's talons dug into Eneas' chain
mail. The duke's horse snorted out a plume of steam, and the
narrow roadway closed in on them. The trees overhead bent in the
breeze. Eneas heard the horses' hooves and the insistent
breathing of his men behind him. And then a peculiar sound
reached the duke, whistling past his ears. Then another and
another more. Cackle flew up into the air. Eneas reined in his horse
and watched the raven flee. He heard a scream behind him, then
felt a burning in his shoulder.

Black squawked and struggled skyward. Eneas turned just in time
to see his beloved bird impaled. "What the hell . . .?"

The duke's shoulder burst with pain. There was an arrow in it,
almost clean through. He grabbed at his shoulder in agony, nearly
falling from his horse. The world around him erupted in chaos. His
men were screaming. He turned to see one topple to the ground
as a bolt pierced his helmet. The swordsmen were rushing toward
the duke to protect him. Eneas watched them struggle toward him
through the rain of arrows. The boy with the torch fell as a missile
punctured his neck. He gurgled out a cry and fell to his knees,
wheezing blood as he gasped for air. Near him on the ground was
Black, a huddled mass of mangled feathers, his breast turned
inside-out. Eneas whirled in his saddle and drew his sword, cursing
at the darkness.

"Enli!" he screamed. "You murderer! Face me!" His answer was
another arrow, this one slamming into his ribs. The duke cursed
and doubled over. He swayed in his saddle, trying to stay aloft, but
another bolt hammered into his horse's forehead, felling the beast.
Eneas dropped his sword as he toppled, the breath shooting out of
him with the force of the fall. His swordsmen were in a frenzy. They
scanned the blackness for their enemies even as the marksmen in
the trees peppered them with arrows. Duke Eneas clutched at the
earth, pulling himself to the side of the road and shouting at his
men to cover themselves. He had almost made it to the shoulder
when he saw the trees come alive. A band of wraiths brandishing
rapiers swarmed over his unsuspecting guards, cutting them down.
Eneas struggled to his feet. Unarmed, he staggered toward his
men with both fists barreled.

"Enli!" he roared. "Here I am! Come to me!" A meaty arm wrapped
itself around Eneas' throat and a dagger pricked his neck.

"Right here, brother dear."

Eneas froze. The dagger beneath his chin drew a bead of blood.

"Enli," he rasped. "You bastard . . ."

The melee went on. His men went down; one, then another and
one more. Enli's assassins cut through the night. Eneas choked on
emotion and his own blood, which was now filling his throat from a
punctured lung.

"Where is she?" the duke demanded, barely able to breathe.
"What have you done with Nina?"

"Nina?" said the voice in his ear. The arm around him fell away,
letting Eneas drop to his knees. Eneas looked up, gasping and
clutching his chest. In the light of the dying torch he glimpsed his
twin, staring disdainfully down on him. From out of the sky a raven
swooped, settling on Enli's shoulder.

"You treacherous little monster," Eneas seethed, addressing both
the bird and its master. Behind him his men groaned and died. He
heard the hacking of heavy swords dispatching the living and the
pleas of the young light-bearer, begging to be spared. And then he
heard nothing at all. Eneas glared at his brother as the assassins
gathered to flank him. Enli's face was wild and mad, not at all like
Eneas remembered it. His dark eyes smoldered as he looked
down, happily victorious, and the bird on his shoulder smiled a
peculiar, avian grin. Eneas knew he had only moments left. He
could barely keep himself up, and every breath he drew sent new
pain plunging through him.

"My daughter," he gasped. "Where is she?"

"My daughter is safe at home, dear brother," said Enli. "Where she
belongs."

Eneas gargled out a laugh. "She knows the truth though, doesn't
she? She knows?"

"She knows none of your lies! She knows that I'm her father." Enli's
eyes narrowed. "And now she will never hear your lies, Eneas,
because now you will die."

"Then kill me," said Eneas. He raised his head and spread out his
hands for Enli to strike him down. "Go on and murder me. Have
that on your conscience too. Kill me like you killed Angel!"

Enli struck his brother hard across the face. "Liar!" he roared. "I
loved her. I love her still. And you took her from me."

Eneas laughed. Angel had never loved Enli. She had seen him for
the madman he was, and had tried to flee from him. And Eneas
had killed her for it.

"Live your lie, brother," said Eneas softly. "Kill me. Send me to my
Angel. We'll be together if you do."

His brother shook with rage. The dagger in his fist quavered.

"Damn you!" Enli cried. "Damn you for making me do this!"

"I die, brother," Eneas taunted. "Hurry now. Take your vengeance
before I go."

"You stole her from me!"

"Kill me, you wretched coward."

Enli screamed, high and horrible. Eneas watched his brother's
breakdown, and all the hate in him evaporated. He kept his arms
outstretched even as the dagger plummeted down.

Duke Enli stood over his brother's dead body for a small eternity.
The night had fallen quiet again and the light from the torch had
been smothered by the dirt. It was very cold and the duke
shivered, warmed only by the tears streaking his face. He was
aware of his men staring at him, of Faren's incredulous gaze and
Devon's slack jaw, yet he couldn't bring himself to stir, not even to
clean the dagger of Eneas' blood. He was a murderer now. He felt
it as surely as he felt the wind. Blindly, he stared at his brother
crumpled at his feet. He poked at Eneas with the toe of his boot
and was oddly disappointed when his brother didn't respond.

"Duke Enli?" probed Faren. "My lord, we have to hurry."

"Yes," whispered Enli absently. "Yes, hurry."

"The bird's dead, my lord. Your plan . . ."

"Yes," said Enli again. "My plan . . ."

The raven Cackle was still on his shoulder. Enli took an unsteady
breath and gestured toward his dead brother.

"Undress him," he ordered. "Quickly."

The duke started undoing his own clothing, slowly working the
buttons of his shirt. His men fell upon Eneas' body,
unceremoniously pulling away his garments. Yory, who had been
silent through the entire fight, stalked over to the dead raven in the
roadway and scooped the thing up, bringing it over to Enli. The
silver chain still clung around its broken neck. Enli sighed with
relief.

"Take the chain off," he directed. "Don't break it."

Very carefully Yory undid the chain from around the dead bird's
neck, nearly pulling off the raven's head as he stretched the neck
for slack. When he had freed the tiny chain he handed it gingerly to
his master. Enli, now shirtless, took the necklace to Cackle.

"Easy now," the duke ordered as he slipped the ornament over the
raven's head. "Just take it easy. I'm not going to hurt you."

Remarkably, Cackle twisted his head to accommodate the chain,
and it slid quickly over his glossy feathers. Enli checked the chain
to be sure it wouldn't slip off in flight. Satisfied, he lifted Cackle in
his hand and smiled at the bird.

"You're a wonderful little beast," he said softly. "Go now, my friend.
Bring back your brothers and sisters."

The duke hoisted his hand into the air and Cackle took flight,
disappearing once more into the darkness. Enli watched him soar.

"My lord!" Faren scolded. "Dress now! You'll catch your death."

It was unspeakably cold, but Enli hadn't really noticed it until Faren
reminded him. His soldiers handed him Eneas' shirt and mail, and
Enli dressed in a fevered hurry, all the while looking at his dead,
naked brother in the roadway, his body pricked with arrows and
sliced open with a dagger wound. Eneas' clothes were warm and
bloody. Enli could smell his brother's scent on them. One by one
he fitted himself with the dead man's accoutrements, finishing off
by buckling the sword belt around his waist. When he was done, he
gestured disgustedly at Eneas' body.

"Take it away. And be quick. The ravens musn't see him."

Yory and Jace did as their duke directed, dragging Eneas
unceremoniously into the woods. They would take him far away, far
enough so that the ravens wouldn't smell his familiar odor or catch
a glimpse of their former master. If they did, Enli knew, they might
turn on him. These were intelligent monsters, hardly ravens at all
anymore. They were creations. Like Lorla born in the war labs, they
had become more than nature ever intended. The trick now was to
control them. Faren and the others took up positions around Enli,
nervously watching the sky. None of them knew if this elaborate
scheme would work, or how long it would take if it did. Back in Gray
Tower, Eneas' men were no doubt awaiting the return of their
master. If Eneas didn't return soon, they would come looking for
him, and in greater numbers. Enli shuddered a little. He didn't want
to die here on the north fork.

Together they waited, then waited some more, until long minutes
slipped by and Yory and Jace returned from the forest, slick with
Eneas' blood. They looked puzzled by the absence of the birds but
said nothing, merely joining their comrades in looking eastward. A
cloud crossed the moon, blanketing them in darkness. Enli's heart
sank. They might not come, he realized. But at least he had killed
Eneas.

"Holy Mother . . ." drawled Faren. The soldier pointed at the moon.
"Look at that!"

Enli looked skyward. Across the distance came a vaporous, black
hand, a massive swarm of ravens, their beaks and feathers
glistening in the moonlight. Enli's men fell back in terror, crossing
themselves and muttering prayers to stay the evil horde. But Enli
stood his ground, a smile splitting his face. He opened up his arms
as if to embrace the heavens, and summoned the army of the air to
him.
THIRTEEN
Against the Fearless

T he Prince of Liss sailed full-winded against the white caps, her
masts groaning as she tacked north by northwest along the coast
of Nar. On the orders of her commander, she had left the rest of
her escort behind, and was now just two days south of Nar City.
Her escort ships, Vindicator, Battle Axe, and the others, waited for
her off the coast of Casarhoon, one of the Empire's more
southerly regions, to pirate what supplies they could from the ill-
armed ships that sailed there. The Prince of Liss had gone north
alone. Fleet Commander Prakna waited in his quarters, worrying
over charts as his flagship sailed again into the cold. Gray Lady
had been gone for over a week, far longer than her patrol should
have required, and Prakna was worried. On their long trek south
they had seen almost no Naren ships, but the ocean was vast and
any ships, even dreadnoughts, might have evaded them. They had
sailed into southern waters to enjoy some sun, and Prakna himself
had ordered Gray Lady back north to scout out the sea traffic
around the Naren capital. That had been eight days ago. Captain
Haggi was a careful sailor, and Prakna trusted him. Haggi was also
a friend, and Prakna had wondered about the prudence of sending
him north unescorted. But there had been no signs of trouble, and
Haggi had agreed to the patrol willingly. Prakna brooded as he
absently studied his charts and rutters. Gray Lady was a fine ship,
but she was no match for imperial dreadnoughts.

This cat-and-mouse game they were playing with Nar had wearied
Prakna. It was dangerous, and Prakna realized that their recent
successes had made him cocky. As far as he knew, the Black
Fleet still stood at anchor around Crote, protecting Biagio, and that
meant easy sailing for the schooners of Liss. After sinking the
slaver some weeks ago, Prakna had turned his attention south and
launched a raid on the port town of Karva. He hadn't lost a single
man in the conflict, an astounding accomplishment, and from there
they had sailed on to Dahaar, where a convoy of merchant vessels
were bringing their cargo to Nar City. These, too, had gone down
under the rams of his ships. And all for the sake of luring the Black
Fleet away from Crote. Now, as Prakna contemplated the fate of
Gray Lady, he wondered if his plan had succeeded.

It was growing cold again but the afternoon was bright. Prakna
worked to the sunlight streaming through his tiny window. On deck,
Marus and the others were keeping watch for their missing
comrades. The roof above Prakna's head creaked with the familiar
sounds of ship-board life. Despite the foolhardiness of his plan to
go after Gray Lady alone, his men had agreed to it willingly. Long
days at sea had made them lean and irritable, but they were still the
best crew Prakna had ever commanded, and they were loyal to a
fault. If there was trouble up north, Prakna didn't want his entire
fleet embroiled in it. Better that they should stay hidden around
Casarhoon. Prakna was confident he could outrun any
dreadnoughts they might encounter, provided he sighted them
before they sighted the Prince. Gray Lady might not have been so
lucky. It was one of the great tricks of warring against the
dreadnoughts. Their long-range flame cannons could burn down a
schooner's riggings with a single, well-placed shot. But they were
ungainly beasts, these ships of Nar, not at all like the fleet-footed
schooners of Liss. And Haggi was an accomplished captain. If he
had encountered dreadnoughts, he would have known what to do.

Or so Prakna hoped.

Too fast, mused Prakna. Haggi always went too fast. If he had
blundered into a dreadnought's path, he might not have had
enough time to change course, to outmaneuver the ponderous
devils. And all it would take was one lucky shot.

The fleet commander scolded himself for his lack of faith and
shoved his charts aside, burying his tired eyes in his hands. Like
the rest of his crew, he hadn't slept much the past two days. Sailing
the coast required attention. They weren't in deep waters anymore,
and anyone might see them. They needed to be alert, a razor's
edge. But Prakna didn't feel very much like a razor. He felt dull,
easily distracted. He heard a call from the deck above that hardly
stirred him, but then it grew louder. Curious, Prakna lifted his head.
Someone was racing down the gangway toward his quarters.
There was a thundering at the door and Captain Marus poked his
head in, not waiting to be invited.

"Prakna, it's the Lady," he said anxiously. His face was drawn with
worry. "We've sighted her!"

Prakna sprang from his chair and headed for the door. "Where? Is
she alone?"

"Not alone," said Marus. "Dreadnoughts."

"Damn it! How many?"

"Three, I think. They're far away yet; I couldn't tell. They're
pursuing."

The two men climbed the gang ladder and emerged onto the deck.
Prakna's lieutenants were shouting orders to the men. Cannoneers
made ready on the guns, packing powder and loading grapeshot.
Up in the crow's nest the lookouts were pointing north, dead ahead.
Prakna buttoned up his jacket and looked past the prow. He could
see the Gray Lady in the distance, pitching on the sea. A pack of
dreadnoughts were steaming after her, their masts full of wind as
they tried to flank the schooner and catch her in their gunnery
range. Just behind Gray Lady was another ship, this one smaller
than the dreadnoughts. Probably a cruiser. She was dogging the
Lissen vessel, tacking parallel to her, keeping her toward shore.
And behind them all, looming large against the horizon, was the
giant of the pack, a black behemoth with square-rigging and a prow
as big as a hillside. Prakna's jaw fell open at the sight of her.

"Oh, lord," he whispered. "The Fearless . . ."

"Prakna?" asked Marus. "Your orders?"

"Stay on course," said Prakna. "Get me closer. Shift all the
cannons to the starboard side. We'll cover Gray Lady's escape.
Go, man. Quickly."

"Aye, sir," said Marus, snapping into action. He grabbed hold of a
young ensign and started toward the cannons. The Prince of Liss
had only four of the weapons, but they could easily be moved
about on the upper deck of a ship, and that made them perfect for
the schooners. Yet, because they weren't permanently secured to
the deck, they were dangerous weapons to use. They were also
small, with a much shorter range than the guns of the
dreadnoughts. But when loaded with grapeshot they could pull
down the rigging of a ship, crippling her. Marus and a group of
sailors started hoisting the port cannons to the right-hand side of
the Prince, fitting the barrels into the makeshift cradles. The guns
were spaced far enough apart so that a concussion from one
wouldn't send a spark flying to another. The cannoneers lit their
fuse poles, readying to fire. They were far out of range still, but it
wouldn't take long for the Prince to make up the distance.

Prakna went to the prow of his vessel, peering out over the sea. He
was elated, even in his dread. The sight of the Fearless had
buoyed his mood, causing an evil smile to stretch across his face.
They had actually succeeded in luring the big bastard away from
Crote, and he could scarcely believe the luck of it. But Gray Lady
was in trouble. Lieutenant Vax rushed up to him with a spyglass,
handing it to him. Vax was a young man, tall and lean. He was a
good sailor but the appearance of the dreadnoughts had turned his
face ashen.

"Gray Lady's been hit," he said unsteadily. "Look."

Prakna put the spyglass to his eye. He could see Gray Lady sailing
desperately toward them, her armored sides marked by cannon
fire. Her stunsail had been torn to tatters and her front yards and
rigging were ruined, pulled apart and blackened to ashes. She was
limping, only barely quicker than the dreadnoughts now. The
cruiser pursuing her was fast on her stern, still maneuvering to get
alongside for a shot. Behind the cruiser were the two smaller
dreadnoughts, sailing wide apart like a net, while the enormous
Fearless kept its distance, unable to match even the damaged
Lady's speed. Prakna lowered the spyglass, collapsing it with a
sigh. Doubtlessly the dreadnoughts had already seen the Prince.
But they were too far away to be much of a threat. It was the cruiser
Prakna was worried about.

"The cruiser's maneuvering to overtake Gray Lady," he told Vax.
"Probably been trying for days. We're going to shake 'em loose.
Full sails, Lieutenant. Bring us along starboard."

"Between them?" asked Vax incredulously.

"Right between them. We're going to cut them off. Make haste,
boy. Do it now."

Vax nodded and passed the order down the line. The Prince
lurched left, slicing to port as she pointed her prow between Gray
Lady and the cruiser. If the Prince were quick enough, and Prakna
knew she was, he could get in between them and open fire with the
starboard cannons before the dreadnoughts got much closer.

"Let's make some noise, lads!" cried Prakna to his crew. "I want
those bastards to know we're here!"

Admiral Danar Nicabar stood on the forecastle of the Fearless,
laughing in disbelief. Two days out of Nar, and he had not only
ensnared the Lissen schooner, but now another fish had entered
his net, and this one was a prize indeed. The admiral rubbed his
hands together, anticipating the coming battle. He had only seen
the Prince of Liss once before, and only from a distance, but its
flag and keel design were unmistakable. For two days Nicabar's
ships had pursued the fleeing schooner, sure that it would lead
them to others of its ilk. They had damaged her only slightly when
they could have easily burned her to pieces, but Nicabar had held
back the order to sink the Lissen vessel. Biagio wanted the
Lissens to see the Black Fleet. And Nicabar, never one to question
his count, had planned to let the schooner escape him. But not
anymore. Now Prakna himself had seen the Fearless in Naren
waters, and that meant Nicabar could quench his lust on the
wounded, fleeing schooner.

"You're a brave and clever fool, Prakna," said Nicabar softly,
studying the logistics playing out in front of him.

Prakna was moving in between the schooner and the Relentless. If
he had cannons on the Prince, he would have shifted them
starboard to fire on Relentless' rigging. Nicabar hoped Captain
Carce had figured this out. Did Carce even recognize the Prince?
Nicabar's brow furrowed with worry. The cruiser Relentless was
quick, but not quick enough. The admiral looked to the right, toward
the dreadnought Notorious. She was hanging back from the
Relentless and flanking her. Prakna's course would take him
straight toward Notorious.

"Captain Blasco," said Nicabar calmly. His second-in-command
was at his shoulder, waiting for instructions. "Change course. Give
me ten degrees starboard, toward Notorious. Let's make things
more interesting for Prakna."

"Aye, sir," said Blasco, grinning. "Should we prime the flame
cannons?"

Nicabar took a long time considering the question. He didn't want
to sink the Prince or damage her too badly. She was to be their
pawn, after all. She would tell the others about the Black Fleet. And
Biagio would be proven correct—again. The admiral's smile grew.
Maybe Herrith was right about Biagio. Maybe he was a devil.

"Yes," decided Nicabar at last. "Yes, prime the cannons. I want to
bloody Prakna's nose a bit."

The Prince of Liss swept over the waves, devouring the distance
between herself and Gray Lady. Prakna could see his sister ship
clearer now, tacking wildly as she tried to outmaneuver the cruiser.
Normally, the fast ships of Liss could out-pace Naren cruisers, but
Gray Lady's condition prevented her from gathering enough wind
to escape. The two combatants seemed evenly matched now,
neither any quicker than the other, and since she was out of range
from her prey, the cruiser had stopped firing. Gray Lady had no
doubt seen the Prince coming to her aid and had tried to keep as
straight a course as possible so that the flagship could get
between them. On the Prince's starboard side, the four cannons
had been readied, and the cannoneers watched as they
approached the cruiser, ready to fire. The cruiser hadn't slowed,
and no orders had flashed from the Fearless. But the big
dreadnought had changed course to intercept the Prince, and
Prakna fretted a little over his plan. They were already heading
toward one of the smaller dreadnoughts, and Prakna had gambled
that his vessel's superior maneuverability would keep them safe.
But now the Fearless was bearing down on them too. It was either
change course and let the Gray Lady die, or take their chances
against the two dreadnoughts. Prakna cursed under his breath, just
loud enough for Marus to hear him.

"Shall we change course?" asked the captain anxiously.

Prakna shook his head. "No. Not an inch."

"Sir, the Fearless—"

"I see her, Marus."

Marus said no more. He was not a coward, and Prakna knew his
officer would do as ordered. So the Prince held its course, and in
mere minutes was only leagues away from the two vessels. Gray
Lady pulled hard to port to close the distance between her and the
Prince. A giant wave slammed into the Prince's prow, pitching her
up like a surfacing whale. The pursuing cruiser stayed on course,
perpendicular to the Prince as if to ram her. Prakna's four
starboard cannons were almost in range, ready to shred the
cruiser's rigging. Up in the far distance, the dreadnought on the left
of the diamond formation had changed course to intercept the
Prince of Liss, and the Fearless was grinding relentlessly toward
them, her masts straining as the northern winds filled her sails.

"Get us closer," Prakna shouted to his pilot. "Closer!"

The short-range cannons needed to be close to be effective. The
fuse poles of the cannons fizzled and popped eagerly, waiting for
the chance to light the powder and launch the grapeshot. Prakna
glanced over his shoulder toward the third dreadnought. She had
changed course, too, and was eating up the distance to the
damaged Gray Lady. The fleet commander's heart sank at the
sight of the dreadnought. At her angle she would be able to reach
Gray Lady and fire her flame cannons before Prakna could take out
the cruiser. Prakna grit his teeth.

"Ready . . ." he shouted to the cannoneers.

The Gray Lady slipped behind them.

"Ready . . ."

The Naren cruiser was just ahead, nearly in range.

"Ready . . ."

The Lady was safe. The cruiser aimed amidships to the Prince,
barely a league from ramming and refusing to change course.
Prakna balled up a fist and screamed the order.

"Fire!"

All around him the deck erupted. One by one the cannons
detonated, rocking the schooner. Red lightning shot from their
muzzles as they expelled their barrels full of shot and shrapnel.
The deck of the Prince filled with white smoke. Prakna squinted to
see through the haze and watched as the cruiser's rigging suffered
the barrage, wailing in torture as the hot metal of the cannons
ravaged it. The cruiser churned onward, damaged but still on
course. Prakna shouted to his pilot to steer hard to port to avoid
the collision. The Lissen flagship bent to its new course, nearly
pitching the sailors overboard as she groaned with effort. The
cannoneers hurried to reload for another barrage, but the Prince
was already past the cruiser and out of range. The cruiser skidded
by, missing the Prince by mere yards, and as she passed, Prakna
caught a glimpse of her ruined rigging, now in flames and coming
apart at the yards. A victorious cheer went up from his men, but
Prakna barely heard it. The Fearless and the other dreadnought
were bearing down on them. Behind them, Gray Lady, who had so
narrowly escaped the cruiser, was now being stalked by the third
dreadnought.

The signalmen along the deck of the Fearless passed their
admiral's orders to the other ships of the escort. To the Notorious
they sent the order not to fire on the Prince of Liss. But their signal
to the Black City was far more dire.

Sink the damaged schooner.

Admiral Nicabar had remained on the prow of his flagship and had
watched as Prakna maneuvered the Prince between the
Relentless and the fleeing Lissen schooner. He had even laughed
when Relentless' rigging had been ruined, cursing Carce's
stupidity at trying to ram the Prince. The Relentless was driving
without sails now, and would have to limp back to Crote. But
Prakna's bold move had come at a price. Now he was looking
down the throat of both the Fearless and Notorious, passing
between them in much the same way he had the two other ships.
This time, however, Notorious was angled guns forward, and the
Fearless herself was positioning to fire.

"Ten degrees left rudder," Nicabar called to his captain, who
relayed the order to the pilot. At once the giant warship lurched left,
positioning her starboard side toward the Prince of Liss. On the
gun deck below, the starboard flame cannons hissed to life. The
Fearless had a battery of six flame cannons on both the port and
starboard sides, and any one of them could easily reach Prakna's
vessel. One shot could put down a vessel's rigging, setting it
aflame. Nicabar knew he needed to be cautious. He didn't want to
cripple the Prince of Liss. He just wanted to teach his old enemy a
lesson.

In just a few moments the Fearless was in position. The upper
deck shook with the mechanical movement of the cannons on the
gun deck below. While the flame cannons cranked into position,
the Notorious made a bold turn to sail parallel to the Prince. The
two dreadnoughts sailed a southeast heading. The Prince was
heading northwest, directly between the two of them, but in the
opposite direction. It looked like a foolish move, Nicabar knew, but
it would give Prakna a much needed escape.

"He'll think me an idiot for this," sneered Nicabar. "I promise you,
Prakna. I'll kill you another day." He turned to call over his shoulder.
"Blasco, get ready to fire. And signal Black City again! What the
hell are they waiting for?"

The Prince of Liss was at full speed. The wind cut into Prakna's
face. A terrible exhilaration went through him as he watched the big
silhouette of the Fearless grow ever larger. To port was the smaller
dreadnought, its flame cannons bearing down on them, just out of
range. To starboard loomed the Fearless, her own guns certainly in
range but holding their fire. Prakna wondered why. Both
dreadnoughts would be sailing past the Prince, and Prakna was
dead in their crossfire, ready to be pommelled with fire. His mind
skipped over the possibilities. His own starboard cannons were
ready to fire again, but they were no match for the heavy armor of
Nicabar's flagship, and so Prakna didn't bother giving the order to
fire. The shots would have simply bounced off the Fearless' hull.
He had no cannons to use against the smaller dreadnought to port
but it wouldn't have mattered either. Like her big sister, the
dreadnought was dressed to withstand such small attacks. Only a
full-speed ramming could sink one of Nar's warships. Prakna took
a deep breath of cold air and made his decision.

"Marus," he said quickly. "Left full rudder. Turn us against the small
one."

"Left full rudder, aye, sir," shouted Marus. He called the order down
to the pilot. At once the Prince moved to port, turning her shining
metal ram toward the hull or the smaller dreadnought. A giant
concussion ripped open the air. Prakna turned to look at the
Fearless, afraid she had opened fire. But it wasn't the flagship that
was firing. It was the third dreadnought, the one stalking Gray Lady.
Far in the distance, the dreadnought's flame cannons exploded to
life, sending streams of fire against Gray Lady's already damaged
hull. The guns sang out in unison, obscuring the dreadnought
behind a wall of flame and black smoke, and in a moment the Gray
Lady was engulfed in fire. The flames caught the wind and spread
across her deck and rigging.

Prakna watched, horrified. The dreadnought's flame cannons
detonated again. And again they blasted Gray Lady, scorching her
hull and blowing apart her yard-arms, until she was only a flaming
hulk drifting across the ocean. The men on board the Prince of
Liss fell mute.

"Attention, lads!" Prakna screamed at them. "Look alive!"

The sound of their commander's voice snapped the sailors from
their stupor. Each of them braced for the ramming. The
dreadnought was perpendicular to them now, growing ever closer
but still refusing to fire. The Fearless opened fire instead.

To Prakna, it was the like end of the world. Only once before had
he heard the Naren flagship's cannons, and then it had been from a
great distance. This time, he was the target. The sky overhead
ripped open with an orange blast, burning down the tops of his
masts and incinerating the men in the crow's nest. Louder than an
earthquake came the wave, searing off the flag and slicing through
the high rigging. Another blast ripped past them to starboard and
another one to port, and all at once the air turned rancid with the
smell of burning kerosene. Prakna's eyes flooded with tears and
the skin beneath his uniform cooked in the heat. The Prince roiled
forward, toward the smaller dreadnought. The blasts from the
Fearless dissipated, and Prakna knew suddenly why he was still
alive. The Fearless couldn't fire directly at them for fear of striking
her sister.

"Stay on course!" Prakna shouted to his crew. The other
dreadnought was still not firing on them, probably for fear of
striking the Naren flagship. The Prince of Liss, the top of her masts
smoldering, churned toward her prey, her giant ram extended.
Quickly the dreadnought changed course, steering hard away from
the advancing schooner. Prakna cursed and shook his fist at them,
but the dreadnought was just fast enough to avoid the Prince's
ram, scraping away from her. Behind the Prince, the Fearless was
still sailing away in the opposite direction, almost out of gun angle
and not maneuvering to re-acquire. The small dreadnought
followed her big sister away from the Prince. Prakna gripped the
railing, his knuckles white, his mind racing. Miraculously, they had
escaped, and with enough sail intact to carry them away. Slowly,
ponderously, the Fearless tried to turn its starboard guns against
the Prince, but the schooner was already pulling away from them.
The crewmen cheered at their escape, howling at the Naren
vessels as they skirted away. But the burning hulk of the distant
Gray Lady tempered their mirth. Already the three dreadnoughts
were converging on her, and the little cruiser with the ruined rigging
had managed to turn back toward the Fearless. Gray Lady burned
in the center of them, helpless.

"Prakna?" asked Marus carefully. "Should we change course to
help her?"

"Help her?" said Prakna gravely. "How? She's dead, Marus. Stay
on course. Get us the hell out of here."

Dead. Haggi and the rest of them. As the Prince churned away
from the melee, her flags torn away and two of her crewmen
burned to husks, Prakna fell into a miserable silence. He watched
in revulsion as the Fearless and her escort vessels closed the
noose around Gray Lady's neck. The Naren flagship turned
cannon-side to the schooner. All along her burning decks, the men
of the Gray Lady jumped overboard, abandoning their attempts to
tame the flames engulfing their ship. With a thunderous boom, the
Fearless' guns opened fire on the schooner, annihilating her.

She just blew apart. She was there and then she wasn't, and all that
was left of the small schooner was a burning slick on the ocean
and a collection of flotsam. The men of the Prince stared in
disbelief. Prakna stared too, and was completely unable to
speak—not even to Marus who was looking at him for support.

"Prakna?" asked the captain. "What now?"

Prakna held up a hand to silence his friend. Haggi had been a
good man. A family man, like Prakna himself. When they returned
to Liss, Prakna knew, he would have to tell Haggi's young wife that
her husband was dead. But he wouldn't tell her that he had been
destroyed so casually, or that his ship had simply evaporated. His
memory deserved better than that.

"Sir," Marus pressed. "What course? Should we turn to warn the
others?"

"We go south," declared Prakna. "We'll warn the others if we see
them. If not we sail for Lucel-Lor, as fast as we can." The fleet
commander smiled sadly at his captain. "She's out of Crote,
Marus. Now we have to find Vantran."
FOURTEEN
The Ancient Oak

R ichius Vantran was accustomed to the forest. He had grown up in
Aramoor, a small nation famous for horses and huge, brooding fir
trees. He had spent a lifetime in the woods, travelling with his kingly
father and fishing along lakesides, and hunting when the deer were
in season. Richius always welcomed the chance to be outside
among the trees, to taste sweet air and expel the foul castle breath
from his lungs. Like all Aramoorians, he was as much a woodsman
as he was a soldier and, also as other Aramoorians, he vastly
preferred the first profession. To be with nature and think on small
things was what Richius liked best. And to be on horseback was
the most sublime of all.

In Lucel-Lor, just as back home, the coming winter meant the need
for firewood. The citadel of Falindar lay far to the north, and the
ocean winds could be fierce. There were many hearths to fill in the
grand palace, many hands and feet to warm. And the Triin of the
citadel, more warriors than woodsmen, had gladly granted the
responsibility to Richius. It had been days since Lucyler had left for
Kes, and the castle on the hill was quieter than usual. Richius had
idled the hours away with his wife and daughter, enjoying their
company, yet still with his mind adrift. He worried about Lucyler. He
worried about Simon. But most of all he worried about Aramoor
and the armies of Talistan trampling his homeland. He needed to
get home. He needed to know what was happening in Aramoor and
with Biagio. Even with Dyana and Shani and all the friends and
warriors of Falindar around him, he was alone on an island, adrift
and deaf, and he hated it.

And so it did not surprise Richius at all when he willingly agreed to
help provide firewood for the citadel. It did not surprise Dyana
either, who was glad to have her brooding husband occupied.
What surprised them both, however, was Richius' choice of
assistant. Chopping down trees and lugging back logs was heavy
work and couldn't be done alone, and so Richius had selected
Simon to help him. Richius liked Simon. He had made this startling
admission to himself just hours after meeting the odd fellow. And
Simon had been the perfect guest since. He was never underfoot
and kept his promise to stay far away from Dyana and the baby.
Instead of skulking the halls, Simon spent the bulk of his time in his
chambers, alone, eating everything the kitchen would bring him. He
and Richius spoke on occasion, and Simon's temperament had
become somewhat less waspish. Most surprisingly of all, the
Naren had been grateful for Richius' suggestion.

"It would be good to get out of the castle," Simon had told him.
"For both of us."

So the next morning, Richius and Simon set out from Falindar, the
oddest-looking pair the palace had ever seen. They were dressed
in traditional Triin garb—not the blue jackets of warriors but the
plain clothing of ordinary workers. Richius had left his prize sword
behind, trading it for a toothy axe, a twin of which was carried by
Simon. Lightning, Richius' mount, led the way down the long and
winding hillside road, and Simon trotted along behind on a
powerfully built gelding. Behind were a pair of mules, brawny gray
beasts strong enough to haul the wagon they would soon be filling
with logs. The wagon would hold two good-sized trees, a full day's
labor, at least.

It was a good morning, clear of clouds. Richius' breath trailed out in
puffs of steam. On the horizon, the rocky mountains of Tatterak
loomed with austere permanence, and at their base was the
emerald hue of the forest.

Richius relished the ride ahead. They kept their pace light and
easy, not wanting to exhaust the mules, and before long they were
in the confines of the forest. A narrow road wound through the
woods, reaching toward Dring and the southern regions of Lucel-
Lor. The path was empty today and quiet, and the birds that hadn't
migrated to warmer climes chirped and whistled in the trees. The
path was full of fallen leaves, collecting in pockets along the
roadside where the wind had mindlessly shunted them.

Richius and Simon hardly spoke as they rode. Simon kept to the
rear and attended the mules, who plodded along without complaint
or interest in their surroundings. When they were well into the
forest, Richius at last turned to speak to his companion.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he asked. "The forest, I mean. Like home, sort
of."

"It's very nice," said Simon dryly. "Cold, but nice."

"Oh, this isn't cold, Simon. It's going to get a lot colder before
long."

"Then we'd better stop sightseeing and get our wood, shouldn't
we?" The Naren looked around with an unseasoned eye. "This
looks like as good a place as any to start chopping some trees."

Richius shook his head. "No. A little farther. Let's explore the forest
a bit more. Personally, I'm glad to be away from the citadel. The
longer we're gone the better. And we're not going to get it all done
in a day."

Simon raised a questioning eyebrow. "You don't think much of the
place, do you, Vantran? I can tell."

"That's because it's not really home. Not my home, anyway. And
not Dyana's either. I don't think any of us belong in Falindar. Not
even Lucyler." Richius shrugged, resigned to his fate. "But it looks
like we're stuck with it. Come on. Not much farther."

Simon agreed, not caring where they found their firewood. He
followed Richius apathetically, like some sort of older brother, and
trotted along without speaking as Richius spied the forest. But
Richius felt Simon's eyes on his back, always watching. It was an
uncomplicated stare, without malice, and Richius had given up
trying to decipher it. Since bringing Simon to Falindar, he had
decided to accept Simon's story—mainly because Simon hadn't
given him cause to doubt it—and the older Naren's strange ways
were becoming predictable. It had been a long time since Richius
had lived among his own kind; he had almost forgotten how
pensive they could be.

They travelled for another mile and more, until at last the elms and
birch trees thinned and fell away, and they were in a grove of oak
trees. The giants of the forest reached high into the autumn sky,
dominating the world with their height and their stout, rugged trunks.
Richius smiled when he saw them. This was why he had ridden so
deep.

"Here," he declared proudly. He reined his horse to a stop and
dropped down to the ground, surveying their surroundings. The
place was serene, like a dream. He unstrapped his axe from the
saddle and turned his smile on Simon. "This is it. We'll find what
we want here."

Simon slid nonchalantly off his own horse, plainly unimpressed. He
took hold of his axe and strolled over to Richius. "Which one?" he
asked.

"I don't know," said Richius. "Pick one."

"You're the woodsman, Vantran. They all look the same to me." He
blew into his hands to emphasize his discomfort. "Frankly, I don't
give a damn which one we cut down. As long as it keeps us warm."

"You'll get warm enough swinging that axe," Richius assured him.
"Come on, your choice. But not too near the road. I don't want to
block it." After tying off the horses and mules, Richius walked off
the road and into the forest a little, bidding Simon to follow. The
older man laughed a bit and shook his head, obviously amused
with Richius' enthusiasm but polite enough not to insult him.
Richius held his tongue, determined to get Simon involved. He
wanted—he needed—a friend of his own bloodline, and Simon
was the closest thing he had. Like it or not, Simon was going to
pick a tree for them.

"That's a good one," Richius suggested, pointing out a hardy-
looking oak not too close to other trees. "Enough distance to swing
our axes. Big, too. What do you think?"

"Fine," agreed Simon quickly. "Whatever."

"Come on, Simon. Put some heart into it. What do you think?
Really, I mean."

Simon looked at Richius squarely. "I think it's a tree. I think if we cut
it into pieces it will burn. That's good enough for me."

Richius tried not to look hurt. Simon caught the little furrowing of his
brow and sighed.

"I'm just not a woodsman, all right? I mean, hell, I only agreed to
help you to get away from the castle for a while, breathe some
clean air. So now we're out here, right? Let's just chop the thing
down and be done with it."

"Fine," said Richius. He hefted up his axe and went toward the oak.
Simon followed quietly after him. The dead leaves crunched
beneath their boots, emphasizing the cool silence between them.
Richius lifted his axe and made to strike, but Simon abruptly
stopped him.

"Wait," said Simon. "Wait." He looked at the oak disdainfully,
shaking his head. "Not this one. It's too . . ."

"What?"

Simon scoffed. "Too small. Yes, too small. This thing wouldn't
keep us warm for a week."

"Too small? This tree is plenty big. Come on, Simon, quit playing
games."

"It's too small, I tell you." Simon buried his axe head in the ground
and folded his arms over his chest. "I won't chop this one. I want to
pick one of my own."

"Lord almighty . . ."

"You said I could," snapped Simon. He retrieved his axe and
tramped off deeper into the forest.

"How big do you want it?" Richius called after Simon.

"Big!" Simon laughed over his shoulder. "As big as Falindar.
Bigger!"

"Oh, yes? And who's going to cut it down? You and I? Alone?"

"I'm not as feeble as you think I am, Vantran. I'll show you how to
cut down a tree!"

Richius laughed, caught up in the folly. Behind them, Lightning and
the other animals had disappeared from view but Richius gave little
heed. For the first time in months, he was actually enjoying himself.
Simon stopped at several trees, looking each of them up and down
before dismissing them with feigned disgust.

"Bring me a giant!" he called dramatically, wringing his axe in both
hands. And then suddenly Simon stopped walking, and his eyes
lifted toward the heavens. Before them, blocking out the sun and
the sky beyond, was the widest, tallest, greatest oak tree ever, a
behemoth that made all the others in the forest shrink like dwarves.
Older than the mountains, older it seemed than earth herself, the
ancient oak stood before them, a perfect specimen of untouched
time.

"That one," Simon whispered, thunderstruck.

"That one?" asked Richius incredulously. "Are you insane? We
can't chop that thing down alone. It would take the two of us all day.
Lord, it's bigger around the middle than Aramoor."

Simon was resolute. "That one," he said again. "Oh, yes. No doubt
about it. That's the bastard I want."

"Simon, be reasonable. We've only got one wagon."

"We can come back for the rest," argued Simon. He did not take
his eyes from the tree or raise his voice an octave. He was
entranced. And something more. An unhealthy spark played in his
eyes. Now when he wrung the axe handle he did so slowly,
absently, studying the quarry before him. Richius let out a loud,
exasperated breath.

"It's too old," he said. "I don't think we should cut it down. Look how
beautiful it is. It's probably been here for centuries."

Simon nodded darkly. "Yes. Centuries."

"We should let it be, show it some respect."

"No. I won't. It is too old. Too damn old." He pointed his axe at it
accusingly. "Look at it. It should have been dead decades ago, but
it's a cheat. It's stealing life it has no right to anymore, like some
piggish Naren lord."

Richius felt profoundly sad. "I think it's very beautiful," he said. "I
don't want to chop it down."

"Beautiful?" chuckled Simon. "On the surface, maybe. But not
deep down beneath the skin. No. It's lived too bloody long to be
anything but a graceless pig. You said I could pick the tree. Well I
pick this old wretch. Help if you want. Or don't. Whatever."

And without another word Simon swung his axe against the ancient
oak, slamming the blade into its bark and slicing a deep wound. He
took another blow and then another, and soon the chips were flying
out of the enormous trunk, little dents in a suit of armor ten feet
wide. Richius watched Simon work, wondering at the hatred that
had so suddenly engulfed him. Simon kept swinging his axe
without pause. Finally, inexplicably, Richius took up position on the
other side of the great tree trunk and began hacking away at it.
Simon stopped. His eyes lifted to look at Richius, and a smile
crossed his lips. He waited for Richius to complete a swing before
swinging his own axe again, and in two strokes they had the
rhythm—Richius then Simon then Richius then Simon, and slowly,
very slowly, they chipped away at the ancient oak.

It was a monumental task. Within minutes Richius' forehead
beaded with sweat. Simon was already breathing hard. But they
shared encouraging glances as they fought against the stubborn
bark and stony flesh, grunting as they pushed their muscles to the
maximum. They worked for an hour or more, and when they had
finally cleaved a deep crevice in the trunk, Simon held up a hand in
surrender.

"God, I'm tired," he wheezed, laughing. He leaned against his axe,
his face and shirt doused with sweat. They had only dug a fraction
into the massive tree, and had many more hours of work ahead of
them.

"You're sure this was a good idea?" quipped Richius. He, too, was
exhausted.

Simon nodded angrily. "Very sure. Water." He pointed weakly
toward the roadway in the distance. "We should have brought
some water."

"I'll get it," said Richius. He dropped his axe and made his way
back to where they had left their horses. The water skins they had
brought with them were fat and cool. Richius retrieved them, along
with the food they had brought along. He was more than just thirsty.
The hard work had famished him. And there was still so much
more to do. First they had to fell the big tree, then start chopping it,
then drag the pieces into the wagon. Richius cursed a little under
his breath, berating himself for letting Simon choose the tree. But
then he remembered the Naren's determined glare and the violent
way he swung his axe, and he decided that he was glad Simon had
chosen the tree. Whatever anger he was feeling was being
directed straight through his axe and into the old oak, and it was
like they were truly countrymen, maybe even friends.

Richius hurried back with the water and food. He found Simon back
at work, hacking at the tree trunk. He waved to the older man to
stop, holding up the water skin. Simon dropped his axe gratefully
and took the water, drinking down a healthy swig and wiping his
mouth on his sleeve.

"That's good," he sighed. "Thanks. What's that? Food?"

"My wife packed some for us. Hungry?"

"Always." Simon grinned. He cast a look at the tree. "But we've got
a lot of work to do. Maybe we should wait."

Richius sat down cross-legged on the ground and began
rummaging through the pack. "You can wait if you like. I'll just sit
here and watch you work. All right?"

"Not hardly," said Simon, dropping his axe. He craned his neck to
peek inside the pack. "What've you got in there?"

Richius started pulling food out of the package. Two rounds of
flatbread, some vegetables, some dried meat, fruit shaped like
apples. It was all Triin food, but Richius had long since grown
accustomed to it, and Simon, who would seemingly eat anything,
sat down greedily in front of the feast. He snatched up one of the
fruits and took a deep bite of it, sighing with satisfaction at the
taste.

"What is this?" he asked. "It's good."

"The Triin call that a shibo," said Richius. "A love fruit. It comes
from a tree that grows not far from here. They harvest them in the
autumn like apples."

Simon pulled his dagger out of his belt and began slicing off
pieces of the fruit. He offered one of the slices to Richius. This
was the time of year for the shibo. Richius tore off a hunk of the
Triin bread and gave it to Simon. The Naren put it up to his nose
and took a whiff. His nostrils were still swollen, but he could smell
it.

"Lord, it's bloody good to see food again," he said. "And so much
of it. I don't know why you're not contented here, Vantran. A man
could do worse for himself."

"I suppose," Richius shrugged. "But life is more than food, you
know. Sometimes a man needs different things besides a solid
roof and full stomach." He raised his eyes to examine Simon's
reaction. "Don't you think?"

"A man needs precious little," said Simon. "You're royalty. You
don't know what it's like to have nothing. I do. And when I eat good
bread, I think I taste more than you do. You're used to having
everything handed to you, aren't you? No insult, really. It's just the
truth. Am I right?"

"You're wrong. When I fought in the Dring Valley we had nothing,
not even provisions from the Empire. And I never wanted to be
made a king, either. That happened when my father died and I had
no say in it. And no one gave me Dyana or Shani. I had to fight to
get them back. My exile from Nar is the price I paid. I lost Aramoor
in the bargain. So don't go thinking I have so much, Simon,
because I don't. Not anymore."

Simon was unimpressed. Deliberately, he cut another section of
fruit with his dagger, sliding it off the blade and onto his tongue.
There was a sly smile on his face as he chewed. "You want to
trade sad stories, Jackal? I don't recommend it. You'd lose."

"Maybe. But I don't want you getting ideas about me. Whatever you
learned about me in Nar or from Blackwood Gayle is false. I'm not
some spoiled brat-prince. I fought hard here in Lucel-Lor. I saw my
share of horrors. And I lost friends. Don't make me defend their
memories, Simon. You'd lose."

Simon held up a hand in mock surrender. "All right. Like I said, no
offense. But you go moping around the castle like the weight of the
world is on your shoulders."

"You have no idea," said Richius softly.

"Maybe not. Why don't you tell me?"

"No thanks. It's a bit personal."

"We might be together a long time," said Simon. "I've already told
you some things about me, why I deserted. It's your turn now."

"It's not a game we're playing, Simon. I don't have to tell you
anything."

Simon grinned. "You know what I see when I look at you, Vantran?"

"What?"

Simon leaned back, making himself comfortable. "You're really
tired of living with the Triin. I can tell. You want to be back in Nar,
with your own kind. And you can't stop wondering what's going on
back in Aramoor, can you? I know because I have the same kind of
thoughts. I wonder what's going on in the Empire too, especially
back in Doria. But I left it behind. You haven't. You won't."

"I can't," Richius corrected. "You're not the king of Doria, Simon.
You didn't leave folks behind to get slaughtered."

The most probing light came on in Simon's eyes. "Did you?"

It was a horrible question. Richius turned from it, staring at the
ground and his half-eaten bread.

"Yes," he whispered. "I left my wife behind. You already know that.
Blackwood Gayle killed her. Gayle and Biagio." He closed his eyes
and her face came into his mind. "Her name was Sabrina."

"She was very beautiful," said Simon. "All of us who served with
Gayle had heard that. It was barbaric what he did to her. I'm very
sorry for you."

"Gayle did the killing. Now he's dead. And by my hand, thank God.
But not that other devil, Biagio. He was the one who gave the order.
He and Arkus both handed Aramoor over to Talistan." Richius
looked up at Simon and found that the older man was staring at
him, his face full of sorrow. "And I can't live with that. That's what
you see when you look at me, Simon. It's not sadness. It's
revenge."

"Like I said, I'm sorry for you," said Simon. Oddly, he glanced at
the tree. "Revenge is a horrible thing. It consumes men. And it will
consume you if you let it."

"It already has," said Richius. "I can think of nothing else but going
after Biagio. And then Aramoor. I've vowed to free it someday, to
make it my own again."

Simon let out a mocking chuckle. "That's a big boast, boy. You
should be careful what you vow. Make them small so you won't die
with them still on your head."

"I will do it," said Richius seriously. "I know it sounds impossible,
but I will. Someday." He shrugged. "Somehow."

"You'll go to your grave with that one," Simon promised. "You don't
know what you're trying to fight. You ever been to Nar?"

"I was made king there," said Richius. "I met the emperor."

"Did you? Well then you should have the common sense to figure
out what you're up against. Nar isn't just an army or a nation. Nar
isn't even the legions. It's a way of life. That's what the Black
Renaissance is, Vantran. It's like a living thing. And no one can
stop it. Especially not you." Simon's face grew dark. "One man just
can't make that kind of difference."

"They brainwash you legionnaires. They make you think you're
nothing without them. But you're wrong. One man can make a
difference. I've proven that already. And I'm going to keep being a
thorn in the Empire's side, and I'm going to free Aramoor
someday. You just watch me."

"One man is like a dead leaf against Nar, Vantran. You're just too
young and naive to see that. Maybe someday you'll understand."

It was a lost argument, Richius knew, so he merely tore off another
piece of bread and stuffed it in his mouth, washing it down with a
gulp from the water skin. He noticed then that Simon had stopped
eating. The Naren stared pensively at the tree, at the giant gash in
the oak's trunk, and his eyes were distant, as if he were looking
through the thing to something invisible beyond.

"Simon?" Richius asked. "Eat."

Simon got up. He walked over to where he had left his axe and
retrieved the tool, glancing between its sharp head and the
exposed belly of the tree.

"You go ahead and eat," he said. "I've got a tree to chop down."
FIFTEEN
The Orphan

T hey were called the hills of Locwala, and they were splendid. Tall
and green, lush and quiet, they were legendary throughout the
Empire, not only for their verdancy and their peaceful music, but
also because they hid the greatest city ever constructed. It was not
possible to reach the capital of the Empire without first crossing
the hills of Locwala, unless you were a sea traveller and could pay
the exorbitant sums to hire a ship. All others who made the
pilgrimage to Nar City—the Black City—did so by crossing
Locwala. And they did so at their peril, for no one could see the
hills without being changed forever.

The hills of Locwala were paradise. They were what the artists and
laureates of Nar called its most splendid place, an oasis of nature
left untouched by the metal city just beyond. In the hills of Locwala,
one could barely detect the acrid stench of the capital or hear the
drone of the foundries as they smelted copper and iron. It was a
perfect place, unpolluted, made so by decree of Nar's last
emperor, the one who called himself "Arkus the Great." He was an
emperor with a fondness for roses and a voracious appetite for
beauty, and though he had loved the mechanical behemoth he had
built on the shores of the Dhoon Sea, he had been a pragmatic
man, too, and knew that the Naren nobles who dwelt in the Black
City would grow tired of the towers and the beggars in the streets
and would long for a place of clean air and tall trees. The hills of
Locwala had been untouched for generations, and to cut down one
of its trees or improperly dispose of something on its roads was
still a crime, punishable by death. Even Archbishop Herrith, de
facto ruler of Nar in the wake of Arkus' death, upheld those laws. It
was said that Herrith considered Locwala a sacred place, a place
that God Himself had told Arkus to set aside, and no one in the
Black City, faithful or loyalist, had a mind to question the decree.
Locwala belonged to them all, and they were content just to know it
existed.

Lorla reached out from the back of her pony and snatched a dried
leaf from a branch. She knew all about the rules of Locwala, but
didn't think a single leaf would matter. It was a dead leaf, anyway,
like all the leaves this time of year, and it crackled in her hand,
providing little entertainment. Locwala was beautiful, but she had
been riding through it for a full day now and had grown tired of the
hills and tree-lined avenues. Phantom, the pony she had ridden out
of Goth, trotted quietly beneath her, following the caravan.

Ahead of them, Enli sat sternly atop his black war-horse. He had
grown very distant in the last weeks, and Lorla wasn't sure about
him anymore. He was still kind to her in his own brusque way, but
he hardly spoke at all anymore. Since leaving Dragon's Beak, Enli
had changed. He was agitated now, distant and snappish with his
men, the ones with the crossbows who stayed very close to him.

Lorla missed Dragon's Beak. She missed Nina and all the books
and having a room of her own to sleep in. She missed exploring
Red Tower and her brief friendship with the duke's daughter, but
most of all she missed having some place—any place—to call
home. It had been a long ride from Dragon's Beak. Enli had paid
for inns and beds when they were available, and they had been
well fed, but even the good roads to Nar were treacherous and
tedious, and not at all restful for such a small girl. And that's exactly
how Lorla saw herself these days—a small girl. Despite her nearly
adult years, she was a child really, just a pawn in the game the
Master was playing. Enli had already told her what to say and do
when they reached Nar, and he had scolded her when she asked if
she could see the war labs again.

"You are not to mention the war labs," he had insisted. "Forget
what you know about them. You are Lorla Lon now, from Dragon's
Beak. An orphan. Remember the Master, Lorla. He is depending
on you."

They were all depending on her now, and it was like a great weight
crushing her. Even Nina was depending on her. The duke's
daughter had kissed her good-bye and hugged her, but not before
warning her that she had to succeed. There was war in Dragon's
Beak now. And the Master was counting on her.

The Master. Always the Master.

Lorla had never met Count Renato Biagio, but she had never had a
truer father. It was his voice she heard when she wondered about
herself, his decrees that rang in her head like church bells. She
had been taught in the war labs that Biagio was the source of all
knowledge and goodness, and that he loved her very much. It
surprised Lorla that she loved Biagio as well. Or at least she
supposed it was love she felt. Truly, she didn't know precisely what
love felt like. But when she thought of the Master she felt fear and a
kind of gratitude at having been made special according to his
orders, and that was love, surely.

Duke Enli had only told her snippets about what was happening in
Dragon's Beak, but Lorla had been able to guess the rest. It was a
simple matter to put things together, and Nina's evasiveness had
helped Lorla to fill the gaps. The duke hated his brother. The duke
had soldiers all over his castle and grounds. And now they were
travelling to Nar to ask the bishop's aid and to beg soldiers from
the Black City. Whatever elaborate plan the Master had set into
motion, Lorla knew Dragon's Beak would never be the same. The
two forks were at war now. She had even overheard some of Enli's
own men saying that Eneas was dead. She wondered if Enli felt
sorry for his brother. But Enli was tight-lipped. He had given her
Biagio's orders, and had volunteered no further information.

Lorla's expression soured as she rode. Enli's back was turned
toward her, the way it always was now. She had tried to be a good
houseguest, yet he had spurned her. It hurt her to wonder what he
really thought of her. Still, she did not speak or try to get the duke's
attention. That had always been a useless ploy. Duke Enli was lost
in his own grim world. Even his men couldn't speak to him. He
seemed remarkably sad.

Alone with only her pony for company, Lorla rode behind the rest
of the column, studying the trees. Soon they would be in Nar City. It
had been many, many months since she had left her room in the
war labs to live in Goth. Lorla craned her neck to try and peer over
the hills, but she could not even sense the first inkling of Nar's
skyline.

Still, knowing it was there kept her going. She was eager to be off
the road, and Duke Enli had told her that Herrith would pamper her.
He was not going to be able to resist her, he had promised. The
claim had made her uneasy. Was she so beautiful? Or had
Biagio's servants in the labs created her especially for Herrith?
Lorla trembled a little, afraid for herself. Herrith was said to be an
insatiable monster. She wondered how young girls figured in his
appetites.

At the end of the day, when the sun began to dip and the air grew
cool, Duke Enli spoke the first words he had in hours, bringing his
small caravan to a halt. It would be dark soon. Time to make camp.
The duke helped his soldiers unload the provisions from the backs
of the horses while others made a fire not far from the road, spying
a clearing in which they could spend the night. Lorla, who was
accustomed to the routine now, undid her own bed roll and laid it
by the fire, then went into the forest to help gather sticks to keep
the flame alive. Faren, the duke's aide, made them dinner and told
off-color jokes as they ate. Faren was a simple man, and Lorla
liked him. He was also dangerous and handsome and even a bit
arrogant. But he was kind to her and generous with water and food,
enough so that Lorla trusted sleeping near him. She never slept
near the duke, for Enli kept to himself even at sleep time, never
getting too near the others. That night the duke ate his supper
alone, taking his tin plate with him and sitting under a dark and
brooding tree, absently listening to the laughter of his men. Lorla
stole glances at him as she ate, feeling sorry for him. How quickly
he had lost the mirthful glint in his eyes that had been there when
they'd met. Now his eyes were dead. He was dropping weight, too,
hardly touching his food. And in the morning he was always the first
to rise, glad to be free of his restless slumber. His men dared not
whisper behind his back, but Lorla knew they sensed the change in
him.

After eating, the men stayed around the fire and talked. Lorla
remained with them, listening without speaking, wondering about
the Black City and her new home with Herrith. Enli strolled off by
himself and was missing for an hour before he returned. His face
was ashen in the firelight. Lorla looked up at him through the
smoke.

"Lorla," he said softly. "Come here."

Lorla did as the duke asked, getting up and wiping the dirt from her
clothes. Faren and the others watched her go, then quickly
resumed their conversation. The duke stretched out his hand for
Lorla. It was big and cold and she took it warily.

"Walk with me," he said, pulling her away from the light. Lorla tried
to smile but couldn't. They went to a dark place in a grove of birch
trees. Enli paused and looked skyward toward the bloodred moon.
His red beard and red lips glowed with lunar fire. He squeezed
Lorla's hand tightly.

"Tomorrow we will reach the city," he said. "I will be giving you over
to Herrith and we won't see each other anymore."

Lorla nodded. "I know."

"It's a very important thing you're doing. You must not forget that."

"I won't forget."

The duke smiled down at her. "I know you won't. It's true,
everything I had heard about you. You are a very remarkable girl,
Lorla. And now you're going to do a very remarkable thing. You
may not understand everything the Master asks of you, but it's a
great task you've been given. History will be made by what you do
these next few weeks."

The weight of the statement weakened Lorla's knees. "I will do my
best, Duke Enli. Thank you."

"You know what to do, then?"

"Yes," said Lorla. They had gone over it a dozen times. She was
Lorla Lon, an orphan from the war in Dragon's Beak. Duke Eneas
had attacked them. Her parents had been killed by Eneas' men.
And now she needed Herrith's help to survive. He would, if Enli's
estimation was correct, be unable to resist her.

"How long until your birthday?" he drilled her.

"Two weeks."

"And the name of the street with the toymaker?"

"High Street," she answered. "On a corner near a candle shop."

Enli signed. "Good." He let go of her hand slowly, letting it fall
away, and stared up at the sky. "All you have to do is play your
part," he continued. "Herrith will love you. Biagio is right. He knows
the bishop better than any of us, and he has spies. Earn Herrith's
confidence. Get him to take you to the toymaker. Biagio will do the
rest."

"I will," Lorla promised.

"I believe you," said the duke. "Truly." He sighed again, and this
time it was loud, almost painful to hear. He dropped to one knee in
the dirt and took hold of Lorla's shoulders. His giant hands
ensnared her like a python, but his touch was soft and gentle. "I
want to tell you something," he said. "And I want you to listen
carefully. It's something you deserve to hear."

Lorla braced herself. "Yes, Duke Enli?"

"I want you to hear the truth," said the duke. "My truth. I want you to
listen. Will you do that for me?"

"Of course," said Lorla. "You can tell me anything. I'm good with
secrets."

"Yes, you are. Then listen well, because it will serve you. You need
to know I killed my brother."

"I had guessed that," Lorla said. "You had reason, I'm sure."

"I had good reason," said Enli. "Or I thought I did. But what matters
now is that Eneas is dead, and that I am fighting for Dragon's Beak.
Biagio is helping me. But I won't be able to win this war if you don't
help me, Lorla. If you fail, I'll lose Dragon's Beak and the war there
will go on. Many people will die. Do you understand that?"

"No," Lorla answered honestly. "I don't understand anything. I
never have. I just do what I'm told." She looked down to avoid the
duke's eyes. "And I hate it. I hate being this thing I am. I hate being
used by you and the Master. I'm . . ."

She stopped herself. How could she tell the duke she was lonely?
He would laugh at her.

"What, Lorla?" asked the duke. "Tell me."

Lorla looked up at him. "Duke Enli, I will do what I am asked to do,
because I want what is best for you and the Master. And because I
can't do anything else. Something inside me stops me even from
thinking of it." She felt emotion rising in her, tears threatening to
burst. "I will go to Herrith and make him love me. If that's what the
Master wants, I'll do it for him."

"Lorla, I promise you, this is more than something Biagio wants.
And it's more than something I want. The Empire is depending on
you."

Lorla nodded, hoping she wouldn't cry. "Yes. I know all this."

"Oh, child . . ."

"I am not a child!" she flared, yanking herself away from him. "I'm
sixteen. Almost a woman."

"A woman in a child's body," the duke corrected. "You've been
bred for this moment. It's like they told you in the war labs—you're
something special." He reached out to stroke her fine hair. It was
all the contact Lorla needed to start the tears flowing. "Don't forget
that," sighed the duke. "Don't forget your mission or who you are.
The Master needs you. Nar needs you."

"It's a lot," Lorla sniffled. "Maybe too much."

"Small shoulders, but strong," the duke joked with a smile. "I know
you can do it."

"I'm afraid."

"That's all right," said Enli. His voice became a whisper. "To tell you
the truth, I get frightened, too. It doesn't make us less brave,
though. We do what we must." He brushed a strand of hair from
her forehead. Lorla closed her eyes and took a deep, shaking
breath. All the faces came flooding over her; Duke Lokken's gentle
smile and the lips of his wife, Kareena. She thought of Goth,
destroyed by Herrith, and of her new friend Nina, whom she
missed like a long-gone sister. She wanted them all to be proud of
her, even the ghosts.

"I will do what you and the Master have asked of me," she
resolved. "I won't disappoint you, Duke Enli."

"I know you won't. I have great faith in you, as does your master."
Duke Enli replaced his hands on her shoulders, firmly now so she
couldn't pull away. "I haven't been a very good host to you. I'm
sorry for that. You deserved better. But there are so many matters
that plague me." He smiled weakly. "I will miss you, Lorla."

"You will?"

Enli nodded. "I'm not such an evil man, am I? Please tell me I'm
not."

"You're not," laughed Lorla. "You do the Master's work. How can
you be evil?"

Enli's face turned gray. His hands dropped from Lorla's shoulder,
stopping to dangle deathly still at his sides. "Of course," he said
blackly. "The Master's work . . ."

And then the night enveloped them as a cloud crossed the moon.
"Herrith is a devil," said Enli as he contemplated the sky.
"Remember that. No matter how kindly he acts toward you,
remember what he is. That advice is the only protection I can give
you."

"I will remember it," said Lorla. "Thank you."

She watched the duke pensively, and he did not seem to mind her
stare or even notice it. He was lost in the stars above. Tomorrow
they would go to Nar and she would meet this strange bishop at
last, and if she could she would corrupt him and steal his heart
away. But that was hours away yet, and the night and moon had
conspired to attenuate time so that her mission seemed a lifetime
away. Tonight, she would sleep and remember what she could of
her old life. And in the morning, she would die and be reborn.

In the Cathedral of the Martyrs, in a high tower overlooking the city
streets, Archbishop Herrith lay in his bed, unmoving, his eyes
locked on the ceiling. Morning sunlight streamed through the big
window, warming his satin sheets. A holy book lay open on his
chest, unread, rising and falling slowly with the rhythm of his
breathing. The archbishop gasped, straining to bring air into his
lungs. At his bedside stood a tall and twisted apparatus of silver
metal, a rack holding an upside-down bottle of blue liquid. From the
bottle came a hose that snaked away from the rack toward the bed.
The hose terminated in a shiny needle. The needle terminated in
Herrith's arm.

The bishop kept very still as the liquid dripped into his vein.
Occasionally he flexed his fist to coax it along. His eyes burned as
if scalding water was flowing over them. His body felt torn, cleaved
down the center as the potent mixture moved through his vessels.
But even in his pain the Archbishop of Nar did not cry out. It was a
glorious agony, easily endurable. And it was, very slowly, returning
him to life.

Biagio's devilish gift had not been poison as Herrith had feared. It
was what Nicabar had promised, a very potent distillation of
Bovadin's drug. At Nicabar's warning Herrith had mixed the solution
himself, diluting it with water into manageable dosages. It would be
a weekly ritual now. Like it had been before he'd conquered the
habit. But it was so delicious to be vital again. Herrith closed his
eyes, hating himself. Biagio was a clever devil. In all the years they
had served together under Arkus, Biagio had never once spoken
openly against Herrith, even as the bishop whispered curses in the
emperor's ear. But the hatred between the two of them had grown
into a mighty thing. Herrith had thought he had gained the upper
hand. Now, as he sat in his bed sampling the count's malevolent
gift, he wasn't so certain.

But he had time. Time to think. And plan. The little bottle Nicabar
had delivered wasn't a third empty yet. He could get more. Biagio
was eager to talk. He would bargain with the beast, Herrith told
himself. By the time the vial was empty, he would have more. If
Biagio ever wanted to be part of Nar again, he would give up more
of the precious drug.

"You're not the only one that's clever," Herrith hissed. "I can play,
too."

It was a vast and dangerous game for Herrith. He wasn't a tactician
or spy. But Herrith had lived a long time in the Black City and he
knew the pulse of the place. He wasn't entirely without influence of
his own. The bishop's lips twisted into a slight smile. The drug
burned inside him. Yet he endured it, loving it, feeling the potion
work its magic on his joints and teeth and muscles, tightening and
strengthening them, making him young again and halting the march
of time. Already his eyes had regained their brightness. When he
looked in a mirror now he saw two azure gems staring back at him.

I'm strong, the bishop told himself. Strong enough, and getting
stronger.

He would not lose Nar to Biagio. Not now, after all he had been
through.

Slowly the drug dripped into the tube, making the long voyage to
his bloodstream. Herrith opened his eyes to stare at the vial. It was
almost empty. He shuddered, trying to control himself. Treatments
like these could be insufferable, and he had only just recently
started them again. His cravings were gone now and his appetite
had returned with a vengeance. He could clear a table like an
athlete and have room left for dessert. In old Nar, he had been
famous for his girth, but the withdrawal had slimmed him. He was
older now and not pretty, not like Biagio, but it was strength he
needed to conquer the Black Renaissance, not beauty. Strength
was flowing into him. Wicked vitality, created in a bottle by Bovadin.

Outside his window the sun was rising. Soon his skin would turn to
ice again and he would yearn for sunlight like a flower. Along with
the changing of his eyes his flesh would freeze and no man or
woman would be able to endure his touch. Not that it mattered. It
was the one great sacrifice he had made for Heaven, never to lie
with another person. He was a man of yearnings, yet he was a
powerhouse at keeping them chained, and though the pretty
painted ladies of Nar quickened his pulse, he had a gift for
squashing his desires. He did the work of the Lord. He cared for
children in his orphanage and spread the Word. He didn't need the
comfort of flesh, so weak and fleeting. In his youth, before he had
heard the call of Heaven, he had prowled the city for women, sating
his appetite with slave girls and whores, but God had rescued him
from that. His body was clean now, undiseased. As was his mind.

Mostly.

He still thought of Goth, especially when the burn of the treatments
was its deepest. And God still taunted him with half-answers. He
thought of Kye, too, and the colonel's enormous grief, crushing him
like an anvil. God's ways were meant to be a mystery. And the
clues from Heaven had been so clear. Herrith knew with his heart
that the work he did was necessary. But his conscience still
screamed at him, so loudly sometimes that even the embrace of
the narcotic could not silence it.

Almost done, he mused, watching the remains of the pale potion
drain from the bottle. It would be another week or so before he
needed another treatment. Bovadin had indeed mixed the drug
strong. Herrith flexed his fingers. They seemed thicker than they
had just days ago, more muscular.

A knock at the door startled Herrith out of his daydream. He held
his breath, angered at the interruption. He was still in his bed
clothes and always left strict orders not to be disturbed. If it was
Vorto . . .

"What?" Herrith bellowed at the door. Very slowly the portal
pushed open. Father Todos peeked his head into the bedchamber
apologetically, trying to avert his eyes from the gruesome sight on
the bed.

"Forgive me, Holiness," he stammered. "But . . . there are visitors."

"Visitors? So?"

"From Dragon's Beak, Holiness. Duke Enli. He says he must speak
to you at once. He insisted—"

"Look at me, you fool! I'm in no condition for this!"

Todos stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.
Herrith was astonished at his gall. The priest kept his head bowed
as he explained himself.

"I'm sorry, Holiness, but Duke Enli is very insistent. He begs an
audience with you immediately. There is war in his land."

The word war made Herrith sit up. "What do you mean?" he asked.
"What war?"

Todos shrugged. "Holiness, I don't know. The duke says he will
speak only to you. But it's very urgent."

Herrith sat back on his soft pillows, forcing himself to relax. War in
Dragon's Beak had been brewing for years. That it should erupt
now, when the Empire was in chaos, was hardly a surprise. And
Enli and his brother had both been thorns in the emperor's side.
Herrith always knew something catastrophic would happen
between them.

"Whatever it is can wait until I'm done," he said. With his free hand
he shooed Todos away. "Go and tell the duke I'm indisposed. I will
see him as soon as I am able."

The priest frowned nervously. "How soon might that be? So that I
may tell the duke, I mean."

"You are worse than a mother, Todos! Give me a few moments,
please!"

"Yes, Holiness, forgive me. I will tell the duke to wait for you."

"Get out!"

The priest scurried from the room, closing the door behind him.
Herrith laid in his bed and cursed.

It took Herrith less than half an hour to finish his treatment and
regain his strength. By the close of the hour, he was fully dressed
and ready to greet the Duke of Dragon's Beak. Father Todos met
Herrith outside his chambers, telling the bishop that the duke was
waiting for him down on the main floor of the cathedral, in one of
the church's many offices. Todos eyed Herrith bleakly as he
spoke, plainly astonished at the change in him. Herrith smiled and
apologized to his friend. He felt invigorated, strangely buoyant. The
remarkable drug had once again worked its mysteries on him.

Todos accompanied the bishop down the spire to the office where
the duke was waiting. It was an elaborate room, bigger than
necessary, with a typically oversized window and tiny sculptures of
holy things arranged on shelves and bookcases. There was a desk
in the office that Herrith hardly used and an assortment of austere
chairs. The treacly smell of leather wafted from the office as
Todos opened the door. The duke was standing anxiously in the
center of the room, looking tired and haggard. He had no soldiers
with him but he was not alone. Beside him, sitting with her legs
dangling from the chair, was a bright-faced girl. Both of them
turned their eyes on Herrith as he entered the office.

"Duke Enli," said Father Todos. "Archbishop Herrith."

Duke Enli went to his knees before the bishop, bowed his head
deeply, then took Herrith's hand and placed a reverent kiss on his
ring.

"Your Grace," he said softly. "Thank you for honoring me with your
presence. I am your servant."

Herrith heard the words as if from a distance. His eyes were on the
exquisite girl in the chair. She smiled at him but did not move from
her seat.

"Rise, Duke Enli," said the bishop. "And sit. Please . . ." He
gestured to one of the chairs near the desk. "You look exhausted."

"I am, Holiness," the duke admitted. He took a chair and seemed
to fall into it. "Thank you."

"Todos, have you offered our guests anything to eat or drink?"

"Yes, Your Grace," said the priest.

"The Father has been very gracious, Holiness," explained the
duke. "But I'm afraid my mind isn't on food. It's very urgent that I
speak with you."

"And I am here, Duke," said the bishop. He went to his own chair
behind the ornate desk, a giant seat of red velvet that looked more
like a throne. "Todos, please leave us. I think the duke might be
more comfortable speaking in private."

Ever compliant, Todos left. In his wake the duke took a deep
breath and spread his hands out in surrender.

"Your Holiness, I beg your forgiveness for this intrusion. But I
simply didn't know where else to turn. We've travelled all the way
from Dragon's Beak to plead your help."

"I am listening, dear friend," said Herrith. "You have always been a
loyal lord. You may ask anything of me. But first . . ." Herrith turned
his attention toward the girl. "Please tell me who this beautiful child
is."

"Her name is Lorla," said Enli. "Lorla Lon. She's from Dragon's
Beak, the south fork. Her parents were killed in the attack."

"Attack? "asked Herrith.

"It's why I've come, Holiness. Dragon's Beak is at war with itself.
My brother Eneas has attacked my southern fork. He flies the Black
Flag." The duke turned a sad smile on the girl. "Lorla was
orphaned in the fighting. I brought her here to you because I hoped
you would help her. I know how generous you are to orphans. I
thought you might help me find a place for her."

She was lovely, with platinum hair cut in bangs and bright eyes to
rival Herrith's own, and the bishop took pains to smile at her
carefully, not too boldly, not too weakly.

"Hello, Lorla," he said softly, as if speaking to a bird he didn't want
to frighten. She smiled back at him, wonderfully shy.

"Hello, Your Holiness," she said, inclining her head.

"Are you well?" he asked. "You look tired."

"I am tired," said the girl. "Very." A look of sadness crossed her
face. "And afraid."

"There's nothing for you to be afraid of here, I promise. No one is
going to hurt you. This is the house of God. All are safe here."

"Don't be afraid, Lorla," echoed the duke. "His Holiness is a great
and good man. He'll help you." Enli turned to the bishop. "Won't
you, Your Grace?"

"Of course I will," beamed Herrith. "You're very pretty, Lorla. You
remind me of an angel. And your eyes. They're almost as bright as
my own!"

Lorla smiled demurely. "Thank you, Holiness."

The bishop leaned forward in his chair. "How old are you, child? Do
you know?"

"I am eight," replied the girl. "Almost nine."

"That's a wonderful age," said Herrith. "We have many children in
the orphanage your age. You can meet some of them if you like,
make some new friends. Would you like that?"

Lorla glanced at Enli for support. The duke gave her a comforting
nod.

"You can talk to the bishop, Lorla," said Enli. "I promise, he won't
hurt you."

The girl considered the statement with care. She looked
exhausted, confused. "I would like that, I suppose. I just want to
have a place to stay."

"There's a place here for you, child, do not worry," Herrith
promised. "We can take care of you. Are you hungry? We have
food." He patted his burgeoning stomach merrily. "Plenty of it."

"I would like that," said Lorla. "If it's all right with Duke Enli." Again
she looked at Enli. "Would that be all right, my lord? May I have
something to eat?"

"Certainly," said Enli. "Don't wait for me. You go and eat."

"You'll find Father Todos out in the hall," said Herrith. "Tell him that
you're hungry and want to rest. He'll find a room for you."

Lorla hopped out of the chair and went to the door. "I will," she said
happily. Herrith's heart ached to see her, so starved and
desperate-looking. War was most terrible on the children. The
Black Renaissance had taught him that. The many wars of the
Renaissance had orphaned thousands. It was why Herrith had
started his orphanage. The bishop watched the child go, his eyes
lingering on her as she closed the door.

"That's a remarkable child," he whispered, not really wanting Enli to
hear him.

"Oh, yes," said the duke. "She's been through so much, yet she
didn't complain the whole way here, not once. You do have a place
for her, don't you, Holiness? I don't want to impose. I just
thought—"

"Don't fret over the girl," said Herrith. "We'll find a place for her. But
now tell me, Duke Enli, what is this bad news? War with your
brother?"

"Aye, bad news indeed," said Enli. He put a hand to his forehead
and rubbed, working the kinks out of his face. "It's black, Holiness.
Dragon's Beak is divided, like I always feared. Eneas, my brother .
. ."

"He attacked you?" coaxed the bishop.

Enli nodded. "He's sided with Biagio. He flies the Black Flag now.
My own men have seen it over his castle. We were attacked
without warning." The duke balled his hands into fists. "God curse
me, I should have seen this coming. I knew when Arkus died
Eneas would try something like this. Yet I did nothing!"

"Be easy," crooned Herrith. "And tell me everything that happened.
When did your brother attack?"

"Oh, it must be weeks now. I don't even know what's going on back
home. When we left, the battle was at a stalemate. Eneas' troops
had gained some territory on the south fork, but my own men had
kept them back. I don't know how long they'll last, though. The army
of the air is voracious, Holiness. They keep us from fighting back."
The duke's face grew earnest. "I'm afraid, Your Grace."

Herrith rose from his chair and walked around the desk. Enli's pain
was like a magnet drawing him closer. He gazed down at the duke,
trying to look resolute.

"Do not be frightened, my son. You fly the Light of God in Dragon's
Beak, yes?"

"Yes, Holiness. Of course."

"Then God will protect you. Have faith."

"Holiness, I need more than faith. I need your help."

Enli started to rise, but Herrith held up a hand, stopping him. "Sit,
Duke Enli. You need rest. Tell me what you want of me."

"We need troops in Dragon's Beak, Holiness. To fight back my
brother. We need the legions to come and help us. Like in Goth."

Herrith froze. "Goth? What do you know of Goth?"

"I know that you crushed the Black Renaissance there," said Enli,
blanching. "I'm sorry, Holiness. I thought it was common
knowledge. I meant no disrespect. . . ."

"There is none taken, my son," said Herrith. He hadn't expected
news of Goth to have travelled so quickly. "It's true. We did subdue
the Renaissance in Goth. A horrible price, but necessary."

"Yes," said Enli. "And you can help me do the same. Please, I beg
you. Send General Vorto and his men back to Dragon's Beak with
me. If Eneas sees them he might even surrender. But it must be
done quickly, before we lose the southern fork."

Herrith leaned back against his desk, thinking on what Enli had
said. It was a bold request. Dragon's Beak was very far, and not
particularly important. It would take weeks for Vorto to march a
legion there. Worse, winter was coming—not the best time of year
to fight a war. The bishop mulled the request over. Enli watched
him. He was a good man, this duke. Despite his reputation as an
independent thinker, he had been loyal to Arkus and the old
Empire, and when the old man had died he had refused to side
with Biagio, choosing the Light of God instead. A man of high
ideals. Very rare these days.

"What you ask is difficult," said Herrith. "If Vorto gets to Dragon's
Beak and finds that Eneas has already taken over, it could be
another massacre. I don't mind telling you that I don't crave another
one of those on my conscience."

"But we on the south fork are loyal," the duke implored. "We're
faithful to you and the new order. Holiness, you can't let Dragon's
Beak fall to the Black Renaissance. I don't ask this for myself, but
for Nar. Dragon's Beak is only the beginning. Where will it end?"

Where indeed? wondered Herrith grimly. Enli was dramatic, but
correct. Biagio could never be allowed to regain a foothold in Nar.
It was why Herrith had ordered Goth destroyed, why he had let
Formula B escape the war labs. God was testing him, he decided.
He would not fail.

"I will consider what you've told me, Duke Enli. Be at ease. God will
direct me to the proper action. And I will confer with General Vorto.
He is the military man, after all. Much will depend on what he says."

"With respect, Holiness, there isn't time for this. We've got to—"

"There is always time for prayer, Duke Enli. We must make time for
God." Herrith stretched out his hand for the duke. Enli took it, but
didn't hide his disappointment. Reluctantly, he let Herrith help him
out of the chair, flinching a little at the frigid touch. "Go and find
Father Todos. He will give you food and drink and a place to sleep.
Have you brought men with you?"

"Yes, Holiness. The Father has already seen to their needs."

"Good, then. Don't be afraid, my son. God will guide us toward the
right decision."

Enli bowed deeply and left the chamber. The door closed quietly
behind him, leaving Herrith alone.

Biagio.

Truly, he was hell-spawn. Even from Crote he weaved his little
webs, hoping to ensnare the Empire and drag it back into
darkness. It was up to men like Herrith to bring light to the world.
Herrith crossed the room and went to the window, looking down
over the city. The sun had climbed higher and was pouring through
the glass, warming his frigid skin. He could see with awesome
clarity now, picking up every fleck of dust floating above the city,
every wisp of smoke from the foundries. Across the river, the
abandoned Black Palace stood on its hilltop, dwarfing the
landscape beneath it. Inside its empty chambers stood the iron
throne, vacant seat of the dead emperor. The thought of Biagio on
that throne made Herrith's insides twist. "Never," he hissed. "Not
while there is breath in me.

And then his thoughts shifted to the little girl, Lorla. She was a
precious jewel, almost crushed by the weight of war. Herrith's hard
expression softened. Poor thing. Sometimes the world was
unimaginably cruel.

Lorla stood alone in the room, sipping on a glass of fruit juice and
staring out over the enormous city. She was very high up, higher by
far than she had ever been in the Red Tower, and the great
expanse of Nar made her feel like a bird floating across the world.
Father Todos had brought her here to rest and take some food.
There was a bed in the chamber, soft and comfortable, with clean
white sheets and plush pillows that swallowed Lorla's head when
she tested them. The gigantic breakfast that Father Todos had
fetched for her sat half-eaten on a tray near the bed. It was more
than enough for two, and Lorla had eaten her fill. Outside the thick
glass, Nar was entrancing. She hadn't remembered it being so vast
or frightening, but then she had only seen glimpses of it through
the tiny, dingy windows of the war labs. Now, high in the cathedral,
she could see it all, and she knew why it was called "Nar the
Magnificent." She felt weightless, bodiless, as if she were not
tethered to the earth at all.

Faren and the others were nowhere to be seen, but Lorla wasn't
worried about them. She knew she wouldn't be seeing them
anymore. Her new life was here in Nar. Nina, Duke Enli, her
memories of Goth; they would all have to be forgotten. She was
Lorla Lon, now. An orphan. Lorla smiled to herself. She could play
that part easily. What was she but an orphan, anyway? She had no
mother or father. The only parent she knew remotely was Biagio,
and he was more like a ghost or a fairy tale, no more tangible than
air. She supposed she must see Duke Enli again before he left,
but even that meeting didn't concern her. It was time to cut those
ties. Time to become something truly different.

Lorla Lon had a mother named Nefri and a father named Po, she
told herself. She is eight years old going on nine. Her birthday is in
two weeks. She wants a doll's house for her birthday, one that
looks just like the cathedral. There's a toymaker on High Street that
can make her one. And if she doesn't get it, she will cry.

The game made Lorla grin. Why was she so good at it? She had
learned a lot in the labs, more than she had realized, and it
surprised her. It would surprise Herrith, too. Lorla frowned, a bit
ashamed of herself. Other children learned it was wrong to lie. She
knew that because she had seen mothers in Goth with their
children, scolding them. But no one ever scolded Lorla. Was it
because she was perfect?

Or just something special?

There was a gentle knock on the door. Lorla looked around
sheepishly. "Hello?" she called.

The door creaked open and Archbishop Herrith appeared, smiling
at her. "Lorla?" he asked cheerfully. "May I come in?"

"Yes," said Lorla. She thought of getting up to greet him, but didn't.
The bishop slipped through the door and came in to stand over
her, inspecting her breakfast tray.

"Well, you certainly were hungry," he joked. "Was everything all
right?"

"Yes, sir," she replied. "Very good, Your Holiness."

The bishop smiled. "You'll like it here, I think. It's safe. I want you to
believe that. Nothing is going to happen to you. We've got a whole
army to protect you."

"I'm not afraid, Holiness," said Lorla. She returned his smile as
warmly as she could. "Not anymore." She looked around. "This is a
nice room. Are the rooms in the orphanage like this one?"

Herrith grimaced. "No, not really. But they're clean and we have
good people to look after the children. They do God's work. We
have many children to look after. Too many, I'm sad to say. There's
been a lot of war in the Empire."

"Where is the orphanage? Can I see it from the window?"

"No, I don't think so," said the bishop. "It's on the other side of the
cathedral. But I don't want you to think about the orphanage, Lorla."
He walked around the table and sat down beside her on the bed,
leaving barely an inch between them. "You like this room, eh?"

"Oh, yes," Lorla answered honestly. She had never seen a view so
grand. "It's very nice."

"I'm glad," said Herrith. He picked up a piece of fruit and rolled it
around in his hand. "You can stay here if you like. You don't have to
go to the orphanage. I'm not sure that would be right for you."

"Stay here? In this room?"

"It's up to you, of course. My orphanage is nice too, and there are
others your age there. But then you wouldn't have this lovely view
or a private place to sleep."

Lorla felt afraid but tried not to look it. Herrith certainly moved
quickly. She studied his tone, but to her surprise detected nothing
but sincerity. The bishop was looking at her, his blue eyes
sparkling. Her mind raced for an answer. Instead she asked a
question.

"Why? I mean, why give this to me, Holiness?"

Archbishop Herrith put the apple back down on the table. Lorla
could tell he was deciding how best to answer. Finally he shrugged
and let out a pensive sigh.

"Lorla, I'm going to tell you something that might surprise you. I'm a
very lonely old man. I've given my life to God. Do you know what
that means?"

"Not really," she replied.

"Priests aren't allowed to marry or take a woman. That means they
can have no families of their own, save the church. We can't have
children." Herrith seemed embarrassed by this confession. "I love
the church very much. I love Nar. But I get lonely sometimes. I
suppose that's why I started the orphanage, so that I could be
around children. I've always wanted a daughter or son of my own. I
. . ."

He stopped himself, suddenly flushing. "Oh, but I'm frightening
you. Forgive me." He rose from the bed and went to the door.
"Stay here as long as you like. Spend the night and get some rest.
In the morning we can talk, or Father Todos can take you to the
orphanage."

Lorla knew she had to stop him. "Wait, please . . ."

He paused in the threshold. "Yes?"

"I . . . I don't want to be alone. I'm afraid. Would you stay with me
awhile?"

Even as she spoke she was ashamed of herself, and the
expression on the old man's face made her hate herself all the
more. Herrith's eyes leapt with inner glee at her invitation.

"We can be lonely together," he said with a smile. "If you would
like."

"I would like that," said Lorla. Amazingly, she meant it. She jumped
off the bed and went to him. This is a man of guile and great
deceit, she tried to remind herself. He was the Master's enemy,
and the Master always knew best. Still, he was kind to her—the sort
of kindness a father might have shown—and Lorla could barely
help herself from responding to his gentle voice.

"Show me more of this place," she implored. "Would you?"

"Oh, child, I would love to," beamed the bishop. "This is a magical
place. It's my home." He snapped his fingers excitedly. "Yes! I will
show you something wonderful!" He put out his hand for her.
"Come, there's something very special for you to see."

Lorla took his hand without hesitation. It was as large as Duke
Enli's, but softer, almost cottony. It was also unbearably cold. Lorla
gasped and pulled away.

"I'm sorry," said the bishop. He looked down at his hand
disgustedly. "It's nothing. Just some treatments I take for some
ailments. Forgive me." He opened the door. "Please . . ."

Together they stepped out into the splendid corridor. Lorla let the
bishop lead her through the painted hall, all gilded with gold and
utterly magnificent. The ceilings were high and frescoed, and
everywhere angels watched them, staring down with marble eyes.
Tall sconces of silver hung on the walls, and the polished floor
beneath them echoed every footfall, bouncing them off the high
ceilings like a concert hall. Lorla struggled to see every fabulous
nuance, determined to miss nothing. In all her life, she had never
seen anything to compare to this holy place.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"You'll see. Trust me. It's something beautiful."

Everything in the place was beautiful. As they hurried down the hall
Lorla kept her eyes on the windows and their fabulous stained-
glass depictions. The sun was coming through them, dazzling, its
rays setting the colored glass on fire. At the end of the hall they
came to a staircase that spiraled endlessly downward. Herrith took
the stairs like a man half his age, almost running in anticipation.
Lorla wanted to laugh at the sight of him. She raced after him,
keeping pace, until at last they reached the bottom of the staircase.
Herrith finally stopped and looked at her.

"Shhh," he directed, putting a finger to his lips. "We're almost
there."

"Where?" Lorla whispered.

"Almost there," Herrith teased. "Yes, yes . . ."

The bishop turned and strode down the hallway. Lorla followed. It
was a quiet part of the great cathedral, and though she could hear
voices far away, there was no one else in the hall. The corridor was
wide and graceful, with a rounded ceiling trimmed with delicate
plaster work. Up ahead was an archway leading to a dim chamber.
As they approached it, Herrith's gait slowed.

"The great hall," he whispered. "This is what I want to show you."

They crossed under the arch and entered the great hall.
Throughout the chamber, pots of paint and soiled brushes littered
the floor, and canvas had been laid on the marble tiles, adorned
with colorful footprints. The great hall was a fountain of light, fed by
banks of stained-glass windows that tossed radiant sunshine into
the chamber. Lorla looked around, baffled by it all. But when she
glanced at the bishop for guidance, he merely grinned and pointed
at the ceiling.

"Look up," he said softly.

Lorla looked. What she saw astonished her. Above her was a
masterwork, a rolling fresco of color, meticulously painted into the
plaster of the ceiling a hundred feet up. There were scaffolds and
ladders along the walls, reaching up to touch the top, and all along
the roof danced painted cherubs with wide cheeks and red-
tongued devils, maidens and heroes and beautiful gods, all
entwined in an endless waltz that looked to Lorla like the canvas of
Heaven. She gasped, unable to speak for the beauty of it. It was
alive, unimaginably bright, and the sight of it took her breath away.
"What is it?" asked Lorla. "It's beautiful."

"The book of Creation," whispered Herrith. "All told in paintings."
He directed her view toward a panel on the north side. "See?
That's the betrayal of Adan. And that one is the murder of Kian. Do
you recognize them?"

"No," said Lorla. "But they are beautiful. Oh, so beautiful . . ."

"I will teach you these things, Lorla," said Herrith softly. "A child
should know about the holy book. It's all up there, the whole story."
His face split with a proud smile. "The artist Darago has worked
years on this. Now it's almost done. When it is I will open this hall to
the people again, and everyone will see the glory of God." He knelt
down beside her. "This is my greatest gift to Nar. And I wanted you
to see it, Lorla. This ceiling, this whole place, means more to me
than just about anything. It's the house of God, and it's my home. It
can be your home, too, if you want."

So awed was Lorla by all she had seen, she could hardly bring
herself to answer. Herrith's face was soft and imploring, and try as
she might to turn away, she could not.

"What will happen to me here?" she asked. "What will I do?"

"Whatever you wish," said Herrith. "You will be schooled and learn
things, and grow to be a fine woman. Nar is changing. Soon, I
hope, this will be a great city for you to live in. I will make it great.
For you and all the children." His hands hovered just above her,
wanting to embrace her but not daring to touch. "I can't replace the
family you lost, but I can treat you well, and I can teach you things.
You can be happy here, Lorla. With me."

Lorla nodded, unsure of what to say. With all her heart she wanted
to accept his offer, and the desire startled her. This was a grand
place, and this man was not what she'd expected. Suddenly she
was afraid. A sickness grew in her stomach.

Just the breakfast, she told herself. You ate too much.

"If I stay here, that room will be mine?"

Herrith glowed. "Yes. And so much more. I have all of Nar to show
you, child." He stared at her, waiting and hoping for an answer. At
last, Lorla's defenses collapsed.

"I would like that," she said. "I don't want to be an orphan
anymore."
SIXTEEN
The Device

C ount Renato Biagio stood on his private beach and watched his
men at work, his polished boots soiled with sand. It was a warm
day, like most in Crote, and the breeze off the ocean stirred the
count's silken shirt and made his hair fall into his eyes. Beside him
stood Admiral Danar Nicabar, looking tired and agitated. Thirty feet
away, a handful of his men were struggling with a huge wooden
crate, fighting to fit it into the boat that would ferry the parcel to the
warship anchored in the distance. Bovadin directed them, shouting
at them to be careful. It was the day Nicabar had dreaded—the day
that they loaded the device.

Biagio smiled sunnily, hardly concerned at all. Bovadin had built the
device with all the necessary tolerances. Despite the twisted worry
on the scientist's face, Biagio knew Bovadin was confident about
his creation. It would not detonate until its time, Biagio was certain.
The count folded his arms over his chest, satisfied. His exile on
Crote had grown long in the tooth lately, and he was grateful to see
this day's arrival.

"You're afraid, Danar," said Biagio. "Don't be. Bovadin knows what
he's doing."

Nicabar snorted. "It's loaded with fuel, Renato."

"Bovadin has taken precautions. Trust, my friend, trust . . ."

"Look there," snapped Nicabar, pointing at his men. They had
nearly dropped one side of the crate. Bovadin was screaming at
them. "Lord, almighty. Maybe we should back up a bit."

Biagio laughed prettily. "Dear Danar, if that thing was such a threat I
wouldn't have let Bovadin build it in my home, now would I? The
dangerous part is done." Then he grinned maliciously, adding, "At
least for us. It's Herrith's problem now."

"Darago's almost done with his painting. Have I told you?"

Biagio nodded. Nicabar's memory wasn't always sharp, an
unfortunate and unpredictable effect of the drug. "Yes."

"Herrith's very proud of it. I saw part of it when I went to the
cathedral."

When he turned down my peace plan, thought Biagio. Herrith was a
perfect fool. "A shame, really," he remarked casually. "For Nar, I
mean. Darago is a great artisan. But alas, these are the prices we
pay."

Out on the banks, Bovadin was jumping into the boat, guiding the
ungainly crate. The boat hardly moved with his diminutive weight,
but when the first half of the crate creaked aboard, the vessel
dipped noticeably. Bovadin gave a nervous grimace, obviously
afraid for himself. Biagio's smile finally vanished. Was the boat big
enough?

"Danar . . .?"

"Don't worry," chirped the admiral. "She'll hold it."

"She'd better. Bovadin counted on blowing himself to bits, not
drowning. I don't think the little monkey can swim."

Nicabar didn't laugh. He merely stood there, stone-faced, watching
as his men struggled with the crate. Biagio stole a glance at the
admiral, noting his anxiety. It was good to have him back. He was
glad Nicabar wasn't delivering the device to Nar personally. Since
Simon had left for Lucel-Lor, there had been precious little
company for him. Bovadin was always busy with his tinkering, and
Savros the Mind Bender was the quiet sort, keeping to himself. Of
all of them, Biagio counted only Nicabar among his friends. And
friends were a scarce commodity these days. It was the sad truth
about being the head of a secret organization—no one trusted him.
In Nar, when Arkus was alive, there had always been people
around—gilded women and ambitious princes ready to
bargain—but they had all been treacherous and never really
interested in friendship. But not so Danar Nicabar. He was one of
those rare specimens; a man of high ideals. Perhaps it was some
military code that made him righteous, or perhaps a noble
upbringing. Either way, Biagio trusted him. He cared for Nicabar as
almost none other.

Except for Simon.

It had been many days since Simon's departure for Lucel-Lor, and
many more lay ahead until his return. The mansion was dreadfully
quiet without him. Biagio had tried to pass the time with plans of
revenge, and with training his protegee, Eris, but always Simon's
handsome face strong-armed its way back into his brain. The
count's good mood evaporated. He missed Simon more than he
wanted to. Worse, it was something like the loss he felt over Arkus,
something in his heart that ached. It was not something he could
explain or talk away with Nicabar, though, and so the count forced
the memory down, concentrating on the scene before him.

Almost time, Herrith, he mused. Tick-tock, tick-tock . . .

He wondered what Herrith's reaction would be. The bishop
cherished his cathedral, like Biagio cherished Crote. But prices
had to be paid.

"It'll take about three days for the Sea Shadow to reach
Casarhoon," said Nicabar. "From there another three to Nar City."

"Make sure Thot gets it on a speedy ship," said Biagio. He didn't
want the delivery delayed by switching ships, but he knew it was
necessary. Every eye in the Black City would see the Sea Shadow
coming; they needed a merchant ship to deliver the device. Biagio
was glad Bovadin was going along.

"Captain Thot knows what he's doing," said Nicabar curtly.

"Of course, Danar. I meant no insult. But the device has to get
there on time. This is all planned out perfectly. A tiny slip, and my
grand design falls apart. I won't have that."

"There will be no slips," promised Nicabar. "Trust me for once.
Thot and the Sea Shadow will get the device there on time. And I
have no doubt Bovadin will be yelling at him the entire trip, making
sure he's quick."

As if he'd heard his name, Bovadin lifted his head toward shore,
staring at the admiral. The scientist gave the crate a glance and,
satisfied it was safely aboard, jumped out of the boat and waded
ashore, his bare feet breaking the surf as he stomped toward
them. His little features seemed less distressed now, almost
relieved. He strode up to Biagio and Nicabar and sighed, pointing a
thumb over his shoulder.

"We're taking it aboard Sea Shadow now," he said.

Biagio smiled down at Bovadin. "Good journey, my friend. Enjoy
Nar. I almost envy you."

"If this goes right you'll get back there soon enough," said the
scientist. "And to tell you the truth, I wish I was staying. I don't
much like the thought of being on rough seas with that thing."

"You built it," snapped Nicabar. "Don't tell me it's not shipworthy.
That's my vessel out there."

"I didn't say that. But there are risks. If anything goes wrong, if
there's a leak in one of the hoses—"

"You said you tested the damn thing!"

"I did! But there are always risks." Bovadin looked to Biagio for
support. "Tell him, Renato."

Biagio merely yawned. "I suppose. The important thing is that it's
on its way. But be smart, Bovadin. Don't rush it. Let Thot do his job
and steer the ship. If he says the seas are too rough, you let him
go around or wait it out. Do you understand?"

"You said I had to get it there on time, Renato," argued Bovadin.
"Let me do my job. I'll find this toy-maker and get him the device.
You just make sure your little girl doesn't forget her birthday."

Threats didn't rest well with Biagio, but he let it pass. Bovadin had
done fine work. He deserved a little slack. "Just be careful," said
the count. "That's all I ask."

"I will. And I'll see you both back in Nar." What passed for a smile
flitted over Bovadin's face. "Good luck."

"To you, too, my friend," said Biagio, striking out his hand. Bovadin
took it and gave a weak shake, then turned and departed for the
rowboat, all weighed down with the crate and sailors. Biagio
watched the scientist go, relieved. He hadn't really expected a
mishap, but then Bovadin had never built anything like the device
before. And though he had made elaborate drawings and
performed his inscrutable tests, even Bovadin couldn't swear to
the thing's stability. It was a dangerous creation, maybe the
greatest weapon ever produced, and Biagio didn't really want it on
his island. Soon, if all went according to plan, Crote would be in
dire trouble anyway; the count saw no need to hasten his
homeland's demise. He watched Bovadin shuffle into the rowboat.
The vessel shoved off, bearing the crate out to where the Sea
Shadow waited. Onboard the big ship he could see the anxious
faces of sailors, fearful of their cargo.

"Let's go inside," said Biagio. "There is nothing else to see here."

"I'll wait," replied Nicabar. "I want to be sure."

"Suit yourself, my friend. But don't be too long. I want to talk to you
about Dragon's Beak."

Nicabar looked over. "What about it?"

"You'll need to be leaving soon. We should discuss it."

"I know the way, Renato."

"This is no joke," said Biagio sternly. "If Vorto goes to Dragon's
Beak as Enli asks, he's going to need you there to help him. My
mercenaries won't be able to stand alone against the legions. I
promised Enli you'd be there."

"I'll be there," pledged Nicabar. "I wouldn't miss it. And the army of
the air?"

"I don't know yet," Biagio said honestly. News from Dragon's Beak
was always scarce. "All the more reason for you to get there on
time. If Enli doesn't have control of the ravens, he may need a
quick escape from Vorto. You'll have to help him with that."

Nicabar shook his head. "I'm not going to Dragon's Beak just to
pull his ass out of the fire, Renato. I'm going there to decapitate
Vorto."

"Oh, let's hope so," said Biagio with an evil grin. "That'll be just
about the time for me to send another message to Herrith. You'll
deliver that for me, won't you, my friend?"

The admiral took the count's meaning. "With pleasure, my friend."

That night, Count Biagio slept restlessly on his expensive sheets,
sick with anticipation. The device Bovadin had built dominated his
dreams. He saw the great Cathedral of the Martyrs and the little
toymaker's shop on the corner of High Street, that busy
thoroughfare where well-to-do Narens shopped and sated greedy
whims. And in his dreams Lorla came to visit him, her eyes shining
unnaturally green. In the dream she spoke to him, but when Biagio
awoke he could not recall her words. It was well past midnight
when he awakened. The moonlight through his window was pale,
tinting everything an eerie silver. Lorla's face winked out of
existence as his eyes opened. Startled, Biagio swung his naked
feet over the bedside and rubbed his forehead. The world was
perfectly quiet. He had gone to bed alone tonight, as he had most
nights recently, and the slaves he usually awoke to were gone. He
glanced out the window to the fruit tree in the garden and saw a
crow looking back at him, smiling crookedly. Biagio sneered at the
thing, reminded of Eneas' ravens. There was too much in his mind
tonight, too many grinding thoughts. He was weary, so tired he
couldn't sleep. On his bedside table was a crystal goblet of half-
consumed brandy. He reached for it, but in his daze knocked it
over, spilling it.

"Damn it!" he growled. The brandy splashed onto the expensive
carpet. The count watched it stain, helpless.

I'm tired, he reminded himself. So bloody tired.

It hadn't always been this way. When he was in Nar and at the
height of his power, he had been razor-sharp. He and Arkus had
tread the world like gods, and he had been the emperor's closest
friend—the only one of the Iron Circle who had truly been like a son
to the elderly ruler. Now he was an outcast, forced to scheme
every minute. The effort was dulling him. Even Bovadin's drug
wasn't keeping him vital. Biagio was exhausted.

Ignoring his ruined carpet, he went to the window and opened it,
taking a deep gulp of air. He could smell brine on the breeze.
Music came from the far-off surf. The crow on the fruit tree leapt at
his intrusion, flying off. Biagio cursed after it. If it ever came back,
he promised the bird, he would have it for lunch. The sight of the
fleeing bird cheered him a little. Crote was his. And it always would
be, no matter what happened to it. He would get it back from the
Lissens after it fell. When Nar was his, so too would be the world.

As happened too often these days, he thought again of Simon. He
wondered if Simon knew his true feelings. Simon was Cretan, after
all, and Cretans often experimented. But Simon wasn't like that. He
was more like Herrith, really. Hardly pious, but unwilling to try things.
The count's shoulders slumped. He didn't like fawning over lovers.
He felt like a schoolboy, dazed and impotent. Elliann, his wife, had
always thought him cold, even during their most savage
lovemaking. Elliann could bed a tiger and come out alive. She was
truly a wild animal, and she had been exciting during the first years
of their marriage. But like Naren lords are apt to do, they had both
grown quietly tired of each other, and neither of them had
quarrelled when the other took different lovers. Biagio still liked his
wife and bore her no ill. War and rebellion wasn't what she was
bred for, and she had sniffed at the thought of it. And because she
had thought Herrith would win their struggle, she had sided with
him. Biagio had let her go, willingly. He stared out into the
darkness, imagining her somewhere in the Black City, probably
asleep by now with a suitor in her sheets. A little smile crossed his
face. Perhaps he would send for her when he returned to Nar.

Biagio glanced back at his bed, so cold and sterile. His was an
excellent chamber, large and immaculate, with priceless heirlooms
dotting the walls and shelves. But he gleaned no comfort from
these things, and the urge to leave his rooms became
overwhelming. In the great music room was a piano, and when he
was troubled he would go to the piano and thunder out a song and
lose himself. It was odd therapy but it worked for him, and so he
pulled off his night clothes and chose some simple garments from
his many closets, dressing hurriedly. Sliding his feet into a pair of
slippers, he went out into the deserted hallway of his wing, where
the only sound he heard was the faint sizzling of flames from the oil
sconces along the wall. His shadow leapt across the floor, large
and ominous, and as he walked his slippers squeaked. There were
no guardians to disturb him, no servants around to grovel. Biagio
walked in a trance to his music room, eager to bang on the piano
keys. But when he reached the chamber he found the door half
open and a light glowing inside.

Curious, the count slowed. Eris, his treasured slave, was alone in
the room, gliding across the floor in a silent, expressive dance.
Biagio held his breath. She was lovely. She moved with the grace
of a dove, her long legs twirling her effortlessly through pirouettes,
her arms stretching heavenward, as if imploring God to hear her.
Her face was aglow in the light of a single candle, flush with sweat
and shadows. And her wide eyes seemed to cry as she danced,
sadly, purposefully, oblivious to all the world in her melancholy.

Count Biagio watched, utterly enthralled. She was his greatest
prize. When she danced for him the angels wept with jealousy. He
knew as he watched her why Simon's heart was hers. As a woman
she was perfection. As a dancer, she was a goddess. No man
could resist her. Especially not poor Simon.

When she was done with her dance, Eris crumpled to the floor,
bowing her head into her lap and lying there, motionless. Biagio
thought he heard her whimper. Very gently he pushed open the
door. Still she did not hear him.

"You were wonderful," he whispered. "Thank you."

Eris looked up, mortified. "Master!" she cried, springing to her feet
and lowering her eyes. "Forgive me, I . . . I was practicing. I didn't
know you were here."

"Don't apologize," said Biagio, floating into the room. He put his
cold hand to her chin, lifting her face and looking into her eyes. "It
was a pleasure for me."

Eris looked embarrassed, but didn't pull away. "I am glad," she
managed. "I was just practicing."

"You were not," Biagio corrected. With his frozen thumb he
brushed a tear from her cheek. "I have never seen you weep when
practicing. What tears are these?"

"Nothing, Master. The piece I was dancing is emotional, that's all."

"What was the piece? I did not recognize it."

He watched her face twitch as she decided to confess. "Only
something of my own imagining. I was restless tonight. There are
things occupying me." She struggled to smile. "But unimportant
things, my lord. Truly not worth bothering with."

Enjoying her fear, Biagio dropped his fingers to her neck and the
golden collar she wore. His fingernail picked at it.

"I would curse the day you could not tell the truth to me, dear Eris,"
he said. "Why don't you explain this to me? I, too, was sleepless
tonight. I thought I might play some music. You were an
unexpected surprise."

"Forgive me, Master," begged the girl. Her age showed when she
spoke, so small was her voice. "I will go now, if you like."

"No, I would not like that." The count let go of her collar. He turned
and went to his piano, sitting himself down on its crushed velvet
bench. Eris stood uncertainly in the center of the room. His eyes
washed over her, drinking in her loveliness. "This is not a good
night for me, Eris. There are things on my mind, too. It might help
me to hear your own troubles, to put mine aside for a while. Tell
me, please. What is obsessing you?"

"Oh, Master, it's truly nothing. I would never burden you with such
trivia."

"I insist." Biagio gestured to the floor at his feet. "Come. Sit here
by me."

Eris complied. He was a tall man, and when she sat he towered
over her. But he was in a gentle mood tonight, and he had
suspicions why the girl might be troubled. Their troubles might be
twins. Eris looked up at him, and her sad expression made him
reach out and stroke her dark hair.

"Be at ease, girl," he said. "I only want to talk to you. Or more truly,
to hear you. This is about your lover, isn't it?"

"Master . . ."

"Stop. I know all about it, remember? I gave you to Simon, after
all."

"Yes, Master. Thank you. I don't know how to repay that."

"You repay me every time you dance, child. And when we get back
to Nar and you dance for them in the Black City, that will be a
triumph and all debts will be paid." Biagio felt a rush of exhilaration.
"The three of us will return to Nar together. It will be glorious."

"I would like that," said Eris. "To dance in the Black Palace for all
the lords of Nar. I've dreamt of it since I was young."

"You will dance for them, Eris, and it will be a conquest. The lords
of Nar will swoon at your feet. Your name will be famous throughout
the Empire. I promise you that."

"And we will marry? Simon and I?"

The count's heart sank. "If that's what you wish. I stand by my word
to Simon Darquis, girl. You are his, just as soon as he does this
thing for me. When he returns, you may marry. That soon, if it's
what you want."

"I do, Master. Very much. He is dear to me. And I to him." She
stopped abruptly, realizing what she was saying. "But many things
are dear to him, of course. Serving you is dear to him. It's all he
talks of."

"I'm sure," said the count dryly. Eris lied very poorly. "And how
dear are you to Simon? I wonder. You've been given a great gift,
child. Performers in the Empire would willingly sell their souls for
your talent. Which do you love more?"

Eris crinkled her nose. "Master?" "If you had to choose, which
would it be?" "But I could never choose," said the girl. "They are
both part of me. I love Simon dearly. But dance is what I am. I
would be nothing if I couldn't dance. I would be dead."

Dead. Biagio lingered on the word. He knew what it was like to feel
so close to something. It was how he felt about Nar, even about his
dead emperor. Only now, a full year later, was he starting to
recover from Arkus' death. Surprisingly, he was glad for Eris. Her
life had direction, something too many Narens lacked these days.

"You are a great prize to me, Eris," he said. "But I give you to
Simon because he is also dear to me. He has served me very well,
for years now. When he returns, you will be his. He may free you if
he wishes, but I ask only that you come to Nar with me and
perform. And you will do that, yes?"

"Oh, yes, Master," said the girl. "Happily." "And Simon will come
with you, and the three of us will live together in the Black City.
Perhaps together in the Black Palace, eh?"

Eris didn't smile at the notion. "If you wish, Master." Biagio sighed.
He was tired and making foolish statements. Simon had no interest
in him, and that was the truth of it. Simon was in love with this fragile
thing on the floor, with its green eyes and soft breasts and its
mortality. When they did return to Nar—if they did—Simon and Eris
would go off and have a family of their own, and Biagio would be
alone in the Black Palace, without a wife or emperor to comfort
him.

Carefully, Biagio reached out again for the girl and stroked her
raven hair, loving the feel of it between his fingers. Eris bowed her
head submissively. Biagio sensed the fear in her but ignored it.
Much as he craved her, he would not take her to his bed. He was a
man of his word, and he had promised her to another.

She belonged to Simon now.
SEVENTEEN
A Call to Arms

S harp as a razor, the Prince of Liss sliced through .the waters of
northern Lucel-Lor. Three weeks out of Nar, she had rounded the
cape of Kes and was charging full-winded toward the isthmus of
Tatterak. It was midday and the visibility from the warship's deck
afforded a perfect view of the horizon. The crew of the Prince
gathered on the prow, their curious eyes fixed on their destination.
For days they had hugged the coast of Tatterak, navigating the
cold and unfamiliar waters. They were weary and homesick and a
little afraid, but the sight of the citadel put joy back in their hearts.

Fleet Commander Prakna looked up at Falindar and felt his world
diminish. He had seen many things in his life, had been many
places, but nothing had prepared him for this. The mountain castle
dominated the landscape, climbing in a shining arc toward Heaven,
its white spires agleam, as if adorned with shattered diamonds. At
its zenith the citadel was a stepladder for angels, at its base a
sprawling metropolis of stables, gardens and grounds, all cut
defiantly into the side of a mountain. Prakna felt a rush of
exhilaration. They had made it.

"It's amazing," said Marus. "You were right."

"Unforgettable," said Prakna. The fleet commander had only seen
the citadel once before, and then only from a distance on a cloudy
day, but it still had been awesome.

"We should send up a signal," suggested Marus. "Let them know
we're coming."

Prakna laughed. "Don't you think they see us from up there?"

"It's not that. It's been a long time since a Lissen ship has been in
their waters. We shouldn't be furtive."

"We're one ship, Marus. And they'll recognize our colors as
friendly." As he spoke he pointed to the Lissen flag snapping
above their heads. "We're not so easy to forget, either."

Satisfied, Marus settled down. They were piloting the Prince
directly toward the citadel, preparing to anchor offshore. Prakna
himself would row ashore to meet Vantran and the other one, the
new lord of the castle. Prakna struggled to remember the name.
Lucyler? But Vantran would remember him, certainly. As if reading
his commander's mind, Marus floated a question.

"What if Vantran isn't here? What then?"

"He's here," replied Prakna. "Where else would he be?"

"It's a big land, Prakna. He could be anywhere."

Prakna didn't answer, because he had no answer. All he had was
hope. If Vantran wasn't in Falindar, they had wasted the trip.

"You talk too much, old friend," Prakna told Marus.

"Maybe," admitted Marus wryly. "But even if he is here, how are you
going to convince him to come with us? You haven't explained that
to me, either."

"You are full of questions today."

"Yes, I am. Why aren't you?"

"I'm not worried," said Prakna. "Convincing the Jackal to fight
against Nar is like convincing water to flow. No need to even try. "

"That was a long time ago," said Marus. The officer nodded toward
the citadel. "Living in such a grand place might change a man's
mind about things."

Prakna turned to his friend. "Really? Do you think living in a palace
would change your mind about avenging Liss, Marus?"

"Of course not."

Prakna said no more. He turned and watched the citadel grow
closer. Vantran would join them, he was sure of it. It was the same
need that had driven them all against Nar, made them leave their
families and homes, turned them into pirates. Vantran was no
different. Like all of them, he knew about loss. It had glowed in his
eyes like fire when they'd met. And a fire like that didn't just
extinguish itself. Prakna knew that from experience. So did Marus.

"I would like to meet this Vantran myself," said Marus. "I hope he
comes aboard. I could tell my wife I've met him."

"You'll have bragging rights to that, don't worry," Prakna assured
him. "When he hears what we're offering, he won't turn us away."

Richius Vantran stood on shore, staring at the Lissen schooner in
the distance. He had been in his chambers with Dyana and Shani
when he'd heard the news of the ship's arrival, and had raced to his
window to catch a glimpse of the vessel.

She was unmistakable.

In the absence of Lucyler, Deemis was in charge of the citadel.
Deemis had been one of Kronin's men, and Lucyler trusted him
implicitly. It was Deemis that had brought Richius the news of the
ship, guessing correctly that Richius would want to accompany
them to greet the vessel. Without waiting for Dyana, Richius had
followed Deemis down the mountain road to the shore. After
finding a nurse to look after Shani, Dyana had joined them. Now
she stood beside her husband, pale-faced and silent as she
watched the schooner in the distance. Deemis and his warriors
stood proudly in front of them, their jiiktars strapped to their backs.
A little boat was dispatched from the schooner, rowing toward
them with three men inside. Richius fought to still his anticipation.
He couldn't see the vessel's occupants, but he was sure he knew
one of them already.

Prakna.

It seemed now that the Lissen commander had indeed lived up to
his pledge. Prakna had promised Richius he would return to Lucel-
Lor if he ever needed help. Richius bit his lip. His eyes flicked to
his wife. Dyana was mute with worry. Very gently he slipped his
hand over hers, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

She pulled away. "This is a nightmare," she whispered.

Richius attempted a smile. "Perhaps it's nothing," he offered, then
realized how stupid that sounded.

"What's going on here?" asked a voice from behind them. Simon
sauntered up and shielded his eyes with his hand. "Lissens?"

"Yes," said Richius.

"Here for Richius," added Dyana sourly.

"We don't know that."

"For you, Richius?" asked Simon, astonished. "Looks like you
were right. They did come back for you."

"Simon, please . . ."

Seeing Dyana's expression, the Naren grimaced. "I'm sorry. That
was thoughtless."

The careless statement made Richius bristle. Over the past few
weeks, Simon had grown almost too comfortable with them
both—even Dyana. Though the two of them rarely spoke, Simon
no longer shunned her or tried to avoid her when she walked down
the hall. Until now, Richius had been glad about that.

Simon flashed Richius an apologetic grin, backing up a step. The
wind ruffled his hair, blowing it into his eyes. Dyana shivered a little
and wrapped her arms around her shoulders. Deemis and his men
stood stone-faced, oblivious to the cold, looking regal on the
shore, their long, white hair pulled back by the breeze. Counting
Deemis, there were five of them. Not the welcome Prakna
anticipated, Richius imagined. He hoped the sight of the warriors
wouldn't startle the commander. More than likely, Prakna was
expecting Lucyler.

The Lissen rowboat was almost to shore. A tall man stood up in its
center and folded his arms across his chest. His head bobbed a
little as he tried to make out the figures on the beach. Richius
squinted for a better look, recalling his memories of Prakna. He
recognized the thin face and the light, short-cropped hair cut in
bangs across his forehead. He wore a well-worn uniform of deep
blue that gleamed with golden buttons and bore no sidearm from
his belt. As he drew closer the man raised a hand in greeting.
Richius returned the gesture. Deemis and his warriors did not.

"Is that him?" Dyana asked.

"I think so," Richius replied. It was hard to tell in the sunlight, and all
Lissens sort of looked the same to him, like all Triin once had.
Dyana groaned hopelessly.

"Tall," Simon remarked. "I've never seen a Lissen before. They
sort of look like Triin."

In fact, they were remarkably similar, a trait that never went
unnoticed by an outsider. Like their Triin brethren, the people of the
Hundred Isles were delicate and fair, with reedy limbs and long
bones and almond eyes that made them seem otherworldly. They
were a handsome race, too, strangely compelling to behold. As he
watched them approach, Richius suddenly understood Arkus' long
fascination with them.

"King Vantran?" called the man as the boat skidded onto the
beach. "Is that you?"

"It's me," replied Richius uncertainly. He stepped out of the group
to greet the visitors. "Prakna?"

"Yes, boy!" said the Lissen excitedly. He didn't wait for his men to
rack the oars, but instead jumped out of the rowboat and splashed
ashore. There was a giant, relieved smile on his face. The Lissen
commander walked up the beach, paying no heed to Deemis and
his warriors, and reached out for Richius' hand, shaking it
vigorously. "God help me, I'm glad to see you. I feared you might
not be here."

"Prakna, hello," stammered Richius, unsure what to say. "It's good
to see you too, I guess. But I must say I'm confused. What's this
about?"

Prakna's grin was inscrutable. "We'll talk, Vantran. I'll explain it all to
you. But first . . ." The fleet commander turned to Dyana and, his
face full of reverence, dropped to one knee in the sand. "You're
Dyana, aren't you?" he asked. "Vantran's wife?"

"Yes," said Dyana, flabbergasted. She glanced at Richius for an
answer, but her husband only shrugged. "Yes, that is me.
Greetings, Prakna."

The Lissen kept his head bowed as he spoke. "I am honored to
meet you at last, Lady. You are spoken of in Liss with great
regard."

"Am I?"

"Indeed, you and your husband both. He is the Jackal of Nar, after
all. A hero. And you are his woman." Prakna straightened and
flashed a beautiful smile. But when he saw Simon standing behind
Richius, his pleasantness vanished. "Who is this?" he asked
pointedly.

Richius stood aside so Simon could step forward. "This is Simon
Darquis, Prakna."

"A Naren?"

"A friend of mine," Richius corrected. "From Nar, yes. He's a
deserter from the legions of the Black City."

Simon inclined his head to the Lissen. "Commander . . ."

An icy pall fell over Prakna. He studied every inch of Simon, even
his swollen nose. "A deserter from the legions? I didn't think there
was such a thing. How long has he been here with you, Vantran?"

"A few weeks," said Richius. "A bit more maybe." He didn't like the
Lissen's probing and so volunteered nothing. "He's not a threat if
that's what you're worried about, Prakna. I had those doubts myself
at first. Be at ease."

"Forgive me, but it's not easy for me to relax around Naren
butchers." As he spoke the commander stared directly at Simon,
refusing to flinch. "No offense, Simon Darquis."

There was a long silence before Simon spoke, and when he did
his voice was sweet like candy. "I am not offended at all, Lissen. I
know what the Empire is like, and what they did to Liss. It's why I
deserted."

"You can never know what they did to Liss," said Prakna gravely.
"Please don't say that to me again."

"Prakna, this is Deemis," interrupted Richius, hoping to change the
subject. "He's one of the protectors of the citadel."

Deemis' granite facade cracked with an offered smile. The fleet
commander of Liss returned the grin tenfold, bowing deeply to the
Triin and his warriors.

"An honor," he said. "Forgive me, I speak no Triin. Tell him for me,
please, Lady Dyana. Tell him I am honored to meet him and be on
his shores again."

Dyana quickly translated, and each of the warriors softened in turn,
lowering their guard just a little. In the rowboat, the men who had
ferried Prakna ashore were dragging the vessel onto the sand.
They were garbed similarly to their superior, with fancy uniforms
that had gone threadbare. Prakna waved them both over to him.

"These are two of my crew," he said. "They've been on the Prince
with me for months now, patrolling Nar's coast."

"Yes," said Richius. "I'd heard stories that Lissens were raiding the
Naren coasts. It's true, then?"

"More than just true," said Prakna. "Successful. I have a lot to tell
you, King Vantran. If you'd permit me, I would like to accompany
you back to the citadel, tell you why I'm here. And see your lord
Lucyler, too, if he would allow it."

"I'm sorry, Prakna, but that's not possible," said Richius. He
explained how Lucyler had been called away to Kes, to quell some
growing animosity between two of the Triin warlords. Prakna shook
his head miserably at the news.

"This Lucyler has his hands full," he said sadly. "I don't envy him.
Tharn's been dead little more than a year, and already the Triin
warlords are at each other's throats again." He glanced at the five
Triin warriors, then added softly. "May God end war forever,
everywhere."

"Yes," added Dyana. "May He do that. And quickly, too."

Her meaning wasn't lost on Prakna. "Dyana Vantran, I know you
don't want me here. I ask only that you don't judge me too quickly.
The business I have with your husband is grave indeed."

"I have been through wars before, sir," said Dyana. "I know what
they are about."

Prakna smiled deferentially. "I won't argue with you, lady. I'm no
lover of battles myself." He turned to Richius. "If we can speak,
then, King Vantran?"

"Inside," Richius offered. "Your men, too. If you're hungry and tired
. . ."

"Anything you can offer my men would be appreciated, thank you.
But I prefer to speak to you alone."

Dyana raised an eyebrow. "I would like to hear this myself. I think it
concerns me."

"Forgive me, Lady," said Prakna. "But the things I have to discuss
are between me and your husband."

"Dyana, please," said Richius, offering her a smile. "Let me talk
with Prakna alone, all right?"

Dyana's face tightened, and she bit back a protest.

"Prakna," Richius continued, "I'll have some servants bring us in
some food. I'm sure you could use some.

"That would be very fine," said the commander. Then he glanced
over at Simon, hinting at Richius. "When you say alone, I hope you
mean without this one."

"Who, Simon?" asked Richius. "No, he won't be with us."

"Good," said Prakna with relief.

Richius asked Simon, "You don't mind, do you?"

"No, not at all," replied Simon. He turned a slick smile against the
Lissen. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Fleet Commander. I wish
you good luck with whatever you have planned."

Without waiting for a response Simon turned and stalked up the
beach toward the mountain and the citadel. Richius watched him
go, feeling sorry for him.

"Prakna," said Richius, "I wish you would watch your tone around
Simon. I have very few friends, so I guard them jealousy. The next
time you see Simon, please be more courteous."

Frowning, the commander said, "Because he is your friend, I will
try. Now, we have much to talk about. And it's very urgent."

"Let's get to it, then," said Richius, leading the men up the beach.

Dyana lingered in the hallway outside the meeting chamber, far
enough from the door so that Richius and Prakna would not hear
her. Of course, she couldn't hear them either, and that vexed her.
They had only been inside the chamber for a few minutes, but she
was already riddled with anxiety. At Richius' request, Deemis and
his warriors had taken Prakna's sailors to another part of the citadel
to rest and take food. Richius had also asked Dyana to accompany
them. She had agreed, reluctantly, but halfway there she had
turned around, drawn inexorably back to the chamber where
Richius was meeting the Lissen commander. Like an abandoned
child she waited at the end of the hall, trying to listen and hearing
nothing. But she couldn't pull herself away. She was full of dread,
unable to think about anything but her husband.

"Dyana?"

Startled, Dyana turned to see who had called. To her surprise she
saw Simon around the corner, a twisted smile on his face. The
Naren seemed disturbed, too. Dyana waved him closer.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"Looking for you," he answered. "I thought I might find you here. I
was . . ." He shrugged. "Well, concerned."

"He is going to take my husband away," said Dyana miserably.

"Maybe he won't go."

"He will go," said Dyana. "It is all he thinks about. You know that by
now. Richius is just like those Lissens. Obsessed."

Simon shuffled closer. "He loves you," he said.

Dyana looked at him. What did the Naren know of love?

"How do you know that?" she asked.

"I see it. Everyone does. You might be underestimating him. I'm
not so sure he'll be able to leave you."

Dyana leaned back against the wall. "I wish that were so. I know he
loves me, but there is one thing about Richius—he never forgives.
Or forgets. If this fellow Prakna offers him revenge, he will take it.
And I will not be able to stop him."

"He's not happy here, I know," Simon admitted. "But what really can
this Lissen want with him? Richius is not a sailor."

Dyana shrugged. "I do not know." She looked at Simon and was
glad suddenly that he was with her. Just now, she needed to
confide in someone, anyone. Even Simon. At times, the Naren
surprised her by being thoughtful. He was a mystery, certainly, but
one that was slowly unraveling. "Simon, are you happy here?" she
asked. "Do you miss being home?"

The Naren frowned. "Why are you asking that?"

"You are a Naren, like Richius. I have never been to Nar. Is it so
much better than living here in Falindar?"

"That's an impossible question," said Simon. "But home is always
better than a strange place, I suppose. Especially if you have
someone there that loves you."

This intrigued Dyana. "Do you have someone at home that loves
you? A woman, I mean?"

"I haven't been home in a long time," said Simon sadly.

"But did you? Did you leave someone behind when you
deserted?"

Simon was stoic. His eyes almost closed as he answered.
"Something like that."

"I am sorry," said Dyana. "I should not have asked that. Forgive
me."

"There's nothing to forgive. I made the choice I had to make."

"Deserting?"

He nodded grimly. "Yes, I guess that's what it's called."

Dyana felt ashamed. She hardly knew this man, and yet she was
forcing him open like a book. But something made her keep
talking, something sad and hidden in Simon's eyes. He wasn't all
he claimed to be, she knew that now. He had obviously seen many
horrors. Like Richius. Both of them were damaged by war. It had
made them impenetrable.

"I am here, you know. If you want to talk, I mean. Richius, too. We
can be your friends. If you let us."

"You're very kind," said Simon. His expression dimmed a little.
"You've already done a great deal for me. Thank you." Then he
laughed, adding, "I thought I was a dead man when your husband
found me!"

"Richius can be suspicious," Dyana admitted. "But he likes you. I
can tell. It is a good thing he found you, too. Especially with winter
coming."

"Aye, but I would have found shelter for myself. There are enough
abandoned buildings from the wars. I would have stayed in one of
those."

Dyana frowned. "Abandoned? Where?"

Simon paused. "Well, yes. From the war. I saw them on my way
here. A tower." He glanced distractedly at the closed door down
the hall. "You know, I think we should go. They might hear us and
think we're eavesdropping. "

"They would be right," said Dyana sourly. "Lorris and Pris, I wish I
knew what they were talking about."

Fleet Commander Prakna put his goblet down on the table and
sighed. For the first five minutes they had hardly spoken at all while
Prakna fed himself on the bounty of Falindar. His need to talk
"urgently" had miraculously disappeared when he'd seen fresh
fruit. Richius knew what hunger was like, but when at last Prakna
had stopped eating long enough to look up, he seized the
opportunity.

"So, Commander," said Richius. "What's this about?"

"Did you expect me?" asked Prakna, avoiding Richius' question. "I
told you I'd come back if I needed you. Did you think I would?"

"I had wondered. I'm out of touch here in Falindar."

"But you hoped I would, didn't you?" probed the Lissen. He leaned
forward across the table. "You wouldn't have met my ship if you
didn't."

"Prakna, I don't mean to seem rude, but I could really use some
answers," said Richius. "Tell me why you're here."

"Why? For you, of course. We need your help."

"Who's we?"

"Liss," said the commander. He shoved his plate of food aside as
if it were suddenly annoying him. "All those who owe Nar a debt,
you might say. I'm going to be truthful with you, Vantran. You want
revenge as much as I do. I saw it in your eyes when we first met,
and I'm looking right at it again now. I'm offering you that chance."

"More," said Richius, waving over an explanation. He didn't like
Prakna's circular conversation. "Start at the beginning. What's
going on with Liss? I've heard that you've been attacking Naren
shipping, but that's all I know."

"I have an armada of over fifty ships patrolling the coasts of the
Empire," said Prakna. "Mostly schooners like the Prince."

"Prince?"

"My flagship, anchored offshore. And we've done a lot more than
just sink a few Naren ships. So far the count is at least twenty-five.
We've raided some coastal towns, too. Doria, even." Prakna's face
lit with satisfaction. "For the first time those Naren pigs know what
it's like to be invaded."

Richius was astonished. "Doria? How? The Black Fleet—"

"Stop," bade Prakna, holding up a hand. "You're in need of a
history lesson, aren't you?"

"I guess so," Richius admitted. "As I said, news travels slowly
here."

"Let me educate you, then," said Prakna. He explained to Richius
how Nar had fallen into turmoil after Arkus' death, and how the two
factions of the Empire, Biagio's and Herrith's, were at odds.
Richius knew that much already. What he didn't know was that the
Black Fleet had sided completely with Biagio and were protecting
him on his home island of Crote. Prakna went on to tell how the
Black Renaissance was almost extinguished in Nar, and how
Herrith had the imperial legions in his control. The Naren navy, he
explained, had been staying away from the Empire.

"We had the run of Naren waters," Prakna said. "And we pressed
the advantage. But not just because we wanted to hurt Nar. We had
a more important mission—to lure the Fearless and the rest of the
fleet back to Nar."

Richius was thoroughly confused. "The Fearless! That's Nicabar's
ship, isn't it? Why would you want him coming after you? I've seen
Naren dreadnoughts. They're a handful, I'm sure."

"Two handfuls," said Prakna. "But you're not listening. The point
wasn't to lure them back to Nar, exactly. The point was to lure them
away from Crote. And we've done that finally. I myself came
across the Fearless two weeks ago. She and at least two other
dreadnoughts are out of Cretan waters. They're no longer
protecting Biagio."

Richius shrugged. "So?"

"So we finally have the chance we've been looking for," said
Prakna. He put his hands on the table and steepled his fingers
contemplatively, thinking very hard before he spoke. At last he
looked straight at Richius and said, "King Vantran, Liss is planning
an invasion of Crote."

It took a moment for the words to register. When they did, Richius
could only gasp. "What?"

"Crote is a strategic weak point for Nar. If Liss could gain control of
Crote, our navy would be in easy striking distance from the
mainland. We could set up supply lines, run blockades of merchant
shipping—"

"Are you insane?" Richius blurted out. "Invade Crote? Biagio—"

"Would never know what hit him!" growled the commander. "With
the Black Fleet gone, he has no one there to protect him. My
schooners could sweep in there and let loose an invasion force
long before he could ever summon help. And Crote has only a very
small army, mostly guarding Biagio in his mansion."

"And just where are you going to get this 'invasion force'? I may not
be very informed, but I know Liss was devastated during its war
with Nar. You don't have an army. You're a bunch of sailors! I'm
surprised you have enough ships left to harass the Empire."

"We've been rebuilding," said Prakna proudly. "But you're right.
We're not land fighters. Never have been. That's why we need
you."

Richius couldn't help but laugh. He had almost seen it coming. "Oh,
yes. I'm the answer to your troubles, eh? What do you want me to
do? Train an army for you?"

"And lead the invasion," said the commander with all seriousness.
"We have more volunteers to go against Nar than you can imagine.
Men and women. All ages, too. You could—"

"No, Prakna," said Richius. He stood up and shook his head. "I
think you've got the wrong idea about me. I'm no leader."

"With respect, you're wrong," countered Prakna. "I know all about
you, Vantran. You were the one who beat back the Narens in the
battle of Dring. And you led your own company for Aramoor. You're
a horse soldier. Good with a sword, I'd bet, too."

"Not very."

"Good enough to defeat Blackwood Gayle," said Prakna. "And
that's good enough for me. I wouldn't have come all this way if I
didn't think you could help us. Liss needs you. We need someone
with your gift for strategy, your experience in land fighting." His face
was earnest, imploring. "King Vantran, you're our only hope."

It was like hearing a prayer, and Richius couldn't ignore it. He
dragged his chair over to Prakna's side of the table and sat down
face-to-face with the Lissen.

"Prakna," he said softly. "This whole trip of yours was a waste. I
thought you were coming here to ask if I wanted to join you, not
lead you. I'm no leader, despite what you've heard. Maybe when
you get back home you can tell your people to stop worshiping me
like some kind of hero. I had a lot of help defeating the Narens.
Triin help. And most of them died doing it. You should think about
that."

Prakna's voice was icy. "I have thought about it. Don't lecture me
about death, boy. I've drowned in a decade of it. But now is our
chance to get even. Don't you see that? I know what Biagio did to
your wife. He gave the order for her execution. You can't sit there
and tell me you don't yearn for revenge."

"Enough," hissed Richius. He held up a warning finger. "That far,
no further. My wife is none of your concern. And get out of my
mind! You don't know what I'm feeling."

"Wrong again. I lost two boys in the war against Nar. When Nar
invaded they were hardly in their teens. But they ran off to defend
their home just as soon as they were old enough. And now they're
both dead. You want to trade one wife for two sons? I think it's at
least equal, don't you?"

There was so much pain in Prakna's voice Richius could barely
stand it. "I'm sorry for you," he said. "I didn't know. But it doesn't
change anything, Prakna. I can't help you, or lead this invasion. I
don't know how to make an army out of fishermen."

"But you do," said Prakna. "You led your own people, right? What
is Aramoor but a land of farmers and horse breeders? Some
fishermen, too, I'd wager. We're not so different from your own
folk. Let us help you take your revenge on Nar. And let's do it now,
while they're weak."

Admittedly, it was tempting. Prakna was a very persuasive speaker.
More, Richius knew the plan had at least some chance at success.
Crote was small, hardly protected at all. And Prakna was right
about its strategic position. So close to the mainland, Liss could
indeed strike against Nar. But these things were ancillary. Prakna
was dangling a far greater prize in front of Richius.

Biagio.

"What makes you think the Black Fleet won't go back to Crote?" he
asked. "Biagio isn't used to being unprotected."

"Not all of our ships will be involved in the invasion. Just enough to
carry the troops and supplies we'll need. The rest of my armada
will continue to occupy Nicabar's fleet around the mainland." The
Lissen sat back smugly. "We'll make sure the Black Fleet stays
put, don't worry."

"Don't be so sure. Biagio has his fingers in everything. If he so
much as suspects an invasion, your plan is doomed."

Prakna waved the remark away. "Biagio is completely isolated.
He's clever, I admit, but we're clever, too. He won't suspect
anything."

"And what do you plan on doing with him once you take the
island?"

"That's up to you," promised the Lissen. "That's part of my bargain.
I take the island. You take Biagio. He's yours. You can snuff him
out like a candle. That would be justice, wouldn't it?"

"I'm not a murderer, Prakna. I'm better than that."

"Nonsense," said Prakna. "None of us are any better than the next.
You're not so different from me, Vantran. We may be from
different sides of the world, but we're both the same now. Life has
made us brothers. And you know that, don't you? You can't hide
from it. It's all over your face. You may not be a butcher like Biagio,
but you can kill him. If I handed him to you, you'd slice his throat."
Prakna leaned in and whispered, "Wouldn't you?"

Richius stood up, unable or unwilling to answer, he wasn't sure
which. "You may stay in Falindar as long as you like," he told
Prakna. "Have your men come ashore for fresh food and drink.
There's lodging here for all of them."

"Vantran," cautioned the Lissen. "I need an answer." He struck out
a hand for Richius to take. "Are you with us?"

"Prakna . . ."

"Don't make this all be a waste of my time," Prakna begged. "We
can't do it without you. We don't have the knowledge."

Richius sighed. "When are you leaving? I'll give you an answer
then."

"You're thinking of your wife, I know. I left my wife behind, too. Her
name is J'lari. I love her very much. It changes nothing." Prakna
kept his hand outstretched. "Liss needs you. Please . . ."

"We might both be fools, my friend," Richius whispered gravely.

Then he clasped Prakna's hand.

All was silent. Out in the garden the world had grown cold, and
Simon shivered in the moonlight. Two eyes blinked at him from a
treetop, the curious gaze of a night bird, and the garden statues,
half-eaten with lichens, listened deafly to the breeze. Simon
cocked his head, surveying his surroundings. Except for his
anxious breathing, he heard nothing. Overhead, the towers of
Falindar glowed with candlelight. It was late, and most of the citadel
had retired. A moment ago two Triin guardians had paced through
the garden, giving him a puzzled stare. Simon nodded at them, and
the small gesture was enough to send them on their way. Thanks
to Vantran, he was trusted now.

Simon stuck his hand in his coat pocket and pulled out a piece of
paper, neatly folded into a tiny square. Unfolding it, he inspected
the numbers one through forty he had scribbled on the paper. All
but five of them had been struck through, denoting the passing of
the days. Simon looked up to consider the moon. There were still
many hours until dawn, but he pulled his piece of black chalk from
his pocket anyway and drew a line through day number thirty-six. In
four days the Intimidator would be offshore, waiting for him. He had
that much time to steal Shani. Simon muttered a curse. He had
done a remarkable job of earning Vantran's confidence. Normally
he would have been proud of himself. This time, however, he felt
hollow and sick. Vantran and his wife had treated him like a friend,
a turn of events even he hadn't foreseen, one that made the
despicable act of stealing their child all the more difficult. He liked
Richius. He liked Dyana, too. And he knew the young woman would
be heartbroken by the loss of her daughter. Simon folded the
paper again and returned it to his pocket.

Biagio, he seethed. May God damn you eternally for making me do
this.

There was no choice, Simon told himself; there never had been.
Despite the kindness of the Vantrans, he had never wavered in his
commitment to his mission. This was about Eris. If he didn't return
with the child as he'd promised, her life would be forfeit. It wasn't
just that Biagio would forbid them to marry. He would kill her.
Worse, he would hand her over to the monstrous Savros, who
would ritualistically disembowel her. That was Biagio's way.

He hated Biagio now. The feeling had stunned him, because he
had loved his master once. He was Roshann, and that meant
unwavering loyalty. But Biagio had changed over the years,
corrupted by the drug and thoughts of immortal power. There was
a time when even Biagio would have spared a little girl, but no
longer. Now he cut off heads without regard, and turned whole
families over to the war labs for experiments. He was a monster,
like Savros and the rest of them. And Simon was trapped. Simon
knew he could only obey.

"You'll have the baby, Biagio," he whispered to the wind. "And that
is all."

When he was done with this mission and Eris was his, Simon
would take her away from Crote. They would not go to the Black
City with Biagio. They would leave him and go underground,
someplace where the Count of Crote would never find them, and
they would live together as normal people and Simon would forget
the blood he had spilled.

If he could.

He wasn't at all certain about that anymore. He knew he would see
Dyana's face for the rest of his life. And Richius would haunt him,
too. The Jackal would come after him. He would forgo his vendetta
against Biagio and dedicate his every breath to finding the man
who had kidnapped his daughter. And he would fail. Like Biagio
would fail. Simon was the Roshann. The years had taught him
tricks.

"I'm sorry," he whispered sadly, staring at the moon. "It's just the
way it has to be."

He would have wept if he were more of a man, but Roshann
conditioning had erased that part of him, too. The lump in his throat
was contention enough. He wondered what Eris would think of him
if she ever learned the truth. She already knew the sort of work he
did for the count, but he was certain she could never understand
this. Most likely, the baby would be murdered. Simon hoped it
didn't wind up in the Mind Bender's hands. He put a hand to his
forehead to banish the image.

Quickly! he shouted in his mind. Make it quick, you bastard. She's
only a child.

In the end, though, Biagio's whim would determine how much the
child suffered. If he felt magnanimous, the baby might die swiftly. If
not, she might linger for months. Simon fell back against the brick
wall of the garden and slowly melted to the ground. He sat there for
long minutes, finding it impossible to move.

Four more days.

A boot scraped the pavement on the other side of the garden.
Simon snapped out of his stupor and looked left. Past a nest of
ferns a figure was approaching.

"Simon?" It was Richius.

Simon sat very still, hoping to pass unnoticed. But Richius rounded
the ferns and saw him sitting on the ground with his arms wrapped
around his knees. The young man stopped a few yards away.

"Simon? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

Richius chanced a step closer. "What are you doing out here?"

"Good question. What are you doing?"

"Looking for you. The guards told me they had seen you out here."
Richius looked around for something interesting, then, seeing
nothing, looked back at Simon. "Why are you sitting here in the
cold?"

"I like the cold," said Simon. "And my privacy."

Richius refused to take the hint. "Is something wrong?"

"No."

"Tell me."

"What do you want, Richius?" Simon spat. All his anger at Biagio
foamed over. "Can't you see I'm busy?"

"I can see you're brooding," said Richius. "That's all. I was hoping I
could talk to you. I've been looking for you for an hour."

"Well, you found me." Simon patted the cold bricks beside him.
"Sit down."

To Simon's surprise, Richius didn't hesitate to slide down next to
him. Simon stole a glance at the younger man, sizing him up.
Richius was studying the moon.

"You've got something on your mind," Simon declared. "Spit it out."

"All right," said Richius. "I'm going to Liss with Prakna."

Simon nodded. "I thought you would. Have you told your wife?"

"I have. She's angry."

"And what has the Lissen promised you? A chance to fight for
Aramoor? Some Naren heads?"

"Oh, much more than that. He's promised me Biagio."

Dumbfounded, Simon could only blink. What the hell was Prakna
planning?

"Biagio?" he blurted. "How?"

"By invading Biagio's island," Richius explained. "Says he's been
decoying the Black Fleet away from Crote. Apparently Nicabar's
ships have been lurking around Crote, protecting Biagio. But all the
Lissen raids on the mainland have finally lured the Naren
dreadnoughts back to imperial waters. Prakna plans to invade just
as soon as he has an army ready."

Good God almighty! Simon looked away, trying hard not to betray
his shock, but he was staggered by the news. An invasion of
Crote? And Biagio didn't know? There would be hundreds killed.
More, maybe. Maybe Eris.

"What does he want you for?" asked Simon. "To help him fight?"

"Sort of. He wants me to lead his army. Train them, too." Richius
laughed bitterly. "He thinks he needs me. The Lissens are sailors,
not soldiers. They need someone experienced to lead them."

"And you're the best they could get?" exclaimed Simon. "Good
luck to them."

"I've led men before, Simon. I think I can do the job. Besides . . ."
He rubbed his hands together. "It's my chance to get that bastard
Biagio. If we capture him, I can do what I want with him. Prakna
said so."

The old training rose up in Simon like a wave. He thought of pulling
his dagger and ramming it through Vantran's ribs. He thought of
smashing his smug head against the wall until it cracked. Like the
old days. But he just sat there and did nothing, reminding himself
of his role and mission.

"You're a damned fool," Simon said finally. "You're starting down a
path you won't ever come back from."

"I have to do this, Simon. I have a responsibility to Aramoor, and to
Sabrina. It's—"

"Stop fooling yourself, Richius. This isn't about Aramoor, and it isn't
about your first wife, either. This is about revenge."

"So what if it is?" rumbled Richius, getting to his feet. He glared
down at Simon, his eyes wild. "I thought at least you would
understand! You know what Nar is like. Is it so wrong to want
revenge?" He jammed a thumb into his chest. "I want revenge,
Simon. And God damn it all, I'm going to have it!"

Simon smiled mercilessly. "Good for you. Is that why you wanted
to see me? To tell me about your heroic quest?"

"No," said Richius. "I have a favor to ask. I want you to look after
Dyana and Shani while I'm gone. Be Dyana's friend for me. She's
alone here, especially with Lucyler gone. But she likes you, I think.
You can protect her. Will you do that?"

Simon refused to think about it. "No, I won't," he said flatly. "Your
wife and daughter are your responsibility, Richius. Don't try to push
them off on me."

Even as he said it, Simon felt nauseated. But he had already
broken one promise to Richius, that day when he had met Dyana
and the baby in the field. He had sworn not to harm them, and that
pledge was going to be broken in four more days. He wasn't about
to leave Lucel-Lor with another shattered oath on his conscience.

"Simon, I'm asking you as a friend," said Richius. "Look after them
for me, just for a while; until I return."

"And what if you don't come back, Richius? What am I supposed
to do with them?"

"Simon, what is this?" asked Richius. He knelt down on the hard
ground of the garden. "Why are you so angry with me? I thought
you of all people would understand."

"Wrong." Simon looked away, unable to stand Vantran's earnest
face. Yet he knew it wasn't hatred he felt. It was shame. "Don't
make your problems mine. I've got a plateful of my own."

"Please," Richius cajoled. "I'm leaving with Prakna the day after
tomorrow. Say you'll change your mind by then. Don't make me
leave worrying about them. Without Lucyler—"

"I said no! Are you deaf? I'm not going to look after them. I'm not
going to give you my blessing, and I'm not going to say everything
is all right. So make this stupid decision without me!"

Richius was stunned. Very slowly he got to his feet.

He lingered over Simon for a moment, then turned and stalked
away. But before he was gone he paused near the ferns and cast
one last look in Simon's direction.

"I don't know what I did to make you so mad, Simon," he said
softly, "but I thought we were friends."

He was gone as quickly as he'd come, swallowed up by the
darkness. Simon buried his head in his arms and closed his eyes.

"You want to know why I'm mad, you fool?" he whispered.
"Because when you're gone and I take the baby, Dyana will have
nothing."
EIGHTEEN
Men-at-Arms

D uke Enli sat back into the cushions of the coach, highly satisfied
with himself. Barely three days had passed since he'd come to
Nar's capital, and already Vorto's army was readying itself. At the
duke's urging, the Archbishop of Nar had wasted no time in
preparing for the coming battle in Dragon's Beak. That night he had
summoned Vorto to the cathedral and together the three of them
had laid plans. General Vorto had been vocal and displeased, but
had acquiesced to Herrith's demands. And despite his opposition
to the long trek, Vorto had moved with amazing speed. Through
the windows of his coach Enli glanced at the driver who had
brought him the news. He was a small man in service to the
general, and had come unannounced to Enli's room in the
cathedral.

"General Vorto wants you," he had said. "Quickly."

Now it was just past dawn. Enli rubbed fatigue from his eyes. He
had thought of sending the driver away, but he thought it best not to
antagonize the general. Vorto was the key to their entire plan. Enli
wanted his trust. Alone in the comfortable carriage, Enli pondered
their destination. They had crossed the bridge over the river Kiel
and were heading toward the Black Palace, the vacated seat of
Naren power. Enli put his cheek against the glass to see better. In
the Black City, the palace was called "the onyx jewel," and now Enli
knew why. It was an awesome structure. Not beautiful the way the
cathedral was, but chilling and strangely stunning. The sun was
coming up behind it, setting it aflame. Compared to his own Red
Tower, the palace was massive, fit for giants.

His driver had neglected to tell him where they were going, so Enli
had guessed. Vorto, he supposed, had taken up residence in the
palace.

Balls of iron, thought the duke.

Outside the window, the breaking dawn tossed shadows through
the streets. The smell of the polluted river and the smoke of the
war labs wafted through the glass, stinging Enli's nose. An umber
sky lit their way as sunlight struggled in the haze. The Black City
was awakening. Already vendors and merchants pushed through
the avenues, dragging their wares to the market. A slave trader and
his convoy shuffled past, and a band of beggars stretched in an
alleyway between two houses, roused by the light. They would
breakfast on rats, and if they were lucky pick a few pockets, for this
was life in Nar for the poor. But higher up, in the towers and tall
spires, the Naren lords awoke in splendor in perfumed beds, their
skin soft and oiled, their minds cloudy with narcotics. Weary from a
night of lovemaking, they would go to the window and check the
weather, and not think twice of the toil in the streets. Enli's eyes
narrowed as his gaze drifted upward. Biagio was one of those
lords. And the count didn't give a damn about the destitute or the
depraved. He only wanted Nar.

The carriage driver steered them through a broad street and
ascended the palace road. The Black Palace had only one
approach, a wide avenue trimmed with golden lamps and marble
bricks that wound snakelike up to the impressive castle. But though
Enli had expected to find the road deserted, it was not. A caravan
of soldiers was walking toward the castle, while another was
coming down. Men wearing the insignia of the Naren legions
walked and rode on horseback and dragged packs and animals up
and down the way, and the street quickly choked with activity. Enli
rapped hard on the carriage wall with his boot, bidding the driver to
hurry. But the driver kept his slow ascent up the mountain road,
leaving the duke to puzzle. Aggravated, Enli pressed his nose up
against the glass to study the throng of soldiers. There was
purpose in their movement, and Enli realized at once that this was
the force Vorto had arrayed for him.

His heart sank.

So many men. He had asked for a division without really knowing
what the number meant to Vorto. It was Biagio's plan to get as
many legionnaires out of the city as possible, but now the success
of the count's design became apparent. Enli's eyes widened.
Vorto had taken his plea for help with all seriousness. Quickly Enli
tabulated the figures. He had the army of the air back at home, and
Biagio's mercenaries, all waiting for him in Dragon's Beak. He also
had Nicabar's Black Fleet, if the admiral was on his way as Biagio
had promised. But were they all enough? This really was a division,
and the sight of it withered Enli's confidence.

The coach picked its way through the swarm of soldiers, finally
stopping at the apex of the hill, just outside the sprawling parade
grounds at the base of the Black Palace. Enli waited inside, awed
by the sight before him. Hundreds of men, garbed in metal and
heavy coats, toiled in the new-day sun, stuffing backpacks and
shoeing horses, sharpening steel and loading carts. Horned
greegans, the huge, armor-plated beasts used to pull war wagons,
honked and snorted as trainers brushed their scaly hides and fixed
their mouths with bridles. Horsemen trotted by, dwarfing the
scurrying infantrymen in their high-topped boots. In the center of
the grounds stood a gang of officers, chatting among themselves
and shouting directions to their men. Bare-chested slaves heaved
their shoulders against the nearly immovable weight of steel
wagons, pushing them into position while their brethren hooked up
the flame cannons. Acid launchers waited atop wheeled frames,
their baglike bellows slack. Cannisters of munitions stood beside
them, filled with the corrosive agents that could eat through human
flesh.

"Too many," Enli whispered nervously. "Too bloody many."

Before he had left for Nar City, there had been four hundred
mercenaries in his army, plus the two hundred men of his own
brigade. That meant they would be outnumbered by the legion, and
certainly out-gunned. If Nicabar and the heavy guns of the Fearless
failed to make it to Dragon's Beak, they would be routed. He gave
a low curse, hating himself for making such a convincing case to
Herrith. He had begged the bishop for the troops, and now bitterly
recalled that old adage—Be careful what you wish for.

The coach driver got down from his bench and came around to
open Enli's door. A rushing stench of horse manure blasted Enli in
the face. He got out and stepped into the trampled earth of the
parade ground, swallowed by a cacophony of noise.

"Where's Vorto?" he asked the driver. The slow-witted man
pointed a bony finger at the officers in the center of the throng. Enli
squinted to see past the press of bodies and detected the giant
general among his men. Vorto's shaved head stood taller than the
rest. He was busying himself with a pair of officers, one of whom
Enli had met two days before, the dour-faced Colonel Kye. Vorto
was gesturing to a flat-bedded wagon, while a crew of engineers
hoisted rocket launchers into the conveyance and strapped them
down securely. Beside the wagon stood a dozen metal cannisters,
oddly shaped and bigger than those of the acid launchers. Seeing
that his driver wouldn't lead him farther, Enli shouldered into the
crowd and approached General Vorto. The bald giant caught a
glimpse of him as he neared and a sardonic smile split his face.

"Duke Enli," he bellowed, waving the duke over. "Come and see
what I've done for you."

Enli didn't bother to greet the general or his underlings. "Are these
your men?" he asked. "The ones dispatched to Dragon's Beak?"

"Enough for you, I hope?" said Vorto. "We've been preparing
throughout the night for the trip. With luck we'll be ready to deploy
on the morrow."

"This is quite an army you've arranged," said the duke, looking
around. "How many are there?"

"A division," said Vorto. "What you asked for."

"And how many is that, precisely?"

Vorto and a young officer chortled. Colonel Kye remained quiet.

"A division is three units. Does that help you at all, Duke?"

Enli sighed, too tired to play the game. "They look like enough. And
if they're as good as you claim, we should win the day."

"We will win the day. In a day," Vorto prophesied. "Against that
undisciplined rabble of Dragon's Beak, it will be over in an hour.
Look . . ." The general gestured toward the crowd. "More men and
materials than I took with me to Goth. We have war wagons, acid
launchers, supplies for the trip, everything." Vorto reached out and
patted Enli's cheek. "Don't worry, sweet fellow. We'll get your
country back for you."

The taunting gesture raised Enli's hackles, but he checked his
anger, saying, "This is wonderful, Vorto. You've done a very good
job. Dragon's Beak will thank you."

Vorto's enormous chest puffed out. "I want some pretty maids
when we're done with our work, Enli. Let Dragon's Beak's
daughters show me their thanks!"

More laughing from the young lieutenant. More dark silence from
Kye. A stray horse trotted by, then voided itself near their boots.
Enli turned his nose away. Vorto's round face reddened.

"I'll see to it," said Kye quickly. He took hold of the horse's reins
and led the beast away in search of its master. Vorto watched him
go, keeping his eyes on the colonel's back. Enli noted Vorto's
sourness.

"A good man," said Vorto, "but no faith." He turned to Enli and
jabbed a finger into the duke's chest. "You must have faith, Duke
Enli. Do you?"

"Faith in what?"

"Faith in God almighty," thundered Vorto. He took his finger out of
Enli's chest and pointed it at the flag flying in the center of the
company. The Light of God, that ubiquitous symbol seen
everywhere in Nar, fluttered in the wind. "That's what we're fighting
for, Enli. Make no mistake. If our hearts are pure, God will deliver
victory."

Enli smiled thinly. "I welcome any help the Lord might offer. But
don't get overconfident. This won't be the walk in a rose garden
you're imagining. It's already winter in Dragon's Beak. My brother
has many troops of his own. And he has his army of the air."

"Bah! I have heard of your brother's trained birds. You make too
much of them, I think."

"You wouldn't say that if you'd ever seen them," observed Enli. A
tremor of anticipation overcame him. "Or fought against them.
They're not just ravens, not like you're used to. These are bloody
beasts, big as your head. Bigger, even. They feast on eyeballs and
drink blood, like a bunch of bloody vampires."

The lieutenant standing next to Vorto blanched at the description.
"How big?" he queried. He held his hands a foot apart. "Like this?"

"Bigger," said Enli. "Not like your head, boy. Like the general's."

Vorto frowned. "That's all brain."

"Whatever. These ravens will eat that too, if you let them." Enli
grinned at the young soldier. "Take a helmet with you, lad."

"General?" squeaked the soldier.

"He's trying to scare you, Vale. You just keep your wits about you.
We'll swat those damnable birds right out of the sky." He turned on
Enli and laughed. "Bloody birds. The day I'm afraid of a bird I'll
hang myself."

The duke shrugged. "That day may be sooner than you think. But
we'll worry about that then, eh?"

"General . . .?"

"Shut up, Vale. Enli, I'm looking forward to dealing with those
butcher birds. This legion wears the armor of Heaven." Vorto
folded his meaty arms across his chest. "We have some surprises
of our own for your bastard brother."

"Such as?"

With his chin, the general pointed toward the flatbed of rocket
launchers. "That."

Enli shook his head. "It won't work. It's already winter up north. Too
much wind for rockets."

"Not rockets, Duke Enli." Vorto leaned in with a conspiratorial
smile. "Something better."

Enli's eyes flicked toward the cannisters. "What's in those? Acid?"

Vorto put his arm around the duke and led him toward the wagon.
The engineers worked a little quicker as their leader approached.
Enli squirmed at the general's touch but did not pull away.

"This is something very special," whispered the general.
"Something not even the army of the air will be able to escape
from. A present from the war labs."

The cannisters were the size of a helmet, polished metal
containers smooth to Enli's touch. He ran his hand over one and
felt its cool surface for flaws. Instead, he found a machined
perfection.

"The rocket launchers have been modified to fire the cannisters,"
Vorto explained. "They don't need to be as accurate as rockets."

"What's in it?" asked Enli. He picked up a cannister and gave it a
gentle shake. Inside, something liquid sloshed about. He cocked
his head to listen, unsure what he was hearing, then very slowly put
the container down, horrified by the thought. When he lifted his
eyes to Vorto he saw the general grinning.

"Goth," said the duke breathlessly. "Don't tell me—"

"Formula B," said Vorto. "Perfected, no thanks to Minister Bovadin.
Just the thing to deal with your brother's flying pests."

"No!" railed Enli. "You can't let this poison loose in Dragon's Beak.
I won't allow it!"

"You won't?" laughed Vorto. "Enli, it's not your choice. This is my
army. My war to wage."

"It's my country, you idiot! I won't let you turn it into a wasteland just
to wipe out some birds."

Vorto smoldered at the insult. "It's the north fork we're fighting for,
not your territory. And I'll do what I must to take it. The
Renaissance, Enli. That's what this is about. I'm going to eradicate
it in Dragon's Beak just as I did in Goth. And if you get squeamish
on me . . ." His three-fingered hand snatched Enli's lapel. "I will
throw you to your brother's birds and watch them peck your liver
out."

Very slowly, Duke Enli took hold of Vorto's hand and removed it.
But he did not back away from the wild-eyed general. Instead he
matched his steely gaze. "I won't let you murder my country, Vorto.
You're coming with me to quell the rebellion. And that is all. When
you're in Dragon's Beak, you're under my dominion."

It felt good just to say it. The general didn't bother stepping back,
but Enli sensed the surprise in him nonetheless.

"It is there if we need it," said Vorto. "And if we need it, I will use it."

"If we need it, then we will all be dead, General." Enli noted the
size of the cannister. "If you launch that poison in a stiff wind, there
won't be anywhere for us to hide."

"God guides me," replied Vorto with confidence. "If it is His will to
use the formula, He will protect us."

Enli turned away, his argument lost. Vorto was Herrith's puppet,
and if Herrith had told him to bring the formula, then bring it he
would. And he would launch at the first raindrop or thunder clap or
falling leaf—whatever he saw as a sign from God. The duke poked
at one of the cannisters with his foot, testing its veracity. He hadn't
imagined Herrith would dare use the formula against Dragon's
Beak. Bleakly he wondered if Biagio had miscalculated the
bishop's mettle.

General Vorto, his pride clearly wounded, sauntered over to Enli
and spun him around by the shoulder. "I thought you would be
pleased," he said bitterly. "Look at all I've done for you." He made
a sweeping gesture with his hand, indicating the mass of men. "Are
you going to get weak-kneed on me? Like Colonel Kye or some
woman? This was your idea, remember."

"This is fine," said Enli. "All but the poison." He walked past Vorto
heading back to the coach. "Be ready to leave on the morrow."

"The Black Renaissance," Vorto called after him. "We're going to
eradicate a cancer!"

Enli flashed a hidden smile as he walked away. So long as you
believe that, madman.
NINETEEN
The Jackal's Daughter

As the sun descended, Simon Darquis stalked through the halls of
Falindar, closing the distance to Dyana's chamber. It was dinner
time for the Jackal's wife, who ate with the other women of the
citadel in the main kitchen on the ground floor when her husband
was away. Simon moved with practiced deftness, keeping to the
shadows and to the lamp light equally. His head pounded and his
hands trembled. He had ended his struggle with his conscience
and had put it on a shelf, someplace in the trained recesses of his
brain where it wouldn't nag at him.

Tonight, he was Dark-Heart.

The Vantrans' chambers were at the end of a corridor, unguarded,
surrounded by other modest rooms like it. The doors in the hall
stood half-open, some vacant, some issuing unsuspecting voices.
At evening mealtime, the people of the citadel always gathered
together downstairs, far away from the Vantran rooms. Simon had
copiously observed their rhythms. He knew with the perfection of a
time-piece when Dyana was with Shani—and when she was not.
He had hardly spoken to her since Richius had left for Liss, for she
was distant now. All of Falindar was buzzing with talk of the
Jackal—how he had left his wife and child behind, how his blood-
lust couldn't be slaked.

Today, Simon had analyzed Dyana's every movement. From the
shadows he had stalked her, ghostlike and invisible. He had
watched her walk with Shani in the garden, watched her dissolve
into tears and walk back again, and he had done it all with
remarkable detachment. Too distraught to feel his eyes on her,
Dyana had gone on about her daily business, oblivious to the
Roshann agent breathing in her perfume. And now she had left
Shani with Tresh to dine with the others.

With easy nonchalance, Simon crossed the corridor to Dyana's
chamber. He paused outside the door to listen and heard the
shuffling of light footsteps. Inside the room, a door opened, then
closed again. The sound of ruffling clothing, the unknown din of
something scraping. Simon devoured the sounds and filtered them
through his quick mind. One person, light enough to be the Triin
nurse. The baby was asleep, perhaps. He took a breath, steadied
himself, and knocked on the door with a painted smile.

The light footfalls approached the door and opened it. The Triin
woman called Tresh stood in the threshold. Her eyes widened
when she sighted Simon.

"Simon?" she asked through her thick accent. They barely knew
each other, and the proper name startled Simon. "What is it?"

"Dyana," said Simon. He opened his hands. "Shani. Dyana wants
Shani, downstairs." He pretended to struggle with the words.
"Downstairs, yes? Do you understand?"

"I speak your language," said the woman. Her eyes narrowed. "Is
Dyana all right?"

"She's fine. I was just down with her, supping." Simon gave a
shrug. "She misses the child. This thing with Richius, I suppose.
She was going to come up for her herself, but I told her I'd bring
her. Would you come downstairs with us?"

Tresh grimaced. "Shani sleeps now. Dyana knows this. That girl . .
." She shook her head, exasperated. "Her mind is mud these
days."

Simon sighed knowingly. "Richius."

"Yes, that husband of hers." Tresh wagged a finger in Simon's
face. "You are his friend. You should have stopped him. Now
Dyana is mad at you."

"I know," lied Simon. "It's my fault. I tried to stop him, but Richius
wouldn't listen. Stubborn, you know?" With one eye he looked over
Tresh's shoulder into the room. Shani was nowhere in sight.
"Should I tell Dyana the girl's asleep?" he asked. "She'll
understand, I suppose."

"No, no," Tresh grumbled. "I will wake her and take her down with
you. It will be good for Dyana. She needs the baby close these
days." The nurse turned her back on Simon and walked into the
room. Simon followed cautiously behind. His stomach gave a
sickening lurch. Very slowly he put his hand behind his back and
gave the door a gentle nudge, just enough to close it without
making a sound. His hand then drifted to his belt and withdrew a
stiletto.

"Dyana will be happy to see the baby," Tresh was saying. "She is
so sad now. Shani—"

Tresh's voice constricted the moment the blade severed her
spine. Simon's free hand shot up and covered her mouth as he
drove the stiletto deeper. The woman shuddered, her knees
buckling. Blood sluiced from the incision onto Simon's hand. The
sensation made him retch but he held fast, deepening the gash
until Tresh's shaking ceased and a feeble death rattle trickled
through his fingers.

"Good people go to Heaven," Simon whispered. Her eyes
widened at the observation, horror-struck. Gently, Simon laid her
down, withdrawing the blade but keeping his hand over her mouth.
"Forgive me, woman," he begged. "Go with God. Curse me when
you see Him."

The dying nurse tried and failed to move her paralyzed arms. What
looked like a tear fell from her eyes. She gasped once, twice,
trying to suck in air. A soundless scream climbed out of her mouth.
. . .

And then she died.

Simon knelt over the dead woman. For a very long moment he
forgot the direness of his mission. A wave of self-loathing drowned
him. Carefully he reached out his bloodied hand and closed the
woman's sightless eyes. He dragged the dead woman out of the
center of the room, pulling her into one of the bedchambers. The
scent told him at once it was Dyana's room, the one she shared
with Richius. Simon cleaned his hands on Tresh's dress,
composing himself. He didn't want the child to see him looking
frightened.

Easy! he scolded himself. Be still.

At his command his heartbeat slowed. His breathing tranquilized. A
serene smile crossed his face, as if the corpse at his feet existed
only in a dream. Trance-like, he walked from the bedroom into the
main chamber, quickly spotting the door to Shani's room. The
hinges squeaked as he pushed it open and peered inside. At once
he sighted the Jackal's daughter, asleep upon a tiny bed of wood
and white sheets. The room was dark but for the last rays of
sunlight splashing through the window. Shani's face glowed pink,
unmindful of the murder of her nurse. Without waking her, Simon
crept over to the bed and knelt down beside it, studying the child.
She had her father's round eyes and her mother's milky skin. A
strand of fawn hair fell across her forehead. At one year old, she
could only toddle. Getting her out of the citadel would be difficult.
But Simon was determined not to hurt her. He had considered
gagging her, even stuffing her in a sack, but had quickly dismissed
the idea. So instead he would try a different approach, one that
might, with Heaven's grace, seem plausible.

He would just walk out with her.

Most of the folk of the citadel trusted him now, and if they saw him
with the child walking toward the kitchen they probably wouldn't
question him. Simon very gently reached out and touched the child,
brushing the wayward hair from her face.

"Shani," he whispered cheerfully. "Wake up. I have to take you to
your mother."

Shani's eyes opened at the sound of the strange voice. They
focused on Simon in confusion, but were unafraid.

"Hello," he crooned. He gave the girl an encouraging smile while
he continued stroking her hair. "Don't be afraid. I'm not going to
hurt you. Mother wants you. Mother."

Shani frowned, then let out a frustrated grunt. Simon slowly slipped
the covers down and took her hand. It was impossibly small. Soft
too, like a rose petal. Instinctively the fragile fingers wrapped
around his.

"My name is Simon," he said. "I . . ."

He stopped, unable to complete the lie. A vision of Eris flashed
through his mind, and then Biagio, waiting with the Mind Bender for
the child. Even as he fought to still himself, he began to shake.

"Shani," he whispered desperately. "I know you can't understand
me, but listen. I'm an evil man. But I love a woman, and I can't let
her die. I'm taking you someplace, and I'll do my best to protect
you there. I swear it."

Surprisingly, Shani smiled at him, not pulling her hand away. Simon
guided her gently out of the bed. N'Dek and the Intimidator would
be offshore, waiting for him in a few short hours.

He hadn't expected the babe to be so compliant. But Shani stood
on her own, albeit shakily, her bare feet padding with him to a
closet stuffed with clothing. Simon undressed her and hurriedly
pulled some day clothes over her head. Shani squirmed and
giggled, enjoying the attention. Simon rolled stockings and a pair of
tiny shoes onto her feet, then took her hand again. Outside, not far
from the entry to the citadel, he had hidden a coat to keep her
warm on the long trek to the tower. An hour ago, he had stolen one
of Falindar's precious horses. The missing horse, he knew, would
be noticed quickly.

"We're going to go for a ride," he told Shani. "Be a good girl for
me. Please."

Dyana left the kitchen after her meal, ignoring the appeals from her
friends to stay with them and talk. She skirted the Triin warriors in
the great hall of Falindar and made her way to the rear of the
citadel where the heart tree grew and the cliff dove down to the
ocean below. It was very cold, and she had no coat, but the moon
was coming up and the shiver through her skin heightened her
melancholy. The heart tree, that lone and legendary symbol of the
Gods, erupted out of the rocky earth, blocking the moonbeams.
Dyana stared at it, and before she could stop them, the tears
came.

Without Richius, she was alone here. Her companions were
nothing like her. She was more Naren than Triin, they said, more
interested in being a man than a woman. Her independent streak
had earned her a reputation in Falindar, and now, with her husband
off on a foolish crusade, Dyana felt the crush of loneliness. She
cowled her arms around her shoulders to stave off the breeze.

In the end, she hadn't begged Richius to stay. She had refused to
shed tears for him. Now she wept openly, and wished he was here
to comfort her. But men were foolish, even good men like Richius.
And they were all too easily swayed by revenge. Dyana brushed
her tears away angrily. Shani needed her. She would not be the
weak-as-water woman the others expected her to be.

Dyana returned to the citadel, climbing the spiral staircase leading
to the level of her bedchamber. It was very quiet in the corridor.
Across the dim hallway, she found the door to her chambers an
inch ajar. Without a thought she pushed open the door.

"I am here, Tresh," she said in Triin. "Shani? Are you awake?"

No answer. No sound, either. Dyana hastened to her daughter's
room and gasped at the disheveled state of her closet. All of
Shani's clothes, the little Triin skirts and shoulder wraps, were
strewn about the floor. The bed was unmade but empty. Dyana's
heart leapt with panic. She dashed into her own bedroom . . .

. . . and saw Tresh twisted on the floor.

Dyana froze. She stared at the dead woman, mute and breathless.
Tresh lay in a waste of crimson, her eyes shut, her limbs stiff and
impossibly bent. The color of life had drained from her flesh to
stain the floor. Dyana backed away, slowly at first, then in a frenzy.

"Shani!" she screamed, racing from her bedroom. "Someone help
me!"

Out in the hall, doors flung open. Startled Triin faces peered out
from their chambers, roused by Dyana's screams. One by one she
asked the onlookers if they had seen Shani, but each of them
shook their heads in confusion, unaware of the dead woman down
the hall. Dyana didn't bother to explain. She flew down the stairs,
taking them three at a time. All she could think about was Simon.

"You bastard!" she muttered, already certain of her quarry. "You
did it, you monster. . . ."

She found herself cursing Simon and Richius both—the Naren for
taking Shani, her husband for abandoning her. The unendurable
thought that Shani might be—

"No!" she spat, refusing to believe it. "You will not take my baby!"

Biagio . . .

The name rang in her head like a bell. At the bottom of the stairs
she collided with Deemis. Seeing her distress, the warrior took
hold of her.

"What is it, woman?" he demanded.

Dyana grabbed his shirt with both fists. "My daughter; have you
seen her? Have you seen Shani?"

Deemis frowned, clearly perplexed. "I have not. What is it?"

"What about Simon? Have you seen him?"

"Dyana, no. I—"

"Deemis, help me! He has taken her, I know he has. Tresh is dead
in my chambers! He killed her and took Shani. I have to find her."

She tried to tear away from the man but he held her fast. "Stop
now!" he ordered roughly. "Where is Tresh? What has
happened?"

Dyana hurriedly explained how she had gone upstairs and found
Tresh murdered in her rooms. Her daughter was gone, she
explained, and only Simon would have taken her.

"Richius was right, Deemis," she insisted. "He has taken her. We
have to find him. Lorris and Pris, help me!"

"You will go to the kitchens and wait there with the women,"
Deemis ordered. He took her by the shoulders, forcing her to
listen. "Stay with them. We will find your daughter and this snake,"
he snarled. "We will, Dyana. Now go."

"Deemis—"

"Go!" he barked, shoving her away. He didn't wait to see her leave,
but instead turned his back and started bellowing for help and
horses. The sound brought warriors running. At their master's order
they scrambled for the gates, spreading out in a wave. Dyana fell
backward against the wall and closed her eyes, and all the loss she
had ever felt in her life was nothing compared to the void
swallowing her now.

The horse Simon had stolen from the stables was fast and black
and perfectly invisible in the moonlight. With the Jackal's daughter
wrapped in a coat in front of him, he sank low in the saddle and
rode hard, following the trails through the grassy valleys and
woodlands, past the eyes of owls and far, far away from the towers
of Falindar. For the first hour of the journey Shani hardly made a
sound, but well into their second hour of riding she began to fret.
Simon tried to cheer her, but he dared not slow his pace. Every
rough jolt made the child more uncomfortable and vocal. By the
third hour, Shani was crying hysterically.

"Easy, child. Easy," Simon pleaded. They were in a thick forest
with only the moon to guide them, and Simon worried that the
horse would break a leg. Shani wailed. It was very late, and the
time of his rendezvous was fast approaching. He had made
extraordinary time, but he wondered if the impatient N'Dek would
wait past midnight for him to arrive. The recently departed Lissen
schooners might have frightened the captain off, or he might
decide that his passenger had been found out. Simon tried not to
think of it, and found a distraction in Shani's knifelike cries.

"Not much farther, girl," he said, trying to soothe her. "I know it's
cold. I'm sorry."

He was sorry. Remarkably, he regretted every step. But then he
remembered Eris and the mind-sick Biagio, and was able to
subdue his regrets. With one hand on the reins he wrapped the
other around the child, holding her fast, imparting what comfort he
could. Shani seemed to nestle in his embrace. The human need
for warmth overcame her, and she buried herself in Simon's coat.
She was light like her mother. Simon held her carefully, as if he
were cradling an egg.

By now Dyana had discovered them gone. Doubtless, she was
frantic. Simon knew he had ruined her, maybe in a way worse than
he'd murdered Tresh. At least the nurse's pain was over. Dyana's
would be endless.

"Your mother loves you very much," he said absently as they raced
beneath a canopy of fruit trees. "You'll see her again, if I can help
it. I'll do it if I can. God help me to try."

If God wasn't deaf to the prayers of assassins, if He cared at all for
innocent children, He would help Simon find the way. Simon grit his
teeth at the thought. Suddenly he wanted God to damn him, to drag
him to Hell for all the countless sins and burn him eternally. With all
the self-loathing in the world he made a silent promise to Heaven,
that he would gladly burn forever to save both Eris and the Vantran
baby.

They rode in darkness for another hour, burying the distance
between Falindar and their hidden destination. What had taken
Simon a day to walk, they were traversing in mere hours, and when
at last Simon heard the shore again he knew they were near the
tower.

Simon Darquis felt his stomach knot with dread.

He slowed his horse just a bit and cocked his head to listen. Even
Shani stopped her crying, pacified by the distant sound of surf.
Simon took a sniff and smelled the brine of the ocean. He
sharpened his eyes on the horizon, peering through the moonlight,
and with his trained vision glimpsed the dark outline of the tower.
His vigor renewed, he kicked his heels into the horse's sides,
propelling it on faster. The way was narrow and treacherous, but
time was short and so was Simon's patience, and when the horse
hesitated he struck it again, harder this time, all his guilt and
frustration cracking against the animal's ribs. But when at last they
neared the tower clearing, Simon drew back on the reins and
slowed the horse to a cautious trot, finally bringing it to a full halt
when the shadow of the structure fell upon them. In his arms Shani
kicked and gave a gurgle of protest. Simon smiled bleakly down at
her.

"You're right to fear, girl," he admitted.

The tower seemed deserted, but through the moonlight Simon saw
two black specks floating on the ocean. He stared at the horizon,
dumbfounded. Two ships? What was N'Dek doing? Not caring if
the horse ran off without him, Simon dismounted, then helped
down his little parcel. He did not let the child's feet touch the
ground, though. Instead he held her in his arms as he abandoned
the exhausted steed and headed cautiously toward the tower. The
open archway beckoned with blackness. Simon held his breath.
Shani, sensing his trepidation, did the same. Inside the dark
recesses he heard a scraping sound, the sound of boots on stone.
When he heard it a second time, he paused.

"Who's in there?" he called.

A long silence ensued. Finally a shadow appeared in the archway,
man-sized and silent. Another one followed, and then two more.
Simon could tell from the hue of their flesh that they weren't Triin.
He addressed the shadows loudly.

"It's Simon Darquis. Come out here and show yourselves!"

The silhouettes came forward, giving Shani a start.

Four men, two in uniforms of the fleet, the others clothed ordinarily,
stepped out into the moonlight and peered questioningly at Simon.
One of them, a tall man with a scarred, clean-shaven face, took the
lead.

"Darquis," said the sailor with a wave. "Is that the child?"

"It is," Simon declared. "Those other two, who are they?"

All four men walked toward Simon, eyeing the confused child in his
arms. The sailor who had spoken first laughed when he saw the
girl.

"Captain N'Dek was right about you," he chuckled. "He said you'd
make it, and with the child."

"We thought the gogs had found you out," added another, one of
the men who wasn't a sailor. Simon fixed iron eyes on him.

"Who the hell are you?" he asked. "Not a sailor."

The stranger took no offense at Simon's tone. Instead he offered
out his hand, saying, "We share the same master, Simon Darquis.
We know of you. And we know of your work here."

Simon bristled. "Biagio sent you?" he growled. "Why?"

"We're to watch the Jackal for the Master while you bring his
daughter to our lord," the man answered. He had the same lilting
voice as many Roshann agents, the same inscrutable expression.
"The Master is awaiting you back on Crote, but he doesn't want to
be without eyes here."

Son of a bitch, hissed Simon silently. Biagio trusted no one these
days.

"Is that why there are two vessels offshore?" he berated the sailor.
"You fools. There are Lissen schooners about! If they see your
god-damn ships we're finished."

"We saw no schooners," stammered the sailor. "And this is
Biagio's will." He seemed shocked by Simon's rebellion, almost in
awe. "The other came to deliver these two. That's all I know."

"It has to be off the coast by daybreak," Simon snarled, turning
again on the Roshann agents. He started to tell them about Richius
being gone, but then, remarkably, stopped himself. "Do you hear
me?" he stalled. "Before the dawn that ship must be gone!"

"The Revenge arrived two days ago," explained the other Roshann
agent. This one was smaller and darker than his brother, with black
eyes and sharp white teeth that reflected the moon. "She brought
us here and we're establishing our base in the tower. When we are
done, when we need nothing more from her, she will depart."

"We're to take you aboard Intimidator," said the sailor. He tried to
look brave in the face of Simon's ire. "Whenever you're ready."

"Captain N'Dek is waiting for you," said the small one. He reached
out and stroked Shani's cheek. "Go quickly. The Master is waiting
for his prize."

Simon yanked Shani away. "Keep back," he threatened. "And don't
presume to tell me what to do, Roshann. I am Dark-Heart."

The name had enough weight to erase the agent's grin. "And
you've done well, as well as the Master expected. Now go and
bring him the child. Go home, Dark-Heart. Rest in Crote."

The warm body in his arms gave Simon the smallest pause. He
looked down at the creature he had kidnapped. Shani looked up at
him, her expression confused, her face flush from the cold. A little
trail of mucus ran from her nose. He bunched up his coat sleeve
and wiped the trail away.

"The boat's waiting for you," said the sailor. He pointed toward the
rocky shore. "That way."

Because they were all watching him, because he had done this evil
thing and could never turn back, Simon walked in silence toward
the shore and the rowboat that would take him to the Intimidator.

At midnight, when the moon had set and Falindar had fallen into
silence, Dyana Vantran sat alone in the bedchamber of her
abducted daughter. Deemis and the other warriors had found no
trace of Shani, and though they were still hard at the search,
hopelessness grew by the minute. Simon Darquis, if that was his
name, had disappeared, and the coincidence of it convinced
Dyana of her daughter's fate. As she stared at the moon through
an open window, her husband's words came to her on the breeze.

The Roshann is everywhere.

She hadn't believed him. Neither had Lucyler. The golden demon
Biagio who stalked Richius' dreams was very real, Dyana knew
now, and obviously as evil as Richius had claimed. Tresh was
dead. Deemis' men had taken her body away and had scrubbed
clean most of the blood on the floor. Dyana didn't want to be with
her women friends tonight. She insisted on being alone—in Shani's
room. Dyana stared blindly out of the window, wondering bleakly
what Richius would think of her. He had only been gone for a day
and a half, and already she had lost their daughter. She was alone
again, like she had been before meeting Richius, and the familiar
feeling angered her.

"Where are you, Simon?" she whispered. She could hear the
ocean and could see the moon on the waves, and these things
calmed her and cleared her mind. "Roshann," she chanted.
"Where are you?"

He had come to Lucel-Lor by ship, no doubt. There was simply no
way he could have come so far on foot or horseback. Falindar was
on the northern fringes of Lucel-Lor, and far away from the
Saccenne Run, the only route linking the Triin to the Empire. Dyana
focused on the ocean, recalling everything she could about the
Naren. He was tall and thin and strangely quiet, especially lately. No
doubt he had been planning his kidnapping. Dyana remembered
her talk with him in the hall outside the meeting chamber, when
Prakna had come for Richius. He had actually seemed to care
about her. And she had stupidly believed him. It was like Richius
had said—the Roshann were devils. Like shape-shifters.

"My fault," she hissed.

How, she wondered, had he come to them looking so ragged?
Another Naren trick? Had he starved himself and laid in the sun?
He had claimed he had wandered since the end of the Naren
invasion. According to Richius, Simon had subsisted on the
provisions of the land, stealing sometimes, gathering what he
could, and generally keeping to himself. There were hundreds of
villages in Tatterak alone.

But there were no towers.

Dyana inched away from the window, almost stumbling.

Towers.

Simon had said he'd seen towers. But there were no towers in the
south. The only abandoned towers were . . .

She bolted from Shani's bedroom to her own, riffling through her
closets for warm clothes and boots. Hurriedly she dressed, pulling
on her clothing and lacing up her footwear, her mind exploding with
hope.

"Towers," she gasped. "One tower!"

The one far away, past the valley on the sea. It was abandoned
and had been for years. Lucyler had shown it to them once, when
they had all ridden from Falindar to picnic on a summer day. It was
tall and wretched and perfect for a hideout, and if Simon had
known of it he had surely lied to them about coming from the south.

"He is there," she said. "He must be—"

If he was trying to escape, then there would be a ship waiting for
him.

There were few men left in the castle to help Dyana, and she knew
they wouldn't let her go anyway. She was a woman, and in old-
fashioned Falindar that meant very little.

She darted out the door and dashed down the stairs.

She would need a mount. She wasn't an accomplished rider like
her husband, but she could handle a horse and knew that in the
stables there was one already waiting for her, the one steed in
Falindar that no Triin warrior dared to touch, not even Lucyler.

Lightning.

Richius' horse was fast, and Dyana knew that the gelding would be
waiting there for her, unattended as the other men of the citadel
rode off in search of Shani. At the bottom of the stairs she took a
breath to quiet herself. The lateness of the hour had sent most
everyone to bed, but Dyana risked no chances. If Deemis or one
of his warriors sighted her, they would drag her back to her
chambers. And time was running out. Carefully, she stalked
through the silent hallways of Falindar and reached the double
gates that would take her to the stables.

Cold night wrapped around her as she stepped outside. Her breath
drew from her lungs in white vapor. Quickly she scanned the flat
field, but there was no one around. Relieved, she walked across
the trampled ground to the stable. It was an elaborate building, too
grand for animals, built to the excesses of Falindar's former, royal
rulers. The large wooden door, carved with ornate figures of horse
heads, hung half open on its hinges. Dyana peeked inside. As she
suspected, Deemis and his warriors had taken all the horses to
hunt for Simon.

All but one.

Lightning stood in his stall at the far end of the stable.

Dyana's mood jumped when she saw him. His brown eyes turned
on her questioningly.

"Easy, boy," she whispered. She put out her hand and lightly patted
his nose. "I am not going to hurt you. You know me, yes? I am
Dyana."

The horse sniffed at her.

"Yes," urged Dyana. "It is me. Please, Lightning. Please let me
ride you."

She had only ridden the gelding once before, and then only with
Richius. But he was a good-natured beast, and Dyana hurried to fit
him with a blanket and bridle, all the things she had seen her
husband do countless times before. Finally she opened wide the
gate to his stall and approached him.

"I need you to take me to my daughter," she told the horse. "Will
you help me?"

Very gently she fit her foot into a stirrup. Lightning snorted. Dyana
rubbed him, cooed to him, then threw herself up and onto his back.
The steed shuddered. Dyana held tightly to his neck and kept up
her encouragement, her voice as soft as a lullaby.

"It is all right," she said. "I will not hurt you. But we have to go
quickly. My baby—your master's baby—she needs us. . . ."

The steed moved toward the gate. Dyana gave an encouraging
cheer. She grabbed hold of the reins, remembered all she could
about riding, and steered the horse out of the stall. From there they
trotted through the stables, and finally out into the night. Once in the
moonlight, Lightning stopped, awaiting her commands.

"Thank you," sighed Dyana. "Lorris and Pris, thank you. Come now,
Lightning—give me some of your famous speed."

The Intimidator, still at anchor off the coast of Lucel-Lor, pitched in
the moonlight. Though he had been on board for less than an hour,
Simon was already seasick. He stood on deck, trying to regain his
sea legs and staring at the other warship anchored beside them.
The Revenge was bigger than the Intimidator, easier to detect
from shore. Simon wondered whether either ship would make it
back to Crote without the Lissens sighting it. If Prakna and his
vessels were still in Triin waters, they would certainly be
discovered.

On shore, Simon saw the outline of the abandoned tower, barely
visible in the haze. The two Roshann agents Biagio had sent to spy
on Vantran were still inside the filthy place, unaware that the Jackal
had already fled Lucel-Lor. Simon puzzled over his intentional
omission. Something was wrong with him, something he was losing
control of. It occurred to him that they might go after Dyana now,
and that frightened him, but they were dangerously vulnerable and
wouldn't find out too soon that Richius was gone.

"I'll bring you the baby," Simon muttered. "For Eris. But nothing
more."

Biagio would have to get Richius on his own. Simon would help no
more. He would deliver the child to his master and then steal away
with Eris. He would ruin the Vantrans, but Richius would be free to
stalk Biagio and, later, him. Someday, if the Gods existed at all,
Biagio would be accountable. Oddly, Simon had already mapped
out the rest of his life. After marrying Eris he would flee Crote and
Biagio, he would take Eris to a place hidden from the Roshann, if
such a place existed, and they would spend the rest of their lives
together. Eris would be happy. And Simon would be fearful. Every
other thought would be of Biagio and his schemes, and every time
he heard a branch snap he would jump. And he would worry about
Richius, too, and how the Jackal of Nar's life had become a quest
to find the man who killed his daughter. A great, relentless guilt fell
atop Simon.

"Where's the child?" came a familiar voice. Captain N'Dek,
commander of the Intimidator, strode up to Simon. A ridiculous
smile squirmed on his face. "What have you done with her, spy?
You didn't drop her overboard, did you?"

"She's in my quarters," Simon replied. "She was tired from the
ride."

"We have food and some milk for her," said N'Dek. "Not much, but
it should get us to a safe port. Then we can gather whatever you
might need for her."

"Me? I'm no woman, N'Dek. Someone else will have to care for
her."

"Last I looked my teats were too small. You should have
kidnapped a nursemaid, spy."

I would have, but I had to kill her, thought Simon angrily.

"I'll keep her with me," Simon agreed. "I don't want anything
happening to her."

"Good thinking," laughed N'Dek. "Biagio wouldn't be too happy with
a dead little girl." He paused and looked out over the water. "He's
after Vantran next. You saw the other agents?"

Simon nodded.

"Your master is a schemer, Darquis. I admire that. But he spends
too much time on revenge, and not enough on winning the Iron
Throne. I'll ferry you and the girl back to Crote, but after that I want
to see some progress. I'm not a messenger boy."

"Biagio knows what he's doing," said Simon. "He'll move against
Herrith when he's ready. Not before."

"I think he already has made his move," revealed the captain. "I've
heard that Admiral Nicabar and a small armada have broken away
from Crote. They're going to Dragon's Beak to help Duke Enli."

"Why? What's in Dragon's Beak?"

"That's the mystery," said N'Dek. "You see? We are all in the dark
because of your master. And we don't like it."

Simon smiled mirthlessly. "Neither do I, Captain N'Dek." He turned
to head back to his quarters.

"When do we set sail?"

"Now," replied N'Dek. "We're pulling up anchor." Simon departed
quickly, determined never to see Lucel-Lor again.

What seemed like a hundred miles passed to Dyana in a fugue.

Richius' horse Lightning, accustomed to hard riding, had galloped
like a surefooted blur in the moonlight. Time raced by as they ran
through the valley and the woodlands and the rocky crags of the
shoreline. Lightning had lathered up to the point of exhaustion, but
the stout-hearted horse never faltered. Dyana, exhausted herself,
fought to focus on the narrow roads and forest paths. Falindar was
far away and she felt the uncertain fear of being lost, but she was
sure she knew the way to the tower. Her eyes blurred. Her hands
had gone raw with cold. Lightning's hot body warmed her legs and
she leaned down into him as she rode, trying to shield her wind-
lashed face.

And then at last, when she felt she would fall from the saddle, she
saw the first hint of the tower. Dawn was very near. The sun began
its first stirrings, swatting back the night. Dyana slowed the horse,
drawing him down to a circumspect trot. The tower emerged in her
vision, murky and foreboding. Just past the tower, barely visible on
the ocean, was a ship. Hope rose in her. Simon was still here. He
would be at the tower, she surmised, waiting for the light.

"There is not much time," she told the horse. She urged Lightning
closer to the tower, keeping to the shadows. With eagle eyes she
spied the clearing for movement, but all she saw were tumbling
leaves. The dawn would bring light, and the light would expose her,
and the realization quickened her pace. Lightning seemed to
sense her caution. He picked his way along quietly, bearing her
toward the tower like a hunting jaguar. When they reached the
thinning trees bordering the clearing, Dyana brought the horse to a
stop.

"Here," she whispered. "No farther."

She would have to go alone, and leave the exhausted horse to
rest. She spied the tower entrance, black and vacant. Inside the
structure a pinpoint of light flickered. Dyana bit her lip, sure that
Simon had lit the flame. Sliding off Lightning's back, she gave the
weary creature a thankful pat. He would wait for her, like he always
waited for Richius. If she returned, if Simon didn't kill her. If Shani
was still alive.

Enough!

Dyana made a fist. It hadn't occurred to her to bring a weapon, but
now she wished she had. A dagger or an axe, anything to put in
Simon's back. If Shani was harmed, she would use her fingernails
to scratch out Simon's heart. He would pay.

She moved through the clearing to the tower arch, reaching it
swiftly. There at the entrance she paused by the crumbling wall and
peered inside. The little flame she had seen before was now
clearly visible, glowing on the far side of the circular chamber.
Simon wasn't inside. No one was, or so it appeared. It was a large
room with a thousand black places. Dyana listened, and a startling
sound reached her ears—the shuffling of footsteps. Her eyes
darted to a spiral stairway leading up into nothingness. Someone
was coming. Dyana steeled herself and stepped into the chamber.

"Simon!" she called. "Come down here!"

There was a blur of movement at her side. A figure darted from the
blackness, startled by her shout. Down the stairs raced another
man, shocked at the sight of her. The one behind her wrapped
strong arms around her torso, pinning her arms. Dyana cursed and
writhed to get free, but she was too weak and exhausted to break
the hold. She felt hot breath on her neck, the unpleasant smell of
sour spirits. The dark-haired man at the staircase came forward to
stare at her.

"Who the hell are you?" he growled, pulling a dagger from his belt.
Dyana kicked at him like a wildcat. He came at her again, carefully
this time, and put the tip of the dagger to her chin. "Answer me, girl.
Who are you?"

"Where is Simon?" Dyana hissed. "Where is my baby?"

The man holding her squeezed tighter, driving the air from her
lungs. Dyana howled in anger, managing to spit at the one with the
dagger. He reared back, laughing insanely.

"Your baby?" he chirped. "Are you the mother of the whelp? The
Jackal's wife?"

"Where is she? Monster! Where is my daughter?"

The dark-haired man stared incredulously. "Donhedris, I think
we've gotten ourselves a prize! This little beauty is Vantran's wife!"

Donhedris lifted her off the floor. "Well!" he declared, booming in
her ear. "So you're the biddy Vantran betrayed the Empire for!
Oooh, a pretty thing." His tongue darted out and licked her neck.
The grotesque sensation made Dyana scream.

"Bastards!" She was frantic, roiling with dread. "God, where is she?
Where . . .?"

"Your daughter is gone," said the man with the dagger. He twirled
the weapon between his fingers. "So is Dark-Heart, the one you
call Simon. He has taken her away."

"No!"

"He has, and there's nothing to be done about it." The man's face
wrinkled with thought. "The question now is what to do with you.
Does your husband know you're here, woman?"

"Richius is gone!" Dyana spat. "He has gone to Liss to—"

In her anger she had spit it out, but now she clamped her mouth
closed, cursing her stupidity. The dark one drifted up to her.

"Now that was interesting," he said. He brought a hand to Dyana's
jaw and squeezed tightly. "Keep talking, or I will pull out your teeth."

Dyana shut her eyes against the viselike grip. "I will not tell you,"
she rasped.

"There are thirty-two teeth in a human mouth. How many in a Triin's,
I wonder?"

"Don't," cautioned Donhedris. "Biagio wouldn't want her harmed.
We should take her back to Crote for the Mind Bender."

"Yes!" declared the man, brightening. He released Dyana's jaw.
"There's nothing here for us with the Jackal gone, and the Master
would welcome this additional prize. We've done very well,
Donhedris." He took the flat of his dagger and brushed it across
Dyana's cheek. "You'll get to see that whelp of yours," he taunted.
"And there's someone else who'd love to meet you. Someone far
better at making people talk than I am."
TWENTY
Awakenings

L orla Lon, fully immersed in her new identity, had spent the day
wandering the halls and chapels of the great cathedral, marveling
at the ingenuity of human engineers. Goth had stunned her,
Dragon's Beak had captivated her, but the soaring Cathedral of the
Martyrs had burned itself into her soul. The Holy Father Herrith,
who she simply called "Father" now, had been good to her, buying
her trinkets and expensive clothing, and giving her full run of his
splendid home. Except for a few sacred areas, Lorla was able to
go wherever she wished, touch whatever artifact seized her fancy,
and she explored all the cathedral's mysteries with a child's
curiosity. She didn't miss Enli or Dragon's Beak anymore. She
missed Nina a little, because Nina was a girl and there were no
young women in the cathedral. There were nuns, but Lorla didn't
like them because they were old and sour-tempered and always
looked at her disapprovingly. But no one dared scold Lorla. She
was the Holy Father's favorite, and she exploited her newfound
status to the fullest. Each night she ate a sumptuous meal with
Herrith, sometimes in the company of priests, sometimes alone to
talk and laugh together. And each day was a new adventure. She
would watch the pilgrims come to the cathedral, the white-skinned
Dorians and the amber Cretans, the poor and the wealthy, and the
beggars imploring handouts. There were ceremonies and posh,
elaborate prayer meetings, where Herrith himself would summon
God to touch the assembly and they would faint from the power of
His invisible finger. On Seventh Day, the holiest day of the week,
the main chapel of the cathedral swelled with Naren nobles and the
grounds were packed with curious lay-folk. Too common to get a
seat inside, they would wait in the rain for Herrith to appear on his
balcony and dispense the word of Heaven. It was a spectacle, this
great cathedral, a circus of pageantry and pomp, and Lorla adored
it.

But of all the things the cathedral offered, Lorla liked weddings the
best. Each day, a parade of Naren ladies came to the cathedral,
their white gowns flowing and meticulous, theirs eyes wide and wet
with tears. They were beautiful to Lorla, and their handsome
husbands, all decked out in royal finery, made her wistful. They
reminded Lorla of her true age, not the stunted midget she
appeared to be, and they called up something carnal in her,
something yearning to be loosed. Father Herrith rarely performed
the ceremonies, usually leaving it to underlings, but sometimes,
when it was a particularly influential couple or when he was simply
in a giving mood, he graced the chapel himself and joined the two
together, and when he did the congregation cheered and wept and
threw golden coins onto the altar. They were gifts to God, Herrith
had explained, and that was why the priests scooped them up.

Since coming to the cathedral, Lorla had only seen the orphanage
from a carriage window. She had no need of friends, and she was
afraid of what she might find there. Herrith had offered to take her
to the orphanage so that she might meet some children her own
age, but Lorla had steadfastly refused, playing on the bishop's
weaknesses and telling him that she needed only him. His weird
blue eyes had melted at that news, and Lorla knew she already had
Herrith in her control. It was just as Duke Enli had predicted—he
had not been able to resist her. But it wasn't for the reasons Enli
claimed. It was because Herrith was sad and lonely and troubled
by big things. He wasn't the lecherous demon Lorla had feared. He
had been kind to her. And he had given her things without want of
reward, simply out of the generosity of his heart. It pained Lorla to
think of him sometimes, because she knew unflinchingly what she
must do. He was, despite outward appearances, the Master's
enemy, and that meant she would destroy him.

The afternoon of her ninth day in the cathedral was just like any
other, uneventful but full of things to discover. At Herrith's
suggestion, Lorla had avoided the great hall where the artist
Darago was toiling, but today she felt particularly rebellious, and so
skirted downstairs after the midday meal to see what astonishing
work the legendary painter was producing. She had never seen
Darago, but Herrith had warned her that he was a stern man who
hated disturbances. Determined not to be detected, Lorla crept
toward the great hall, wincing as her shoes squeaked on the
marble floor. She could see the hall in front of her, well lit with a
dozen torches and natural light pouring in through a stained-glass
window. The sound of assistants hard at work echoed forth. There
were voices too, mostly young, but one abrasive bellow that
pulverized the rest.

"God-damn it, no!" cursed the voice. "I said dry, you fool. Not wet!"

Lorla froze, but the smell of paint was too tempting. She advanced,
unable to contain her curiosity. Leading to the hall was a gentle
bend in the corridor. She reached the bend, stopped at the
rounded corner, and peered inside. The ceiling was fully exposed
now, divested of the canvas covers that had hidden most of it
before. Though unfinished, the fresco was nonetheless
breathtaking. Lorla simply stared at it, forgetting her stealth.

Fat cherubs and red-winged demons stared down at her, while
saints and crucified martyrs battled serpents. As she looked she
recalled the stories that Herrith had told her, about Keven the
Baptizer and about the golden grail that had fed the Mother of God.
It was all up there, he had claimed, the whole story of creation.
Lorla felt wonderfully insignificant, as if nothing mattered but the
roof above her. She would have climbed up to touch it if she could,
just to feel its awesome power.

"Who is that?" rasped the truculent voice.

Lorla snapped out of her daydream and stared into the hall. In the
center of a scaffold forty feet off the ground was a wild-eyed man
with a painter's knife in his hand, splattered with color and plaster,
his black hair falling like water around his stocky shoulders. He was
on his way down from the scaffold, but when he saw Lorla he
stopped, dumbfounded and choleric.

"You there!" he called. The young assistants around him jumped at
his shout. But they breathed a universal sigh when they saw whom
he was addressing. "Yes, you! What are you doing here?"

"Just looking," said Lorla as innocently as she could. She wasn't
sure that her little girl act would work on the artist, but she tried it
anyway. "I meant no harm, sir. I just wanted to see."

"There's nothing to see! Get out of here!"

"Are you Darago?" Lorla asked. "Yes, you must be. Right?"

The artist sputtered in disbelief. "Of course I am Darago! Who
else would paint this masterpiece?" He waved his knife at her
irately. "You are a very stupid little girl, not to know who I am. Shoo,
now. I have work to do."

"Can I watch?" asked Lorla, daring a step closer. "I won't bother
anyone, I promise. I just want to see you work."

"This is not a circus," boomed Darago. "And I'm not an acrobat. Go
somewhere else to see clowns, little girl. I am an artist."

Lorla surveyed the ceiling with a shrug. "I don't understand half of
what's going on up there. You're not so great."

Darago's round face reddened. Each of his assistants lowered
their tools, their eyes darting between the girl and their enraged
mentor.

"What?" hissed Darago. He dropped his knife, sending it clanging
down the scaffold to hit the floor, splattering red paint along the
cloth-covered marble. As he spoke his body shook. "You little
waterhead, how dare you judge me? What do you know of art or
the great Darago? I am without peer!"

"What's that?" asked Lorla, pointing toward one of the ceiling's
panels. "They look like elves. Are they supposed to be elves?"

"They are the angels of Forio," said Darago. He slid down the
scaffold, almost tumbling, and crossed the hallway to Lorla where
he towered over her, glaring down. "Don't you know anything? They
are the spirits that ferried Forio the Divine to Heaven."

Lorla blinked.

"From the book of Gallion!"

"Oh."

Darago's eyes bulged. "Open your eyes, for God's sake! It's all up
there."

"Yes," Lorla relented. She enjoyed teasing Darago. He was very
vain. "It's pretty."

"It's more than pretty. It's—"

Darago looked over at his assistants. They were all staring at him.

"Get back to work!" he snarled. Instantly they returned to their
paints and brushes, pretending not to be listening. Darago frowned
at Lorla. "You're a very stupid little girl not to know the story of
Forio."

"I'm not from around here."

"Then where are you from? The moon? Everyone knows the story
of Forio. It's the first of the holy books!"

"I suppose."

This infuriated the artist. "Who are you? And why are you disturbing
me? The hall is not for public eyes, not until I am finished and
satisfied."

"I'm Lorla Lon, the bishop's ward," Lorla explained. "And I was just
curious, Master Darago. I meant no insult to your ceiling. It's very
beautiful." She gave the man her finest smile. "Really."

Darago's countenance softened. "Really?"

"Oh yes," Lorla said. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
Archbishop Herrith showed me some of it when I first came here.
Most of it was covered, though. But I could see that panel and that
one." She laughed as she pointed at the ceiling. "Beautiful!"

"Yes," Darago agreed, folding his arms over his chest. "I have
spent the last five years working on it. Emperor Arkus was alive
then, but he never saw what I was doing. He was very feeble. The
bishop has an eye for art, though."

"And you will be done soon," added Lorla. "That's what Father
Herrith told me."

"Father Herrith?"

Lorla blanched, embarrassed. "That's what I call him. He takes
care of me now. I'm an orphan."

The painter's eyebrows went up. "An orphan! Then you must know
the story of Elioes."

"Elioes? No, I don't think so."

Darago directed her eyes upward. "There," he said, pointing to an
unfinished panel in the eastern corner of the great hall. "That's
Elioes. The crippled orphan that our Lord healed. She was lame
from birth, until God's miracle."

Lorla stared at the ceiling. Captured in dry plaster was the figure of
a girl, dressed in rags, her legs bent uselessly, her hair a mess of
blond strings. But on her face was the most serene expression,
and in her eyes glowed the light of Heaven. There was aura about
her, painted in gold and fire, and a single, ethereal hand reaching
out translucent fingers to transform her. She was beautiful. Like all
of Darago's masterpiece, she bespoke something more than paint
and plaster. When Lorla looked at Elioes, she thought she was
seeing God.

"She looks like me," Lorla observed. "Look. She's got blond hair.
And she's as tall as me, too. How old was she, Master Darago?"

Darago shrugged. "I confess, I don't know. Ten, perhaps? How old
are you, little Lorla Lon?"

Lorla hated the idea of lying to the man, but she answered, "Eight.
I'll be nine very soon. In just a few days, really."

"Ah, then you will share your birthday with the ceiling," said Darago.
"I have only a month or so to finish her. Herrith wants to unveil my
creation at the end of Kren."

"Kren?"

Darago gave her a disapproving scowl. "You don't know about
Kren, either? Are you sure you're the bishop's ward?"

"I'm an orphan," said Lorla again, as if it explained away everything.
"What's Kren?"

"High holy month," said Darago. "It begins in three days." He rose
to his feet and took Lorla's hand, leading her to the scaffold. "Kren
is the month of penance. We fast and beg God to forgive our
sins." He frowned at Lorla. "You know what sin is, yes?"

Lorla nodded. "Bad things."

"Things against the word and will of Heaven. Bad things, yes. In
Kren we prepare for the feast of Eestrii. That's thirty-three days
from now. I must have my ceiling done for the great unveiling.
Herrith has made promises to the city. They clamor to see my
work. And with good reason."

The scaffold was on wheels. He let go of Lorla and started pushing
the metal monster toward the eastern corner of the hall, where the
unfinished panel of Elioes stared down at them. An assistant
hurried over to help the Master, but Darago shooed him away.

"Can you climb?" Darago asked Lorla.

Lorla nodded eagerly. "That's what I do best." Not waiting for
Darago, she began shimmying up the squeaking silver ladder.
Darago followed, and when they were fifty feet in the air, they stood
atop the scaffold's platform, face-to-face with the orphan. Lorla felt
exhilarated by the height and the blazing colors. She stretched out
her hand, knowing she couldn't reach the roof overhead, and
sighed.

"I wish I could touch her," she said sadly. "She's so beautiful."

Without a thought, Darago wrapped his arms around her waist and
hoisted her into the air, until she was nose-to-nose with Elioes.
Lorla squealed with delight. Far below, the Master's assistants
were staring up in disbelief.

"She is dry," said Darago. "Touch her."

Very gently, Lorla put her fingers to the ceiling. Elioes seemed to
smile at her touch. Lorla dragged her fingertips along the girl's
neck, barely brushing it, and down the perfectly realized fabric of
her collar. Her flesh was pink and vital. She looked alive, as though
Darago had encased a real girl in plaster.

"Ohhh . . . It's wonderful."

"She is my pride," Darago whispered. "I think she came alive more
than any other figure I've done here. When she is revealed to Nar,
she will melt this city's heart."

"Has Father Herrith seen her?"

"No. Not yet."

"He will love her. More than any picture on the ceiling, this will be
his favorite. I know it." Lorla looked away from the image. "Put me
down now. Please."

Darago complied, setting her down gently on the platform. "You
like my painted daughter, yes?"

"Yes," said Lorla. "I want to know more about her. Tell me all you
know about Elioes."

"I know only what I painted here," confessed Darago, laughing.
"She is a girl. I bring her back from the dead. She was touched by
God and now God touches me to give her life again. It is that way
for me." He held out his hands for Lorla to inspect. They were
callused and rough, caked with dried pigments. "These are the
hands of God. When I paint or sculpt, they do not belong to me.
Heaven possesses me. I am the instrument of angels."

Lorla nodded as if she understood. "Did God tell you to paint
Elioes?"

"In His way, yes. None of this is me alone, Lorla Lon." He made a
sweeping gesture at the ceiling, and all the angels seemed to
listen. "Those trolls you see down there, the ones assisting me,
they are nothing. They are like ants to God. Maybe someday they
will do something great on their own, but not until God moves them.
Like He moves me."

"I like Elioes," sighed Lorla. She looked back at the orphan's
tranquil face, so peaceful now that God was healing her. "I want to
know more about her. Tell me, Master Darago, please."

"You are asking the wrong man. Ask me about paints and stone.
Ask the Holy Father about the child."

"Yes," Lorla agreed. "Yes, I will." She leaned over and surprised
Darago with a kiss. "Thank you, Master Darago. Thank you very
much."

Without waiting for the artist she began descending the scaffold,
shaking it in her eagerness to get down.

That old desire for knowledge was on her again. She hurried from
the great hall, passing the tiny confession booths where cowled
acolytes listened to Naren atrocities, and finally to the wide and
magnificent stairway that would lead her up to the chambers of
Father Herrith. She hadn't seen Herrith since breakfast, and it
occurred to her that she rarely saw him in the middle of the day.
Lorla would surprise him, she decided. He would be pleased to
see her. He was always pleased to see her. Her mind raced with
questions about the orphan, Elioes. Had she really been as
beautiful as Darago had depicted? Was she really an orphan? And
if she was a saint, then Lorla knew she had found her patron.

The Saint of Orphans, thought Lorla with a smile.

When she reached the hall to Herrith's chambers, Lorla slowed.
The imperial-sized corridor swallowed her whole. The statues and
portraits glared at her, but the hall was otherwise empty. Herrith had
no need for guards, and his priests were always busy elsewhere.
Even Father Todos was nowhere to be found. Lorla was glad for
that. She liked Todos but she wanted to be alone with Herrith for a
while and pick his brain without being disturbed. Herrith's chambers
were at the end of the hall, barricaded by a pair of tall doors with
bronze hinges and gargoyle reliefs. Lorla approached slowly,
tiptoeing so not to be heard. She put her ear up to the doors and
listened. Inside, she heard breathing, labored and unsteady.

For a moment she stood outside his door, wondering what to do.
Finally curiosity overcame her and she gave the doorknob a slow,
silent turn. It was unlocked and opened easily. The brass hinges
moved smoothly, letting her crack the door open. With one eye
she peered inside. The opulent living chamber spread out before
her, dark in a shade-drawn room. The volume of the weird
breathing grew. Lorla nervously widened the crack, trying to see
inside. She noticed Herrith's ceremonial shoulder wrap strewn
carelessly on the floor. Next to that was his white collar. And next to
that was Herrith.

The Archbishop of Nar knelt on the floor, his shoulders slumped,
his head bowed and sunken in his chest. He was clothed but for a
single arm that was naked, the sleeve rolled up to his armpit. He
held the arm fast against his chest, groaning as he rocked slowly
back and forth. A tiny silver needle sprouted from his wrist, feeding
him blue liquid from a tube. As he breathed he hummed a little,
moaning tune, a hymn of sorts broken by erratic breathing.

Lorla stopped at the sight of him.

Cautiously she opened the door, then less cautiously as she
realized he wasn't listening. She shut the door behind her. Herrith
continued rocking, and it looked to Lorla as if he were crying.

"Father Herrith?"

The sound of her voice made Herrith turn. His mouth dropped
open in shock.

"Lorla!" he rasped.

"What is this?" asked Lorla, not daring to go near him. "What's
wrong with you?"

The needle in Herrith's arm caught the light and flashed. Lorla felt a
rush of sickness, the hammer-blow of an unwanted memory. She
stumbled backward, falling against the door, unable to take her
eyes off the apparatus feeding Herrith's arm. The bishop reached
out a clawlike hand.

"No," he groaned. "I'm all right. Don't be afraid."

But Lorla was afraid. An unknown terror had seized her. The sight
of the needle and the potion had stirred her stomach and bowels,
making her want to retch. She closed her eyes to banish the
nausea, letting the wall support her as her knees turned to water.

"What is this?" she shrieked. "What are you doing to yourself?"

"Lorla, please," insisted Herrith. "Don't be afraid. This is just me.
I'm taking care of myself. I'm helping myself."

"How?"

"Open your eyes and look at me!" the bishop demanded.

Lorla did as ordered. She saw Herrith still kneeling on the floor with
the needle in his arm. His face was wide with worry and slick with
sweat. His outstretched arm begged her to come closer.

"It's me, little one," he whispered. "It's only me. Don't be afraid.
Nothing will hurt you."

Unable to move, Lorla stood her ground. Something once-
forgotten flashed through her brain, a memory of pain and droning
voices. She was cold suddenly, surrounded in a room without
windows. Hands grabbed for her little body, holding her down. And
she was screaming. Her mouth opened to wail but no sound
emerged. Herrith watched her, horrified.

"Lorla!" he called. She heard his voice as if from a great distance.
"What is it, child?"

"I don't know," Lorla sobbed. "I don't know! What are you doing?
What is this thing?"

She staggered over to Herrith and rattled the apparatus holding the
tubes. Herrith's free arm seized hold of her, pulling her away.

"Don't! "he hissed.

His touch was ice on fire. Lorla leapt back, astonished by the
sensation. Still he held her fast, drawing her close, down to her
knees before him. He was weeping and laughing as the blue liquid
dripped into his veins.

"Be not afraid, girl," he bade. "I am the Herrith you know."

"You're not," said Lorla. "You're different!"

"Not different. The same and getting better. Believe me, child.
Believe me."

There was so much pain in his voice Lorla couldn't help but relent.
She leaned in closer, inspecting his grooved face. The lines ran
deep like red welts and his eyes burned a brilliant sapphire. It all
reminded Lorla of something very long ago, a thing forgotten and
buried, never meant to resurface. She tried to summon up the
frightening memory but couldn't. All she felt was rage and pain.

"Father Herrith, I'm afraid."

"Oh, Lorla." He was fighting to control himself, to even form the
words. "What are you doing here?"

It took a moment for Lorla to remember. "I came to talk to you,"
she said. "To ask you questions about the ceiling."

"And now you've found me," said Herrith. "And found me out." He
shook his head regretfully. "God save me for showing you this
horror."

"Father . . ."

"I look wretched, I know. But this is . . . a treatment, Lorla. It's
something I need to do. Please, come sit with me. I need you. You
can help me."

Lorla did as the bishop asked, sitting cross-legged on the floor in
front of him. He put his head back and took a deep breath, then
tried a crooked smile on her.

"It hurts, sometimes, this thing I do. This drug is very strong. But I
need it, Lorla. I would die without it, and I wouldn't be strong.
These days I need my strength. There is wise work to do. Can you
understand that?"

Lorla nodded. "But what is it? Where does it come from?"

"That's not something I can tell you. It's a very special drug, very
precious, and that's all I can say. But I don't have a lot of it, and I
can't waste it. That's why I grabbed you when you reached for it."
He looked at her sheepishly. "I didn't mean to harm you. Forgive
me."

"Holy Father—"

"Father," he corrected.

"Yes. Father. What is it doing to you? Why are you so . . ." She
struggled with the words, scanning him up and down. "Weak?"

Herrith reached out his hand and brushed her cheek. "Dear Lorla,
there is too much to explain to you. You must trust me, that is all.
And trust in God. I have asked Heaven for guidance, and the
angels have told me to be strong. They have delivered this drug to
me. I thought at first it had come from a demon, but now I know the
truth. God gave it to me, because He needs to ready me for a final
battle."

"Against Biagio?" Lorla queried. She had heard the bishop speak
of the Master often.

"Yes. Biagio and his whole Black Renaissance." Herrith struggled
to catch his breath. "They are a cancer, Lorla. They will ruin the
Empire, drag us back into Hell. I alone can stop them. I will stop
them, by Heaven. I will."

Lorla hid her feelings behind a placid mask. Every time Herrith
mentioned her master, she gave him an encouraging smile. "You
are strong," she said. "No one can stop you."

"No one can stop God," said Herrith. "I am guided by His mighty
hand."

"Like Darago," Lorla said brightly. "He is like that, too."

"Yes," agreed Herrith. "How do you know this?"

"I have been to see the ceiling. I know I shouldn't have, but don't
be angry. I've spoken to Darago. He's shown me things."

Herrith laughed. "Darago has spoken to you? A little girl? I can't
believe it."

"It's true," Lorla insisted. "He took me up on his ladder to show me
the ceiling. I touched it, Father!"

Herrith seemed to forget his pain. "Remarkable," he whispered.
"You have touched the ceiling? That is a holy thing, little one. You
are truly blessed."

"I saw the picture of Elioes," Lorla went on. "Darago said she was
an orphan, like me. Is that true?"

"It is."

Herrith glanced at the tube in his arm. It was empty now. He shut
his eyes in relief and popped the needle out. Lorla swallowed a
recurring nausea.

"Tell me about her," Lorla pressed. "I want to know all about
Elioes."

"Another time," declined Herrith. He put out his arm. "Help me up,
please, child. These treatments weaken me."

Lorla offered her hand and helped with all her might to pull the
portly bishop to his feet. He wobbled unsteadily for a moment, then
quickly gained his balance.

"Yes," he breathed. "Yes, I'll be all right now. Thank you, child. Now
. . ." He puzzled over her. "What is it you're asking me?"

"About Elioes. Darago said you could tell me about her."

"I can," said Herrith. He walked out of the chamber and into a room
with an extravagant bed. The shades were open wide, sending
sunlight streaming in. The bishop collapsed onto the thick
mattress. After he caught his breath he patted the bed for Lorla to
sit beside him. Lorla did so, sitting close to him, and gave him her
full attention.

"I will teach you all about Elioes, and everything else I know about
the holy book. You will learn and grow strong, little one. But first, tell
me about the ceiling. You have seen it all?"

"It was uncovered," said Lorla. "Darago and the others were
working on it. Yes, I saw all of it."

"Was it very beautiful? Is it almost done?"

"Very beautiful," melted Lorla. "More beautiful than anything. And
yes, I think it's almost done. Darago says he must unveil it for you
soon. For your holiday. Kren?"

"Eestrii. Kren is the month of penance. But yes, you are almost
right." He frowned. "You know of Kren, don't you, Lorla? Or have I
been so neglectful?"

"I have seen the priests decorating the cathedral. But no, I don't
know about Kren. I'm sorry."

"Do not be. I've been remiss for not explaining these things to you.
I forget how isolated you were in Dragon's Beak." Already he was
stronger. With each breath his skin cooled and the lines in his face
seemed to evaporate. Herrith put an arm around her shoulders.
"Before Kren begins, there's a big festival called Sethkin. All the
Black City will celebrate to prepare themselves for the month of
deprivation. There will be music and dancers, food and acrobats."
He laughed, full of delight. "I will take you myself! The streets will
be beautiful. Would you like that?"

"Yes," said Lorla, excited by the prospect. "It will be one big
birthday party for me!"

"Birthday?" asked the bishop. "Lorla, is your birthday coming up?"

Pretending she had let something slip, Lorla looked away. "Yes,
Father. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have told you that."

"But why? This is joyous, little one. I'm so pleased. Now we can
celebrate Eestrii and your birthday together. How wonderful!"

That old guilt started gnawing at Lorla again. Each day she
deceived the bishop, she hated herself a little more. "It's nothing
special, Father. I want to see the celebration. That's all."

"You will, dear child, you will." Herrith flashed her an adoring smile.
"We will celebrate Eestrii and your birthday together, and I will treat
you like a princess that day. There will be vendors in the streets
and beautiful things to buy. And the shops will all have their doors
open." He leaned over and gave her a kiss on the head. "Think
hard on this. You must choose a gift for yourself. Something very
special!"

Lorla smiled back at him. She already had the perfect present in
mind.
TWENTY-ONE
The Ghosts of Gray Tower

N ina trotted her horse through a field of bodies, astonished at the
carnage her father had wrought. It was another frozen day on the
north fork of Dragon's Beak—Eneas' fork. A terrible wind tore at
Nina's cloak, slicing through it like fangs. Snow blanketed the
roadway and the abandoned buildings, all shuttered closed, and
the rigored bodies in the avenues stared in endless horror, their
eyes turned to ice by the cold. Somewhere up in a fog of clouds,
the afternoon sun fought to warm the earth. Slicks of frozen blood
in the roadway reflected the light and snow. Nina's horse moved
without purpose through the town, as aimless as its stunned rider,
its vacant footfalls the only sound breaking the dreadful day. Ahead
loomed Gray Tower, tall and shadowy, its hundred windows vacant
of life. The home of Duke Eneas cast a pall on the ruined town, a
gloomy headstone for all the icy dead.

Duke Enli's vengeance was awful and deep. Just how deep, Nina
had never known—until today. All the rage that he'd suppressed, all
the hatred for his brother, had gushed out of him in a violent torrent,
a tidal wave without mercy. Nina looked about her, and realized with
horrible certainty that she knew nothing about the man she called
Father.

"My God, Grath," she whispered above the wind. "Did you do all
this?"

Grath of Doria trotted up beside her with his entourage, a dozen
mercenaries from his homeland.

"I had my orders, girl," he said without flinching. Nothing seemed to
bother Grath—not the ferocious cold, and not the terrible deed
he'd done.

"Whose orders?" Nina asked. "My father's?"

"Yes. And my employer's," replied the mercenary. All around him,
his men nodded, as though such a claim could absolve them of the
genocide. "Biagio was very specific," Grath went on. "I did what I
was paid to do."

Nina couldn't look at him anymore, so she turned her eyes back to
the remnants of men and women—even children. Crushed helmets
encased the faceless skulls of raven soldiers, guardians of Duke
Eneas. Their slaughtered remains were everywhere, stiff with cold,
their clutching fingers reaching heavenward in death. This was the
north fork's largest village, surrounded by farms and once
populated by hardy peasants. It had been wiped clean. Other
villages had been spared the ravages of Grath and his
mercenaries, but not Westwind. The battle had taken place here, at
the foot of Gray Tower. Eneas' troops had defended the memory
of their duke, and had paid with their lives. Without their army of the
air to protect them, the raven troops were slaughtered. The strange
count from Crote had purchased a fortune in mercenaries to
overwhelm the north fork, for Grath commanded a force of nearly
three hundred. Nina wasn't an expert on military affairs, but she had
heard her father, Duke Enli, speak of it often, for he was war-
minded and constantly preoccupied with his brother across the
channel. Now, it seemed, his obsession had erupted—with
disastrous consequences.

Nina closed her eyes in disgust. These were her own people. To
see them slaughtered made her wonder about her father's sanity.

"Good God, he left nothing," said Nina shakily.

The sight overwhelmed her. "How could you, Father? How?"

There was no answer to such a question. Never had she imagined
him capable of such an atrocity. Nina looked at the abandoned
tower in the distance, now occupied only by corpses and angry
ghosts. More than a decade had passed since she'd been there.
In those days, she had run freely through her uncle's keep, happy
to be with him and his ravens. Happy, as they all were, to live in a
land of peace.

Times had changed remarkably.

"Grath, you are a monster. You and all your men."

Grath blinked without emotion. "I told you what you would see here,
Nina. But you're as stubborn as your father." He started to rein his
horse around. "Come. Let's be gone. If this were summer, the
stink would kill us."

"Stay," Nina ordered. "I'm not done."

There was enough iron in her voice to keep the Dorian from going.
It was true that he had warned her, begged her in fact not to come
to this place. But Nina had been too long in the confines of Red
Tower, wondering what had gone on in the frozen world outside.
Since her father had gone to Nar City with Lorla, Grath and his
mercenaries had been hard at work. It hadn't been difficult for Nina
to guess at their activities, but she hadn't imagined anything so
ghastly. She had even held out the vain hope that her uncle might
still be alive.

Grath had explained things to her.

Upon returning from his black crusade, the Dorian had told her
everything. About her father. About the murder of her uncle. And
the news had shattered Nina. Like a sheltered child she had hidden
herself, walled up in Red Tower, denying that her father could be
launching a war against his brother even as it raged across the
channel. She had even told Lorla that everything would be all right.
Nina cursed herself now, hating her timidity. If she had stood up to
her father, she might have convinced him to stop. She was the one
thing he still cared about, and she knew it. She was his last link to
Angel.

I should have tried, she thought.

Could she have reached into his mind and soothed the insanity
there? God, was this her fault? Nina shook her head, banishing the
idea.

No! Don't even think it.

"There's nothing else to see here," growled Grath. As the minutes
ticked by, he grew more impatient. And maybe a bit fearful. No one
had challenged them during the ride through the north fork, but that
didn't mean no one would, and Grath kept a watchful eye on the
vacant homes and dead bodies, half expecting them to come alive.
His men seemed to share their leader's nervousness, wary of their
gloomy surroundings. They had followed Grath this far because
Nina had demanded it, but a mercenary's loyalty was only so good.
Nina gave a mirthless grin. Her father had taught her that as well.

You got your wish, Father, she thought. All of Dragon's Beak is
yours now.

Enli even had the ravens, his brother's vaunted "army of the air."
Cackle, her pet, sat perched on her shoulder, clicking at the cold.
Before he had gone to Nar City with Lorla, her father had warned
her not to let the raven out of her sight.

"He is lead raven now," Enli had said.

Nina knew what the term meant. Cackle wore the gold chain around
his neck now, symbol of lead raven. Nina remembered the story.
Eneas had been very proud of his ravens, and had happily
bragged to her about them. She knew all about lead raven status.
No doubt Eneas' own lead raven was as dead as its master. Nina
turned toward the bird on her shoulder, grateful he was with her. As
far as any of them knew, the army of the air was still around Gray
Tower, waiting for Eneas to return. Without a lead raven to follow,
they had simply let Grath and his mercenaries slaughter the tower's
defenders.

"Stay with me, Cackle," said Nina. "I might need you."

She didn't know what to expect when she reached Gray Tower.
She hadn't even told Grath that the tower was her true destination.
She wondered what his reaction would be. Though she was the
duke's daughter and he was paid to protect her, he might easily
abandon her. He had only come this far at Nina's insistence. She
had needed to see the carnage for herself, to understand the
depth of her father's madness.

Now Gray Tower beckoned in a way she hadn't expected.
Memories rushed over her, long forgotten. She stared at the tower
and felt its pull, and wondered if her life would change if she went
there.

Or end.

"We go on," she said softly. Her voice was hardly audible over the
wind.

"Go on?" said Grath. "Go where?"

"To the tower."

"No. Forget it."

Nina was resolute. "I'm going. Come with me if you want. Or stay, if
you're afraid. I'll return to Red Tower on my own."

There was a grumbling from the mercenaries. Grath brought his
horse in close to Nina's, leaning into her so his men wouldn't hear.

"Listen, you little wench," he whispered. "I've brought you this far,
but that's enough. There's nothing in the tower worth seeing. Don't
make me drag you back to the south fork like some child."

"I want to see it for myself," Nina said.

"There's nothing to see, you stupid girl! Just bodies. You want to
see bodies? Take your fill of them here!"

Cackle ruffled his feathers, but Nina was adamant. "I'm going,
Grath. With or without you."

The Dorian's face reddened. "You do, and so help me I'll—"

"What, Grath? Haul me back to Red Tower like a sack of grain? I
don't think so." Nina sharpened hard eyes on him. "If you touch me,
I'll tell my father you mistreated me. Raped me, even. He'll tell
Biagio, and you won't get paid."

The menace in her voice made Grath hesitate. He knew Enli
worshipped his daughter, and without Enli's goodwill, Biagio's
purse just might not open. In the end, Grath relented.

"There's nothing to see," he warned again. "Nothing but those god-
cursed birds. If they attack us—"

"They won't," Nina assured him. "Cackle will protect us. Stay close
to me and nothing will happen."

They were bold words, and Nina could tell the mercenaries
questioned them. She herself questioned them. Though she had
been but a child of five when last she'd seen Gray Tower, she
remembered Eneas' ravens like a terrible nightmare. The memory
of a thousand black eyes blazed in her mind. But only for a
moment. Gray Tower awaited, and maybe some answers with it.
Her father's treachery had left a vacancy in her soul. For the first
time in her life, she doubted about him. Or maybe it was simply the
first time she had courage. She didn't really know. But her
sheltered life had come to a ruinous end, and she wanted
someone to blame.

"Let's go," she ordered, spurring her horse up the road toward the
keep. It was a long way off, through a narrow lane dense with trees.
The wind picked up as she advanced. Grath and his Dorians
grumbled but followed, and soon they had left the town behind,
wandering into a thicket of trees canopying a winding road. Nina's
horse snorted unhappily. On her shoulder, Cackle let out a long,
low whistle, a habit he'd picked up from Duke Enli. Nina cupped her
hood around her face to stave off the cold. It had been many hours
since they'd left the south fork, and her hands ached beneath her
gloves.

Grath rode up beside. "You're a fool, girl," he sneered. "You're
chasing ghosts. I tell you again, there's nothing there."

"Then what are you afraid of?"

Grath answered with a grimace. "I fear nothing. But we're wasting
our time, and it's god-damn cold out here. Maybe dangerous, too.
For you."

"That's why I brought you; to protect me. Now stop talking. Your
breath makes me sick."

They rode awhile longer. The lane was black with pines and rough
with swales, and the branches knitting overhead bore heavy loads
of fallen snow that sometimes gave way onto their heads. Here,
they were nearing the tip of the Dragon's Beak. Nina could sense
the faint tang of salt in the air, and the sound of distant surf
whispered in her ears. She spurred her horse to a quicker pace,
eager to be out of the cold.

At last, the corridor of branches opened, spilling them out into Gray
Tower's shadow. The keep rose up high above them, abandoned,
desolate, and bearing the scars of a thousand storms. Nina stared
at it, shocked and amazed, drowning in a flood of reborn
memories. Emotion choked her, and were it not for the arrogant
Grath watching her, she knew she would have wept.

"Father," she whispered. "What have you done?"

Gray Tower responded with an empty silence. Across the uneven
meadow leading to the keep, Nina could see the remnants of
battle, the broken bodies of the castle's defenders fallen in the
snow and the weapons left to rust on the ground, useless. The
meadow itself was churned by horses' hooves, eaten away by
rushing beasts and strewn with great clods of earth. Beneath the
snow, dead men lay against each other, misshapen mounds of
white bent in impossible angles. When the winter ended and the
warm weather came, there would be disease here, maybe even
enough poison to reach across the channel. Her father would be
horrified, she was certain. Grath had done a very poor job of
cleaning up. She scanned the castle grounds, hoping for a sign of
life, any small, surviving thing, but saw nothing moving across the
field.

Except for the ravens.

They were everywhere. Huge and black, they toddled along the
bodies and stone fences, oblivious to the cold, pecking at the
corpses and peeling off long strips of flesh. Their shining plumage
caught the sunlight like a big, sable ocean. Some of the birds
noticed the intruders and turned their corvine eyes eastward,
spying Nina and her troops. A fearful tremor moved through the
mercenaries. Nina swallowed hard. The sight of so many of the
frightful things made her heart flutter. They were monsters, freaks
of Eneas' careful breeding. Every alcove was covered with them,
every fence post swathed in black. One by one they picked up the
signals from their brothers, turning to regard Nina and the Dorians.

"Good God," murmured Grath. "Look at them all. Just waiting."

"We should go," insisted one of the mercenaries, a notion echoed
by his comrades. Grath silenced them with a sharp look.

"Quiet, you idiots," he rumbled. Then he turned to Nina, saying,
"They're right. Let's go, girl, before they eat our eyes out."

Nina stroked Cackle's plumage. "I'm not afraid. You can stay
behind if you wish. All of you can. But I want to see what's in the
castle."

"Why?" asked Grath, exasperated. "There's nothing there!"

"There is," Nina replied. "I have memories here." She smirked,
realizing how stupid that must have sounded. "Go if you want,
Grath. I'll be safe. And I don't want to startle them with so many
riders. Take your men and go back into the woods. I'll be out for
you soon."

"No," refused the soldier. "I'll go with you, though God curse me
for it. I'm supposed to protect you." He sighed, miserable with the
duty. "You're sure that bird will protect us?" he asked, pointing at
Cackle.

"I'm sure," said Nina. She wasn't really, but saying it made her feel
better. Cackle was lead raven now. And the army of the air did
nothing without the lead raven's order. "Don't do anything stupid,"
she warned the bird. Cackle bobbed on her shoulder,
understanding.

Nina gave her horse its head and began moving toward the tower.
Grath kept well behind her, making certain the ravens in the yard
could see the bird on her shoulder. There was some fluttering of
wings and staccato caws. Nina fought to quell her growing fear.
Beneath her, she could feel the trepidation of her horse as it, too,
watched the rapacious birds. She heard Grath's desperate whisper
behind her.

"God, look at them all."

"Quiet," she snapped. Any small sound might disturb them,
sending them to flight. But Cackle was on her shoulder, perched
proud and commandingly, and the ravens in the yard noticed the
lead bird and the golden chain around his neck, and soon settled
into a uniform disinterest. Nina's racing heartbeat slowed a bit,
relieved. Up ahead, she could see the tower's door, blown open
wide and buried with snow in its threshold. There was a dead man
in a heap barring the way inside. An enormous raven stood on his
head, comically oblivious to its gruesome perch. Nina steered her
horse through the courtyard, careful to avoid the thickest patches
of ravens. The way was choked with bodies. Eneas' men had
numbered maybe two hundred at best, and Biagio's mercenary
force had obliterated them. Now, amidst his bloody handiwork,
Grath was stoic. Like one of the dead, he seemed not to notice
anything. Or to care.

The ravens around them broke ranks, letting them pass. Nina drew
a sigh of relief as she reached the tower. In the doorway, the last
raven stared at them from atop the dead man's helmet, cocking its
head inquisitively. A sudden, angry bark from Cackle sent it flying
off. Nina smiled at her pet.

She and Grath trotted past the dead soldier and through the gate.
Once inside, Grath dismounted and closed the castle doors,
sealing them off from the birds. The hall went dark with shadows.
Nina slowly slid off her horse. More than ten years had passed
since she'd seen this great home, and the sense of it now was
overwhelming. The sound of herself laughing as a child echoed in
her mind. Exposure to the weather had ruined the carpet and
pulled things from the wall, but it was still her uncle's house, even
after so many years.

"Uncle," she said meekly, hoping his ghost was home. "It's me."

Unsure where to go, Nina stood there for a long moment. She
pulled the hood off of her head and shook the dampness from her
hair. She clapped her boots on the floor to dislodge the snow. She
did all these things as a ritual of homecoming, a vain attempt to
make some sense of the destruction and fractured bits of her past.
Down the hall, light flooded in through broken windows. Like its
twin, the Gray Tower had a simple layout. There wasn't much to the
place, just a tall spire ringed with rooms. Across the hall was the
library, and her uncle's study. Past that was the kitchen and dining
hall, a big and jolly chamber where she had once sat with her father
and uncle and listened to them laugh together over pints of beer.
She remembered that now with an ache.

"I want to find my uncle's rooms," she said softly.

"This is madness. What's your point, girl?"

Nina shrugged. "Maybe nothing."

It was impossible to explain to Grath. No one could understand the
hollowness her life had become, the mystery of not knowing. Only
Lorla had come close to understanding, and she was gone now,
part of her father's impenetrable schemes.

"Stay here, Grath. Look after the horses. I won't be long."

Grath balled up a fist. "No, Nina! Now this is enough. You're not
going anywhere."

"Don't open the door," Nina warned, ignoring him. "You might not
be safe without Cackle."

"Damn it, Nina . . ."

"Stay," she ordered, then drifted down the damp corridor. To her
relief, Grath didn't follow. A thousand thoughts came at her at once,
glad and mournful memories she had thought buried a decade
ago. There were more bodies in the hall, servants that Grath had
slaughtered, even an old woman Nina thought she recognized. She
paused over the lifeless body, unable to recall the name but sure
she had worked in the kitchen. Once she had served Nina carrot
soup. Now she was dead. An enormous puddle of dried blood
framed her face, gluing her hair to the floor. Nina forced herself to
look away.

"Uncle," she called out, sure no one would answer. No one did.

She had to find his rooms. She rounded a corner and found herself
near the stairway for the spire. The granite treads rang with echoes
of her steps. As she ascended, Nina ran her hands along the
curved wall, tracing it with her fingertips and pulling in more
memories of a child who had once loved to play here. Finally, she
came to the place where Eneas' rooms had been. She
remembered them vividly. He had gargoyles on his balcony. The
stone creatures had been gifts from Arkus of Nar himself, made by
the great artist Darago.

Nina stepped into the hallway and laughed. Her uncle had hated
those gargoyles.

"We're very close," she said to Cackle. "I can feel it." Cackle dug
his talons deeper into Nina's coat. The bird seemed uneasy,
understandable in this place of corpses. But here, on Eneas' floor,
there were no corpses. No broken windows, either. Doors had
been kicked in and the place had been searched, but it seemed to
Nina that most of Gray Tower's inhabitants had rushed downstairs
to defend their home—and meet their deaths. She drifted silently
across the corridor, studying the burned out sconces and narrow
windows, and remembered the place where Eneas' bedchamber
waited, around the corner near a bookcase filled with musty
manuscripts. As she rounded the bend she saw the bookcase with
its carelessly stocked shelves, and the sight of it made her want to
weep. There was her uncle's bedchamber, its door flung wide. A
collection of things spilled over its threshold, the remnants of
Grath's search for hidden survivors. Nina approached the room
with dread, fearful of what she might find.

Eneas' ghost was not present to greet her. There was only more
destruction—an overturned bed that might have hid a frightened
child, some papers sprawled on the floor by the wind from open
balcony doors, and the sight of Dragon's Beak beyond the
balcony, lying like a white wasteland. Nina stepped into the
chamber, holding back a rush of tears. The girl she had been had
grown to a woman without her uncle, and she grieved for the lost
years.

"Father," she whispered. "You are unholy." Only a devil could do
such a thing. Her father had sold his soul for revenge. Now he
would return to a Dragon's Beak ruined by his own hand, and the
peaceful place that it had been would be a mournful hellhole, ruled
by a tyrant and Biagio's iron fist. At last the tears came, rolling
down Nina's cheeks. She wanted to hate her father, but couldn't.
She wanted to save her uncle, but couldn't. Helpless, she
crumpled to her knees amidst the blowing papers and the wind,
and buried her face in her hands.

Lost in her sorrow, she didn't know how long she cried. Time was
crawling here, or moving backward. But when she opened her eyes
again the tears had stopped. They were pointless, she told herself.
Tears didn't bring back the dead. Nina was about to rise when she
glimpsed a piece of paper stuck to her boot. She picked it up and
inspected it, recognizing her father's familiar handwriting.

Dear Father, it read.

Please help. I am outside the castle near the main road, your
brother is pursuing me. I know who I am now. Please come.

Nina.

Nina's hand shook, her jaw tightening with rage at the deception.
She thought back to that night, weeks ago now, when her father
had left to do his filthy business against his brother. Nina had
wondered just how he had gotten Eneas out of Gray Tower.

Now she knew.

"Father," she moaned. Then, uncontrollably, "Father!"

Suddenly she was in a rage, shaking and murderous. He had used
her, made her a tool to murder a man she had once cared about.
And . . .

Nina's heart stopped, seized by an impossible notion.

"Oh, God, no," she groaned. It couldn't be true. She read the note
again, over and over, until slowly a picture of a possibility formed in
her mind.

Father?

"Who am I?" she asked desperately. "Who?"

"Home!" Cackle exclaimed. He began hopping insistently on her
shoulder. "Home! Home!"

Nina flashed the note in front of him. "Did you know about this, you
wretched beast? Who am I, Cackle?"

The raven stared at her. "Home! Home!"

"I'm not going home! For all I know this is my home!"

Cackle cawed and dug his talons into her shoulder, piercing the
coat and the skin beneath. "Home," he repeated. He gestured
toward the window with his beak. "Angel."

"No," spat Nina, shaking her head. "We're not leaving, Cackle."

The bird screamed with anger, then flew from her shoulder. He
paused before the open window, threatening her.

"Go if you want to," said Nina bitterly. "I'm staying here."

Cackle blinked at her sadly. And then, to Nina's surprise, he spread
his wings and dashed out the window, abandoning her. She
watched him go, and felt an icy shudder of loneliness. Enli had
worked his magic on the bird.

Enli. Her father? She didn't know anymore. She had come to Gray
Tower seeking answers and had gained a thousand questions for
her troubles.

"Nina?" Nina's eyes snapped open. Grath called for her again, and
when she answered he appeared in the doorway.

"What the hell's taking you so long?" he railed. "I want to get out of
here."

"I'm not going, Grath," she said. "You go. I'm staying."

Grath laughed. "Right. Enough joking. Let's move it, all right?"

Nina glared at him hatefully. "I'm not joking, you pig. I'm staying.
This is where I belong. And you can't make me leave."

"I can," rumbled the mercenary. He took a threatening step closer
to her. "Stop acting stupid. Your father wouldn't want you staying
here."

Nina laughed bitterly. "My father? You tell that madman I'm not
going back to Red Tower. Not ever. If he wants to see me, he can
come and get me himself."

"You idiot, how—" Grath stopped himself suddenly, looking around
the room. "Where's the bird?"

"Get out," Nina ordered.

"Where's the god-damn bird, you bitch?"

"Gone," said Nina. "Looks like you're on your own now, Grath."

Grath catapulted across the room, taking her by the wrists and
shaking her. "You ass! Why did you let it go?"

Nina wrenched free and pushed him away. "Don't you touch me!"
she hissed. "Don't you ever! I swear, I'll make Duke Enli cut your
heart out if you touch me again. Now go! Leave me."

"Go?" Grath barked. "How? You've killed us, you fool! Those
ravens will tear us to pieces!"

"They won't," Nina assured him, not caring if it was a lie. "You saw
how docile they were. They won't hurt you. They're lost without
Eneas."

"But the bird—"

"The bird's gone," Nina snapped. She turned toward the balcony
and stared out into the desolation. "Nothing to be done about it. But
you won't need him. Just don't disturb them. Walk quietly and they'll
let you pass."

Behind her, she heard Grath's nervous lingering. He wasn't at all
sure if she was right, and the thought of a thousand ravens pecking
out his liver obviously had him afraid. His sword would be very little
use against the ravenous birds. If they were ravenous. Nina didn't
know if they were or not.

"I'll tell your father where you are," said the mercenary at last. Then
he added with a sneer, "He'll come and drag you out of here, no
doubt."

"He can try," said Nina.

She heard his footfalls leave the room and disappear down the
hallway. Stepping out onto the balcony, she saw the ravens down
below and wondered absently what would happen to Grath and his
men.

Grath was furious as he left the room, furious and a little daunted at
the prospect of having to walk through the ravens unescorted. The
whole day had been wasted with that spoiled bitch, and now he had
to explain this, somehow, to her father. He swore that he wouldn't
be swindled by the old man. If Enli tried to hold back payment, he
would cut his heart out.

"Bitch," he spat as he descended the stairs. Hotheaded. Like her
father. Let her stay here and rot with the corpses.

When Grath reached the hall leading to the doors he paused,
considering things. He stroked his chin nervously. He pulled his
sword halfway from its scabbard. What to do? The weapon might
frighten the bloody beasts. It wasn't wise to entice them. Grath let
the sword slip back down.

"Damn it!" he cursed, unsure of himself. They had let him pass
once, when he'd fought at the castle, but things had been different
then. Now he was horribly outnumbered. He wondered how his
men in the woods were faring.

"You won't beat me, girl," he vowed, going to the doors and slowly
pulling them open. Wind rushed in and struck his face. He licked
his lips and peered outside. The ravens were there, just as he'd
left them, studding the fences and perched in the trees. Across the
yard, Grath could see his men looking worried. He took a small
step outside, gingerly avoiding the dead man in the threshold, and
waved to them. The signal caught their attention and they waved in
return, eager to be on their way.

Grath took a breath to steady himself. The ravens looked at him
without interest. Feeling confident, Grath moved out among them.
They parted like a tide as he strode through.

"You're not so tough, eh?" he whispered to the birds. "Black
bastards."

A raven at his feet ruffled its feathers, and that was all. Grath
wanted to kick it. They were disgusting creatures, the product of a
warped mind. Grath didn't wonder why Enli wanted his brother
dead. He must have been a sick man indeed to conceive of such
nightmares. The mercenary scanned the yard as he walked. There
were so many of them, yet they hardly seemed a threat at all. He
began to wonder if all the tales he'd heard were only stories told by
Eneas to frighten people.

Halfway to his men, Grath noticed a particular bird gnawing on the
finger of a dead soldier. His hand was sprawled open on the
ground and the raven stood inside the palm, pecking wildly at a ring
around the man's finger. A giant ruby caught the light, and Grath's
attention. The raven was trying to free the ring. It had worked most
of the flesh loose and was chewing intensely at the bone, anxious
for the shiny bauble. Slowly, Grath approached the bird. He
remembered something his father had told him once, about how
ravens and crows sometimes collected shiny things and brought
them to their nests. Grath didn't know why, but nothing was shinier
than the ruby ring. It was worth a fortune, no doubt.

Carefully, so carefully that the snow didn't crunch beneath his
boots, Grath made his way to the dead man and the raven pecking
furiously at his finger. He stopped breathing as he drifted over the
bird, letting his shadow fall lightly across it. Still the bird ignored
him. It kept up at the impossible task of breaking the bone, taking
the finger in its beak and trying to crack it like a nutshell. Grath
flicked his hands at the bird, hoping to frighten it just enough to
move it away.

"Shoo," he said softly. "Go. Go!"

The raven looked up at him, annoyed, its eyes blazing with black
intelligence. The gaze infuriated Grath, who flicked at the thing
forcefully.

"Away!" he growled. "Move!"

Finally angry, he dislodged the bird from the corpse with his boot,
nudging it away. The bird bit at his foot, and when Grath tried to
take the ring, the beast came forward, snapping at his hand.
Without thinking, Grath's fist snapped out and batted the bird away.
Quickly he freed the ring, then stood up and admired it in the dim
light.

"My God," he said, turning it so every facet gleamed. "Beautiful."

A sudden explosion of feathers filled his vision. Grath screamed
with an awful pain. The raven had flown up into his face, driving its
talons into his cheeks and nose and tearing open the skin. Grath's
arms flailed, trying to dislodge the bird, but its claws only dug
deeper. With both hands he clamped down on the raven, pulling it
free even as its talons sliced open his nostrils.

"Bitch!" screamed Grath. Blood gushed from his nose. The raven
flew from his grasp, attacking anew. Grath put up his arms to
protect himself, running blindly through the maze of birds, which
suddenly rose up in a chorus of cries.

In a moment, they were all on him.

A thousand frenzied avians dug their talons deep, dragging him
backward even as he tried to run for cover. He heard his garments
tear, saw his men look on in horror as a flock of ravens came for
them, too. Grath's world disappeared in a cloak of sable, as bit by
bit the flesh was torn from his bones.

Up on her balcony, Nina watched in horror as the birds engulfed
Grath and his men. There was an eruption of sound, a shrieking
frenzy that tore open the sky. Over it, almost buried in raven
sounds, were the gurgling cries of Grath, being dragged backward
by a hundred insane ravens. The horses bolted, stranding the men.
Grath's mercenaries began to scream. Nina stood frozen, watching
it all in disbelief, and then at last had the good sense to run from
the balcony, locking the doors.

Then she dashed down the stairs as fast as she could and began
shuttering every window in the palace.
TWENTY-TWO
The Toymaker

H igh Street was one of the Black City's busiest thoroughfares. It
was wide and tall and in the best section of the old city, near the
apartments of the princely lords and just across the river from the
Cathedral of the Martyrs. On summer evenings, when the sun threw
long shadows across the city, High Street teemed with vendors
and merchants; caterwauling slave traders peddling their captured
flesh, travelling hunters with trussed-up game birds, beggars and
thieves and harlots and prostitutes, and, amazingly, the occasional
toy shop. There was money in this part of Nar, looted from a
thousand successful campaigns, and the well-heeled of the city
liked to spoil their greedy offspring. Naren women walked along
High Street with their broods of arrogant children trailing out behind
them, peering into the dressed-up windows of the shops. The
bakery was most popular. It stood in the center of High Street near
a money-changing shop, and was frequented by the Archbishop of
Nar himself, a connoisseur of confections. The bakery's aroma
was one of High Street's great treats, a welcome respite from the
choking gases of the war labs. Children came just to stare in the
bakery's window and coax a few cookies from the proprietor and
his wife, and when they left, full of fresh-baked treats, they always
noticed the other attraction of the street—the Piper's toy shop.

Besides the bakery, the toy shop was the real wonder of High
Street. It had been in business for nearly forty years, and very few
of the city's lords could recall a time without it. They were grown
now, but each could still remember a special toy from the Piper's
factory, some special doll they had dragged around until frayed, or
perhaps a mechanical boat that skimmed across the water when
wound. Made with typical Naren ingenuity, the toys in the Piper's
shop were something unique, something worth making a long trip
to see and purchase. The Piper was renowned in the Empire, a
master toymaker who had studied with the craftsmen of Vosk
before coming south and setting up his shop. He was legendary
and beloved in the Black City, and his toy shop, a meager-looking
storefront sandwiched between a candlemaker and a blacksmith,
was frequently crowded with children and curious adults seeking
guilty pleasures. But it was the toy shop's window that drew the
most accolades.

Made of tall rectangles of glass, the window showed off the best of
the Piper's creations. Here was a circus that could be viewed from
the street, free of charge. There were toy soldiers with silver guns
and brass cannons, and dolls with luxurious hair and exquisite
dresses, their feet capped with meticulously made shoes, so tiny
one wondered if human hands had crafted them. There were
stuffed animals with real fur; stringed instruments of polished
wood; and fabric-covered flying machines that actually glided
through the air, suspended from the ceiling by translucent wire.
Grand vessels floated in basins of water, and ships in bottles
vexed young minds with the impossibility of their construction. A
three-foot wooden model of an elf played on a flute, its animated
fingers clicking with mechanical perfection as it blew out its
endless tune. The elf's name was Darvin, and every child in the city
knew his name. Darvin and his pipes were the symbol of the
Piper's toy shop, as much a fixture of the city as the Black Palace
or the Cathedral of the Martyrs. Each morning, when the Piper
opened his toy shop, Darvin played the opening song, a long and
complicated melody that had taken the toymaker nearly a year to
set into the doll's clockworks. Like all the Piper's creations, Darvin
had astonished the citizens of Nar, a difficult accomplishment for a
city that had birthed the war labs.

But although the Piper was famous for his mechanical wonders,
there was one particular skill that brought eager girls to his toy
shop. He was, without question, the Empire's peerless maker of
dollhouses. He could build anything, no matter how complex, no
matter how big or small, and delight the most jaded Naren child.
His replicas of the Black Palace were celebrated, and his skill at
minutiae was unmatched by any scientist or engineer. Because he
was so proud of his ability with dollhouses, the Piper had placed
several in his shop window. Among them was an exquisite white
home with a dozen gables and a thousand real wood shingles,
each one lovingly carved from maple and stained with a glowing
pink varnish. The house had three levels, working doors on golden
hinges, and shiny glass windows that opened onto terraced
balconies. The house was named Belinda, after the Piper's long
dead wife, and she was captivating, like all the toys in the
toymaker's window. The Piper knew this, and so he was proud of
his work. He didn't build toys, he used to say. He built smiles.

The Piper was nearly sixty now. His hands ached with arthritis when
it rained, but he still rose early every morning and toiled in his
workshop until late into the evening. His real name was Redric
Bobs, but few people ever called him that. In his early days, before
he'd discovered his love for toymaking, he had discovered an
affinity for music, and was always found with a flute to his lips. An
unaccomplished musician, the name had nevertheless stuck with
him, and Redric Bobs had never really broken his musical habit. He
still played the flute—but only on very rare occasions, and never for
the pleasure of others. He had played for his wife Belinda, but she
was dead now. The Piper was alone.

He had no children, and he had no family to speak of, for he had
left them all behind years ago to come to the Black City and ply his
new trade. His wife, Belinda, had died of a cancer fifteen years
past, her womb barren, her dreams of a family unfulfilled. But she
had loved her husband dearly and they had been happy, mostly,
except for the emptiness of their home atop the toy shop, the one
that Redric Bobs had built himself in anticipation of a brood of
babies. Belinda Bobs and her husband had tried for years to
conceive a child, had prayed mightily to Heaven for the great gift of
life, but God had decided to ignore them. After ten years of trying,
they had finally gone to the orphanage of the great cathedral, sure
that the priests would not turn down so loving a couple. But just as
God in Heaven was against them, so were his minions on earth.

"Too poor," they had told them. This was in the earlier days before
the Piper's prowess was acknowledged. And later, when they had
the money to care for children, the priests of the orphanage had
slammed the doors with a different chant.

"Too old."

Belinda Bobs had been heartbroken. Redric Bobs' heart had
hardened. A year later, Belinda battled cancer for the first time. It
was the start of a hellish decade for the couple, one that eventually
ate her alive. It was why the Piper rarely smiled now, why he shut
himself off in his toy shop, hidden even from the eyes of eager
children. It was why he was hard at work this very evening.

Alone in his shuttered workshop at the back of his store, Redric
Bobs expertly balanced a bead of glue onto the needle-thin strut of
a wooden tower. The tiny component was just one of a thousand
like it, part of a complex myriad of criss-crossing joints making up
the steeple of his giant model. The Cathedral of the Martyrs had
presented the toymaker with some interesting challenges, not the
least of which was its enormous tower of copper and iron. It
needed to be perfect, sturdy, and built exactly to scale—and
though Redric Bobs had no formal education in engineering, he
supposed he shared some empathy with the humans who had
designed the cathedral so many years ago. With a steady hand,
the Piper dropped the strut into place and gave it a gentle press.
Glue oozed slowly out. With his other hand he worked a piece of
cloth, wiping the excess away. Satisfied, he stepped back to view
his handiwork.

The steeple was half done, at last. Another week of work and it
would be complete. Then he would start on the main structure. He
grimaced, unsure if he would meet the count's aggressive
schedule. Work like his required patience and time above all else,
and Biagio wasn't giving him either. Worse, the Feast of Eestrii
was only weeks away. The Piper clasped his hands together and
studied his meticulous model. It was beautiful; it seemed a shame
to destroy it.

"Almost time, Belinda, my love," he whispered. He was sure that
Belinda watched over him still. She had promised on her deathbed
never to leave him.

All the materials he needed were laid out before him. Great slabs
of wood, tiny metal fasteners and bolts, golden wire and spools of
thread, colored glass and a hundred pigments of paint, all strewn
along his sawdust-covered floor. His tools hung from hooks along
the walls, some as big as his arm, others so small they were
difficult to see. His miniature work often required miniature tools,
and these he kept in a box on his workbench and guarded
jealously, for they were very rare and had come with him from Vosk
decades ago. He had screwdrivers and little hammers, pliers and
pins and sharp needles that could make an undetectable hole.
They were no more than scraps of iron, but to the Piper they were
precious. They gave his life meaning and dimension. And the thing
he was constructing now, perhaps the greatest challenge of his
career, would make him famous forever.

Or infamous, thought Redric Bobs with a frown. He really wasn't
sure yet.

The workshop was cold. Piper felt his fingers tingle, rebelling
against the chill. He went to his black iron stove and picked a few
nuggets of coal from the bucket, depositing them into the fire box
with a pair of long tongs. Shutting the stove door, he put his hands
up to the hot metal to warm them. Winter was coming, and he
never liked the winter. It was one of the reasons he had moved
south. The Black City, with its tall spires and taller tales, had drawn
him across the continent. That had been over forty-five years ago.
When he had arrived, he had seen the Black Palace on its
monolithic perch, beckoning travellers from miles away. The sight
of it had forever changed him, as had all the city's marvels. But
nothing was more beautiful than the Cathedral of the Martyrs.
Though the Black Palace was taller and more garish, the cathedral
was the city's true jewel, the only thing in Nar that could still bring a
tear to the old man's eyes. Over the years, he had tried many times
to capture the cathedral's beauty in a model, but he had always
failed. She was too complicated, too ornate. But time and hatred
had sharpened the toymaker's skills, and he was ready at last to
construct his masterpiece. As he warmed his frozen fingers his
eyes flicked toward the miniature cathedral. The Piper smiled.

A bell jingled insistently in the distance. Piper pulled back his
hands, wondering who would disturb him so late. Cautiously he
crossed his workroom and stood in the threshold of his toy shop,
clinging to the shadows as he spied the door. Shades were drawn
over the door's glass, but Redric Bobs could see a silhouette
against the fabric, cast there by the gas street lights. The figure
was very small, no taller than a child.

A beggar, the Piper supposed. They were always bothering him to
play with the toys in his window. He started toward the door, then
heard a horse whinny. The sound startled him. The doorbell
jangled again as the figure impatiently yanked the chain. Past
Darvin and the other toys in his window, Redric Bobs saw a big
brown wagon in the street outside his shop. Four stout men leaned
against it, waiting for him to answer. The tiny figure at his threshold
rang the bell one more time, then started pounding on the door.

"Piper Bobs," came an unknown voice. "Open up."

The voice was small and high, like a child's voice, but stronger.
Piper puzzled over it, unsure what to do. He was expecting Biagio's
agents, but hadn't guessed they would come so late at night or in
such force. A fearful tremor made his steady hands shake.

"I'm coming," he called, rushing to the door. Quickly he undid the
bolts, then cracked the door open. Night rushed in on a cold
breeze. Out on his stoop, a tiny figure dressed in black looked up
at him with preternatural eyes. From the lines on his face he looked
like a man, but he was far shorter, almost dwarf-sized. There was
no smile on his face, only an insistent look that blazed in his blue,
hypnotic stare.

"Minister Bovadin! You?"

"Open the door, Bobs," said the midget tersely. "We have
something for you."

Piper opened the door and stuck his head outside to better see
the wagon. On its bed was a giant wooden crate. The men leaning
against the conveyance looked over at him without regard, their
expressions unreadable. Piper groaned at the size of the delivery.

"Is that it?" he asked incredulously.

The midget nodded. "That's it."

"All of that? I mean, it's so big!"

Nar's Minister of Science squeezed past the toy-maker's legs and
into the shop. "Don't worry. Most of it is wooden supports to keep
the device stable. The thing itself isn't much bigger than me." His
weird eyes surveyed the store. "We have to get it inside quickly.
Where can we put it?"

"In my workshop," the Piper replied. "In the back. Will you help me
unpack it?"

"Of course. I can't just leave it with you, now can I?"

Bovadin walked off toward the back of the store, disappearing for a
few moments in the workshop. When he returned he nodded
approvingly. "Good enough," he said, then went back outside and
waved the men inside. His signal snapped the men into action.
Each one climbed onto the wagon and grabbed hold of a corner of
the crate. As they worked to unload the dangerous parcel, Bovadin
opened the door as wide as it would go. The scientist gave an
annoyed curse when he discovered the narrowness of the
doorway.

"This won't do," he told the Piper. "It won't fit through the door."

"There are double doors in the back," said the toy-maker. "Take it
around there. I'll open up for you."

Bovadin groaned and returned to the cart, ordering his men to start
taking down the crate. Redric Bobs dashed to the back of his
workshop and undid the locks on the twin metal doors. He was
always getting shipments that were too large for the front door, and
it was better that the strange crate come in through the alley
anyway. Soon Bovadin reappeared with his men. The bigger men
grunted as they walked with an ungainly wobble, maneuvering the
big box through the open doors. Piper directed the sweating men
to a clear area of his workroom. Bovadin sat down cross-legged on
the workbench. He clapped his hands excitedly as his men set
down the crate.

"Gently," he said. "Yes, right there."

The crate eased down to the floor. Bovadin hopped down from the
workbench. He struggled to reach a crowbar dangling from the
wall, just out of reach of his stubby fingers. Piper rolled his eyes
back and plucked the tool from its hook, handing it to the midget.
Bovadin tossed the crowbar to one of his men.

"Open it," he ordered.

The man wedged the tool's clawed head beneath the sealed lid
and gave a muscular pull. Slowly the nails crept outward,
screeching free of the wood. The other men joined in, pulling the
lid free of the crate and setting it aside. Then, very carefully, each
man grabbed a corner of the crate and began peeling it apart like
an orange. Piper stared wide-eyed at the contents, trying to see
past the wooden supports. He caught a glimpse of silver metal and
a ganglia of snakelike hoses, all held together with ropes and
leather straps. Whatever it was, Bovadin wasn't taking any
chances. Once the walls of the crate were down, the men stepped
aside, letting the toy maker see.

Bovadin laughed, gladdened with himself. "Take a good look,
toymaker. You won't see anything like this again." He walked into
the center of the crate and stroked the metal tubes lovingly.
"Beautiful, isn't it?"

The Piper wasn't sure how to answer. It was amazing, certainly. But
beautiful? It was unrecognizable, like some metal monster from the
ocean. Without precisely knowing what it was, Redric Bobs
couldn't reply.

"I will say that it is interesting," he conceded. "More than that, I
really don't know."

"That's because you don't understand it," Bovadin grumbled. Again
he caressed his strange device. "No one does. Only me."

"Explain it to me," said Piper. "This is supposed to fit in my
dollhouse, yes?"

"Yes," said the minister. He gave his men a scowl, the only gesture
needed to send them scurrying out of the room. When he was sure
they couldn't hear him, Bovadin continued, "According to the plans
I sent to you. You've built the model big enough, I can tell."

"It's not done yet," said Piper. "But it should be big enough, yes."

"I've taken care of the clockworks myself," said Bovadin. He
pointed out a little lever at the top of the metal cylinder. "The angel
over the gates must be attached to this lever. It has to be movable,
but only side to side." He jiggled the lever back and forth to
demonstrate. The Piper blanched at the show. "It's not armed yet,"
explained Bovadin, grinning. "But when it is, there will only be an
hour before the device starts up. You can build the angel, can't
you?"

Piper nodded. "I've already made him."

He went to his workbench and slid open a hidden drawer. Inside
was an unpainted figure of an angel, an archangel with a trumpet to
his lips. It was perfectly detailed in every facet, just like the real one
above the cathedral's gates. Gingerly he handed the figurine over
to Bovadin, who cooed when he felt it in his small hands.

"It's lovely," the minister complimented. "You are a true craftsman,
Piper Bobs." His little fingers brushed the angel's face and wings.
"It's so detailed. So real."

"Of course," bragged the toymaker. "It's supposed to be real.
That's what I do, Minister. I make dreams real."

Bovadin smirked at him. "That's an odd way to describe what we're
about to do, don't you think?"

"You may think of it any way you wish, Minister Bovadin. I will keep
thinking of it as a dream."

For Redric Bobs, it was a dream years in the making. He had put
all his soul and skill into the model of the cathedral, had vested it
with his finest effort. It was not merely for the purpose of revenge.
Rather, it was to right an atrocious wrong. Cautiously he walked
over to the device in the crate, studying its intricate design. It was
astonishing, more so even than any of his prized toys.

"Tell me more about this thing," he said. "How does it work?"

"You don't need to know that," said Bovadin. "I want you focused
on your work."

Piper scowled, insulted. "I may not be a scientist, but I'm sure I can
understand it."

"I'm sure you can. But I don't want you understanding it. The little
girl pulls the angel down. That starts the device. That's all you need
to know."

"What are the hoses for?" Piper pressed. "The fuel, right? They
keep it cool, don't they? And the fuel is under pressure, too. That's
why it's made of metal. And that's why you're doing it in the winter."
He smiled at Bovadin. "I'm right, aren't I?"

"You're smarter than you look, admittedly. But do your job,
toymaker. Don't ask too many questions."

"I'm only trying to figure this out," Piper snapped back. "This is my
home, my livelihood. I want to know what you've brought into it."

The scientist padded up to Piper and glared at him.

"If we're going to work together, you'll have to do what I say. No
questions. Understand?"

"No," said Piper. He folded his arms over his chest. "That's not my
idea of working together. I want details about this thing. I want to
know how it works."

Bovadin laughed. "And what else do you want? I wonder. I see a
plan in your eyes, toy man. Do you think you won't be
compensated for your work here? Let me put your mind at ease.
Everyone who assists Biagio will be rewarded."

"What?" spat Piper. The insult was like having cold water tossed in
his face. "Do you think that's why I'm doing this, little man?" He
jabbed his finger at Bovadin's nose. "You are wrong. I don't care
about Biagio or his Black Renaissance. I have bigger reasons for
doing this."

The midget shrugged, unimpressed. "Nevertheless, you will be
rewarded. If you follow my instructions. I've set the timer to start
the device an hour after the lever is moved. It's up to you to do the
rest."

"Don't worry," said Piper. "It will be flawless. But what about the
girl? She hasn't come for the dollhouse yet."

"She will, during the festival for the start of Kren. She'll see your
dollhouses in the window and she'll ask the bishop to buy her one.
Herrith will say yes. You will tell him you will build it."

Piper nodded. "I understand. Just so she gets here on time."

"Have faith," said Bovadin. He turned his back on the toymaker and
started out of the workshop. "All is going according to Biagio's
plan. Soon enough you'll have whatever satisfaction you're
seeking."

The four men who had come with Bovadin stood at attention when
their master entered the storefront. Bovadin shooed them out the
door. But before he followed them into the night, he gave Piper a
final warning.

"Be swift with your work, toy man. Eestrii isn't far away."

"I'll be ready," Piper promised.

"I'll be back before then, to help you get the device into the
dollhouse. Don't try to do it without me."

"What? You're not leaving the city?" Piper asked, surprised. Like
Biagio, Bovadin was an outcast now.

"I have some friends who will hide me until Eestrii," said Bovadin.
"No one will know I'm in Nar. And you won't tell anyone, will you,
Piper?"

Bovadin didn't wait for an answer, just shuffled off into the night.
Piper watched the strange group pile into the wagon and the
wagon disappear into the shadows of High Street. For a long time
Piper stood in his doorway, shivering. He didn't like Bovadin. He
didn't like Biagio, either. But the pair had given him something he
hadn't been able to acquire himself—the chance to strike at the
church of Nar. Piper didn't care about ideology or revolutions. The
man who sat on the Iron Throne was of no interest to him. This
crusade he had joined held no rewards for him save vengeance.
TWENTY-THREE
The Hundred Isles of Liss

R ichius Vantran stood in the crow's nest of the Prince of Liss,
marveling at the view. With his hands wrapped tightly around the
rail, he tilted his face into the wind and let the cold sun caress him.
A ferocious breeze tore at the rigging and the collar of his thick
naval coat, and his hair streamed back, snapping like a flag. Before
him stretched the endless ocean, as vast as the sky, and in the
distance a pod of whales breached and glistened in the sunlight,
sending up watery geysers. Richius watched the spouts fire into
the air, and for the first time since leaving Falindar let all the guilt of
his actions melt away. Feeling daring, he let go of the railing and
raised his hands into the air triumphantly, letting out a gleeful cry.

He felt bodiless on the crow's nest, and the wind seemed to bear
him up like a feather, until he could no longer feel the platform
beneath his feet. He laughed joyously, and for a time forgot about
the life and family he had left behind.

"Easy, boy!" Marus called from the deck far below. The first officer,
who had coached Richius up the rigging, now stared up at his
protege with mild worry. "Put your hands on the rail, like I told you!"

Richius ignored the Lissen. He closed his eyes and let the sunlight
twinkle on his eyelids, imagining himself a bird. Was this what life at
sea was like? He wondered now why he had feared the long
journey, and why he had wasted so much of it in his cramped
cabin. Nearly two weeks out of Lucel-Lor, the call of the sea had
finally seized him.

"Marus, look at me!" he shouted. "I'm the great Commander
Prakna!"

"All right, that's enough!" called Marus.

Richius heard the annoyance in his voice and put his hands back
on the rail. Thirty feet down, he knew Marus was scowling at him.

"Don't worry," he called. "I'm fine. This is amazing!"

Marus laughed. During the time they had shared a cabin, he had
tried repeatedly to get Richius above deck. The crow's nest, he
had assured Richius, would change his opinion about the sea
forever. Richius acknowledged his change in attitude by returning
the Lissen's grin. He was very cold but hardly felt it. All he knew
was the roar of the wind and the vastness of the world. It had taken
him long minutes to climb the rigging and master the sway of the
ship, and he had thought more than once about backing down. But
the reward of his climb was indisputable now. There was no land
anywhere in sight, and no birds to hint at any. They were alone on
the earth, in the company of giant whales, and though the Lissen
flagship was mighty, she was like a piece of flotsam on the ocean.
Her great sails groaned with wind, and her tall, wooden masts
swayed, rocking the crow's nest. Just above Richius' head, the
sea-serpent flag of the Hundred Isles snapped in the wind. The
tails of his heavy coat twisted in the breeze, billowing through the
railing. Richius drew the garment tighter around his body, checking
the brass buttons with his fingers. With his unshaven beard and
deep blue coat, he looked almost like one of the crew. He was
beginning to feel like a crewman, too, and the sensation heartened
him. There was work waiting for him in Liss. He wouldn't be an
outcast.

The Prince of Liss pitched starboard as a wave crashed into her
side. Richius held fast to the railing and watched the earth tilt
sideways. He laughed, loving the ride. It was like breaking a wild
mustang. It was like he was home again, in Aramoor, where only
small things mattered. He reveled in the moment, knowing it
wouldn't last.

"Richius," Marus cried. "That's enough. Come down now!"

Richius waved to the man and started out of the crow's nest,
carefully shimmying down the stout rope ladder. The wind buffeted
him, making him hold on tightly and move with sureness. He
glanced down at the far below deck. Marus was pantomiming his
climb like a worried father.

"I'm all right," Richius assured him.

A crowd of sailors had gathered around Marus and were cheering
Richius down. They laughed and applauded when he finally
reached the deck. Marus let loose a relieved sigh and slapped
Richius' shoulder hard.

"Good boy!" he declared heartily. "You've lost your virginity!"

The sailors all laughed and assailed Richius with good-natured
punches. Tomroy and Pips, the two other officers Richius shared
his cabin with, bent in mock bows. They were lieutenants, and
younger than Marus. No older than himself, Richius guessed. But
they were good company and gracious about sharing their meager
living space. Like Marus, they had welcomed him. And, like Marus,
they had bombarded him with questions about Nar and Lucel-Lor
and his battles against the Empire. Richius had been pleased to
regale them. It was the only payment he could offer in return for
their hospitality.

"I wish Prakna had seen you," Tomroy remarked. "He would have
been amazed."

"He would have had a heart-attack and dropped dead," countered
Pips. "We're supposed to be taking care of him."

"Aye," Marus added with a grin. "Prakna would have been angry.
Ah, but it did the boy good, I can tell." The sailor reached out and
pinched Richius' cheek. "Look at that face. Nice and ruddy, like the
rest of us!"

More laughter from the crew. Richius smoothed down his wind-
blown coat, then buried his hands in his pockets to warm them. The
coat had been one of Marus' own, a necessity in so cold a climate.
Though they were heading south, winter was still very real in Liss.

"That was wonderful," Richius said, shaking his head in disbelief. "I
could see for miles! It was like being in a Naren tower, only better.
No smoke, no buildings blocking the view. Lord, it was like I was a
gull."

"Yes," said Marus dryly. "I thought for a moment you might indeed
take flight. Don't ever take your hands off the railing again, Richius.
That was very stupid."

"Leave the man alone," Tomroy said. "It was his first time. I think
he did well. Maybe we'll make you a lookout, Richius. What do you
say?"

"I say no," replied Richius. "Too damn cold."

"But you won't hide in the cabin anymore, will you?" asked Pips.

"The sea's part of you more than it is me," Richius observed. "But
yes, it was great."

The officers all gave each other "I told you so" looks, proud that
they had gotten Richius into the masts. It was true what Richius
said—the sea really was part of them. He was learning that quickly.
The sea was as much a part of a Lissen as tall pine trees or horses
were to a man from Aramoor. They respected the sea and in return
the sea respected them, and in some odd way they had a magic
over the ocean, could almost bend it to their will. They were a
strange and fierce race, and their mettle made him yearn to see
their homeland.

"I want to go below, warm up a bit," Richius told them. There was a
chorus of groans, to which he quickly replied, "Stop now, just stop.
I want to get something warm to drink. Anyone coming?"

"Aye, boy, I'll come with you," said Marus. "Let these other rats get
back to work. Tomroy, check the stunsails. The third looks loose to
me."

"Yes, sir," said Tomroy, returning to protocol. He and the others
dispersed to their stations with practiced speed. Marus put an arm
around Richius and steered him to a gangway.

"Let's get to the galley before your nose starts leaking icicles," he
said, taking the lead.

Richius followed him through the gangway and below deck, then
down one more level until they reached the deck where the galley
was situated in the rear of the ship. It was dark and narrow in the
hall, and the walls wailed with the blows of the waves. The oiled
wood glowed in the meager light from the thin, vertical portholes.
Richius wobbled as he moved, still too green to walk with
confidence. He had already banged his head a dozen times, and
the welts were starting to show. When they reached the galley, he
grabbed hold of the round doorway and pulled himself inside.

The galley was empty, a blessing since the room was so small.
Spartan benches lined the walls, their wood worn smooth by a
thousand backsides, and long, flat tables filled most of the space,
their tops stained and pitted. In the corner of the galley was a small
work area, dominated by an iron stove lined with rocks and a few
battered pots and pans. Some copper tableware sat in a crate
beside the stove, the only utensils available to the crew. There
was, however, a kettle of steaming liquid bolted to the stove. The
lid of the kettle was held securely by wire fasteners, and holes had
been drilled into it to let the steam escape. Anyone with an appetite
could come down and take a dip of the soup. It was the only food
the crew could eat as much as they cared to, for it wasn't rationed
like the bread and meat. Bowen, the ship's cook, always kept a
kettle of it at the ready. It was thin and mostly flavorless, but the
smell of it enticed Richius across the room anyway. He rattled
through the tableware for two bowls and spoons while Marus undid
the kettle's lid and with the community dipper drew out two hot
bowls-full. After gingerly replacing the lid, the two men slid onto a
bench and savored their meal. Richius rubbed his hands together
over the steam. The smell of the soup and the warmth of the coal
stove immediately drained the chill from his body. Marus, however,
made no pretense at patience. He dug his spoon into the soup,
fished out the biggest hunk of potato, and jammed it into his mouth.

"You did a good job topside," he said as he slurped. "I'm proud of
you. We'll make a sailor of you yet, Richius."

"Don't bet on it," Richius cautioned. "It was great fun, but I'm no
seaman."

Marus shrugged. "That's just as well. Prakna's not bringing you to
Liss to start a navy. We already have one of those."

Richius eyed Marus over his spoon, waiting for the Lissen to start
with his questions. Whenever they were alone, Marus always had
questions.

"Aramoor doesn't have a navy at all, does it?" the first officer
asked.

"Nope. Not a single ship. At least not while I was living there. No
telling what the Gayles have done to Aramoor."

"I can't imagine fighting a war without ships," Marus remarked.
"We'd be lost without our schooners."

"Aramoor isn't like Liss," said Richius. "It's just land. No canals;
nothing like that." He lowered his spoon and decided to change the
course of the conversation. "Tell me more about the canals, Marus.
They're everywhere?"

"Everywhere," said Marus. "We get everywhere by boat. All the
land is built on, and everything is tall. We make use of what little
land we have."

"Amazing," said Richius. "It's very different from Nar, isn't it?"

The Lissen's eyes flicked up toward Richius. "Very different."

"I meant no offense, friend. Just an observation. I'm looking
forward to seeing the Hundred Isles. I've never even known
anyone who's seen Liss, besides all you. Prakna was the first
Lissen I'd ever met." Richius leaned back, gauging Marus' mood.
"He's a strange one, isn't he?"

"Who? Prakna?"

"Yes. He's very distant. Very . . ." Richius struggled with the word.
"Moody."

"Prakna has a lot on his mind."

"I know. But I've hardly seen him since coming aboard. Lord, he
spends more time in his cabin than I do. What's wrong with him,
Marus?"

"Richius," cautioned Marus. "You're asking too many questions."

Richius smiled. "I think I have that right, don't you?"

"Maybe." Marus lowered his gaze evasively. "But Prakna's a
complex man. He's seen a lot, done a lot. I'm not going to be able
to explain him to you over a bowl of soup."

"You've known him a long time, though, haven't you? I can tell.
You're friends. You've probably been through some tough times
together, what with the war and all." Richius sipped slowly at his
soup. "Prakna told me he's married."

Marus nodded.

"What about his children?"

The question made Marus freeze. "What about them?"

"Prakna told me he lost two boys in the war against Nar. Is that
true?"

Very slowly Marus dropped his spoon into the bowl, then shoved
the half-eaten soup aside to stare at Richius. Richius knew by the
look in his eyes that he'd crossed an invisible line.

"Richius, let me give you a warning. Don't ever ask anyone
onboard about Prakna again. Don't ask about his wife, and don't
ever ask about his children. Do you understand me?"

"Marus, I understand." Richius shoved his own bowl aside. "But
this vengeance of Prakna's is making him wild."

Marus' sad expression deepened. "There were bad times in Liss,
Richius. For ten years. You know all about the war, but I don't think
you know how devastated the isles were. Still are, really. There
were a lot of men killed in the war with Nar. Young men, like you.
It's true about Prakna. He lost two boys in the war. And I . . ." His
voice crumbled, forcing him to look away. "I lost one boy. My only
son."

The awful revelation struck Richius. He slid his hand across the
table and touched the Lissen's fingertips, trying to apologize.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm a fool for asking. I should have known."

Embarrassed, Marus waved the remark away. "No," he said. "Look
at me, crying like some woman! It was a long time ago. For both of
us. But I don't know. Perhaps I've dealt with it a little better than
Prakna. It's destroyed a part of him."

"I'm sure it has," said Richius. He remembered Sabrina, his first
wife, and the indescribable horror of finding her head in a box. That
one moment had set his life on fire, had etched itself forever in his
brain.

Men weren't supposed to forget such loss, not if they had hearts.
"It was rude of me to ask you this," he said finally. "I didn't know. If
I had, well . . ."

"They were good boys," recalled Marus. "They all served together
on the Fire Bird, just as soon as they were old enough. Prakna
didn't want both his sons serving on the same vessel. Turns out he
was right about that. The Fire Bird went down in minutes."

"How?" Richius asked.

"The Fearless," replied Marus. "You know that ship?"

"God, yes. That's Nicabar's ship." Richius shook his head. "I've got
unhappy memories about that fellow, let me tell you. I met him
once in Nar City."

Marus' eyes widened. "Really? What was he like?"

"Big as a house and hard as rock. I'll never forget his face as long
as I live, or what he said to me."

"Why? What did he say?"

Richius reconsidered the conversation. "Marus, I shouldn't tell you.
It would only make you mad."

"Tell me," Marus insisted. "I want to know."

"All right. This was almost two years ago, when Nar was still
attacking Liss, trying to make the isles surrender. Nicabar had
some new ships the war labs had designed for him. He was eager
to try them out against Liss. I think he was embarrassed that he
hadn't been able to conquer you yet."

"Damn right," sneered Marus. "He tried for a decade, but we never
lost. What else did he say?"

"He said he was going back to Liss for the last time, that you were
ready to fall."

"And?"

"That he was going to feed every Lissen child to the sharks in your
canals. He said he was going to turn Liss' canals red with blood.
And he said he was going to drown your sailors. He thought that
was very funny."

There was a stony silence between the men. Richius forced
himself to look at Marus. A pall settled across Marus' face as all the
memories of his past flooded in. They were on the same violent
path now, the Lissens and Richius. All of their lives had been
damaged by the Empire, warped into an all-consuming vendetta.
Dyana was wrong, Richius decided suddenly. He did belong with
these people.

"Admiral Danar Nicabar is a monster without peer," said Marus at
last. "That's why Prakna has changed. That's why we must fight
against Nar."

Richius gave his friend a bleak smile. "You must be a very strong
people to endure the things you have, Marus. It will be my honor to
lead your army. I'll do my best for you, I promise."

"I know you will, boy," said Marus. "Now eat. And rest up. We'll be
in Liss in just a few days. You'll need your strength for the work
ahead."

They returned their attention to their food, eating in contemplative
silence. As Richius sipped at his soup he thought about Liss and
its brave people, a race that had been audacious enough to stand
against Nar and declare itself free. He would help these people, he
determined. With all his might he would make an army of them, and
someday he would return to Falindar triumphant and prove to
Dyana that his trust in Prakna hadn't been misplaced.

On a morning light with snowfall and speckled with silver clouds,
the crew of the Prince sighted the Hundred Isles of Liss. It was a
long-craved homecoming, and across the flagship's deck the
emotions were palpable as men and boys hung from the rigging,
forgetting their work, and stared in silence at their magnificent
islands. Fleet Commander Prakna stood on the Prince's
forecastle, his long coat stirring in the breeze, his face set with a
melancholy smile. To his left stood Marus. To his right stood
Richius, who leaned out over the railing as far as he could,
desperate for his first sight of Liss.

There were, he realized quickly, at least a hundred isles. Some
were tiny, some seemed to rival Aramoor in size, and he could see
the wide canals winding through them, full of sails and paddle
vessels. In the distance were towers and spiraling structures of
brass and stone, and wooden aqueducts that meandered high
above the ground. Liss was white and serene in the snow, but she
was also vast and troubled-looking, and Richius could see the
damaged harbors on her shores, the jagged scars of a decade-
long war. For every intact building there was another in decay,
missing a top or balancing precariously on a cracked foundation.
The hull of a giant vessel reached out from the depths, its pitted
keel black and broken, its cracked masts peeking through the
surface like the fingers of a drowning man.

But the Hundred Isles were more than their tattered shores, and
past the harbors where the ruins stood, Richius saw cities on the
horizon, great untouched arches and free-standing stonework, the
beautiful labor of patient artisans. Liss looked ancient, as if it
predated Nar and mankind itself, and the vision of so many lovely
things screamed her history across the ocean, beckoning her sons
home.

Fleet Commander Prakna clasped his hands and lowered his head
in silent prayer, and Marus and the others joined him. For a brief
time, the Prince of Liss fell silent save for the endless rush of the
wind and water. Richius dropped his eyes in deference to the
prayer. He was not a religious man, not after the things he'd seen,
but he had respect for these men, and so he maintained his
silence. When Prakna was done with his meditation, he turned to
Richius and pointed at his homeland.

"Liss," he said softly. "My home. Now yours, Richius. At least for a
while."

"It's beautiful," Richius acknowledged. "I never thought it would be
so big."

"Oh, you're only seeing a bit of it. We're too far off yet. Wait, my
friend. Just wait."

As patiently as he could, Richius waited as the Lissen flagship
chewed up the waves, eager as her crew to get home. Signalmen
along the deck flashed their colored flags toward the islands,
summoning a small armada of single-masted boats to come out
and greet them. Groups of children were gathering on the shores,
waving across the sea to their heroes, and the men of the Prince
waved back and shouted happily at the throngs, while Prakna
folded his arms over his chest and let a smile conquer his face.
Richius let Marus point all these things out to him. The first officer
was buoyant, jubilant to be home, and all his knowledge about Liss
and its sights spilled out of him in a jumble of facts and folklore. As
they drifted closer and the great ship slowed, Richius could see
the beautiful ruins marring the harbors and the dead ship rising
from the murky bottom. In the far-off towers he saw colors he
never knew existed, a rainbow of light glowing from a million panes
of mirrored glass. Magnificent docks with gargantuan mooring
posts stood along the shores, conspicuously empty of schooners,
while overhead giant sea birds drifted, great gulls with impossible
wing spans and bright orange bills. Behind the islands, the sun was
breaking through the snowy morning, setting Liss aflame, and the
flakes from the sky twinkled as they fell, blanketing the world in
virgin white.

"See the cat boats?" Marus asked. "They'll escort us in."

"Cat boats?" asked Richius. He saw the boats, but not the
meaning.

"That's what they're called, because of their rigging. A cat-rigged
boat has one mast, put far forward in the hull. We use the cat boats
to get around the islands. Usually we don't use the sails, though.
They don't work in the canals."

Richius watched as the small fleet of boats began circling the
Prince. Sailors in the boats waved at the comrades aboard the
flagship, blowing boatswain pipes and ringing bells. Liss loomed
ever larger as they neared a docking port, obviously built to
accommodate ships like the Prince. As they drew closer to land,
Prakna began giving orders to his crew to prepare for docking. The
men set to the task, drawing ropes and trimming sails and steering
the flagship toward port. The cat boats gave the Prince a wide
berth as they paralleled her. On shore, the children and women
who had gathered to greet them chatted amongst themselves, their
faces glowing. There were very few men in the crowd. Richius
squinted to study the assembly, counting only a handful of old men
among them.

War, he reasoned bitterly. What will this place be like?

And what sort of army could he make of old men? His eyes shifted
back to the ruins around him, the broken shipyards and falling
walls, and he remembered how Nar had bombarded these people
for ten years, trying and failing to drown them. He looked at the
children and the pretty women, most of them thin and slightly built,
and he wondered how they had endured so much. His own father
had handed Aramoor over to Nar years ago, fearing such a plight.
Since then Aramoor had flourished, without the destruction of war.
But Aramoor wasn't free. It wasn't even ruled by the Vantran
bloodline anymore. Despite the ruins around him, Richius was sure
Liss had made the truly courageous choice—to fight.

The Prince eased toward the dock, slow and smooth, and the cat
boats drifted alongside. A handful of sailors on the dock readied
mooring lines as Prakna and Marus guided the flagship to a gentle
docking. Chains rattled and pulleys unspooled as the crew hurried
to secure the Prince. Men jumped from the deck onto the dock to
catch the ropes and pull the Prince into place. Inch by groaning
inch the Prince lurched forward, until at last it ground against the
dock and jolted to an abrupt halt. Prakna and Marus exchanged
congratulatory grins.

"Welcome to Liss, Richius Vantran," said the fleet commander
boldly. "These people are all here to see you, too, you know."

A gangplank descended. Prakna led Marus and Richius off the
ship, into the waiting throng. Richius felt the unusual sensation of
steady earth beneath him and nearly toppled over, but Marus' arm
was there to catch him.

"You'll get used to it," the officer whispered.

Richius wasn't so sure. He held on to Marus as he descended. All
at once a wave of children pressed around him, their golden heads
bobbing at his waist. They looked up at him with astonishment,
tugging at his coat and grabbing for his hands. Prakna and Marus
were swarmed too, but the sight of the Naren had the crowd
entranced. The women on the docks, too proper to crowd around
him, pointed at Richius with a mixture of fascination and fear. A little
girl grabbed his fingers and squeezed, trying to pull him down to
her. Richius stooped to smile at her. She was lovely, and when he
looked at her she jumped back with a delighted laugh.

"Hello there," he said.

"Naren," she declared knowingly. "You're the Jackal."

"No," corrected Richius mildly. "Richius." He pointed to himself to
stress the name. "Call me Richius."

"The Jackal!" said another child in the crowd. "The Jackal of Nar!"

Richius bristled. "All right," he grumbled. "The Jackal." He gave the
girl's hair another tousle and walked off, shaking his head. Marus
was next to him, chuckling.

"Get used to it, Richius," he advised. "That's how they know you
here."

"Oh, really? And whose fault is that?"

"It's just the stories people tell, that's all," said Marus. "It's not
meant as an insult. Just like the Triin calling you Kalak."

"Yes, well, that's not such a great name, either."

Prakna led them to another vessel, one of the boats that were
everywhere in the ubiquitous canal, this one green and gold with a
striking figure of a two-headed fish. A collection of oars jutted from
the sides of the vessel, centipede-like. Waiting for them on the
dock were a pair of regally attired sailors. Their long coats also
bore the same unusual crest, stitched over their breasts. Prakna
approached the men, who bowed to him and smiled.

"Fleet Commander Prakna," said one of them reverently.
"Welcome home, sir."

"Good to be home," said Prakna. The commander was
resplendent even in his threadbare uniform. "Permission to come
aboard?"

The sailor stood aside. "Gladly granted, sir."

"Where are we going?" Richius asked Marus.

"Those are the queen's own," said Marus. "They'll take us to the
palace, on Haran Island."

"The queen?" blurted Richius. He looked down at his own filthy
clothes. "I'm supposed to meet a queen like this?"

"Just like the rest of us. Look around, Richius. Trust me, the queen
won't be offended by your clothes."

In the ruins of the shoreline the statement seemed plausible, but
Richius tried to smooth down his wrinkled coat anyway. Prakna was
notoriously tight-lipped, and hadn't mentioned anything about
meeting the Lissen ruler. He had thought they would rest awhile,
maybe start to work in the morning. Obviously their mission was
more desperate than he'd thought. And having already met Arkus
of Nar, an audience with the Queen of Liss only made him a little
nervous. He followed Prakna and Marus onto the boat, careful not
to slip on the snowy planks, and gave a final wave to the people on
the dock. They were all staring at him, still. Being a hero was rather
pleasant, he decided. If only Dyana and Shani could see him now.

Once they were on board, the little boat shoved off under the
power of the oarsmen and bore them through the wide canal
cutting through the island. On either side the old structures of Liss
rose up over them, threatening to topple onto their heads. Richius
noticed the unmistakable scars of blast marks, the telltale signs of
flame cannons. Many of the buildings bore gaps in their masonry
where the guns of dreadnoughts had drilled fiery holes. Rubble
littered the ground, and everywhere the canal streets were polluted
with debris that had tumbled into the water. While Prakna and
Marus talked with the sailors, Richius went to the prow of the boat
for a better view. Before him, all of Liss was leisurely unfolding.
The spiraling towers in the distance beckoned with an inaudible
voice, and the snowflakes on the waterways brought a hush to the
world. Abandoned buildings rose over him, but in the canal were
other boats like their own, ferrying people and goods between the
structures. Teenaged boys and girls toiled in the rubble, busy with
the back-breaking work of reconstruction, pausing just long enough
to notice the royal boat and offer it a weary wave.

"This isn't all of it," said Marus suddenly. He had come up behind
Richius and put a hand on his shoulder. "It gets better, don't worry."

"There's so much destruction," said Richius. "I've never seen
anything like it. You're a very brave people, Marus, to endure so
much."

"These have been our islands since the beginning of time. We'll
never give them up." The Lissen pointed to a wide inlet in the
distance, now surrounded by blown-up buildings. "See that harbor?
The Fearless was there. She opened fire with her guns before any
schooners could get near enough to stop her. Over a thousand
men and women attacked her, in boats just like this. It was hand-to-
hand at times." Marus' expression dimmed. "Bloody as hell. The
canal really did run red that day. That's where all this rubble came
from. After the Fearless stopped firing, the whole place was in
flames. It's taken a year just to rebuild this much."

"What about inland?" asked Richius. "Not so much damage?"

"No, thank God. Most of the canals are too narrow for
dreadnoughts. And there's a whole system of locks and dams.
Nicabar tried landing troops to invade, but they didn't know their
way and were always slaughtered. We don't have any avenues to
move heavy equipment, so none of the usual Naren tactics
worked."

"So they just kept bombarding you," sighed Richius. "Amazing."

"For ten years," Marus echoed. He shut his eyes in remembrance
of the bloody days. "It's over now, though. It's time for Nar to pay
for what they've done."

"Tell me about Haran Island," said Richius. "What's that mean,
Haran? Is that a Lissen word?"

"Sort of," said Marus. He pointed to the boat's figurehead, the
remarkable, two-headed fish. "That's a haran."

"That? A fish?"

"Not just a fish," said Marus. "A haran. The word means divine one,
or something like that. Lissens used to believe the harans were
Gods, because they were so intelligent. There are still some of
them, but only a few. All of them live in the waters around the
queen's palace."

"They're incredible looking," remarked Richius. "Are they big?"

"Sometimes. No bigger than a man, usually."

"What?" Richius stepped back from the railing. "That big?"

"You'll see them when you get to the palace, Richius. The queen
has some in her water garden. I'm sure she'll show them to you, if
you ask."

"Tell me about your queen. What's she like?"

Marus beamed. "That's a treat I'll leave for you to imagine, my
friend. Just trust me when I say that Queen Jelena is very special.
You will be in awe of her, I know it."

Richius returned his gaze to the snowy horizon. "I have no doubt."

For nearly an hour the boat kept its slow pace through the canal,
the oarsmen rowing with gentle ease. The waterway had narrowed
some, branching off in places to link with other similar avenues,
and all around them rose the weird structures of Liss. Overhead
great bridges spanned, ancient constructs of sculpted stone, filled
with folk going about their daily chores. They had left the ruins
behind and were in the heart of Liss, where even the long-range
guns of Naren dreadnoughts could not reach. The destruction had
given way to marvelous architecture. Richius relaxed as they
cruised leisurely along, astonished at the sights. The light snow fell
in his hair and eyelashes, reminding him of Aramoor, and he
thought of Dyana and Shani again, and how wonderful they too
would find this place. Someday, he would bring them here and
show them the marvels. When the world was at peace, there would
be time for such pleasures.

Fleet Commander Prakna and Marus lingered in the back of the
boat with the sailors, leaving Richius alone on the bow. Richius
supposed it was their way of getting him acclimated to his new
home, and he appreciated the privacy. Just days before, he had
considered forming the Lissen army as something of a dream, but
now he was here in Liss. What he had told Prakna in Falindar still
haunted him—he wasn't really sure he was up to the task. But the
people who waved to him from the bridges and balconies seemed
to have no such doubts. Would they be disappointed?

At last the narrowness of the canal opened into a vast lake of
crystal green water. Across the lake was a single island, detached
from the others, without even a bridge connecting it. Green and
gold sloops circled the island, and great hills rolled across it,
studded with trees. At the center of the island was a simple
structure of white limestone, a castle with three towers, the center
spire taller than the others, and ringed with a river of sparkling
water. Richius stood up and peered across the lake. The palace
was lovely, perfect in its simplicity. Unlike the other buildings of
Liss, this one seemed timeless, untouched by weather or war,
gleaming in a thin sheen of snow. The river around it danced with
sunlight and moved with life as flocks of gray waterfowl floated and
flew across its surface. Beyond the river, near the central tower,
was a gateway of cascading water, a giant waterfall that sprouted
up from nowhere and fell against the rocks, feeding the river.
Beneath the waterfall was a half-moon arch parting the cascade
like a curtain and bidding visitors entrance. The arch was
unimaginably tall, and the water that flanked it seemed to rise up as
if by magic. Richius stared at it, amazed. He had already seen Nar
with its stellar cathedral and foreboding Black Palace, and he had
lived the last year in Falindar, a citadel whose beauty he had
thought matchless. But the palace of Queen Jelena wasn't like any
of these. It was effortless, a designer's inspired dream. If God had
a home on earth, it would have been like this incomparable palace.

"I love this," said Richius softly. He wasn't quite out of earshot and
didn't care who heard him. The palace had stirred something in
him, something that made him yearn for his own home and steeled
his conviction to fight against Nar. Prakna, hearing his statement,
crossed the deck and stood beside him, sharing his admiration.

"That's Haran Island," said the commander. "Where the queen
lives."

"It's magnificent," said Richius. "Truly. I'm not sure if I've ever seen
anything so beautiful. How does the water rise like that?"

"Underground springs. The builders who made the palace wanted
to make use of them, so they built the water gate." The fleet
commander sighed. "Every time I see this place, I feel like
weeping. To a Lissen, this island is what we fight for. It's the true
heart of our homeland."

"Marus won't tell me about Queen Jelena," said Richius. "Will
you?"

Prakna shook his head.

"I thought Liss had a king. What happened?"

"King Tyri died. I'll let the queen explain it to you."

"What does she want me for?" Richius pressed. "Do you know?"

"I think I do," replied Prakna, but didn't elaborate. He glanced up at
the silver clouds and let the snowflakes speckle his beard. "She's
an extraordinary woman. You should be honored."

"I am," said Richius. "I just want to know what to expect."

"Enough, Vantran, please. I'm sure Jelena has her reasons for
wanting to meet you. Why should I guess at them when you'll find
out soon enough? I've spoken to her guardians onboard. They will
take you to her, alone. I am not even to be there when she greets
you."

"What? Why not?"

"Because it is her will, that's why," said the commander. "Now, no
more questions. Enjoy the moment. In the morning things will be
different. We will set to work, you and I. But today is yours. This
moment is yours. Today you are a hero, Richius Vantran."

The words were so final Richius couldn't reply. The royal boat
drifted closer to the island. It took long minutes for the little vessel
to reach its destination, and when it did the guardians of Queen
Jelena who had piloted the boat took care of all the dock work.
Neither Prakna nor Marus offered assistance. True to their high
stations, they simply watched the others work, and when the vessel
was secured to the dock Prakna gestured to Richius to disembark
first.

"She wants to see you, not me," said the commander. "Go ahead."

Richius puzzled over his next move. "You're not coming at all?"

"I'll see the queen later," said Prakna. "For now, her business is
with the Jackal of Nar. Don't worry. These men will take you to her."
Prakna gave him an encouraging wink. "Go on, boy. She's waiting."

"I'll see you later, then," said Richius to his friends, and stepped off
the rocking boat onto the snow-covered dock. The palace of the
queen gleamed in front of him. He could hear the roar of the
amazing waterfall, feel the spray of it on his face. Guardians like
the ones that had ferried him here studded the grounds. Two of
them came forward and bowed.

"King Vantran," said one of them. "My lady, Queen Jelena, begs an
audience with you. She has already been told of your arrival and
awaits you. Would you come with us, please?"

"Lead on," directed Richius.

It was a long walk to the palace, along an avenue of smooth
cobblestones laid carefully in golden mortar. There were no
children here, just the handful of young men guarding their queen.
None of them appeared older than Richius, and so many youthful
faces made him feel oddly ancient. When they reached the water
gate, Richius paused to marvel at it, looking up at the great arch
and letting the roar of water surround him. His guides made no
attempt to rush him, allowing him time to ponder the fantastic gate.
After a minute, though, Richius was satisfied, and crossed the
threshold to enter the palace.

All at once the palace enveloped him in a near soundless
chamber. The waterfall outside was only feet away, but the thick
walls of stone swallowed the noise. Inside, the simplicity of the
exterior had been carried over into the interior design. The walls
were bare but for beautiful tapestries that hung loosely from the
mouths of gilded haran heads, the same compelling creature
Richius had seen on the figurehead. He studied the tapestries,
noticing strange depictions in the embroidery, pictures of heroic
sailing ships and ancient, godlike fish-men rising from the sea.
Naked mermaids played on some, while hateful, armored Narens
strode on others, their black weapons reflecting their wild faces. All
of Liss' bloody history appeared on the tapestries, and there were
dozens of them in the chamber, draping across the plain white
walls, a gallery of sad and astonishing portraits. Richius let out an
amazed whistle, which promptly echoed through the vaulted
ceiling.

"We're to take you to the water garden," said the guardian. "Queen
Jelena will meet you there."

The water garden lay just outside the grand room of tapestries, at
the end of a domed corridor that terminated in a pair of wrought-
iron doors. The doors were flung open wide. Both guides stood
aside for Richius to pass and shooed him through the portal.
Richius stepped out of the palace and into a vast plain of falling
water and gentle hills, encircled by a curved row of tall, white
columns. Tiny streams and rivulets wound through the garden, and
rose vines climbed up the columns, dormant from winter.
Snowflakes fell onto the heads of statues—young, nude women
with serene expressions or mischievous smiles. At the left of the
garden was a sloping hill with a stairway of slate that disappeared
into a thickness of bushes. But most remarkable of all was a giant
glass enclosure rising up out of a lake, filled with green water that
splashed out over its rim. Gigantic in circumference, the enclosure
anchored the garden, drawing Richius inexorably toward it. Behind
him, the royal guardians closed the iron doors, sealing him off, but
Richius hardly noticed at all, so taken was he by the enclosure and
its unusual contents. Haran.

Half a dozen of them stared back at him through the glass, their
eyes full of sentience. Two heads each, like the heads of serpents,
twisted on prehensile necks while their scaly bodies drifted through
the water. Some were small, like trout. Others were as big as
sharks. Like the palace they called home, the creatures were
divine, even beautiful. Richius put his palm up to the glass and held
it there. Seeing his gesture, a haran came up close and put a
single mouth to his hand, as if to taste it though the glass. Its other
head watched Richius, opening its mouth and blowing out a stream
of bubbles. Awe-struck, Richius put his other hand to the glass for
the second head, which like its twin now nudged at the barrier
between them. Other haran gathered to watch, swishing their spiky
tails, amused by the stranger in their midst. Richius laughed with
delight. The creatures seemed to sense his joy and bobbed their
heads, blowing rhythmic bubbles through their snouts. In pictures
these things might have seemed demons, but to Richius they were
godlike, just as Marus had claimed. He no longer wondered why
the Lissens had worshipped them. As they laughed with him and
slashed their fins, he knew why.

"Yes," called a voice from above. "They are special, aren't they?"

Startled, Richius removed his hands from the glass and stepped
back from the enclosure. The haran all looked left. Richius
followed their lead and gazed up to the top of the hill. There on the
stairs stood a woman, a girl really, with long golden hair that fell to
her knees and a shift of red and sea-green. Her shoulders were
wrapped with silk, and the trailing skirt she wore over her long legs
blanketed the ground behind her. Her eyes were emerald and fiery,
and her teeth lit her face with a dazzling alabaster glow. She had
red lips highly painted and soft cheeks gently rouged, and two
hoops of gold dangled from her ears, clinking when she moved.
On her feet were a pair of soft slippers that barely repelled the
snow, but she stood as if impervious to cold, her hair wet with
melted snow-flakes. Richius gazed up at her.

Sabrina, he whispered to himself. She looks like Sabrina.

"You're the Jackal of Nar," said the young woman. She began
descending the stairs, hardly disturbing the snow.

"I'm Richius Vantran," said Richius. "Who are you?"

She waited until she had reached the bottom of the stairs before
answering. "My name is Jelena," she said gently. "I am queen
here."

"Queen? Oh, but that's impossible. You're so . . ."

"Young?" guessed the woman. She went and stood before him,
flashing him a lovely smile. "Yes, I am young. I am also queen,
Richius Vantran." She took his hand in hers, then, remarkably,
dropped to her knees before him, lowering her gaze to the ground
and soaking her skirt in the wet earth. "I am your servant, Richius
Vantran. Liss is yours."

"No, don't," begged Richius. "Rise, please," He tried to urge her up
but she would not come.

"Liss is yours," she repeated adamantly. "We have very little for
you to take, but whatever you see, whatever you desire, is yours.
This is our thanks for your coming to us."

"My lady, please rise. That is all I ask of you."

She did not rise but she did at last look up at him. "Richius Vantran,
Jackal of Nar, you have come to help us. You must understand our
gratitude. Do not shun what little we can offer you."

As gently as he could, Richius pulled his hand away. "Queen
Jelena, Prakna is already giving me all that I could want. I am here
for less than noble purposes. You must already know that."

"You're here for revenge," said the girl. "I know about you, Richius
Vantran. You are not so different from us. That is why you've
agreed to help us."

"You've heard fairy tales, my lady. Too many of them, I think."
Richius stooped a little, took her hand again, and drew her to her
feet. "You mustn't bow to me. You're a queen. And I'm not worth it."

She was so perfect, like her palace, and her hand was soft and
flawless like her face. When he pulled her up she made a sad
grimace.

"I'm not sure I can do the things Prakna's asked of me," Richius
continued. "Maybe everything you've heard about me is wrong. I
will try, though. I'll do my best. But you should know I do this thing
for selfish reasons."

The young queen looked away, turning her attention to the
aquarium. "And you should know that we've brought you here for
selfish reasons, too. As I said, we're not so different from each
other."

Richius studied her. She was waiting for something. Why, he
wondered, had she brought him here? Very softly he padded
closer and pretended to watch the miraculous fish, waiting for her
to speak. When she did her voice was low, rife with sadness.

"I want to thank you for coming to us, Richius Vantran. I can make
you no promises, but I tell you again what I told you before.
Anything you want while you are here on my soil, I will grant you
willingly." Her eyes shifted from the enclosure, and she realized
suddenly that he was staring at her. She smiled. "What is it? Do
you see something?"

"Forgive me," said Richius. "You remind me of someone, that's
all."

"Someone special?"

Richius nodded. "Oh, yes. Tell me, Queen Jelena, why did you
bring me here? I don't mean to sound rude, but is there anything I
should know?"

Jelena's face reddened. "Am I that obvious? It is nothing, really.
Call it curiosity."

"I would call it that if I thought that's all it was." Richius stepped a
little closer and dared to touch her hand again. "Anything?"

His gesture made her tremble, and she looked for all the world like
a little girl. "King Vantran, I needed to see you. I've waited for
months to know what you were like. I couldn't wait any longer, not
another day. They speak of you in high tones here. Prakna says
you are a great leader. My mother and father called you a hero. I
had to see you for myself."

"I don't understand," said Richius. "Your mother and father? Who
are they?"

She laughed prettily. "You said I was young, didn't you? How long
do you think I've been queen? My mother and father ruled here
before me, King Vantran. They were the true King and Queen of
Liss." She reached out and touched his face. "You were twenty-
five years old when your father died. That's when you became king
of Aramoor. I am seventeen. Barely a woman. And I am lost and
need your help."

Suddenly Richius grasped the sadness in the young queen's eyes.
It was that same vacant look that he had seen reflected back at him
from mirrors two years ago, when he had ascended the throne of
Aramoor. Hardly more than a boy, he had been forced past
manhood directly to kingship, and the shock had left him reeling.
As it had, no doubt, this girl.

"Queen Jelena, I'm sorry for you," he offered. "Truly, I am. Your
pain must be great."

"And my confusion," said Jelena. "King Vantran, I need to know
what to do, and there is no one on Liss who can tell me. Just as
there is no one here to lead an army for me. Prakna is a hero, but
he is not king. The people look to me to lead. And I'm just a child."
She grimaced. "As you so rightly observed."

"No," Richius corrected. "I was wrong to say that. Do you know
what Prakna and the others call you, Queen Jelena? They call you
extraordinary. They say you are remarkable. And they are right.
Anyone who can step onto a throne at so young an age, even
survive it, must be remarkable."

A blush colored Jelena's cheeks. "You are kind, King Vantran. But
I'll need more than words, even pretty ones. I need guidance.
When you make this army, when you work it into a thing you think
will succeed, will you also come to me? I'm asking for a tutor, King
Vantran. Can you do this, too?"

It was such a sad, misguided question, Richius couldn't help but
smile. "Queen Jelena—"

"Just Jelena," she interrupted. "I don't want to be called queen by
you."

"Nor I king. And I am not a king anymore, anyway. But my lady, I
fear you've misjudged me. Maybe Prakna, too. Maybe all of Liss,
even. I am just a man. And just a vengeful one at that. Maybe I
have some knowledge of tactics Prakna doesn't. I hope so. But I
swear to you, if you think I can teach you anything about governing,
you are wrong." A great, grieving guilt dropped over him. "Aramoor
isn't mine anymore, because I am the world's worst king. I lost my
father's homeland because I can't govern." He scoffed at himself
bitterly. "You want a tutor? You've chosen the wrong hero, my
lady."

Queen Jelena put her hand on his shoulder and spun him around
to face her. "I brought you to me because I needed to see the king
a boy can be. Tell me there is a queen inside this girl."

"I'm sure there is," said Richius. "These men follow you because
they see the queen you already are. They are loyal to you, and
that's all you will ever need. All the other decisions come from
inside you." He pointed his finger into her chest. "Listen to your
heart, Queen Jelena. Not me."

"My heart tells me to trust you," said Jelena. "Just as it told me to
bring you here. Prakna speaks very highly of you. He says that you
alone can form the army to invade Crote. He says that you are a
military genius."

Richius laughed. "Yes, I've heard that one before. A good joke. My
lady, I'm nothing more than the men I commanded. Just like
Prakna and Marus and all the others make you strong. Your father
must have known that about being king. He should have taught you
that before he died."

Jelena's face tightened. "Maybe you're right. But my father and
mother didn't plan on dying. It wasn't some long illness that killed
them. It was Narens."

"Narens? Forgive me for asking, but how did that happen? This
island seems so safe."

"It was a long war with Nar, King Vantran."

"Richius."

Jelena glowed. "All right. Richius. The war lasted for ten years. And
by the end, Liss needed everyone to defend her. Even my parents.
When my father was younger, he was a schooner captain, like
Prakna. He took to a ship against the Naren armada. My mother
went with him. So did everyone else in the palace. I was left alone
here with just a few women to look after me. All of Liss fought off
Nar, Richius. And almost everyone died. Like my parents."

"Good God," groaned Richius. "See? I told you I was a fool,
Jelena. Your father sounds like a great man. And your mother a
great woman."

"They were great," the girl agreed. "And now I will avenge them."

They stared at each other, and again that mirrored reflection stared
back at Richius from across the years. He saw himself in the girl;
the sum of all the hatred he had ever felt.

"Jelena," he began carefully. "This isn't right, what you're saying.
It's fine to mourn your parents, but I think you should leave
vendettas to others."

"Why?" asked the girl, plainly surprised. "It's a queen's duty to
protect her people. And it's a daughter's duty to avenge her
parents. At least that's the way we think in Liss."

"Then you're right," said Richius. "We're not so different, you and I.
But you should think on what I've lost, what I've given up and left
behind. I have a wife and child back in Lucel-Lor. I left them to
come here, and if I don't return they won't have me anymore.
They'll be all alone." He took her chin in his hand to make her listen.
"That's what revenge does to a person, Jelena. Guard against it.
You're too young to know such hatred."

"I'm seventeen," she said defensively. "Old enough to know right
from wrong. Wrong is what Nar did to Liss. Right is what we're
going to do to them now."

"Then don't ask me for advice," Richius growled. "Not if you won't
listen to it."

"I need your advice on how to rule, Richius." Jelena was pleading
with him, confused by his anger. "I know you can help me. Just like
you'll help our army."

"Army? What will you give me, Jelena? Children? I didn't cross an
ocean to lead a bunch of kids into a slaughterhouse. If that's what
you have in mind, forget it."

"You will have the best Liss has to offer," said Jelena. She
grabbed his hand, squeezing it with adoration. "I told you—anything
you wish in Liss is yours to take. Ask me for anything and I'll see
you get it. The sons and daughters of Liss are yours to command."

"Daughters? Oh, no, Jelena. No women. Not in any army I lead."

The young queen was indignant. "In Liss, women fight," she said.
"In Nar they might be baubles, but not here. We defended our
homeland for ten years. Now we will avenge it."

"Then do it without me! God, you ask the impossible of me, girl. I
won't let women be massacred. I've got enough on my conscience
to last a lifetime. I don't need that, too."

He turned his back on her and stared into the aquarium. A haran
looked at him through the glass, its twin heads bobbing curiously.
He felt Jelena at his back, felt her hands on his shoulders. His eyes
dropped down to watch her jeweled fingers caressing him.

"Richius," she whispered sadly. "This can't work without you.
Young men and women, maybe some older folk—that's all we
have to offer you. But you can make an army out of them. I know
you can."

"And if I don't?"

"If you don't, then Liss will never be avenged. My parents will have
been murdered without recourse, and Nar will go on as it always
has, taking whatever it wants from countries like Aramoor."

Richius shut his eyes. "Aramoor . . ."

"Yes. And Biagio will go free. He'll never be punished for his
crimes, or for killing your first wife."

"What?" gasped Richius, turning on her.

"Yes, I know all about Sabrina. Is that who I look like, Richius? Do I
remind you of her?"

Jelena's questions were calculating and brutal. She was already
more of a ruler than she knew.

"Yes," admitted Richius. "Yes, you do."

"I'm glad. So when you look at me, remember her. Remember her
head in a box, and then tell me you won't lead our army. Do you
think you can do that?"

Richius said nothing. His silence was enough to bring a satisfied
nod from the queen.

"You'll do it," Jelena said. "Prakna knew you would, and I know it,
too." She went to him and put her head against his chest, giving
him an affectionate squeeze. The gesture made Richius
uncomfortable. "Thank you," she breathed. "Thank you, Jackal, for
helping us."

Richius brought up his hand, let it hover uncertainly over her head,
then lightly stroked her golden hair. It was too late to scold her. She
was already ruined. Revenge had devoured her, as it had Prakna
and Marus and all the others of this ancient nation. Richius knew
there was nothing he could do to save her from herself. Without
knowing why, he kissed her head.

"I'll do my best for you," he said gently. "I promise you that."

The young queen rested against his chest. "I know you will. You're
the hero Prakna told me about."
TWENTY-FOUR
Homecoming

T he snow had slackened into flurries when Prakna finally reached
his home village of Chaldris. It was late in the day and the sun was
low. Shadows darkened the water avenues and the spaces
between buildings, and Prakna's little conveyance drifted across
Balaro Canal, bearing him home. As was customary, he stood in
the jarl, ignoring the bench seat while the driver poled his way
through the canal. The seats were for children and old women.
Men always stood in the jarl. And Balaro Canal was always choked
with jarls. The little boats were everywhere, moored to docking
rings and bobbing on the current. Chaldris was an ancient part of
Liss, densely populated and well travelled. Prakna had been born
here. It was where he had spent his life, when he wasn't on the
ocean, and every time he saw his village it brought a pensive smile
to his face.

Like all of Liss, Chaldris was a thousand tiny islands, threaded
together by canals and a network of stone bridges spanning
overhead. One had to be very careful in the jarl. There were always
bridges built too low, and tall men like Prakna often had to duck to
avoid a broken skull. Other bridges, like the one they were
approaching now, were so high only a bird could bang into them.
Prakna gazed upward as the little boat slid toward his apartments.
The bridge to his home was covered with lichens and vines, all
overgrown and carelessly left untrimmed. J'lari had been a fine
gardener once, but now she barely ever lifted a finger. Behind the
bridge, the sun was shrouded in a swathe of clouds. Tiny
snowflakes drifted down onto Prakna's face. Along the narrow
avenues and bridges, familiar people went about their business,
occasionally waving to the returning hero, but Prakna hardly heard
them. He returned their greetings perfunctorily, mostly out of duty,
yet his eyes were locked on his apartments high above the village.
By now J'lari would have heard the news. She would be expecting
him. Prakna sucked his lower lip. It had been so long since he had
seen her.

"Too damn long," he whispered.

The jarl driver heard his words and turned puzzled eyes toward
him. "Sir?"

"Nothing," Prakna said. The man shrugged and returned to poling
through the water. Prakna sighed heavily. In the pocket of his coat
were all the letters he had written J'lari while on patrol in Nar. He
had never sent them, hoping to one day return and deliver them
himself. When she read them she would be happy, briefly, and
they would rejoice in his homecoming until the grief overcame her
and she drifted back into her ghostly fugue. Once, J'lari had been a
strong woman. Proud. Life had taken its toll.

He had already visited the cenotaph on the way home. The huge
monument, erected to honor the dead of the Naren war, wasn't far
from Prakna's apartments. The cenotaph had an island all to itself,
and when it snowed, like it had today, the hush was remarkable.
Even the youngest children seemed to sense the sanctity of the
place. Prakna had purchased two small flowers and laid them down
next to the granite monolith, along with all the others that had been
dropped there this day, to honor Liss' fallen. They didn't harvest
bodies in Liss. There was too little land to waste on graves. When
a man or woman died, they were thrown into the ocean. That's why
the cenotaph had so much meaning. It was the only place for
Lissens to grieve. Some had wanted to write all the names of all
the men and women that had died on the monument, but then the
monument would have been colossal. Ten years was a long time
to fight. And too many of the dead were nameless. So the statue
was nothing but a tall, granite rectangle, something like a giant
headstone, carved with Lissen prayers and ornamented with
flowers. The cenotaph was strangely beautiful in the snow. Prakna
worshipped it. Besides the mementos his wife kept of their sons, it
was the only thing Prakna had to remember them by.

Prakna had one more flower in his hand, a hearty, red dahlia he had
purchased for J'lari. It had been very expensive, but the fleet
commander's face had earned him a discount, leaving enough in
his pockets to pay the pilot of the jarl. Prakna shielded the flower
from the cold, hiding it beneath his open coat. He was sure it would
brighten J'lari's day. When they reached the dock of Prakna's
apartments, the pilot expertly guided his little boat to a stop, barely
grazing the pier. He retracted his long, muddy pole and smiled at
Prakna.

"Here you are, sir," he said cheerily. "Welcome home."

"Thanks," said Prakna. He dug into his pocket for his last few
coins, but the driver held up his hands in protest.

"No, sir," he insisted. "No money. This was my pleasure."

Prakna didn't argue. He paid his fare with a handshake and
departed the vessel, stepping onto the dock of his home for the
first time in months. Up near the bridge he saw a single candle
burning in the window. The tiny lights served as beacons for
returning sailors. During the war, the whole village had glowed. And
on those horrible days when a soldier didn't return, when he died or
was simply missing, the candle was extinguished, replaced by a
black star. Prakna looked around at the windows of the apartments.
A galaxy of faded, black stars winked back at him.

The jarl slowly slipped away from the dock, leaving Prakna alone in
the lightly falling snow. He heard a chorus of voices in the buildings
above him, smelled the familiar scents of good, home cooking,
and his mind skipped backward to a time when those voices were
of his family, and those aromas came from J'lari's kitchen.
Saddened, he pulled the dahlia out of his coat and looked at it. It
was beautiful, the biggest the merchant had for sale, but a meager
gift to a woman who'd lost two sons. Prakna loved J'lari very much.
It pained him how little he could do to ease her loss. But he was
just a man, and often he was gone, leaving her alone in the old,
vacant home.

Ahead of him was a narrow stairway of quarried stone, zig-zagging
up to his apartments. Prakna looked at it, suddenly afraid. When he
had last seen his wife, she was pale like the snow.

"Time to be a man," he reminded himself.

He stuck his nose into the flower, took a whiff for strength, and
quickly galloped up the stairs. Determined to look happy, he
plastered a smile onto his face. Whenever he returned, the fleet
commander always got a rousing welcome, but today his friends
knew enough to spare his privacy. When at last Prakna reached the
bridge leading to his home, he noticed that the door across the
span was slightly open. He paused in the middle of the bridge. The
door opened wider. Prakna steeled himself.

"J'lari," he called softly. "Come out, love. It's me."

There was a trembling sigh before the door opened fully. J'lari
stood in the threshold, her eyes wet and opened wide, her cheeks
flushed. In her hair was a bronze braid, pulling back her golden
locks, and a fine, lacy dress clung to her body, stirring in the
breeze. The dahlia dropped to his side as Prakna stood on the
bridge, unable to move. When J'lari tilted her head and smiled at
him, it was as if the sun had come again and burned off all the
haze.

"Prakna," she choked. Her hand went to her mouth. Her shoulders
shook. "Oh, Prakna . . ."

Prakna flew across the bridge and swept his wife up in a strong
embrace. Staccato sobs overcame her and she melted in his
arms, small and insubstantial. He put his nose in her hair and it was
sweet; her breasts were warm against him. Fleet Commander
Prakna closed his eyes and stroked J'lari's hair, thanking God he
was home again.

"I've missed you," she whispered in his ear. "I was so afraid."

"I'm home now," he replied. "I told you I'd be back." He pulled
himself free, then presented his gift. "For you."

J'lari blushed like a child at the offering. She was over forty now,
but when she smiled she looked like a woman half her age. She
reached for the flower, twirling it. A cold breeze blew on the bridge,
but she seemed not to notice it at all, so taken was she by the
dahlia.

"It's lovely," she said, her voice breaking. "Very beautiful." Her
hand brushed his cheek. "Like you, Prakna."

Prakna took her hand and kissed it, holding it to his lips for a very
long time. J'lari broke into sobbing laughter.

"Prakna . . ."

"Inside, J'lari," he said with a smile. He gestured to the windows
good-naturedly. "There are eyes out here."

J'lari nodded and giggled. "Yes, you're right."

The curious eyes belonged to neighbors and friends, but neither
wanted the moment spoiled. J'lari, her prize flower proudly in hand,
led her husband into their home, the home he hadn't seen for
months. Prakna followed willingly. He had dreamt of this reunion,
had pined for it and the touch of his wife, and though she still
seemed a ghost to him, she was substantial and warm and he
craved her greatly. Tonight, if seaman's luck were with him, he
would take her to his bed and love her.

Hours passed. Prakna reveled in his homecoming as J'lari moved
about the house, making him comfortable. She was flawless, chatty
like she was before the terrible occurrence, and Prakna wondered
if his absence had given her time to recuperate, and to appreciate
what she had left in life. They lingered over a perfect meal, drank
good wine she had purchased for the occasion, and took the
candle from the window to light their dinner table. The dahlia
Prakna had brought for his wife was never far from her reach, and
as they talked J'lari clung to it, admiring it constantly as she listened
to him speak. Prakna had many things to tell her. And J'lari listened
raptly, watching her husband as he cleaned his plate with a crust of
bread and enjoyed his wine with a starving man's pleasure. Prakna
ate until his stomach was stuffed and his belt groaned, and while
J'lari cleared the table he spoke to her more, telling her about Nar
and their plans for the Empire, and about Richius Vantran and his
devouring revenge. And as Prakna talked to her he watched his
wife, attuned to any signs of sadness. To his great relief, J'lari
never broke into sobs. She misted a little when he gave her his
letters, but those were good tears and Prakna brushed them away
lovingly. J'lari sat and read them for a time. The candle had burned
down to a nub, so Prakna got another and put it in the dish so she
could read. Embarrassed, he laughed when she read aloud the
most personal parts. But he was also a little drunk and tired, and
though his stomach was full there was still a hunger in him. He
watched her in the candlelight, wanting her.

It was very late when at last they retired. Prakna had deliberately
avoided their bedchamber, but when she led him into it he saw that
she had prepared it for them. The bed was fitted with their best
lace coverings. There was a scent of perfume on the sheets and in
the air, and the window shades were open wide, letting moonlight
spill inside. Prakna shuddered when he saw the room. Since the
deaths of their boys, they had made love only once, a disgusting
episode that had been more like rape. J'lari couldn't bear the act
anymore. But the look of the room seemed to herald a change in
her, and Prakna fought hard to still his thundering passion. She was
fragile, still, he reminded himself. And marriage was more than just
the bedroom.

"Prakna," she said softly, leading him into the room. "Welcome
home."

Prakna said nothing. He didn't want to talk, or hear anything that
wasn't her breath. Outside the window, the snow had stopped.
Purple moonlight lit the town, giving the canals a romantic twinkle.
J'lari slipped off her shoes, then padded to the bedroom door and
silently shut it. Prakna drifted to the bed. He sat down on the
mattress and watched his wife, who stood before him, her lace
dress clinging to her inviting curves. With her smooth shoulders
and white skin, she looked like an angel, pure and breakable, too
innocent for a cruel world. Prakna's eyes narrowed, drinking her in.
He counted up the months since he had laid with a woman and
found a giant deficit.

"My love," he whispered. "You're so beautiful."

The compliment made J'lari smile. Yet she didn't dare to speak, to
spoil the perfect silence. Prakna saw the faint fever of worry in her
eyes, but only for a moment. Her hand went up and pulled the braid
from her hair, sending it tumbling around her shoulders. She drifted
across the floor to her husband. Prakna held his breath. Their eyes
met before the hunger overcame him, and he put his head to her
belly, feeling her heat through the silk of her dress. He pressed his
lips against her, kissing her and pulling her near, and J'lari's head
fell back with a shuddering sigh.

Down he drew her, closer until she was on her knees before the
bed. His fingers rummaged under her shoulder strap and pulled it
down, and when he kissed her neck she trembled. She was a
confection, sweet and irresistible, and the taste of her skin roiled
through him, lighting him on fire. His mouth opened to suckle her
nape and his hand cupped her head, holding it to him. J'lari's body
shook. Prakna ignored the tremors. Both hands were on her
shoulders now, stripping down her dress, exposing her to him. He
opened his eyes to watch himself work, saw her naked back reflect
the moonlight.

Slowly. Slowly . . .

She was almost nude now. Beneath his palms he felt her fear. She
was a child again, a fearful virgin. He tried to catch himself but
couldn't, and when his hand slipped over her breast he heard the
most [ilila] cry. J'lari froze. Prakna stopped his skating hands,
holding his breath. In his ear rang a whispered prayer, barely
audible.

"Oh, God, help me. Please . . ." Prakna held his wife against him.
On and on she cried, as if he weren't there at all, as if she were in a
church on her knees before God. He didn't dare look at her. He
didn't need to see her face. The wetness of her tears already
stained his shirt. J'lari's shaking voice was all he heard, drowning all
his pleasure. The lust that had seized him vanished in a flash, and
all he felt was pity for the woman on her knees. Across the
bedroom stood a mirror. He could see her nakedness reflected
there, and the wretched astonishment of his own expression. He
looked old. J'lari shivered. Prakna stooped and scooped his wife
up in his arms, easily lifting her feather-weight, and placed her
gently on the bed. She wouldn't look at him.

"I'm sorry," she said weakly. She wrapped her arms around her
breasts to hide them. "Prakna, forgive me. . . ."

"Hush," cooed Prakna. Carefully he pulled up the sheets and
covered her. Afraid to touch her, he hovered over the bed. "Rest
now, J'lari. Just rest. I'm home."

J'lari quickly nodded. "Yes, home. You're with me. You'll stay with
me." Still she wouldn't open her eyes. She brought the sheets up
around her face, ashamed of herself, burying her painted mouth
beneath the lace. "Don't go."

"I won't," said Prakna easily. "I'll sit with you. We'll just sit, all right?"

"Don't leave me. Not now or ever."

"Never is a long time, my love."

"The Jackal is here now. He'll deal with Nar for you. We can be
together. Finally."

Prakna looked away, not wanting J'lari to see him.

It had all been over too quickly—her buoyant mood, the perfect
meal, the perfume. All too soon the wife he'd left behind had re-
emerged. He loved her for her valiant effort, but inwardly he cursed
her and her wounded heart. It wasn't grief anymore. It was more
like dementia, and Prakna knew his wife could never be the woman
he'd married.

"Don't talk, love," he said. "It's been a long day for us both. You just
sleep. I'll watch over you. We'll talk more in the morning, if you like.
I'll take you for a walk."

J'lari opened her eyes, and in a moment of clarity smiled at him.
"I'm sorry," she offered. "Truly. I'm not a woman fit for you."

"You have always been more than enough woman for me," said
Prakna. "It's what makes me return to you always. You draw me
from across the world, J'lari."

His wife laughed lightly. "You always do come back. Sometimes I
wonder why."

"Don't wonder," he said gently. He took the risk of touching her
hand. "I'll always come back for you."

"You needn't go anymore. The Jackal can do the work for you." Her
tone was earnest and imploring. "Let the young men do the fighting
now, husband. Let's just stay together. Would that be so
impossible?"

Prakna couldn't find his voice. "J'lari . . ."

"The Jackal has enough hate for all of us," she reminded him. "You
told me so yourself. He doesn't need you, Prakna. Not like I do."

"The memory of our sons needs me," said Prakna. "I can't let a
stranger avenge them. That's my duty. And my honor."

J'lari nodded. It was an impossible argument and she knew it. "I
love you," she said simply. "You're all that I have."

Prakna grimaced. It was true for both of them. J'lari truly was his
better half. The other half was rigid and dead, animated only by
revenge. He didn't want to leave her, not precisely. He wanted to
return to Liss with Naren heads on his belt, and spend the rest of
his life with her, satisfied that he had done his best. Liss called him
a hero, but in his mind there was still much to prove. His sons
demanded action.

"Close your eyes," he bade his wife. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Will you stay with me?" asked J'lari.

"If you like."

J'lari nodded, then closed her eyes. Prakna sat down beside her
on the bed, watching her in the moonlight. Her breath was short at
first, but soon it steadied and grew placid, and the muscles in her
face relaxed, making her beautiful again. In a few short minutes
she was asleep, gone into some troubled dream-land. Prakna
slowly lifted himself from the bed. She stirred at his movements
but did not awaken, so he padded to the door and opened it. On
the table in their living area was the dahlia he had brought her. He
picked it up, admired it for a moment, then returned silently to the
bedchamber. J'lari's head was turned away from him. He stared at
her, then put the fragrant gift beside her on the pillow. When he
did, the familiar chant of the cenotaph entered his mind. It was a
bleak chant, a prayer that was always spoken whenever placing
offerings at the monument. Somehow it seemed fitting when he
looked at his wife.

"Flowers for the dead," he whispered, then turned and left the
room.
TWENTY-FIVE
The Intimidator

L ike her mother and father, Shani Vantran was an independent
thinker. She didn't eat when Simon gave her food, she didn't sleep
when it got dark. The constant rocking of the ship didn't make her
sick, but she vomited whenever Simon tried to feed her. Not only
did she have Richius' round eyes, she shared his moody
temperament as well. She was, in Simon's opinion, a demonic one-
year-old, and more of a handful than he had ever imagined.

Since leaving Falindar, Shani had shared Simon's cramped cabin,
and the two had become less than genial to each other. Simon had
done his best to make the child happy, but she was homesick and
in shock over the loss of her parents, and the Naren warship
frightened her and made her irritable. She ate sparingly, pushing
most of her food onto the floor, and drank only enough to keep her
little body from withering. Her color was good but her mood was
irascible, and Simon knew she resented him. In that strange way
children have of reading minds, she seemed to know Simon's
crimes, and held him accountable.

Simon himself was no less choleric. The guilt that he wanted to
leave behind in Lucel-Lor had followed him across the sea,
sometimes waking him at night, and always suppressing his
appetite. He ate even less than Shani did, and had spent a good
deal of the voyage with his head in a bucket or hanging over the
rails above deck. Rough seas had turned his legs to water and
made his bowels diarrhetic. After two weeks at sea, he no longer
dreamed of women or fresh food. Now his dreams were
nightmares, populated with sea monsters and Biagio's golden
face, taunting him. He dreamed of solid land that melted into
quicksand and great gales that dragged the Intimidator beneath the
waves, and he often awoke in his own sweat, stinking of the sea.

Three days ago, they had passed Liss, swinging wide around the
Hundred Isles so that none of the schooners would sight them.
They were in deep, dangerous waters, far from land and
approaching the Cape of Casarhoon. Another week, maybe more,
and they would be in Crote. Biagio would have his prize. And
Simon would have Eris, a thought that gave him little solace. He
thought of Eris often during the long hours of the journey, but they
were always fractured memories, tainted by the evil thing he was
doing.

Tonight, like every night, Simon sat in his chamber, preparing a
bowl of food for Shani. The single porthole in his chamber let in a
ribbon of light, faltering as the sun dipped beneath the waves. It
was dark and cramped, with only a little candle burning in a dish for
illumination. Shani sat on the floor, banging away with a toy he had
given her—a curious-looking ship's ornament he had snapped off
the deck when no one was looking. This one was the carved figure
of a mermaid. Once the wooden toy had embellished the
forecastle, but not anymore. Now it helped to preoccupy the little
girl, who chewed on the mermaid's finned tail and rolled it across
the floor in an effort to ease her boredom. Simon watched Shani
bang the toy against the floor as he mixed her a porridge of bread
and raisins, sweetened with a little sugar. Sugar was the only thing
he could get her to eat, but they were nearing the end of their
voyage and were running low on everything, so this time he
sprinkled only a pinch into the mush and hoped she wouldn't
notice. He stuck his finger into the bowl to test the porridge,
wincing at its awfulness. If Shani were only a little older, he would
have tried more solid food on her. But she still had a one-year-old's
teeth, so the ship's dried meats and bread were out of the
question. Everything she ate needed to be soaked in fresh water,
all but the milk, and even that made her turn her nose up.

"You're a spoiled little brat," he said to her with a smile. She looked
up at him and scowled. "Yes," he laughed. "You know you are,
don't you?"

She had a beautiful face, like her mother, and fine, fawn hair that
fell loosely over her eyes. A brilliant smile that rarely appeared
made her look like an angel. No wonder she had been the light of
her parents' life. Simon looked back into the bowl of porridge,
stirring it absently. With luck, she would eat some of it and let him
get some rest tonight. He himself would skip dinner. It hardly
mattered, since everything he ate eventually came sluicing back
out. He had lost weight again, dropping all the pounds he had
gained in Falindar. He missed the good cooking of the Triin and
the citadel's abundance. He missed fresh fruit and spring water
and having a room that didn't sway.

"Tell you what, Shani," Simon said as he worked. "You don't keep
me up all night crying, and I'll see what I can do about getting you
another toy. I think N'Dek has another mermaid somewhere on this
ship. What do you say?"

Shani gave him a blank expression.

"Mmm, looks good, huh?" he asked. He lifted the spoon and let a
ribbon of mush dribble back into the bowl. "Simon loves this. Good
stuff."

More awkward silence from the child. Simon brought her food over
to her, sitting down with her on the cold floor. He pretended to taste
the bread porridge.

"Oh, that's good," he said brightly. "You want some?"

As usual, Shani took a sniff at the spoon and made a disgusted
face. Her hand came up and pushed the spoon away, spilling
some of the mush onto Simon's lap. Simon grimaced, shaking his
head. The little girl was exasperating. How the hell did Dyana deal
with her?

"It's all we've got, girl," he told her. "If you don't eat you'll just go
hungry."

Shani looked at him blankly.

"You don't care? All right, but don't come crying to me when you're
stomach is empty. It's still a good distance to Crote, and days
before either of us gets anything decent to eat."

The statement only depressed Simon more. Days from solid land
and edible food. N'Dek and his crew were bottomless pits, able to
scoff down any scraps they could get their hands on, but Simon
had lived too long in Crote. He was used to Biagio's kitchens and
abundant pantries. Surrendering, he dropped the spoon into the
bowl and shoved the porridge aside, staring at Shani. Already she
had returned her attention to her mermaid, oblivious to him. At first
she had clung to him for protection, but she had quickly learned
that no one else on board would hurt her, and so she risked
alienating her only friend.

"I'm not happy about this, you know," he whispered. "I wouldn't be
doing this if I had a choice."

She wasn't listening. Suddenly angry, Simon snatched her toy
away. The action brought a chorus of cries from the girl, who
grasped awkwardly for the mermaid while Simon held it just out of
reach.

"No, listen to me," he scolded. "Listen or I won't give it back. I'm
trying to tell you something, damn it." More insistent cries. Simon
shook his head, taunting her, dangling her toy in front of her.

"Be good, or I won't let you have it."

Shani stopped grabbing for it, frowned at Simon, then turned her
back on him. Simon laughed in spite of himself.

"All right," he chuckled. "Here, I give up." He slid the wooden
mermaid across the floor to her. Greedily she snatched it up, and
in return for his gesture gave him her attention.

"Oh, so you'll listen to me now, huh? That's fine. Thanks so much."

He clasped his hands onto his lap and leaned back, trying to get
comfortable. Shani watched him curiously, as if waiting for a
bedtime story.

"Look, girl, I just want you to believe me. I'm a bad man, I admit
that. But I wouldn't be doing this if I thought I had a choice. I don't.
If I don't bring you to Biagio, he'll kill my woman, and I can't allow
that. Can you understand what I'm saying? It's just the way life is. I
don't know or care about you, but I care about Eris, so you lose.
Right?"

Shani stared at him.

"Your father made a tough choice too, you know. Just like me. He
could have stayed with you and your mother, but there was
something eating him alive, something he couldn't ignore. It's like
that for me, too. I love Eris. And if anything happened to her, I'd . .
."

Simon stopped himself. He was thinking of Dyana, and the loss he
had inflicted on her.

"Well, it doesn't matter," he said softly. He reached out for Shani's
soft hair, loving the feel of it between his fingers. As occasionally
happened, Shani leaned into him, wanting more. Simon smiled
sadly at her.

"What a bastard I am," he whispered.

He was no better than Biagio now. Or Bovadin. Even the Mind
Bender with his knives and filthy mind was his twin. What were they
but evil, demanding men? What was he but their shadows? In
Crote, in his early days, he had been a man of high ideals. He had
been very young, and he had thought the world a place he could
bend to his will. But it wasn't.

"I hope you get through this," Simon said. "If you survive it, and I
don't think you will, I hope you go back to your parents and have a
long, safe life in Lucel-Lor. Stay away from Nar, girl. It will only
devour you."

The little wooden mermaid dropped out of Shani's hand as she
crawled over to him. The cabin was frightfully cold, too cold for a
child, so Simon wrapped his arms around her and held her close,
cooing in her ear. She put her head against him, resting in his
warmth, breathing slowly.

"Remember my promise?" he asked her. "If I can help you, I will.
I'll do whatever I can for you."

It wouldn't be enough, though. Simon closed his eyes, hating
himself. His promise was a lie. He had ruined Shani's chances the
moment he'd stolen her. Once they got to Crote, there would be no
escape.

Simon leaned back with the child in his arms, feeling the pinch of
his belted dagger against his ribs. He always wore the dagger, and
the minor pain made him think of it now. It might be better for them
both if he simply slit their throats. Outside, the sun had vanished.
The dark light through the porthole bathed the little chamber in
shadows. Reaching into his belt, he pulled out his shiny dagger,
careful not to let the girl see it. The sight of the blade made him
thoughtful. Committing suicide was for idealistic men. It required a
certain self-honesty.

Simon just wasn't the type.

Captain N'Dek sat across the table from Simon, staring at the
cards with unnecessary scrutiny. He wore a grave and easily
readable expression, the one he always used when he tried to
cover up a winning hand. Simon looked away, feigning
indifference. N'Dek was a very bad card player who thought he was
good. Simon wasn't very good either, but his talent for reading
body language gave him a distinct advantage over the pompous
captain, and he had let N'Dek win a few hands, just to put the man
at ease. The light of the single candle lit their faces over the cards,
giving them both a ghostly pall. Little Shani slept in Simon's bunk,
oblivious to the gaming being quietly conducted just feet away.

As predicted, Captain N'Dek had jumped at the chance to play
cards with Simon. It was, Simon recalled, one of N'Dek's favorite
pastimes, and because he was a captain of the Black Fleet he
never fraternized with his crew, giving him little chance to exercise
his passion for the game. Simon reached for his mug of flat ale. He
took a gingerly sip, not wanting to upset his stomach, and stared at
N'Dek over the rim. After three mugs, N'Dek was slowing down. His
eyelids drooped and the ubiquitous tightness around his jaw had
slackened some. Simon took another measured sip.

"The little brat's sleeping sound enough," N'Dek observed, not
taking his eyes from his cards. "You complain too much, Darquis.
She's no trouble at all."

"Except at mealtimes and my bedtime," countered Simon. Both
men kept their voices low, not wanting to disturb the sleeping child.
Simon stole a glance at Shani, amazed that she slept. Perhaps she
had read his mind again. "Thank God we'll be in Crote soon," he
said. "I can't bear another week with this whelp."

"You'll have to," said N'Dek. "We're at least a week away, and seas
are rough. They're cutting down our speed."

"As long as you get me home in one piece, N'Dek."

"I'd better. And your little darling there, or Biagio will slit me open
like a roast pig." The captain pulled one of his cards from his hand
and discarded it, trading it for another. His face brightened almost
imperceptibly, a signal he quickly buried in a scowl. "We're low on
everything now. Hopefully we'll make Crote before we run out of
fresh water."

"If you hadn't been so afraid of the Lissens, we'd have been there
by now," goaded Simon.

The insult was enough to make N'Dek look up from his cards. "For
a smart fellow you're remarkably stupid, Darquis. I had to
maneuver around Liss. If I hadn't, we'd be served up as the main
course in a Lissen feeding frenzy. That's what they do to prisoners,
you know. Feed them to sharks."

"That's nonsense," scoffed Simon. "I never heard that."

"You're not in the navy. I know these things because I fought
against those devils. They're demons, the whole damn bunch of
them. But someday I'm going back there. Nicabar, too. We've
talked about it."

"Oh?" asked Simon half-heartedly. He was studying his own cards,
realizing what a poor hand he'd dealt himself. "What do you intend
to do? Talk them to death?"

"I intend to finish what we started," replied N'Dek. "Those Lissen
bastards, thinking they can attack Nar. They think the Black Fleet is
finished? God damn them, we'll show them who's finished!"

"Shhh!" scolded Simon. "Keep your voice down. You'll wake her."

N'Dek shrank back a bit. "All right. All I'm saying is that we're not
done with Liss, that's all. When Biagio takes control of Nar, he'll
have to reward the men that helped him. And I already know what
Nicabar will ask for."

"Really? What?"

"Liss, you idiot. Haven't you been listening? That's why Nicabar is
helping your master. He wants a chance at Liss again, and that
bastard Prakna." N'Dek lowered his cards. "Ten bloody years he
went after that devil. And all for nothing. They never even battled
each other, not once. Can you believe it? Ah, but that's all going to
change. And I'm going to be there for it."

"That's nice," said Simon dryly. "A man should have dreams."

"It's not just my dream, Darquis. It's Nicabar's and everyone else's
in the fleet. It should be your dream, too."

"Mine?" Simon laughed. "What do I care if Liss stands or falls? It's
not my problem, N'Dek."

"See? That's what's wrong with you, Roshann. Nothing is your
problem. You're a man without a conscience. You don't care about
anything but yourself. If you did, you'd see the glory in going back
to Liss."

Simon looked at N'Dek over his cards, barely smiling. "Another
card?"

"One more," said N'Dek. This time he didn't discard any of his
hand, but slipped the card Simon dealt him into the pack. Simon
took a card also. His own hand was very bad, and the card he drew
did nothing to improve it. N'Dek would certainly win this round.

"I don't bother getting involved in things that don't concern me,
N'Dek," said Simon. "If you want to go and fight in Liss, that's your
business. I won't stop you. But why should I care? Forgive me,
great Captain, but I don't see the glory in it."

"What about the Renaissance? Don't you see the glory in that?"

Simon had to think hard about that one. There once was a time
when he'd shared Biagio's vision of the future, but that was gone,
too. "I think the Black Renaissance is unstoppable, because it has
Biagio behind it. That's all that matters. What I think of it personally
makes no difference. It's coming back to Nar. Herrith can't stop it,
and neither can his God."

"Damn right," rumbled N'Dek. There was a bright glint in his eyes
that told Simon he knew he'd won. The captain leaned back in his
chair. "Last card," he said. "Time to see what you've got, spy."

"You know, you're right," Simon remarked. "I don't really care about
much, N'Dek. It's a shame. Maybe someday I can be more like
you."

"I doubt it. Come on, show me your cards."

Simon always held his cards in one hand, fanning them in his
fingers. His other hand had spent the evening at his side,
occasionally lifting the mug to his mouth, but almost always out of
sight. Now it very slowly drifted to his belt and pulled out his silver
dagger.

"You know, I don't think it really matters what a man does for his
whole life. But in the end, when it's all over, he has to have done
the right thing. I mean, if I spend the rest of my life killing and
murdering, I think I can get away with it all, just as long as I do
something good at the end. Just once, you know?"

N'Dek found the notion deliciously funny. "Oh, yes," he laughed. "If
you're wrong about God you'll recant on your deathbed?"

"Something like that," said Simon. He watched N'Dek carefully, the
fingers of his right hand closing around the dagger as his left
fanned the cards out on the table. "Here's what I've got," he said.
"How did I do?"

The captain's smile broadened when he saw Simon's cards.
"You're the loser, Darquis," he said gleefully. "Again."

N'Dek moved to put his cards on the table. Time slowed down as
Simon's hand shot out to seize N'Dek's, holding it firmly on the
table. Simon's right hand flashed and brought the dagger up and
down, slamming it through N'Dek's palm and pinning it to the
tabletop. The captain screamed, jumping from his chair. Simon
held the dagger fast and firm. Blood spurted from N'Dek's hand.
Immobilized, he stared at Simon in horror. With his free hand
Simon reached across the table and grabbed hold of the seaman's
lapel.

"Quiet!" he growled. "Shut up or I'll cut your bloody throat!"

N'Dek was bawling like a baby, shrieking in pain as he tried to pull
his hand free. But the dagger kept him fastened to the table.
Quickly the cards soaked with blood. Shani jolted up in her bunk,
awakened by the captain's screams. Simon put his hand over
N'Dek's mouth.

"I'm not kidding, N'Dek," he hissed. "Shut your big mouth or I'll slit
you open from ear to ear. Do you understand me?"

N'Dek could hardly respond. He closed his eyes against the pain
and nodded vigorously.

"Good boy," crooned Simon. "We're all friends here. And you
know what you're going to do for me, friend? You're going to turn
this tub around. We're heading back to Liss."

A muffled protest burst from N'Dek's covered mouth. He pulled
away from Simon and spat at him.

"Liss! Why?"

Simon ground the dagger deeper to make the man obey. N'Dek
howled in pain, begging Simon to stop. He was near tears, crying
for mercy.

"Are you going to listen to me, you ugly squid?" Simon asked.

"Why Liss?" N'Dek stammered. With his good hand over his
punctured one, he tried to stop the sluicing blood. "What for?"

Thinking fast, Simon said the only thing that came to him. "Because
that's what Biagio wants," he lied. "I'm taking the girl there."

"What the hell for?"

Another jerk of the dagger made N'Dek scream. "No questions!"
Simon commanded. "I am Roshann. And you will obey me, N'Dek.
You and all your crew. Or so help me God, when we get back to
Crote, Biagio will indeed cut you open."

"Darquis, I can't take the ship to Liss! Biagio must be mad. I—"

Simon's hand shot out again and covered the captain's mouth. "I'm
only going to tell you this once more, N'Dek. This ship is now under
the command of the Roshann, by my authority. You will do exactly
as I say. Because if you don't, this tub of yours is going to take you
back to Crote for your execution. Now, I'll need you to give the
order. We're going to turn the ship around. We're heading back to
Liss. Tonight!"

Too frightened and in too much pain to argue, N'Dek nodded. "All
right," he groaned. "All right, you crazy bastard. I'll do it."

Simon smiled. "That would be best, friend. For all your sakes. And
I'm afraid I can't let you leave this cabin, either."

In another lightning move, Simon pulled the dagger from the table
and put it to N'Dek's throat. The table crashed aside as Simon
grabbed hold of N'Dek's hair, dragging him to the ground. With
N'Dek on his stomach, the blade to his neck, Simon shoved his
knee forcefully into the captain's spine. N'Dek wailed in agony.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Making sure you don't go anywhere, Captain N'Dek. I'll need to
keep an eye on you."

There were ropes beneath the table where Simon had hidden
them. He worked quickly, binding N'Dek's bloodied hands behind
his back. The captain whimpered and fought, but Simon was too
strong for him, and in a moment N'Dek was helpless, trussed up
like a prize turkey. He lay on the cabin floor, unable to rise, his hand
oozing blood, and stared up hatefully at his captor.

"Biagio will pay for this!" he railed. "When Nicabar finds out about
this, you'll all pay!"

"Oh, now don't be like that," said Simon. "I need your help, N'Dek.
We're all one big happy family, right? And this family is going to do
exactly what I say, because I'm the Roshann. And we all know what
that means, don't we?"

N'Dek looked away defiantly.

"Don't we?" Simon roared, kicking N'Dek in the ribs. The captain
hacked in pain, gasping for air. Simon knelt down beside him and
put his lips against N'Dek's ear. "I know you understand me,
Captain. I know you'll do exactly what I say. And if any of your crew
try to mutiny or take this ship away from Liss, I'll cut you into tiny
pieces."

N'Dek let out a little moan. Across the cabin, Shani was staring at
them. Sure that N'Dek couldn't see him, Simon gave the child an
encouraging smile.

Don't worry, girl, he thought boldly, hoping Shani would understand
him. You'll see your father soon enough.
TWENTY-SIX
Island of Madness

D yana awoke in perfect darkness.

It was as if she hadn't opened her eyes at all, as if the sun had
disappeared from the earth. She didn't stir or bother to roll over.
She didn't draw the useless blanket closer to her body. The smell
of rotting grain and sour spices assailed her, but she was used to it
now and didn't gag. She merely lay there in the blackness, trying to
focus her mind.

Time had lost all meaning to her. She might have been asleep for
days or merely minutes. Her ears rang with the drone of the ocean
just outside the wall of her chamber, a filthy storage hold in the
bowels of the Naren warship. Other than the constant darkness, the
rapping of the sea against the hull was her only companion, save
for the spiders and rats that crawled across her as she slept.
Human contact was sparse and unwelcome, and the food slid
under her nose, when it was given at all, was hopelessly wretched.
So Dyana didn't eat. In time, perhaps another week, she might be
dead from lack of food. But it wasn't food she craved. It was light.

Since leaving Falindar, so long ago now she could scarcely recall,
she had only seen light briefly, whenever her captors brought her
food or decided to empty her chamber bucket. Or worse, when
they came to taunt her. The big one, called Donhedris, loved to run
his hands over her. It hadn't gone any further than that yet, but
Dyana knew it was only a matter of time. She had heard the stories
of seamen, how they hungered for months without women. The
dread of rape was only one more horror she endured. Her clothes
were in tatters now, and her hair hung in stringy ropes from her
head. The atrocious smell of the cargo hold had permeated her
skin, making it reek, and her forearms bore the scars of rat bites.
The curious creatures always tested her while she slept, nipping at
her flesh until she awoke to bat them away. As with Donhedris,
Dyana knew she would eventually lose against the rats, too.

The ship Revenge had been at sea for many days. Of that, Dyana
was sure. Of other things, her mind was vacant. The cargo hold
was freezing, and her coat and thin blanket barely beat back the
frost. Spilled grain rubbed against her, chaffing her skin, and the
spiders dwelling in the rafters made midnight excursions on their
silken ropes, dropping down to bite her face and limbs.

Is it late? she wondered. It might have been noon or midnight. The
darkness was always the same. And her meals, such as they were,
came to her erratically, giving her no chance to gauge the passage
of time. So Dyana dreamed of small things, trying to occupy
herself with memories of better days, and fought to hold her mind
together. She recalled with clarity the stories Lucyler had told her
of his imprisonment in Falindar, when her first husband Tharn had
locked him in the catacombs to teach him what torture was like. It
had all been a lesson but Lucyler hadn't known it at the time, and
so he had endured the bleak place with only his wits to keep him
sane.

Wits, Dyana reminded herself. You still have those. Hold on to
them.

Dyana was determined not to let insanity rule her. She needed to
be strong for Shani, to face Biagio on his island and somehow
wrest her daughter from him. For that she would need all her wits.
Biagio was a clever devil. A peerless tactician, Richius had
claimed. If she were going to match intellects with him, she
needed to be whole. She grabbed hold of her blanket, bunching it
up in her fists, and concentrated on Richius' face. Amazingly, it was
starting to fade in her memory. So had Shani's, and that frightened
her.

Think, Dyana commanded herself. Do not let it confuse you. Think
of a way out.

She was on a ship bound for Crote. Even if she managed to
escape her prison, there was nothing but the open sea. And if she
tried to escape they might punish her. Donhedris was the
lecherous one, but Malthrak, the little dark one, was more cruel.
Sometimes when he brought her food he would smile sardonically,
loving her fear. That's what the Roshann were, after all. Richius had
been right. They were all dogs. Like Simon. When she found him,
she would rip his heart out.

The thumping of footfalls echoed outside her room.

Dyana sat up, dreading the intrusion. She heard the lock on the
cargo hold jingle and the rattling of chains. Instinctively she
shielded her eyes from the painful light she knew would come. The
door opened with a squeal. Two silhouettes blocked a flood of
stabbing sunlight. Dyana winced and looked away, already
recognizing the pair. As always, Malthrak stepped into the room
first, Donhedris on his heels.

"Ah, what a lovely stench," snickered Malthrak. He had left the door
open and stood in its light, looming over Dyana. "Girl? Look at me,
girl. I'm talking to you."

Dyana tried to look through her fingers, her eyes watering with the
light. She had thought it nighttime, but the sunlight through the
portholes told her it was morning. Or afternoon, maybe. She really
didn't know. Malthrak was smiling at her, his sharp teeth
glimmering. Donhedris had his mouth open as he breathed. Dyana
sneered at them.

"What do you want now?" she spat.

"Get up," snapped Malthrak. "It's time to go."

"Go? Go where?"

"You'll see."

Malthrak stepped aside and let Donhedris enter the room. Dyana
scooted away, backing against the wall, but Donhedris' arms
encircled her, scooping her from the floor. A rush of dizziness
sloshed over her brain, threatening to black her out. She was too
weak to fight him, but she dug her nails into his forearms anyway,
raking through the exposed skin. Donhedris grunted with
annoyance and gave her a shake. The bone-breaking grip knocked
the wind from her.

"Where are you taking me?" she demanded. "Tell me, you
bastards!"

"God, what a mouth on this one," Malthrak remarked. He turned his
back and left the cargo hold, gesturing for Donhedris to follow.
Donhedris tossed Dyana over his shoulder and followed his
comrade out of the hold. Orange light stung Dyana's eyes,
releasing a flood of tears. She wiped at them furiously, trying to
see where they were taking her. She heard Malthrak's quick feet
climb a stairway, then felt Donhedris duck under a beam. He put
his meaty hand onto her head and pushed it down, keeping her
skull from collision.

Up they went, first one level, then another. Dyana heard voices and
the clear sound of the sea. The air was fresh and smelled of salt.
She could almost see now, but just barely. Donhedris' broad back
was her first clear sight. His arms encircled her waist like a python,
pushing out the air. One more level up, and a cold rush of wind
ripped through her clothes. Sunlight poured down on her, warm
and painful.

"Put her down," she heard Malthrak order.

Donhedris stooped and loosened his grip. Dyana tumbled onto the
deck. She sat there shaking her head, squinting. There were men
around her, sailors like she'd seen when they'd brought her aboard.
Their dark outlines crowded and loomed over her. Unsteadily, she
rose to her knees, then to her feet, wobbling with the movement of
the ship. Malthrak grabbed a tuft of her hair and pulled her head
back.

"Look," he ordered.

He pointed over the rail. As Dyana's eyes adjusted to the sun, she
saw a growing landmass in the distance, an island floating in a vast
blue sea. Around the island she saw ships, great black vessels
with towering masts full of satiny sails.

"Crote," Malthrak declared. "Your new home."

Count Renato Biagio sat in his parlor, brooding over a snifter of
brandy. Bright sunlight from a wall of windows flooded the room,
and he could see the Revenge anchored on the horizon, just
beyond his rose garden. A roaring fire blazed in the hearth,
throwing off its scalding heat, and the leather of his thronelike chair
groaned when he shifted, unable to get comfortable. Matters of
great weight occupied his mind. The Revenge had returned too
soon. And the Intimidator hadn't shown up at all. Already his
servants were telling him that Simon wasn't onboard the incoming
vessel. Biagio swirled the brandy in his glass, sniffing at it absently.
He hadn't even tasted it yet, so angry was he over the turn of
events. And something more than anger, something the Count of
Crote hated to admit.

Worry.

Simon was a very poor sailor, but N'Dek was a master seaman.
There was little chance they had blown off course or wrecked
themselves, but either was always a possibility, especially on so
long a voyage. That the Revenge should return so soon was
unthinkable. Where the hell was Simon? Biagio closed his eyes,
swallowing his nervousness. It wouldn't do for Malthrak and
Donhedris to see him fret.

"They'd better have an explanation," said Savros. The Mind Bender
had been waiting in the parlor with Biagio, eager to hear the news
from the Roshann agents. Biagio had let him stay. The sight of
Savros always had a peculiar effect on people, and Biagio wanted
his agents afraid. Savros paced around the room, his blue eyes
blazing with curiosity, his spidery arms crossed over his chest. He
was precariously thin, and the shadow he threw on the floor was
reedy. Biagio watched him stride the floor, noting the
soundlessness of his footfalls.

"Don't speak," the count warned. "I'll do the talking when they get
here."

"Renato, if they don't have the child—"

Biagio raised a silencing hand. The gesture quieted Savros at
once. At times like this, most people knew better than to task the
count. But Savros was like a parakeet, always chirping.
Admonished, the torturer went to the writing desk and poured
himself another brandy. He held the flask out for Biagio, who
silently declined. Biagio wasn't in the mood for drink. The only thing
he wanted was answers.

Before long, the mahogany door of the parlor rang with a cautious
knocking. Savros glared questioningly at Biagio, who knew he
needn't reply. The door swung slowly open, and Malthrak of Isgar
stuck his head inside. Behind him was his brother, the giant
Donhedris. Malthrak chanced a step into the parlor.

"My Master?" he said. "May we come in?"

"Of course," replied the count flatly. "I've been waiting."

"We've both been waiting," adding Savros with a smile. As
predicted, the sight of the Mind Bender drained the color from
Malthrak's face. The Roshann agents entered the room, closed the
door behind them, and fell to their knees in homage.

"Forgive this intrusion, Master," said Malthrak. "But we have news
for you. A gift."

Biagio's mood brightened. "A gift? You've brought the child, then?"

"No, sir, not the child," stuttered Malthrak. "Simon Darquis has the
child."

"Look at me, Malthrak."

Malthrak dreadfully raised his eyes to Biagio. "My lord?"

"Simon Darquis isn't here," seethed the count. "The Intimidator
never arrived. Why is this, my friend?"

"Honestly, I don't know, Master." The smaller man licked his lips
nervously. "I saw Darquis when he left Lucel-Lor. They set sail a
day before us." He shrugged apologetically. "I really don't know
where he is."

"Donhedris?" pressed Biagio. "Is this so?"

"It is so, Master," agreed Donhedris. Unlike his brother, he kept his
head bowed while he spoke. "The Intimidator left the day before
us. I remember perfectly. Simon Darquis went on board. He had
the Vantran child with him."

Count Biagio closed his eyes, letting a small, annoyed sigh dribble
from his lips. Malthrak and his brother weren't liars. They had been
loyal for years and were very skilled; everything they had ever told
the count had been the truth, or at least the truth as they
understood it. Biagio reasoned they had no reason to lie now,
either, and that meant Simon had vanished.

"Explain this to me," said Biagio. "Where could the Intimidator be?"

"Honestly, my lord, I don't know," said Malthrak. "Darquis warned
us of Lissen schooners in the area. He told us he had seen them.
Perhaps the Lissens found them."

"Lissens?" boiled Biagio. "In Lucel-Lor? Why?"

Malthrak blanched. "I don't know."

"You know very little, Malthrak," said Biagio, his tone rising
dangerously. "I want some answers, not some feeble gibberish.
Speculate for me. Did you see any Lissens?"

"No, Master. None."

"And the weather? What was that like?"

"Nothing dangerous," said Malthrak. "Certainly not enough to take
the Intimidator off course. She should have been here by now, my
lord."

Biagio leaned forward in his chair. "That much I know already. Get
up, both of you."

Malthrak and his brother stood. Savros walked over to stand
beside Biagio's chair. The Mind Bender cocked his head at the
pair, as if sizing them up for something unpleasant.

"My last question," Biagio said calmly. "Why have you returned?"

"My lord, we have special news," said Malthrak excitedly. He tried
to smile but it came out askance. "And we've brought you
something. A gift, you might say."

"Biagio is listening," said Savros. "Go on."

Malthrak came a little closer. "Master, Richius Vantran is no longer
in Falindar. He has left Lucel-Lor and gone to Liss."

"What?" Biagio erupted, springing from his chair. "How do you
know this?"

"His wife," Malthrak explained quickly. "We have her. We caught
her, trying to find Darquis. We brought her back with us."

The news made Biagio drop back into his chair. He looked at
Savros for support, but the Mind Bender was equally astounded.
Malthrak nodded, pleased with himself.

"It's true, my lord. We captured the woman at the tower, where we
rendezvoused with Darquis. Somehow she'd guessed he had
gone there. She came looking for him, but he was already gone."

"So you kidnapped her instead?" asked Biagio. "Was she alone?"

"She was," answered Donhedris. "We are certain of that, Master."

"This is amazing," Biagio whispered, more to himself than any of
his henchmen. He stroked his chin contemplatively, riffling through
all the permutations. Simon was gone, but now he had the woman.
That was almost as good as having the child, wasn't it? More
pressing, though, was Vantran's journey to Liss. That had never
been part of the plan. If the Lissens had turned to Vantran for help,
they might indeed be planning their attack.

"This woman," Biagio said softly. "Tell me about her. She is well?"

"Well enough," said Malthrak. "She hasn't eaten very much, and the
voyage has sickened her. But she is well enough to talk, yes."

"Has she told you anything?" asked Biagio. "Why has Vantran gone
to Liss?"

Malthrak shook his head. "She wouldn't say, my lord. And I thought
it best not to try and make her tell us. I thought you should question
her yourself."

Savros clasped his hands together. "Oh, smart fellows," he said.
"That was very wise of you."

"So you know nothing more?" Biagio asked.

"No, Master. But the woman can surely tell you more. And since
you don't have the child, now you can use her against Vantran." He
looked down at his shoes, dejected. "We thought you'd be
pleased."

Biagio graced them with a sunny smile. "Dear Malthrak, I am
pleased. With you, too, Donhedris. You've both done very well. But
now I want to see this woman. Is she ashore?"

"Yes, Master. She's ashore, and not too happy about it."

"Good," Biagio declared. "Bring her to me."

"Now, my lord?"

"Yes," said Biagio. "Right now."

The two brothers bowed and left the room, leaving the door slightly
open. When they had departed, Biagio looked at Savros and saw
the most grotesque hunger in his eyes, something like lust but far
less normal. It was the same aura executioners showed, before
they lowered the axe or pulled the lever. The Mind Bender happily
knitted his thin fingers together.

"I've heard Vantran's wife is very beautiful," he said. "Oh, this is
going to be wonderful."

"Easy, my friend," Biagio cautioned.

Savros wasn't listening. "Renato, I can make her talk. I'll get her to
tell you everything about Vantran's trip to Liss. Please, let me.
Please . . ."

"Patience, Savros. Let's see what the woman is willing to tell us,
first."

"Renato . . ."

Another gesture from Biagio closed the torturer's mouth. Biagio
hated hearing him whine. Sometimes he regretted bringing Savros
with him to Crote. There just wasn't enough work for him here. He
was growing agitated, less stable by the day. And the thought of
giving him the Jackal's wife didn't inspire Biagio with confidence.
Savros might bring her down into the dungeon and come up with
nothing more than a flayed skin. And her husk wouldn't make a very
useful bargaining chip.

A moment later, Biagio heard the ruckus of approaching feet
outside his parlor. Donhedris' heavy boots pushed the door open
and he barreled inside, dumping a woman onto the carpeted floor.
Her hands were tied behind her back, but still she writhed violently
to her feet. When she noticed Biagio, she made to lunge for him,
but Donhedris' hand grabbed a fistful of her white hair and pulled
her backward.

"Let me go!" she growled, kicking his tree-trunk shins. Donhedris
ignored the assaults as if they were insect bites. The woman
turned her wild eyes on the count and hissed, "Biagio!"

Count Renato Biagio smirked, amused at the trinket given him. She
was very beautiful, even covered in her own filth. He could imagine
her washed and perfumed and sharing his bed. The mere sight of
the pretty woman made Savros weak in the knees. The Mind
Bender started toward her then stopped himself, barely able to
keep his desires chained. Malthrak entered the room with a smile
on his face.

"Dyana Vantran," he said theatrically. "For you, Master."

Dyana kicked and cursed, spitting like a wildcat. Donhedris kept
hold of her, jerking her head back painfully. And Biagio watched,
enthralled by her fire and beauty. This was the creature Vantran
had abandoned Nar for, the one that had worked her magic on him
and made him murder Arkus by proxy.

"Where is she?" Dyana Vantran railed. "Where is my baby?"

Incredibly, she broke free of Donhedris and rushed at Biagio. "Tell
me!" she screamed.

Donhedris was on her again in a second, dragging her away and
wrapping stout arms around her. She was hysterical, like some
insane Naren beggar. Biagio hardly flexed a face muscle.

"Dyana Vantran," he said softly. "You are more and less than I
expected. Welcome to Crote, wild child. My home. And yours
now."

The woman's face collapsed. "Let me see her," she pleaded. "Let
me see Shani!"

"Oh, she's beautiful," groaned Savros. "Renato, let me have her."

"Be still," snapped Biagio. He was studying Dyana, examining her
closely, and hated the constant interruptions. Realizing she was
bound securely, he rose from his chair and towered over her,
dropping his shadow across her face. Unable to stop himself, he
reached out a frigid hand and brushed it across her perfect cheek.
Dyana howled at his touch and Biagio shuddered, staggered by
her warmth.

"Let go of her, Donhedris," he ordered.

"Master?"

"Do it."

Reluctantly, Donhedris complied. Dyana Vantran seethed but did
not lunge at the count. Instead she stood there, her eyes silently
pleading.

"Go. All of you," said Biagio. "Leave me with the woman."

"Renato!"

"Master?"

Biagio turned on them with a roar. "Go!" he bellowed. "Now!"

It took a moment for his underlings to understand. Savros was the
last to go. His eyes lingered hungrily on Dyana before he, too,
slipped reluctantly away, shutting the door behind him. Dyana
stood motionless in the center of the room, engulfed in silence and
drowning in Biagio's gaze. The count made no attempt to touch her
again. His face was expressionless. Finally he moved away from
her, settling back into his chair.

"Go to the fire if you're cold," he said.

"Where is Shani?" Dyana demanded. "Lorris and Pris, tell me!"
The next word seemed to choke her. "Please . . ."

How much should he tell her? Biagio wondered. She was
desperate for her child. Obviously she didn't know Simon hadn't
returned. It seemed deliciously cruel to make her wait, but it was
also pointless. Biagio picked up his brandy and considered the
amber liquid.

"Your daughter isn't here, woman," he said simply. "I don't know
where she is."

"Liar!" the woman flared. "You have her!"

"I don't. But I must say, I wish I did. Things haven't worked out
quite the way I intended. You, for instance, shouldn't be here at all."
The count set his glass down again and looked at her. There was
incredulity on her face, and a kind of wretched fear. She believed
him, almost. "It's not a lie, Dyana Vantran," he assured her. "If I had
your child I would tell you so. This is my island. I'm lord and master
here. I have nothing to gain by hiding her from you."

"Oh, God, no," she groaned. Her knees buckled and she crumpled
to the carpet, exhausted and overwhelmed. "Where?" she gasped.
"Where is she?"

"Lost at sea, maybe. The ship that was supposed to bring her here
hasn't arrived yet. It may still come, but that remains to be seen."
Biagio sighed theatrically. "Poor girl. This must be very hard for
you, I know."

"What do you know?" she spat. "Monster! You have taken my
daughter and now she's—"

Unable to finish, Dyana Vantran lowered her head and swallowed
back sobs. The sound of her anguish stoked something primal in
Biagio, a great loss he had hoped buried. He remembered Arkus'
death and the awful vacancy in the aftermath, burying him. To his
great surprise he actually felt sorry for his captive. Supposedly,
losing a child was unimaginably painful. He wondered if it were
anything like losing an emperor. With his long cape dragging on the
floor, he rose from his chair again and went to her, staring down at
her. She was a proud thing, too strong to resort to tears. Already
he respected her.

"Woman, this need not be a horror for you," he said, trying to be
gentle. "You will not be set free. Not ever. But you can make this
easier on yourself."

"Burn in Hell, Biagio," she rumbled.

"I might yet if certain people have their way." The count crossed
his arms over his chest. "Look at me, woman," he demanded. "I
won't speak to a pile of rags."

"Speak or do not speak," said Dyana. "I do not care."

Enraged, Biagio grabbed her up in both fists and lifted her
effortlessly off the ground.

"Yes!" he growled. "I'm stronger than I look, don't you think?" He
gave her a vigorous shake. "You will listen to me, bitch-girl, or you'll
be sorry."

A wad of saliva shot from her mouth, catching him in the eye.
Biagio cursed and threw her back to the floor.

"Do not task me!" he roared. "I have questions for you, woman.
Answer them, or I will give you to the Mind Bender and he will pull
the answers from you!"

A horrified understanding dawned in her Triin eyes. Biagio grinned.

"Yes, you understand me, don't you? Make this easy on yourself,
woman. Answer my questions and I will spare you from Savros.
Otherwise he will sharpen his blades on you."

"What do you want from me?" asked the woman. "I know nothing."

"Oh, that's untrue. You know where your husband is." The count
stooped a little closer. "He's in Liss. Why?"

She laughed resentfully. "Why would I tell you anything? You can
burn, Biagio."

"You hate me very much, don't you?" asked Biagio playfully. "I
understand. But there is the matter of Savros to consider. The
Mind Bender has been very agitated lately, and you've made him
hungry. Savros isn't like most men. Most men see a beautiful
woman like you and want to take her to bed. Savros wants to peel
her skin off."

Dyana Vantran turned an unnatural shade of white. Her mouth
dropped open as if to speak, then abruptly closed again behind
clenched teeth.

"Torture me, then," she said. "I will tell you nothing."

"I wonder," Biagio remarked. He circled her like a buzzard, looking
down at her. "Savros could make you talk, but I don't care to
subject you to that. You're no good to me dead, after all. I had
planned on taking your little girl back to Nar with me when I reclaim
the throne. I wanted to make your husband come there for her,
surrender to me. I'll use you for that now, if you prefer."

The woman looked up desperately. "What?"

"Your daughter might still be on her way to me, Dyana Vantran.
Simon Darquis is only a day late. When he comes, if he comes,
he'll have the child with him. I don't need both of you." Biagio
stopped circling and dropped down in front of her. He took her
hand in his chin and forced their eyes together. "Why is your
husband in Liss?"

Dyana trembled in his grasp. "What are you giving me?" she asked
hopefully. "My daughter?"

"Will you answer me honestly?" he pressed.

"What about my daughter?"

"Tell me what I want to know, and I will spare the child. I'll take you
to Nar with me instead. And I'll save you from my ignoble torturer."
Biagio loosened his grip on her chin and gently brushed her cheek,
fascinated by her. "Really, I give so much and ask so little. I think
I'm being more than fair, don't you?"

She pulled away from his caresses. "Your word," she demanded.
"For what it is worth, swear it to me. You will let my daughter go
free?"

"I will send her back to Lucel-Lor in one piece, or I will send her
back decapitated," said Biagio. "The choice is yours. Tell me what
I want to know."

"That is your word?" Dyana scoffed. "How can I trust that?"

Biagio reached into his cape and withdrew his Roshann dagger,
the only weapon he ever carried. The sight of it widened Dyana's
eyes. With drama he twirled it in the light, making sure she saw it
perfectly. Then, without another word, he circled around behind her
and quickly cut the ropes binding her wrists. When he was done he
stood up, returned the dagger to his belt, and casually walked over
to his chair.

"I'm growing tired of asking you this," he complained as he sat
down. "Why has the Jackal gone to Liss?"

The woman at his feet rubbed her rope-burned wrists,
dumbfounded. For a moment the count thought she might lunge at
him, but he saw no murder in her eyes, only the glint of confusion.

"Say it again," she demanded. "Tell me you will spare my daughter.
Tell me you will send her back to Lucel-Lor safely, and then I will
tell you the truth of what I know. Swear it, Biagio. Or I will tell you
nothing."

"As you have said, so do I swear," promised the count. "If Simon
Darquis brings your daughter here, I will see to it that she's
returned safely to Lucel-Lor. She will not be harmed. Now . . ." He
scowled at her. "Tell me what I want to know."

Her eyes dropped to the carpet in confession.

"Richius has gone to Liss to help them fight against you," she said
softly. "He is to form an army for them. They are going to invade
your island."

To Biagio, the admission was like music. A little smile broke out on
his perfect face. "When?"

"I do not know," she replied. "A Lissen captain came and took him
away, not long before I was captured. His name was Prakna. He
told my husband they were planning an invasion of Crote, but
needed his help to do it." She looked away, sick with herself. "Your
promise, Biagio. Remember it!"

"I have a memory like an iron box, woman. Go on."

"That is all," Dyana said miserably. "That is all I know."

"That can't be all," insisted the count. "How many men? And when?
I need dates."

"I have no dates!" she flared. "I swear, I have told you the truth.
Richius and the Lissens are going to invade Crote. They want to
use it as a base, to strike at Nar City. But I do not know when. And I
do not know how. Soon, I think. That is all."

Soon. Biagio's smile widened. He picked up his glass of brandy
and hid behind it, unable to tame his glee. His Roshann agents had
done very well for him. So had Nicabar and the others. Prakna was
probably very proud of his tight-lipped bunch, but there were
always leaks in any big scheme, and something like an invasion
was impossible to keep secret, especially from the Roshann.
Biagio gave himself a silent congratulations. Everything he had
planned had come true flawlessly. Almost.

"You have been honest," he declared. "And for that I will honor my
promise to you. I believe you have told me everything."

"I have," said Dyana desperately. "I swear it."

"Have no fear for your daughter, woman. Do not fear the Mind
Bender, either. I will deal with him myself."

Biagio looked her over, examining her filthy clothes. "You look
atrocious. I'll have someone bathe you and find fresh clothing for
you. My home is very comfortable, Dyana Vantran. I see no need
for you to suffer here. It's not you that concerns me."

"No," said Dyana bitterly. "It is Richius. This is all just your way of
getting back at him, is it not?"

"Your husband took something very precious from me," said
Biagio. "I'm just exacting payment."

Dyana shook her head. "I know this story. You are wrong, Biagio.
You blame Richius for killing your emperor, but he had nothing to
do with it."

"He had everything to do with it!" exploded Biagio. Again he rose
from his chair, stalking Dyana across the room. "Your wretched
lover killed Arkus. He left Aramoor because of you, and sided with
the Triin against Nar. And Arkus died because of it. Vantran was
supposed to go to Lucel-Lor to save him!"

"No," Dyana insisted. "You are wrong. There was never any magic
in Lucel-Lor to save Arkus. Richius could not have helped him."

The count felt the rage rise up in him. "Don't you dare defend him,"
he hissed. "Not to me! I know the truth about the Jackal. I know
what he did to Arkus. And I will make him pay for what he's done to
me!"

With a whirl of his cape he reclaimed his brandy and drained the
glass, fighting the urge to strike the woman. She was despicable,
entranced by the Jackal's magic like so many other fools. The
brandy burned its way down his throat, scalding him and making
him cough. When the glass was empty he tossed it against the
hearth, sending it shattering to bits.

"Don't ever speak well of him in my presence again," the count
warned. "I will cut your tongue out if you do."

"Just do not break your promise to me," said Dyana. "Or you might
find a knife in your back someday."

He looked at her, impressed by the threat. "I'm sure you mean
that," he said. "I will watch my back very carefully, never fear. Now
go. Wash yourself. Get some food."

Confused, Dyana looked around the chamber, unsure what to do.
"That is all?"

"For now. If I want you, I'll send for you. Go. Malthrak is surely
waiting for you outside. Tell him to take you to my serving women.
They'll find a room for you and bathe you." Biagio waved her away
distastefully. "Hurry, please."

Still in a daze, Dyana Vantran walked from the chamber. Biagio
heard her voice outside, directing Malthrak to take her to the
servants. When he was sure she had found her way, he went to the
door and closed it, not wanting Savros or the others to disturb him.
The bottle of brandy on his antique desk beckoned him. He
retrieved it, taking a draw. Good brandy was hard to get now in
Crote. Supplies of everything were running low, including patience.
Biagio brooded over the bottle. He should have been pleased with
the news about Liss, but all he could think of was Simon.

Simon, his adored friend. Where was he now? On his way to
Crote? Or perhaps at the bottom of the sea, surrounded by
sharks? Count Biagio quickly drained his glass and poured himself
another. He wasn't the type to jump to conclusions—except when
emotions were involved. He closed his eyes and saw Simon's
face, then quickly tried to squash the image. There was work to be
done. No time to brood over a potential lover. His grand design
was almost complete. Just a few more pieces remained.

Dyana sat in an enormous, sterling bathtub, her eyes closed, and
let Count Biagio's servant pour wonderfully hot water over her
head. The room the woman had taken her to was far from Biagio's
parlor, in a part of the sprawling mansion peopled mostly by slaves
like the one who serviced her now. Yet despite the lowly status of
the wing's inhabitants, the bath chamber was ridiculously elaborate.
The claw-footed tub stood in the center of the chamber,
surrounded by mosaic tiles and beautiful, flowering vines climbing
the tapestried walls. Fragile vessels of porcelain rested alongside
satiny pillows, and gold-trimmed robes hung on brass hooks. The
smell of lavender wafted in the steamy air, competing with an ivory
orchid blooming from a golden vase on a sculpted pedestal of
marble. There were glass bottles of colored bath oils on shelves
and ornate displays of soaps, cut into whimsical shapes and piled
high in woven baskets. Yet all Dyana could think about was Shani.

It seemed impossible to her that Simon hadn't returned to Crote,
yet she believed Biagio. She could think of no reason for the count
to lie to her, although lying was his speciality. But if he was telling
the truth, that meant Shani was in danger. Or worse. Dyana
groaned as the slave massaged her hair with oil, working out the
filth. She had come all this way, endured the unspeakable voyage
and the lecherous hands of her captors, and only Shani's bright
face had kept her sane. The thought of finally seeing her daughter
had forced her to be strong, but now she wilted in the bathtub. The
deliciously warm water trickled down her face and breasts, and she
was without shame in front of the stranger, lost in a melancholy
fugue.

"You're very pretty," said the slave, a dark-haired girl with a
brainless smile. Did she even realize she was a slave? Dyana
wondered. What kind of place was this island? All the servants
seemed sickeningly cheerful, as if the collars around their necks
were little more than jewelry. The slave had told Dyana her name,
but Dyana hadn't really listened. Was it Kyla?

"We'll get you clean again, don't worry," said the woman. She
shook her head sympathetically. "It must have been wretched for
you on that ship. Sometimes I bathe the sailors, when they come
ashore. They're even filthier than you!"

Dyana let out a disinterested sigh. Small talk was just an
annoyance to her, and this one loved to chatter. She had hardly
stopped since bringing Dyana to the bath. The slave dipped her
hands into the bubbly water and drew out a cupful, then dribbled it
over Dyana's face to clear it of soap.

"I've never seen a Triin," said the woman. "Your skin is so white.
Like a dove." She ran a soft hand over Dyana's shoulders to test
the alien flesh. "Soft."

"What will happen to me here?" Dyana asked pointedly. "What will
Biagio do to me?"

The woman laughed. "Nothing will happen to you, Dyana Vantran.
I've been told to take care of you. After I bathe you I will take you to
your chambers. Others are preparing them for you now."

"Chambers?" scoffed Dyana. "You mean prison, yes?"

"No," the woman corrected mildly. "You're not a prisoner here.
Well, you are, I suppose, but you won't be treated like one. The
Master is very kind to all his guests, except those that displease
him. If you do as the Master says, you will be cared for."

"Master," spat Dyana. "Do you all call him that? I think it is
disgraceful."

"You can call him Count Biagio," the girl whispered.

"I have no intention of speaking to that monster. He can imprison
me on this island, but my mind is my own and I will speak to
whomever I wish."

The woman smiled. "You'll feel different in time."

"I will not!" flared Dyana. She sat bolt upright in the tub, sending
water sloshing over the rim. "And I can wash myself," she
snapped. "Please. Just go now, will you?"

Her outburst stunned the woman, who shrank back with a wounded
expression. "As you wish, Lady Vantran." She got to her feet. "You
must be very tired. I'll wait outside for you. Call me when you want
to get out and I'll dry you."

"I can dry myself, too," said Dyana. She pointed toward the door.
"Good-bye."

When the slave left the room, Dyana sank back down in the warm
water, submerged to her chin. The insistent scent of flowers filled
her nostrils, so much better than the awful smells of the cargo hold.
Sensation was coming back into her limbs, beating back the cold,
and the dirt she had shed like a second skin had all washed away,
making her feel lighter. Biagio had made an exquisite prison for
her. And if he kept his word, if he spared Shani as he'd promised,
she would keep her vow to him, as well. Whatever plans he had for
her, however vulgar his designs, it would all be worth it if Shani was
safe.

"You will not take my baby," she whispered defiantly. "Or my
husband. I will beat you, devil."

She started plotting an impossible plan when the door to the bath
chamber opened again. Peeking through the threshold was
another young woman, one Dyana hadn't seen yet, a remarkable
beauty with raven hair and eyes that smiled shyly when she noticed
Dyana. Around her neck was the typical collar of a slave, but her
clothes weren't a slave's clothes. They were elegant and
expensive, made of flowing fabric that clung perfectly to her body.
The girl took a cautious step into the room.

"Am I disturbing you?" she asked carefully.

"Yes," said Dyana.

The girl frowned, but refused to leave. Instead she stepped inside
and closed the door lightly behind her. She moved like a ghost,
soundlessly and with purpose. Suddenly embarrassed, Dyana
sank a little deeper into the tub and crossed her arms over her
breasts.

"Who are you?" she asked.

The girl crossed the expanse of tile and paused at the side of the
tub. She appeared nervous, unsure of herself. Her expression
shifted between excitement and fear.

"My name is Eris," she said at last. "I wanted to see you."

"You are getting a good look. What is it you expect to see?"

Eris shook off her nervousness. "I'm not making any sense. I'm
sorry, but I had to talk to you. You're Dyana Vantran, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am. And you are Eris. Hello, Eris."

The girl beamed. "Hello, Lady Vantran. I know I'm disturbing you.
I'm sorry about that. But I had to see you, speak to you. It's very
important."

Dyana smiled. The earnest girl was lovely, impossible to turn away.
Dyana steered more bubbles over herself, saying, "Important?
Well, then, you should tell me. Sit."

There was a stool at the side of the tub. Eris pulled it a respectful
distance away from Dyana and sat down, crossing her legs
awkwardly.

Her anxiousness intrigued Dyana. "What is it, Eris?" she asked
gently. "How do you know who I am?"

"Everyone in the mansion knows who you are, Dyana Vantran.
You're the Jackal's wife. Everyone is talking about it. When I heard
you were here I knew I had to come. I have questions, if I may."

"Why is everyone so curious? Am I the first Triin in Crote?"

"Oh, my questions aren't about you, Lady. They're about someone
else."

"Who else?"

Eris leaned closer, checked over her shoulders for
eavesdroppers, then whispered, "Simon."

The name crushed Dyana's pleasant mood. "Simon?" she said
indignantly. "What about that beast?"

Eris faltered. "Simon," she said again. "You know him, yes?"

"I know him," growled Dyana. "How do you know him?"

"He's my . . ." The girl lowered her voice again, almost blushing.
"He's my lover."

Dyana blinked. She stared at the girl, unsure how to react, shocked
that such a delicate thing could belong to such a horrid man. Eris
stared back at her with bewilderment.

"Lady Vantran, you've seen Simon, haven't you? I'm worried about
him. He was supposed to be home by now, but he isn't. Do you
know where he is?"

"Oh, child," sighed Dyana sadly. "I cannot help you. Really, I think
you should go now."

"Why?" asked Eris desperately. "Please tell me. What do you
know of him? Is he all right?"

"Eris, stop," begged Dyana. She couldn't bear the pain in the girl's
voice, or her innocence. "I do not know where Simon is. If I did, I
would tell you. I . . ." She looked away. "Please. I do not know."

Very perceptively, Eris shook her head. "You're lying," she said
flatly. "You're hiding something from me. I know you are. I won't
leave until you tell me what it is." She got up from the stool and
knelt down by the tub. "My lady, I know Simon went to spy on you
for the Master. I know you must hate him very much. All I'm asking
is for you to tell me you've seen him, that he's safe. Won't you do
that for me?"

"Is that what you think?" said Dyana. "That Simon went to Falindar
to spy? Child, you are a fool. Your lover went to steal my daughter.
He has her somewhere, even now."

"Oh, no. That's impossible. Simon went to spy on your husband.
He told me so!"

"He lied to you," Dyana insisted. "He murdered my little girl's nurse
and stole her from me. He did. And if you do not believe me, ask
Biagio. He has already admitted it."

The light in Eris's green eyes flickered and went out.

Her jaw dropped open in shock, but no sound escaped, only a
long, dreadful breath.

"It is true, Eris," Dyana continued. "That is why I am here. I went
looking for Simon and my daughter and was captured by other men
sent with Simon. I do not know where Simon is. I do not know
where my baby is. But when I find him, I am going to kill him. I
swear it."

"No," said Eris, shaking her head wildly. "It's impossible. Simon
would never do that! I know he wouldn't!"

"You are wrong," said Dyana mercilessly. "He did it. He is a very
charming man, your lover. He fooled all of us. He got us to care
about him and made us think he cared about us. Then he took our
little girl. Maybe he has fooled you, too."

"No!" Eris cried. She put her hands to her face, unwilling to listen.
"You're lying. You hate Simon because of Biagio. But he's not like
that. He's kind."

"Kind to you, maybe," said Dyana. "But to us he was unspeakably
cruel." She reached out a dripping arm and beckoned Eris closer.
"It is the truth, Eris. You can think what you want about Simon, but I
am not lying to you. He stole Shani. And now they are both missing.
If you have lost your man, then I have lost my daughter."

"Oh, God," Eris groaned. "It's Biagio. He made Simon do this. We
were to be married! Biagio forced him to go, I know it!"

Eris dissolved into angry tears. Dyana kept her hand on the girl's
arm, trying to comfort her and not really knowing why. She was
innocent, certainly, duped like the rest of them by a cunning agent
of Biagio. In the last few minutes an unlikely kinship had sprung up
between them.

"He might be alive, still," Dyana suggested. "Maybe Shani, too. We
cannot be like this, girl, falling apart. We have to have hope."

"But you'll kill him," sniffed Eris. "You won't be able to, but you'll try.
Oh, please, Lady, please try to understand. He did this for me. It's
the only thing that would have made him take your baby. Believe
me, I know Simon better than anyone. He's not a monster."

"Eris . . ."

"He's not," Eris insisted. "I want you to believe that."

"I cannot," said Dyana. She tried to withdraw her hand but Eris
grabbed hold of it.

"Lady Vantran, I don't think Simon hates you. Or your husband. He
does what the Master tells him to do, that's all. If he does have your
baby, I'm sure she's safe."

Dyana had to swallow hard to keep from crying. The thought of
Shani in Simon's dangerous hands was too much for her, and she
desperately wanted to believe the girl. She remembered her brief
times with Simon in Falindar, how impenetrable he'd been, and she
wondered if there was anything human under his mask, anything at
all that would make him care whether Shani lived or died. Eris
seemed to think so. Dyana hoped so, too.

"What is wrong with your master?" Dyana asked. "He is insane. I
could tell when I met him. And his eyes! They are like blue
diamonds. Why?"

Eris nodded dreadfully. "It's the drug." She explained how Biagio
was addicted to the potion that kept him alive, and how she and
Simon both believed it had eaten away part of his brain, made him
demented. Dyana had known of the drug from Richius, but hearing
about it from the girl and seeing Biagio's alien eyes had struck at
her heart. Eris whispered when she talked, afraid she might be
overheard. "He wasn't always this way," she continued. "When he
was younger he was normal. But now the drug rules him. And he
hasn't been the same since Arkus died."

"Arkus," Dyana groaned. "That is a name I know too well. Your
master blames my husband for his death. I tried to tell him he is
wrong, but he would not listen."

"He will listen to no one about that," Eris agreed. "He still grieves
for the emperor. The old man was like a father to him. Simon says
it's destroyed him. He has so little, you see. No family. Only the
Iron Circle."

"Iron Circle?"

"His henchmen, the ones that sided with him against Herrith." Eris
smiled. "There's a lot for you to learn, Dyana Vantran. A lot about
Biagio you don't understand."

Dyana nodded. "Then you will teach me, Eris. I need to know these
things if I am to .survive here. Biagio means to take me to Nar. I
want you to tell me everything you know."

A wicked smile crossed the girl's face. "I know a lot," she
whispered, then proceeded to tell all she knew about Biagio and
his unrequited love for Simon.
TWENTY-SEVEN
To Dragon's Beak

A dmiral Danar Nicabar, full from a meal of beer and fish, drew his
woolen collar close around his neck and stared out into the night,
toward the two vessels trailing his flagship through the cold ocean.
Black City and Intruder, his two escorts, were barely visible in the
murkiness. A storm from the south was chasing them northward,
racing them to Dragon's Beak. Nicabar could see the electric
flashes of lightning on the horizon, briefly yellowing the sky. A
fierce wind ripped at the deck, pulling at his coat and hair, but the
admiral stood firm, hardly feeling it at all. Years of service had
toughened his skin to leather. He had heard about the vaunted
winters of Dragon's Beak and laughed. Nothing on land was as
harsh as the sea.

Certainly not General Vorto.

Three dreadnoughts. And one of them was the Fearless. Nicabar
grinned, satisfied. Biagio had wondered if three would be enough,
but Nicabar had confidence in his guns. Vorto might go to Dragon's
Beak with an entire legion, and still they would be too few to stand
against a bombardment. If Enli had done his job and secured his
brother's ravens, and if the mercenaries purchased by Biagio had
already taken the north fork as planned, three dreadnoughts would
be enough.

Nicabar's smile shifted to a frown. It suddenly seemed like a lot of
ifs. But Duke Enli was a clever man. And Vorto was not. Biagio, of
course, was the most clever by far, and since his grand design had
succeeded up to now, Nicabar had few doubts about its ultimate
outcome. It was a complicated and precarious scheme, and
sometimes even Nicabar wondered about its veracity, but Biagio
was a master puppeteer. When he pulled the strings, the whole
world danced.

A jagged blade of lightning sliced the southern sky, leaving its
impression in Nicabar's vision. The admiral waited for the inevitable
thunder. Then he heard it, louder than God, rumbling from Heaven.
It would be like that in Dragon's Beak, he thought. When the
Fearless opened up her cannons, the earth would tremble. Nicabar
pulled off a glove, then reached out to caress a nearby mast. The
wood felt stout and invincible against his fingers. Nothing Liss had
ever built could compare to the Fearless. She was without peer,
perfect, and Nicabar's greatest love. Some men longed for
women; others, like Biagio, for the hearts of men. But Admiral
Danar Nicabar had been born and bred to command mighty
vessels. He knew this as certainly as anything. God on His throne
had reached down and chosen him, saying, "Here is the man to
command the seas. I give him dominion."

Nicabar's chest swelled with pride. It wasn't the fate of Liss to rule
the waves. That was his destiny alone. The Lissens were
pretenders. They thought their island gave them claim to the
world's waters. They were wrong. So was Prakna. The thought of
his nemesis made the admiral grin. Prakna was a sad, pathetic
man. A good sailor, to be sure, but outclassed. Someday, Nicabar
determined, he would prove that. Biagio would owe him for so
much loyalty, and Nicabar wanted only one thing in payment.

Liss.

"Ah, but that must wait," whispered Nicabar. He gave his ship an
affectionate pat, then pulled on his glove, blowing into his hand to
warm it. His first duty was to deal with Vorto in Dragon's Beak.

Not an unpleasant task at all.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The Festival of Sethkin

O n a day bright with sunlight, the great festival of Sethkin began in
the center of Nar City near the Cathedral of the Martyrs. As was
customary, Archbishop Herrith opened the festival with a rousing
speech. It was the one day of the year when the Holy Father
walked amongst his flock unguarded, as though he were one of
them and was concerned with their lives. Colorful banners and
long, flowing streamers capped the streets, and religious icons
brooded over the avenues, tall and baleful. Musicians played and
street vendors loudly hawked their wares. The air was filled with
foreign smells, while animals and magicians entertained the
crowds. Along the sidewalks, Naren noblemen sat with their
families, enjoying the procession and the clean air, for it was at the
bishop's holy order that the foundries were closed today, so that
their belching smokestacks didn't ruin the festivities.

Throughout High Street, regal princes from around the Empire
shouldered up to unwed maids, bragging about their wealth, and
deep-pocketed merchants lavished their mistresses with dresses
and trinkets from the shops, all of which were open and greedy for
the tide of money washing through the city. Sethkin was more than
just a religious day. It was Nar's great holiday from itself, when the
nobles came down from their towers and mingled with the poor,
and no one was excluded from the festivities.

On Herrith's decree, the doors to his orphanage had been flung
wide. High Street was choked with parentless children, their faces
glowing with excitement. The cathedral's many acolytes moved
through the crowds, keeping a watchful eye on the brood and
doing their best to remind the citizenry of the day's holy meaning.
Kren was a time for fasting and reflection, a stretch of penance that
culminated in Eestrii, the highest holy day of the Naren church. For
the next month, believers were expected to be prayerful, to attend
services regularly and to give their most generous offerings to the
church. Most importantly, they were to beg God for His infinite
mercy, and to forgive them for their sins. Herrith knew Nar had
many sinners. He wasn't among them, but even he needed to be
humble in the sight of Heaven. Heaven's vision was particularly
keen during Kren.

Tomorrow they would all begin their spartan march toward Eestrii,
but today they were free to frolic in the good things God had given
them, and the Black City had turned out in force. Menageries from
Doria had taken center stage in High Street, an awe-inspiring
assortment of animals that left both children and adults slack-
jawed. There were tusked elephants and tawny lions, dogs that
danced and monkeys that laughed. Trainers and keepers spoke to
the crowd, explaining about their strange pets and offering the
children rides on the elephants. And while they directed their
magnificent beasts, minstrel music played and merchants showed
off their finery, and High Street wasn't commonplace anymore. Its
yearly transformation had occurred, turning it from a busy, jaded
thoroughfare into a little glimpse of paradise.

Archbishop Herrith walked happily through the crowd, giving out
smiles to the curious Narens begging to touch the hem of his
garment. Lorla Lon was with him, holding his right hand. With her
left hand she held a frozen confection, a lump of fruit-flavored
sugar on a stick that Herrith had purchased for her. She licked at it
covetously, slurping with enjoyment, and the sight of the Dorian
menagerie had captivated her. Herrith had already stuffed himself
with pastries from the bake shop. Now his stomach was stretched,
satisfied. Since taking Biagio's drug, his appetite had come roaring
back. It wasn't a problem for him to inhale a dozen of the bakery's
best.

Herrith led Lorla to a bench on the sidewalk. A man and his family
had been sitting there, but when they saw the Holy Father they
quickly vacated so the bishop and his ward could sit. A pair of
acolytes who'd been trailing Herrith took up positions on either side
of the bench. On this day, Herrith wasn't supposed to be guarded,
but his cowled priests never took such chances. These two had
long dirks beneath their robes. Lorla sat down on the bench first,
her little legs dangling over the edge. Impatiently she craned her
neck to see the parade of animals. Garbed in the blue dress
Herrith had brought her for the occasion, she looked like an angel
or one of Nar's beautiful, privileged young women. Herrith sat down
beside her, tucking his long robes beneath his knees. The crowds,
noticing the Holy Father, parted a little so he could see better.

"Enjoying yourself, child?" Herrith asked over the tumult.

Lorla nodded. "Oh, yes, Father. It's wonderful!"

It was wonderful. For Herrith, it was the culmination of a dream. As
God's servant, he had never married or taken a woman since his
vows. A family, and children like Lorla, had been long forbidden
him. But now he had a sense of that normalcy he craved. He had
God and a child to adore, and he was happy. Lorla had taken to
him, more than he'd dared to hope. She didn't just call him
"Father." Since coming to live in the cathedral, she had truly come
to be a daughter. There was a blessed bond between them, and
Herrith didn't care who noticed it or snickered behind his back.
There was always gossip, even among priests. Some were saying
unwholesome things about him. But Herrith knew his heart was
pure. When he looked at Lorla, he saw nothing but a life he wished
was his, and all the potential of youth. God loved children. God
bade humankind to love children. What he was doing, Herrith was
sure, was according to Heaven's law.

He took Lorla's hand again, pointing out the different animals, and
surprising her with his knowledge. He had been through countless
festivals, and every year the Dorians came with their menageries.
Herrith knew all their routines. But his familiarity with the animal
tricks didn't dampen his enthusiasm, and when the elephants stood
on their hind legs and raised their trunks in a raucous trumpeting,
Herrith laughed like the rest of them and covered his ears. "Ohhh!"
cried Lorla happily. "Loud!" So loud she almost dropped her treat,
but she was quick enough to rescue it before it tumbled onto her
dress. Deciding her mouth was the safest place for it, she began
to suck on the frozen sugar again, happily bobbing to the music.
And as she ate, Herrith watched her peripherally, glad to be with
her. In a few more days it would be her birthday. She would be nine
years old, and he wanted to make it special. At that age, every year
was a milestone for a child. Herrith wanted Lorla to have no doubts
about his affection for her. It was why he had given her full run of
the cathedral, why he allowed her to bother Darago periodically and
marvel at his ceiling, even when he himself was kept from it. Lorla
had already endured too much for so tender an age. The Black
Renaissance had made her life a wasteland, stripping her of her
parents and identity. But now she had a new life in the cathedral,
and Herrith had one more little reason for crushing Biagio and his
cancerous crusade.

"Lorla, look there," said Herrith, directing her eyes toward a group
of clowns across the avenue. There were three of them, up high on
stilts, their faces smeared with white paint and malevolent, ruby
smiles. Each wore a long, brightly colored gown, festooned with
ribbons and broad, rainbow stripes, and their long wigs of green
hair bounced around their shoulders.

Lorla frowned. "They're scary," she decided quickly. "I don't like
them."

"Do you know what they are?" he asked, sure that she didn't. With
their white faces and terrible smiles, they looked more like demons
than clowns. "Those are the Clowns of Eestrii. They're the symbols
of sin. One is Pride, one is Lust, and the other is Hatred. Those are
the things we're supposed to guard against during Kren."

Lorla pulled the ice treat from her mouth with a popping sound.
"Clowns of Eestrii? I never heard of them. Why do they look so
mean?"

"To remind us that they're always with us. Every year the Clowns of
Eestrii walk among the crowd. They try to scare the children into
remembering their faces. That's how the children learn." Herrith
chuckled. "Some of the adults, too."

"They're ugly," said Lorla emphatically. "I don't think they belong
here."

"Oh, but they do," Herrith corrected. "They're to remind us to
beware them at all times, even at good times like this."

"Which is which?"

Herrith laughed. "I don't know. Which do you think?"

"What are their names again?"

"Lust, Hatred and Pride," Herrith told her. "Nar's three greatest
vices. There, I think that one is Lust." He pointed at the smallest
one of the bunch, whose stilts weren't as tall as the rest. This clown
had a particular leer in his eyes that reminded Herrith of something
impure. "What do you think?"

Lorla lowered her voice. "That one's Hatred," she said with
certainty.

"Really?" Herrith looked at her, unnerved by her seriousness. "How
can you tell?"

"I've seen him before." The girl turned her eyes from the clowns,
looking down at the sidewalk. "I recognize him."

"Where have you seen him before, Lorla?" asked Herrith gently.
He knew he was treading unstable ground, but couldn't resist. Lorla
was an inscrutable little girl, a great puzzle with many mysteries in
her head—mysteries Herrith was determined to unlock. "You can
tell me," he cajoled. "I won't tell anyone else. Promise."

Lorla considered his offer with care. Finally she looked up, saying,
"That's the face Duke Enli makes, when he thinks of his brother.
That's what he looks like now."

The frightening revelation made Herrith slip his hand from Lorla's.
She was cold suddenly, frozen in some other place. Her
remarkable eyes, not so unlike his own, blazed with secret fury.
Herrith at once regretted his question. Whatever she had seen,
whatever had gone on in Dragon's Beak, had changed her. She
wasn't just a little girl anymore.

"Duke Enli is going to be all right, Lorla," he assured her. "All of
Dragon's Beak will be safe once General Vorto wins the day. And
he will win, I promise." He smiled awkwardly. "You believe me,
don't you?"

"I guess so."

"Have no doubt, little one. Vorto has taken all the troops he needs
to win Dragon's Beak back for God. Duke Enli will be fine. Soon
he'll rule all of Dragon's Beak. And maybe you'll see him again
someday, when Dragon's Beak is safe. I can arrange that, if you
like. Not yet, of course. But someday."

"I don't want to go back to Dragon's Beak," said Lorla. "Not ever.
That's not my home anymore . . . Father."

Herrith smiled. "Then you will live here forever, in the cathedral, just
like Elioes."

The mention of the orphan girl brightened Lorla's troubled face.
"Tell me more about her. One more story."

"Lorla . . ."

"One more," she implored. "Any story." Herrith's mind was blank.
He had already told Lorla all he knew about the orphan. And Lorla
had devoured his tales rapaciously. She had found a patron saint in
the crippled child, and she wasn't satisfied with Darago's painting.
She wanted more. Just like the child she was, she always wanted
more.

"I've already told you all I know," said Herrith. "There's really not a
lot about her in the holy books. Just what I've told you already."

"Then tell me again," said Lorla dreamily. "Tell me how she was an
orphan, and how she met our Lord and He healed her. That's a
good story. I like that one."

Actually, it was the only story about Elioes, but Herrith told it again.
And as he spoke Lorla seemed to forget the festival around her,
ignoring the menagerie and calls of hawkers. While he spoke,
Herrith watched her eyes, and every time he said the word orphan,
he saw a light flicker behind her emerald veil. She adored the
simple story of Elioes, a tale meant to comfort children and
convince them of God's holy powers. But Lorla heard more than
just a simple fable. She heard truth.

"God saw something very special in Elioes," said Herrith finally.
"Just as He sees something special in all of us. Even you and I."

"What does He see special in you?" asked Lorla. She licked at her
treat, waiting for an answer.

Herrith stumbled through his collection of cliches, but then decided
to tell her what he really believed. "I'm His servant," he declared
proudly. "He knows I'll do His will without question. This is why He
burdens me. He has set me to a great task." "To destroy Biagio."

"That's right. He's the devil's own. I'm to destroy him, and all his
evil works. That's what Heaven demands of me. No matter what the
cost." Herrith glanced away, frightened by the challenge. A terrible
feeling of old age made his shoulders slump. "Lorla, I've done
things I'm not proud of. Horrible things. And I have to continue to
do horrible things, because that's what God wants of me. It's why
He called me to the church, maybe the very reason I was born. I
am Nar's only hope. I'm its savior."

The little girl smiled crookedly. Herrith couldn't tell if she believed
him, but the warmth in her eyes was comforting.

"Is that why there's war in Dragon's Beak?" she asked. "Because
God wants it?"

"God wants His kingdom on earth," replied Herrith. "If we must
battle for it, if we must sacrifice and die, so be it. God has been
very clear to me on this, little one. It's why He killed Emperor Arkus,
and why He's delivered me the weapons needed to fulfill His plan.
Now . . ." Herrith forced a sunny smile. "No more talk of this. We
have a whole month to reflect. Today is for fun."

No sooner had he said that than a monkey scooted across the
street, landing in Lorla's lap. Lorla shrieked at the intrusion,
dropping her treat to the pavement and putting up her hands, afraid
to touch the curious creature. Herrith's bellow brought the
monkey's trainer running.

"Bobo!" cried the man, a young Dorian dressed in festival clothes.
The trainer bowed apologetically to the bishop, while Herrith's
shadowy acolytes crept imperceptibly closer. The little monkey
bounced up and down on Lorla's lap. Like its master, the creature
wore a bright green tunic and a red hat on its fuzzy head shaped
like a bell. Its yellow teeth flashed as it cried out, but it didn't
threaten the girl at all. It seemed more interested in the ruined treat
at her feet.

"It's all right," said Herrith quickly, putting Lorla and the trainer at
ease. He gave a quick glance to his priests, who took a cautious
step back. "Don't be afraid, Lorla. It won't hurt you."

"Bobo wouldn't hurt anyone, Holy Father," the young Dorian
assured them. He smiled and laughed, seeing Lorla's sudden
delight. "Don't worry, girl. He's just saying hello."

"Hello, Bobo," said Lorla, staring down at the mischievous monkey.
Bobo bounced when he heard his name, then reached out a hand
to explore Lorla's face. She giggled as his tiny fingers tickled her
lips. "Can I touch him?" she asked. "He won't bite me, will he?"

"Go ahead," urged the trainer. "Rub his head. He likes that."

Lorla reached out and lightly stroked the monkey's head. When
she did, the smile on her face stretched wide.

"He's so soft!" she declared.

"Bobo's from Casarhoon," the trainer explained. "He's come all the
way up here just to say hello to you and the Holy Father. You like
him?"

"Very much," Lorla cooed. She ran her hands over the creature's
head repeatedly, a gesture that calmed Bobo and made his simian
eyes droop. "He's very sweet."

"And smart," said the Dorian. "He can count to ten. And he knows
his name better than some people. Bobo even helps me with the
other animals. The elephants are afraid of him!"

Herrith watched Lorla and the monkey, and the spark of an idea
occurred to him. It didn't do for her to be so alone in the cathedral.
Without other children, she had no companionship save for the
priests. A child needed pets. He took hold of the trainer's sleeve
and pulled him closer.

"How much for the monkey?" he asked.

The Dorian blinked. "Holy Father?"

"I want to buy it, for the child. How much?"

"Really, Father?" asked Lorla elatedly. "For my own?"

"For your birthday," Herrith explained. He loved the explosion of joy
on her face. "Something special for you. Would you like that?"

"Holy Father, Bobo's not for sale," said the Dorian. "I'm sorry, but
he's mine."

There was enough trepidity in the young man's voice for Herrith to
know he could be persuaded. The bishop smiled at him serenely,
leaning back on the bench.

"Come now, my son. It's just an animal. How important can it be? I
will pay you double what you paid for it yourself. Now that's more
than fair."

"Uh, Father . . .?" said Lorla shyly.

Herrith ignored her. "Double, my son," he said again, holding up
two fingers. "Name your price."

"I'm sorry, Your Grace, it's not the money. Bobo's not just an
animal. He's more like a friend. I could never sell him."

"Father, I don't want the monkey," said Lorla sharply, pulling at his
robes. Herrith looked at her, startled.

"You don't?" he asked. "Why not?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. I just don't. Not for my birthday gift. I
want something else."

"What else?"

"Just something else," she said simply, then frowned down at the
monkey. "He's a very pretty monkey, though." Still stroking Bobo,
she glanced at his relieved trainer. "You're lucky. I bet he's a good
friend."

The trainer offered a smile of thanks. "Yes, he is," he said, then
lifted Bobo off Lorla's lap. The monkey quickly scurried up its
master's shoulder, perching there like a bird and waving at Lorla
and the bishop. "Say good-bye, Bobo," the man instructed. Bobo
squawked an incomprehensible farewell. Lorla returned the wave
as the two disappeared back into the crowd. Her eyes lingered on
the monkey until it was gone.

"I thought you would like a companion of your own," said Herrith.
"That creature would have made a fine gift for your birthday. Now
I'll have to think of something else. Still . . ." He stood, taking her
hand and lifting her from the bench. "I think I know a place to get
you something good."

"What place?" asked Lorla.

"You'll see."

Herrith led her by the hand along the sidewalk, past the performing
animals, and past a street magician with a long cape and a handful
of cards he kept making disappear. The bishop ignored the noise
and the well-wishers crowding around him. What he wanted, what
he knew Lorla could never resist, was on the corner of High Street,
between a candlemaker and a blacksmith's shop. Halfway down
the avenue, Herrith spotted his destination.

Piper's toy shop.

Crowded around the shop's window was a throng of children, all
pressing their noses to the glass to get a glimpse of the marvels
inside. Already Herrith could hear the faint music of the mechanical
flute player in the window, even above the din of the street. He
directed Lorla's view toward the shop.

"There," he said. "That's where we're going."

Lorla squinted. "What is it?"

"A toy shop. The most amazing shop you've ever seen, little one.
Believe me, you'll find something special there for your birthday."

"Yes," cheered Lorla, squeezing Herrith's hand. "Yes, I'm sure I
will."

Now it was she who led him through the street, practically dragging
him in her excitement to reach the toy shop. When at last they
reached the window, Lorla let go of him and dove into the mass of
children, elbowing her way to the window. Herrith paused on the
sidewalk, happily watching her. With a press of little bodies on both
sides of her, she put her palms to the glass and peered inside.
Herrith didn't have to see her face to know the awe splashed
across it.

Lorla lingered at the window, staring into the toy shop. The other
children around her shouted and laughed, but she was silent as
stone, mesmerized by the mechanical piper and all the miraculous
dollhouses. Inside the shop, Herrith could see Redric Bobs, the
shop's proprietor. Their eyes met for a fleeting instant before the
toymaker looked away to deal with his customers. Predictably, the
Piper's shop was packed with patrons. Naren nobles and their
spoiled offspring crowded every inch of the store, grabbing
greedily at the beautiful things the toymaker had built. Herrith
shrugged off the idea of fighting the crowd. He was the Archbishop
of Nar. He wouldn't need to wait for service. As Lorla stared at the
toys, Herrith stared at the toymaker. A sad man, really. A great
artist in his own way, but a recluse since his wife died. No children.
Herrith closed his eyes and mouthed a little prayer for Redric
Bobs. He was probably very lonely.

"Father," Lorla called loudly. She didn't turn her attention from the
window, or pull her hands from the glass. "Father, come look!"

Herrith gently pushed himself through the crowd of children and
parents. The assembly parted a little as he moved through them,
allowing him to pass. As always, the bishop's acolytes shadowed
him. When Herrith reached the window, filled with toys and moving,
mechanical marvels, he smiled down at his adopted ward.

"See? I told you. Isn't it fabulous?"

"Fabulous," Lorla echoed. Her eyes were fixed on a beautiful
dollhouse in the window, a giant, meticulously detailed model with
real wood shingles and varnished a flaming, feminine pink. It was
grander than all the other grand houses in the window, more
stunning even than the wooden piper and his songs. "Look at that
dollhouse," she whispered. "The big pink one. Isn't it lovely?"

"Beautiful," Herrith agreed. "The man who makes them is called the
Piper. Like the flute player in the window. See?"

He tried to show her the wooden man, but Lorla wasn't interested,
so enthralled was she by the dollhouse. Her little lips twisted with a
sad grimace.

"It's so pretty," she remarked. "I've never had anything like that."

"Would you like one?"

Lorla finally tore her eyes away from the window and looked at the
bishop. "You mean it?"

"A gift, from me to you. Something special for your birthday."

"Oh, yes," sighed Lorla. "Yes, I would like that very much. And I
want a big one! Like that pink one."

"I don't think the Piper will sell us that pink one," said Herrith. "From
what I understand, he builds them one by one. That pink one is his
own. It's been in his window forever."

"Then I want one for my own," said Lorla happily. "One that's just
for me! He'll do that for me, won't he? He can build whatever I
want!"

"Come," said Herrith, taking her hand again. "Let's ask him."

Like Lorla, Herrith was on a cloud when he walked into the toy
shop, overwhelmed at the girl's exuberance. The strong smell of
paint and sawdust greeted them in the shop, filling the air, and the
Piper's many handmade gadgets whirred and spun and whizzed by
on wires overhead. Lorla giggled at the sight, enchanted, and
Herrith, who had only seen the toys from the window, laughed with
her. Redric Bobs' shop was a wonderland. But as soon as the
toymaker noticed his holy guest, Redric Bobs went white, ignoring
his current customer, a Naren nobleman with a big stomach and,
obviously, an equally large purse. The nobleman scowled at Redric
Bobs insistently, then stepped back in shame when he noticed
Archbishop Herrith.

"Your Grace," said the Piper shakily. He was a lanky man with thin
fingers like the dolls he made, and when he spoke the sawdust in
his hair fell like dandruff to the floor. "I wasn't expecting you." He
bowed suddenly, as if he'd forgotten all protocol. "Welcome to my
toy shop."

"Rise, Redric Bobs," commanded Herrith. "This is festival day. No
need for all the pomp. I came here like all these other good folks,
to do business with you."

The Piper came a little closer. He looked enthralled, just as Lorla
had when she'd seen the dollhouse, but it wasn't awe of Herrith that
brought the strange expression to his face. It was Lorla. The
toymaker stared at her, sizing her up, as if she reminded him of
someone or something long lost. Thoughtfully, he dropped to one
knee in front of her. A crowd had gathered in a circle to watch
them, but Redric Bobs hardly noticed them.

"You've brought this child here for something special, haven't you,
Holiness?" he said, never taking his eyes off Lorla.

"Yes," said Herrith. "For her birthday." "Birthday," trilled the Piper.
"How nice." "I'll be nine," Lorla explained. "Nine," Redric Bobs
parroted. He was being nonsensical, and it disturbed Herrith.

"Yes, man, nine years old," said Herrith sharply. "And she wants
one of your dollhouses."

Lorla pointed back toward the window. "I saw the pink one. It's very
beautiful."

"Ah, Belinda," said the toymaker proudly. "Yes, that's my favorite,
too." He reached out and playfully messed up her hair. "Belinda
always brings little girls like you into my shop. But she's not for
sale, I'm afraid. She was built for my wife."

Herrith maneuvered himself between Lorla and the toymaker. "We
don't want to buy that one. We want something special. One of
your custom-made houses. You can do that for her, can't you?"

The Piper rose from his knees, and Herrith glimpsed the smallest
resentment in his eyes. "Of course I can," said Redric Bobs.
"That's what I do, after all. I can make a dollhouse for the girl.
Anything she wants." He looked around at the shoppers staring at
him. "But let's go somewhere and talk about it, away from everyone
else, all right? I have an office where we can talk." He gestured
invitingly toward the side of his store. "Holiness?"

"Very well," agreed Herrith, pushing Lorla along and guiding her
toward the office. Piper cheerfully told his patrons to browse, then
followed them through a doorway into a tiny room with a handmade
desk. A collection of tiny toys sat on the desktop, waiting for a
curious playmate. There was a chair next to the desk, and Lorla
quickly claimed it. Redric Bobs closed the door to his office,
shutting away the outside noise.

"I'm sorry, I don't have anything in here to offer you, Holiness," he
apologized. "I don't get many visitors from the church in my toy
shop."

"I'm already full of pastries and drink," said Herrith. "And I don't
care to stay long." He sauntered over to stand beside Lorla. "Now,
tell us what you can do for us, toy man."

The Piper smiled. "You're looking well, Your Grace," he remarked,
ignoring Herrith's question. "I saw you in your carriage some
months ago. You've gained some weight back. If I may say so, you
look quite fit. Your color is better, too."

Herrith grimaced. Was that meant to be a compliment? Redric
Bobs was a strange character in Nar City. Perhaps he'd been
breathing too much paint vapor.

"I'm well," said Herrith. "Now . . ."

"Some of us didn't expect such a remarkable recovery from you,"
Bobs continued. "We all prayed for you mightily, Your Grace. God
must have heard us."

God delivered a little blue bottle to me, thought Herrith bitterly.
Since taking the drug, he had been a whole man again. But Redric
Bobs knew nothing of the drug, nothing but the rumors that
constantly floated through the Empire. Herrith narrowed his eyes
on the Piper, trying to penetrate his cryptic facade. He didn't like
being reminded of his addiction, especially not by a peasant
toymaker. And the drug Biagio had sent him was running perilously
low. Soon, Herrith knew, he would have to strike a bargain with
Biagio to obtain more of the stuff. But that was in the future, not
today. Today was a good day, and Redric Bobs was ruining it.
When at last Herrith addressed the Piper again, his voice was low,
almost threatening.

"Why don't you tell us what kind of dollhouse you can build for
Lorla?" he said. "We'd like to get back to the festival before it's
over."

"I want a big one," said Lorla, stretching out her arms for emphasis.
"Like the ones in the window."

"I can build whatever you'd like, child," said Redric Bobs. "Any
style or color. As big as you like, too. Do you know what you'd like,
Lorla?"

"Any style?" asked Lorla.

The toymaker nodded. "That's right."

"No matter what?"

"No matter what."

Lorla smiled. "Then I know what I want you to build for me, sir."
She turned to Herrith and smiled at him secretively. "I want you to
build me something very special. The best thing you've ever built!
And I want you to build it for both of us, me and Father Herrith."

"What?" blurted Herrith. "Lorla . . ."

Lorla looked at the toymaker again in earnest. "Sir, I want you to
build me a dollhouse of the Cathedral of the Martyrs."

Herrith was astonished. He faltered back against the workbench,
staring dumbfounded at Lorla. "Child, what are you saying? The
cathedral? Why?"

"Because it's my home," said Lorla softly. "My new home. The only
home I'll ever have now." She reached over and grabbed Herrith's
fingers. "It's special to us both, Father. And it will be something
everyone can enjoy. Like Darago's ceiling! We can even keep it in
the great hall, under the painting. People can see both of them, two
beautiful things."

"But, Lorla, that's not a gift for a little girl. I want you to have a
dollhouse like the pretty ones in the window. Something pink and
sweet-looking. Something to enjoy."

"But I will enjoy it, Father," said Lorla. Her smile was bright,
imploring. "It's what I want. More than a monkey or just some toy. I
want something special."

It was all too perfect. She was such a remarkable child, this orphan
Enli had given him. At that moment, he realized she was truly a gift
from Heaven.

"Well, Redric Bobs?" he asked over his shoulder. "Can you make
this for us?"

There was a pause while the toymaker considered the request.
"It's very complicated," he said, stroking his chin. "The cathedral
has many details. It will take a lot of work. And time. When do you
want it?"

"In time for Eestrii," said Herrith. "I want it to be on display for all
the Black City to see when we show off Darago's masterpiece."

"Eestrii," muttered the toymaker. "That's not much time. Less than
a month. I'll have to work hard to get it done so quickly."

"Work as hard as you need to," said Herrith. "From dawn to dusk, I
don't care. I'll pay whatever it costs. But do a good job, Redric
Bobs. This is a very special gift you're making. I want it to be
perfect."

"Everything I do is perfect," said the toymaker defensively. "Your
Holiness will be astounded by what I build for the child, I promise
that."

"Then send me your bill, toymaker," said Herrith. "I will gladly pay
it." He lifted Lorla out of the chair, set her down gently on the floor,
then led her out of the office. "Good day to you, Redric Bobs.
Enjoy the festival. And remember—by Eestrii."

The toymaker bowed as they left, but Herrith hardly noticed. The
drug and Lorla's love had invigorated him, making him feel truly
immortal. They still had the whole afternoon before them, and
Herrith was determined not to let it slip away. Today he was happy.
Tomorrow or the next day he would hear bad news, learn about
deaths in Dragon's Beak or some other far-off place, but today was
the great festival of Sethkin. With a smile on his face, he walked
out of the toy-maker's fanciful shop, back into the revelry of High
Street with his adopted, perfect daughter.
TWENTY-NINE
Lord Jackal

T he nights in Liss were heavy and still. Haran Island echoed with
the sound of water and winter breezes and the occasional stirrings
of birds, but very few voices or footsteps marred the silence.
Jelena's palace took on the bleakness of a tomb at night. It was a
lonely, almost desolate place, too big for its young occupant. With
its high ceilings and empty corridors, the palace was a constant
reminder of everything Liss had lost in its long war with Nar. There
weren't men and women talking noisily, or little children of the royal
family scrambling through its halls. There was only the cold quiet of
duty, and the stone-faced guardians of Queen Jelena rarely
cracked a smile or uttered an unsolicited word. In the light of day
the palace was a wonder, but at night, when the world was asleep,
shadows ruled.

Richius had only been in the palace for three days, but already he
knew its habits. Like the rising and setting of the sun, life on
Jelena's island was predictable. Her guardians and servants saw to
her every need. Catboats and jarls constantly navigated the
island's lake front and canals, delivering supplies, and the
enormous water gate continued to make Richius marvel. Other
than that, life in the palace was a hellish bore, and Richius longed
to be gone from it.

Since his coming to Liss, Queen Jelena had treated him like
royalty. She had given him rooms not far from her own, a palatial
spread on the ground floor of her palace with a view of her prized
water garden and haran fish. There was always food and a warm
fire for him, and a staff of eager servants to cater to his needs.
Clean Lissen clothes had been put in his closets, a blessed relief
from the sea-stinking garb he'd arrived in, and he was provided all
the quiet he needed to think and plan his strategy against Crote. It
was a marvelous arrangement for Richius, perfectly conducive to
thought. Except for one problem.

He had no idea where to begin.

For three days he had been isolated on Haran Island, with only
Jelena for company. Prakna had disappeared—to be with his wife,
Jelena claimed—and the crew of the Prince hadn't returned to visit
him. And there was no army yet, either, only the promise of one.
Tomorrow, Jelena had assured him, Prakna would return to Haran
Island and bring him to his waiting soldiers, but to Richius that
promise rang hollow. Worse, he feared it might actually be true.
Despite the finery of his surroundings, the things he really needed
were denied him. He needed maps of Crote, of which there were
none. He needed experienced fighters to explain the terrain to him,
and weapons for his men. He needed timetables and lieutenants,
predictions about Crote's abilities and ideas on their weaknesses.
There were plans to be made and scenarios to draw up, attack
strategies and failure contingencies. There was absolutely
everything to win or lose, and Richius was alone, a general without
an army and horribly afraid. This time his arrogance had ruined him.
He had finally taken on an impossible challenge.

"Dyana was right," he muttered. He shouldn't have come to Liss.

The night was wistful. Richius had wandered from his rooms and
found himself on the mooring docks just outside the palace,
watching the catboats slip in and out. It had snowed erratically for
the past three days, but tonight was clear and bright with clouds.
The wind had stilled to a gentle breeze that blew his hair
haphazardly over his eyes. His hair was getting longer, becoming
more unkempt by the day. He hadn't shaved recently, either. But
his clothes were fresh and clean, and he still wore the navy coat
Marus had given him. He liked the feel of it, the way it kept his legs
warm. And he liked the reflection he cut with it in mirrors. When he
wore it, he felt very far away, on some great, nameless adventure
that didn't include his troubled past. Richius leaned against a stout
mooring post fitted with rusty chains and looked up into the sky. A
blanket of stars swept to the horizon.

"Hero," he scoffed. "Jackal of Nar."

That's what they called him here. Even Jelena. She didn't seem to
care that it was an insult. It was simply how she knew him. In Liss,
the Jackal of Nar was some sort of saint, a great warrior who had
beaten back the Black Empire and saved the Triin homeland. To
some, it was a great story. To Richius it was a distorted joke. But it
followed him everywhere now, and no matter how hard he fought it,
no matter how many times he corrected people, they always called
him Jackal or Kalak, and they always expected something grand
from him.

"Can I do this thing?" he wondered aloud. Now and then he still
talked to the sky, just as Karlaz had taught him. He was still waiting
for it to answer. "They want so much from me. And I have nothing.
Where's my army?"

Silence. The sky twinkled, ignoring him, and Richius looked away
with a wry smile. He gazed across the great lake separating Haran
Island from the rest of Liss. On the other side, he saw canals
reflecting starlight and high, spanning bridges. Tall buildings
reached heavenward, their windows blinking with candlelight.
Silhouettes moved across the horizon, men in boats and women
with golden hair. They were a beautiful race, these Lissens. And
they were all enigmas to Richius, no more comprehensible to him
than the Triin he had struggled so long to understand. Especially
Jelena.

The thought of the queen made Richius close his eyes. She was
very lovely. Like Sabrina. And her loneliness was palpable. It was a
dark aura around her, a pall that never waned. She had lost her
parents and identity, and had grown a vendetta to replace them, but
still she was just a child. To Richius, she seemed a little girl playing
in her mother's wardrobe; dressing like a queen, sometimes acting
like a queen, but always through a thin veneer of adolescence. He
liked Jelena. But just like Prakna and all the rest of them, she
expected something impossible from him. She wanted a hero. She
wanted a dragon-slayer from Naren mythology. Alone on the dock,
weaponless and without an army, Richius felt barely able to defend
himself, much less a nation.

As he always did when he felt alone, he thought of Dyana. It was
very late. She would have put Shani to bed by now, and if he were
there with her she would be in his arms, loving him. Prakna was
with his wife. Marus might be with his wife, too. What the hell was
he doing here, halfway across the world? But then the answer
came to him like a hammer-blow.

"Biagio."

He said the name so loudly, it echoed down the dock. Behind him,
the two guards that had been shadowing him cocked curious
eyebrows at his outburst. Richius waved at them.

"Just talking to myself," he quipped. "Crazy men do that."

"And so do sane men," came a voice from the darkness. Startled,
Richius whirled to see an hourglass silhouette walking toward him.
Jelena lit the dock with a smile. She wore a long stole of white fur
around her shoulders and a braid of sparkling silver in her hair that
caught the starlight. As she approached him he drew back a little,
annoyed at the intrusion.

"Jelena, what are you doing out here?"

"I've been looking for you," she said. She slid up to him on the
dock until they were face-to-face. "When I didn't find you in your
rooms I got concerned."

"Well, you found me. What do you want?"

Jelena frowned. "Richius, what's bothering you?"

"Nothing," Richius lied. "I just wanted to be alone, that's all. Why
were you looking for me?"

"I wanted to see how you were, that's all. Tomorrow is an important
day for you. I know you have a lot on your mind." The queen
shrugged demurely. "I thought you might want to talk."

"Not particularly," said Richius. He leaned back against the mooring
post, trying not to look at her. Sometimes seeing her was
unbearable. The resemblance to Sabrina was uncanny. "You can
go back inside now. I'm fine."

Jelena maneuvered herself in front of him, forcing him to look at
her. "I'm very good at telling when a man is lying. If you were fine,
you would be asleep, resting for tomorrow. But you are not fine, so
you are out in the cold, staring like a dog at the moon." She looked
at him demandingly. "Tell me what's wrong."

"Why don't I tell you what isn't wrong?" he snapped. "That would
be a much shorter list."

"All right, then. What isn't wrong?"

"Nothing. Everything is wrong, Jelena. My being here is wrong."

Jelena sighed. "Richius, you're just afraid about tomorrow. You're
nervous. But I tell you, everything will be all right."

"You're not listening to me, Jelena." Richius took her by the
shoulders. "I'm very, very angry. Understand? And you're not
helping me any. I need you to stop telling me how great I am and
start giving me the things I need."

The queen stared at him, stunned. Her guardians, who had been
lingering in the shadows, now rushed onto the dock. Richius saw
them but didn't release her. Instead he stared back at her, eyes
blazing.

"I need an army," he said flatly. "I need maps and men. And I need
them now, Jelena. No more waiting. I need to know what I'm
getting into."

"Richius," said Jelena softly. "Let go of me."

"Are you listening to me?"

The girl nodded. "I'm listening. So are my guards. If you don't
release me quickly, they'll cut your head off." She tried to calm him
with a smile. "Please . . ."

Reluctantly, Richius released her. His gesture kept the guardians at
bay. At their queen's insistence, they moved back into the
shadows, out of earshot. Jelena shook her head at Richius, clearly
troubled.

"What is wrong with you tonight? I've never seen you this way,
Jackal."

"Don't call me that!" Richius snapped. "My name isn't Jackal. It's
Richius Vantran. Can't any of you get that through your thick
heads? Richius."

Jelena gave another, infuriating smile. "To us you are the Jackal.
And I've told you, it's no insult."

"No? Well, I hate it. If you call me that again I just won't answer
you."

"You must get used to it, Richius," said the queen. She slid her
hand onto his shoulder. "You must understand what you are to us."

Richius rolled his eyes back. "I already know. I'm a hero."

"Yes. Is that so bad?"

"Jelena, I can't be your hero. If you keep calling me that, you're all
just going to be disappointed. Let me do what I came here for.
That's all I want. Please."

"That's all any of us want," she assured him. "Be at ease. We have
more faith in you than you have in yourself. We know you can do
this thing and be victorious."

"Don't be so sure. I haven't even started to put a battle plan
together. And why? Because I can't! I need maps, Jelena. I need
to know what the hell I'm doing!"

"Lower your voice," she directed. "Please. Don't make me tell you
again."

Richius wanted to scream. Were they all mad on this island? No
one was listening to him. And no one of consequence could even
hear him. Only Jelena, and she was too enamored with a myth to
see the truth.

"God, Jelena, please listen to me," he said. He kept his eyes
closed as he spoke, talking softly, hoping she might hear a whisper
better than his shouts. "Just listen to me, all right? I want to tell you
the truth of things."

"I'm listening," said the queen.

Richius opened his eyes. She was indeed listening. He took her
hand and pulled her down onto the dock, so they were both sitting
with their legs dangling over the water. Jelena didn't protest the
odd arrangement. In fact, she seemed to enjoy the intimacy.

"Talk to me," she begged. "Tell me what troubles you."

"First a promise. Will you listen to everything I say? I mean, will you
truly hear me?"

The queen nodded. "Of course."

"Good." Richius sighed, arranging his thoughts. There was so
much in his head, a fractured mirror of ideas and anxieties. Finally,
he folded his arms over his chest, saying, "I'm no hero, Jelena. I
can't lead an army this way. You think I'm a hero because you don't
know the truth of things, and because Prakna and the others won't
listen to the truth."

"So what is the truth?"

"The truth is ugly. The truth is I'm just a man who's been obscenely
lucky. I've seen a lot of death."

"So have I."

Richius held up a finger in warning. "It's my turn, remember?"

"I remember," said the queen sheepishly.

Richius continued. "War isn't the glorious thing you think it is. War
is ugly. I know, because I've lived through it. And it's only been by
Heaven's grace that I'm even here to talk about it, because I don't
deserve to be. Good people died just so I can be sitting here with
you now, staring at the stars. I've lost a lot of friends and family."
He looked up into the sky. "I'm afraid, Jelena."

There was an awkward silence after his confession. He glanced at
Jelena, and found to his surprise that she was grinning at him.

"What is it? Why are you smiling?"

"Is that all you wanted to tell me? That you're afraid? We are all
afraid, Richius. Every day I fear for my life and soul. I don't think
any less of you for being like me. No one expects you to be more
than human. Not me, and not your army."

"Army," Richius scoffed. "Right."

There was immediate offense in the girl's expression. "There is an
army, Richius. Have no doubt." She stared at him, and when he
wouldn't answer, she poked him with a finger. "You don't believe
me?"

Her question made Richius shrug. "I think you're hiding them from
me," he told her. "I think you're not at all proud of the rag-tag group
you've assembled, and you're trying to whip them into something
presentable before I see them. That's what I think. That's what I'm
afraid of."

"You are wrong," she said with iron. "There is an army waiting for
you. A proud group. On the morrow you will see them."

"On the morrow. Always on the morrow. I've been in Liss for three
days, Jelena. Why can't I see them now? Why can't I get to work?"

"Because they've been assembling for you, Richius. There's much
to do. On the morrow—"

"Yes, yes," snapped Richius with a wave.

The insult brought Jelena to her feet. "You really don't believe me,
do you?" she asked, glowering at him.

"I've told you what I believe."

The queen grabbed hold of his collar, angrily pulling him to his feet.
"Then come," she demanded. She turned from him and stormed
down the dock, waving at him to follow. "Come on!"

"What? Where are you going?"

"We are , Jackal. Right now."

"Now? Jelena . . ."

"Follow me," the queen commanded. She snapped her fingers at
her guards, shouting orders that brought more of them running.
Richius hurried up to her, confused and surprised at her
vehemence. Suddenly there was nothing of the little girl in her. That
adolescent veneer had vanished, unveiling a confident ruler.
Jelena demanded a boat and men, and she wanted them quickly.
To be precise, she wanted them right now.

"A boat? Now?" Richius asked, flabbergasted. "But it's so late. So
dark."

"You wanted to see your army, yes?" she shot back. "Then that's
where we're going. Since you don't trust me enough to wait 'til
morning, we'll go now."

"I never said that I don't trust you," Richius tried to explain. But
Jelena would hear nothing. Her face was granite as her guards
went to work, arranging passage for their mistress. The docks
sprang quickly to life as her sailors emerged from the darkness
with lanterns and gear, shouting across the grounds in preparation
for a journey. For the first time in days, there was actually real
activity around the palace, a sight both heartening and confusing.
Where the hell were they going? Queen Jelena continued to ignore
Richius as her men led them both to a waiting catboat at the other
end of the pier. This one was like the boat that had brought Richius
to the royal island, a splendid, single-masted vessel bearing the
figurehead of the haran and outfitted with a polished brass
sternpost. The sail had been furled, and a team of rowers climbed
aboard, taking positions on the rowing benches and grabbing up
the long, tapering oars. They were remarkably efficient and had
readied themselves in an instant at their queen's request. A man in
a royal uniform hurried up to the boat, still pulling on his coat as
Richius and Jelena arrived. He greeted the queen with a bow and a
smile, a gesture which Jelena perfunctorily returned.

"Timrin," the queen addressed him. "I want to go to Karalon. Right
now."

The sailor Timrin blanched at the order. He was very dark and
hidden in the shadows. "My queen, it's dangerous. Let me take the
Jackal there himself. I think it would be best if you stayed behind.
The lagoons around Karalon are, well, treacherous."

"The Jackal of Nar insists on seeing his army tonight," said Jelena.
"I must escort him, to prove a point. No arguments, Timrin,
please."

"As you wish," said the sailor reluctantly. He stood aside so that his
monarch could step on board. Jelena didn't wait for the astonished
Richius to accompany her up the gang-walk. But when she got on
board and saw he wasn't following, she gave him an irritated scowl.

"Are you coming or not?" she barked at him.

Richius planted his feet resolutely in the dirt. "Not until you tell me
where we're going. What's Karalon?"

"Karalon is where your army is stationed. And that's all I'll say to
you. I can be as stubborn as you, Richius. Get aboard."

Against his better judgment, Richius walked up onto the waiting
boat. Behind their oars, the rowers stared at him through the
darkness while other sailors fitted the vessel with lanterns to pierce
the darkness.

One by one the lanterns were lit, until the boat glowed with yellow
light. Timrin, the apparent captain of the vessel, was the last
aboard. He pulled up the narrow plank, checked the darkness with
a worried eye, then settled in to the bow, not far from where his
queen was sitting. Richius stood, staring questioningly at Jelena.
The queen ignored him.

"This show isn't necessary," he said softly. "I never said I didn't
trust you."

"Sit down, Richius. You might hurt yourself."

"Jelena—"

"Just sit." She gestured to the place on the bench beside her.
"You'll see where we're going soon enough."

So Richius sat beside her on the cold, hard bench, while the
oarsmen waited for Timrin's command to shove off. A few
straggling sailors on the dock undid the mooring lines, letting the
boat drift away. In the distance, the palace glowed in the light of
braziers and torches. Richius suddenly regretted his harsh words
to the queen. Her palace, the only home he had right now, seemed
painfully inviting. But the vessel floated away from it, and soon the
rowers set to work with their oars, pulling them far from Haran
Island and across the vast, black lake. Darkness swallowed them,
and the pinpoints of lantern light shined insignificantly, barely
brightening the few feet in front of them. To their left, the towns and
villages of Liss glowed with distant light, but their heading was
taking them away from those sights. They were plunging deeper
into the darkness, toward a lightless meadow of still water
stretching far off and away from Haran Island. Richius peered into
the invisible distance, hoping to catch a glimmer of something
solid, but there was nothing but endless water and murkiness. That
feeling of isolation he had been battling now came roaring over him
like a tidal wave.

"Is this right?" he asked incredulously. "Can Timrin see anything?"

Jelena looked away, pretending not to hear him.

"Don't ignore me, girl," Richius warned. "Tell me where we're
going."

"I've already told you," said Jelena wearily. "To Karalon."

"Right. And what exactly is Karalon?"

"You'll see."

"Is it far?"

"Not very."

"What is it?"

Jelena turned away from him and said no more. The narrow boat
slipped farther into the unknown, slowly skimming the water as the
oarsmen dipped and pulled them forward. On the bow, Timrin
worked the lanterns with an eagle-eye, trying to penetrate the
darkness. The lanterns pitched their cold light forward, skidding
across the water. Richius watched Timrin work, amazed at the
concentration locked on his face.

Part fish, thought Richius. All Lissens are part fish.

As Marus had told him, they were part of the sea. Its salty water ran
through their veins like blood. But Timrin was far from happy with
this mission. Nothing distracted him or broke his concentration, but
there was real worry on his face. Whatever Karalon was, it wasn't a
place to be visited at night.

For nearly an hour they rowed without ceasing. Jelena kept up her
stony silence, not sparing a word. The towns that had bid them
good-bye were gone now, and the lake had finally narrowed into a
winding, sluggish river. A stiff breeze blew, making Richius shiver.
In the darkness, he heard the splash of night-things moving on the
banks and the alien croaking of reptiles. His ears buzzed with the
insistent drone of insects. To starboard and port, he could see
boggy land-masses, misshapen blobs of earth striped with rivulets.
The tendrils of water were everywhere, some as wide as Lissen
canals, others barely big enough for a toy boat to maneuver. Timrin
periodically held up his hand, slowing their vessel and making the
oarsmen steer through unseen treacheries. Around them, the river
narrowed still more. Up ahead was a sharp bend in the waterway.

"Easy here," Timrin coached. The oarsmen slackened their pace,
letting the boat glide. Beneath them, Richius heard the sound of
sand scraping the hull. The boat pitched suddenly to port, spilling
Jelena into his arms. Timrin cursed and wrapped himself around
the sternpost, ordering his men to push off. The sailors on the port
side scrambled, grabbing long poles and pushing the boat off
whatever had snared them. There were more jarring noises, more
lurching as the vessel slowly freed itself. Sure that the boat would
tear itself apart, Richius held tight to Jelena. If they spilled into the
freezing water, they would surely die.

"I've got you!" he assured the queen. Jelena stayed in his arms,
grateful for the security as she dug her fingers into the bench to
keep from sliding off. Oarsmen and sailors grunted with exertion.
Timrin shouted at them to heave, and at last the boat freed itself
with a great groan. It splashed back into the water, righting itself
and revealing a black outcropping of muddy rocks. As they drifted
away from the dangerous peak, Timrin shook his head, shaken and
angry. He rushed to check on his queen, but Jelena quickly
signaled her safety.

"I'm all right," she proclaimed. "Go on, Timrin. Watch the course."

"You're sure you're all right?" Richius asked her. He still had his
arms around her waist. Flustered, Jelena removed herself from his
embrace.

"I'm fine," she said. "Thank you."

A little ashamed, Richius drew back.

"Tell me now," he said. "Where are we? Is this Karalon?"

Jelena nodded. "Yes. Or part of it. We're very near now."

"This bog? This is where my army is?"

"There's an island at the center of the bog," the queen explained.
"Much bigger than these other islands. That's where your army is,
Richius. They've been waiting for you, bringing in supplies and
getting ready. But it's been hard to get them all here. That's what's
taken so much time."

Richius looked around, astonished by the bleak landscape. He
could hardly believe this boggy, desolated place hid his army.
"Here?" he blurted. "I don't understand. Why?"

"Because it's the safest place for them," said Jelena. There was an
agitation in her tone, a sadness Richius couldn't fathom. She didn't
look out into the night as Richius did, she didn't crane her neck to
see or show the slightest fear of her surroundings. She merely sat
there, mute. Richius took her hand, imploring her to speak.

"Explain it to me," he said gently. "What is this all about?"

Jelena sighed. "Karalon is very remote. There is only one wide
waterway here, and no way to reach the main island on foot.
Anyone who goes to Karalon must take a boat like this one. And
they must know the way, like Timrin does. It's a very dangerous
route. And secret."

"That much is obvious. But why?"

"Because they're all we have," said Jelena angrily. She pulled her
hand away from him. "They're our only hope, Richius. The only
fighters we have to give you. We protect them here because we
can't afford to fight Nar again, not on our own soil."

Suddenly Richius understood. If Nar were to come back as Queen
Jelena feared, there was no way they could reach her precious
army, not here in remote Karalon. Even the big guns of
dreadnoughts would be useless in this rugged terrain of rivers and
lagoons. They were probably far from any Lissen city or major
waterway, deep inside the folds of the Hundred Isles, where no
Naren could ever hope to find them or destroy their last hope for
revenge. Richius gave the queen a sympathetic smile, conveying
his understanding. They were indeed a beautiful race, these
Lissens. And desperate beyond imagining.

"So you keep the men here to protect them," he said.

"Not just men. Women, too. Anyone old enough and willing to
serve. This is where we house them. This is where you will train
them, make an army out of them. We've brought them here for you,
Jackal."

Richius shook his head. "God, the lengths you've gone to, Jelena!
First you bring me across the world. And now . . ." He shrugged,
unable to find words. "All this. I don't know what to say."

"Say that you were wrong," said Jelena. "Say that we do indeed
have an army for you, and that I would never lie to you."

"I'm sorry," Richius offered. "I've been harsh with you. But I was
afraid. And now I don't know what to think! This is all so
astonishing. All of Liss. It's been so strange for me."

"Stranger than you imagined, I would think," agreed Jelena. "But
now there is work to do. And if we're to succeed against our
enemies, we must trust each other." Her gaze bore into him. "Can
you do that, Richius?"

"I can try," said Richius. "I've already promised I would do my best
for you, Jelena. Do not doubt me on that. Now . . ." He looked
around. "Where is this army of mine?"

"It's a bad way," Timrin answered unexpectedly. "We have to go
slow or we'll bottom out."

"We're not far, Richius," counseled Jelena. "Be patient."

Patience was a virtue Richius had never possessed, but he settled
down as best he could, scanning the watery horizon. Around him,
he could see only obscure shapes in the darkness, the vague
outlines of thin rivers and blowing batches of water grasses. The
rowers had stowed their oars and now were propelling the boat
through the narrow lane with long, muck-covered poles. The steady
sucking sound of mud and water filled the night. Up ahead, barely
lit by lantern light, was the growing outline of an island. It was tall
and sturdy-looking, with a beach of jagged rocks infested with
cattails and sand dunes.

"Is that where we're going?" Richius asked, dreading the answer.

"That is Karalon," replied the queen.

Richius' heart sank. What kind of army could possibly be hidden
here? But despite his dismay, the boat continued toward the island.
Timrin leaned out over the prow, his arm wrapped around the
sternpost, and guided them in. The expert sailors of Liss bested
the treacherous shore, slowly piloting in the craft. Beneath them,
the hull screeched and groaned as rocks and sand dunes scraped
the boat's bottom. Men on both sides of the vessel fought off the
encroaching dangers with their poles, snaking their queen safely
through. At last the boat came to stop, beaching itself with a lurch.
The world fell eerily quiet.

"What now?" asked Richius. "Do we get out?"

Jelena's expression was wicked. "Welcome to Karalon, my hero."

Richius stood up, then helped Jelena to her feet. Timrin and his
men shuffled along the deck, spilling out onto the marshy beach
and lowering the gangplank for the queen. Other sailors grabbed
lanterns from the boat, preparing for the trek in the darkness.
Timrin grabbed one, too, and went to his queen.

"My queen, stay close to me," he advised. He was older than she
by far, and there was real concern in his voice. For the first time
Richius noticed an unhealthy-looking scar across his face, and,
remarkably, only one ear. "I don't want anything happening to you,"
he continued. He put a hand out for his queen. "The way is rocky,
so watch your step."

The three departed the vessel, Timrin and Jelena leading the way,
Richius following close behind. The air was thick and brackish. Tall
patches of cattails tore at them as they walked, hindered by the
unstable ground and the constant, gnawing cold. Timrin's lantern
shined out a path, guiding them up and over the dune. And when at
last he reached the top, he and Jelena paused, looking out over
the island. Richius moved to stand with them at the peak. A flat
meadow greeted him, dotted with tents and ramshackle structures
and burning bright with torches. In the center of the meadow stood
a flagstaff, a tall, slightly bowed tower bearing at its zenith the
proud, sea-serpent standard of Liss. A giant barracks with a
scissor-trussed ceiling stretched in a line toward the horizon, while
on the other side of the field was a training ground, flattened to
pulpy earth by a thousand booted feet.

Richius stood on the dune, letting the wind lash him, amazed at the
encampment.

"This is incredible," he whispered. "This is . . ."

"Your army, Lord Jackal," answered Jelena.

Richius took a deep breath of the brackish air. He saw figures
moving through the encampment, men in Lissen garb and women
with helmets and long hair. Mostly the fields were deserted, but
there was stirring in the camp, faces looking toward them. A buzz
was growing. People were pointing toward the hill.

"I want to see them," said Richius. "Right now."

He didn't wait for Timrin or Jelena to lead. He was drawn inexorably
down the hillside, stumbling toward the torchlight. The ground
sucked at his boots, but he fought the soft earth, part running, part
stumbling down the hill. Jelena and Timrin hurried after him. Jelena
called out to Richius, bidding him to slow down, but it was as if he
were in a tunnel and could not hear her, so spellbound was he by
the encampment. Only when he reached the bottom of the giant
dune did he finally pause. A figure was coming toward him. A
woman. Dressed in a long, ragged coat, she wore no covering
over her head, and her hair fell loosely around her shoulders. She
was tall and sturdy-looking, with muscled arms and a lean face that
stared back at Richius across the night, awed and bewildered. Her
wild eyes jumped between Richius and the queen, and then finally
came to rest on Richius again, wide with shock. She stopped
walking toward him, tried to speak and couldn't, then dropped to
her knees in the dirt, bowing deeply.

"It is you," she said over the wind. "Lord Jackal." Richius stood
motionless. Jelena had made it down the slope and was standing
next to him, but the strange woman seemed to pay her sovereign
no homage at all. The devotion, Richius knew, was all for him. As
she knelt before him, she didn't raise her head or risk insulting him
with eye contact. When she spoke her voice was thin, almost
shaking.

"I prayed you would come, Lord Jackal. I prayed to almighty God
you would lead us." "Lord Jackal?" Richius whispered. Jelena
leaned closer to him, saying in his ear, "That is what they call you
here. It's your title. Don't make them change it, I beg you."

The young woman stayed on the ground, keeping her face hidden.
She was barely twenty, but her demeanor bespoke [something]
older. Richius studied her uncertainly, unsure now to address her.
Behind her, milling around the field, were others like her, young
men and women both, all pointing and staring at Richius and their
queen. The grounds were quickly swelling with noisy interest.

"Rise, girl," Richius ordered. He went and stood before her, staring
down at her. The girl-woman looked up hesitantly. She had the
oceanic green eyes of her race and that same, troubled look as
Jelena. She was pretty like Jelena, too. Rougher, less coddled-
looking than the queen, but attractive nonetheless. "Who are you?"
Richius asked. "Tell me your name."

The girl licked her wind-dried lips nervously. "My name is Shii, Lord
Jackal. Now leader of Karalon."

"Leader?"

"Forgive me, Lord Jackal," she stammered. "I correct myself. You
are leader here. I'm just . . ." She struggled for the right word.
"Someone who looks after the others."

"On your feet, Shii of Karalon. No more bowing to me."

The girl looked at him uncertainly. Richius gave her a smile, then
offered his hand.

"Take it," he insisted.

She did, and her callused hands were like sand in his fist. This
wasn't the pampered touch of a queen anymore. Shii had farmer's
hands, the kind of hands that had worked hard. Richius could read
her rough history in the leanness of her face. But she rose to her
feet with pride and stood before him. Others like her were
gathering in the distance. Too shy to step forward, they kept back a
good pace, watching their "leader" greet their arriving lord. Some
bowed to Richius, some to the queen, but all were amazed at the
unexpected visitation. One by one lanterns and candles blinked
awake in the buildings. There were dozens of them, then hundreds,
all of them young and looking at him with wonder.

"They're so young," Richius remarked softly. "Jelena, why?"

"They are the children of Liss, Richius," said the queen. She didn't
come forward to share the adoration, and when she spoke she
spoke retiringly, letting him enjoy the moment. "They're here for
you, to serve and follow you. Today you are Lord Jackal."

"How many?"

When Jelena didn't reply, Richius turned to Shii. "How many are
you?"

"Nine hundred," answered Shii proudly. "Maybe more.

Richius blinked at the number. "That many? Here? On Karalon?"

"Some are still arriving, but yes, Lord Jackal." Shii smiled, pleased
at his pleasure. "We've come to follow you. To avenge Liss."

"Oh, but you're children," sighed Richius. He turned and looked at
her bright face, so earnest and full of broken promises. "Shii,
you're but a girl. You're not over twenty, I can tell."

"I'm almost seventeen," said Shii defensively. "Not such a child,
Lord Jackal. And I can fight. I'm not afraid."

"I'm sure you're not," replied Richius. None of them were afraid.
Ten years of siege had stripped from them anything remotely like
fear. They were bloodthirsty now, carelessly vengeful.
"Seventeen," he chuckled. "Like your queen. But where are the
older people? I expected grown men here."

Shii looked hurt. "The men who are older serve in the navy. We are
what is left to form your army, Lord Jackal. But we are not children.
We're grown. We volunteered for this."

"Some of them could have joined Prakna," said Jelena. "There are
young men here old enough for that duty. But they chose to fight
with you, Richius. They do you honor."

Richius smiled sadly. "They do indeed. Shii, I am honored by you. I
am honored by you all." He looked at her with iron eyes. "And I'll do
my best for you."

"We need to hear that, Lord Jackal," said Shii. "We have waited so
long to greet you. Please don't turn us away."

He put his hand on her shoulder, like he had so many comrades in
the past. "You have my promise. And you'll help me keep my vow.
I'll need you, Shii. If you're the leader here, there's a lot of work for
you to do. I'll need things. And I'll need them fast."

"Tell me anything," said Shii. "I'm yours to command."

"All of them are yours," echoed Jelena. "Look at them, Richius."

Richius looked. He stared past Shii with her eager face, toward all
the others like her, gathering quickly in the cold night to glimpse the
stranger from Nar. And all Richius could think of was their youth,
and all he could feel was their awe. In their eyes was the passion
for vengeance that had left them hollow of anything but anger. Like
Jelena. Like Prakna. The great disease of all Lissens.

Without waiting for Jelena or the others, Richius walked toward the
encampment. He moved into the midst of his waiting army, unsure
what to say. As he approached, the gathered fell to their knees.
And all at once the night filled with the wondrous sound of a
thousand young voices chanting his name.
THIRTY
The Battle of Dragon's Beak

H igh in a tree, Cackle the raven waited, watching the goings-on
below. He had left his mistress Nina long days ago, and had come
to this perch to await the duke, his true master, and to do the
duke's bidding. It had been a long and arduous siege, but Cackle
had been trained from a hatchling to obey, and he moved from
branch to branch only to find food for himself, and never to indulge
in the normal things a raven might, like breeding. His brain, small
though it was, was fixed on a single purpose.

Nina was, the raven supposed, still alone where he had left her.
Part of his mind wondered about her. In his many cold hours of
idleness, Cackle had flashes of her face, and in that way animals
have of worrying, he considered going back for her, to see if she
was all right or if the other ravens had harmed her. But his mission
was more important. Duke Enli would return, and would be
expecting to find him. So Cackle waited, perched not far from
where the jaw of the Dragon's Beak split and became two forks, for
this he knew was where his master would return from, and Cackle
was very dutiful about seeing the duke arrive. For days he had sat
atop the tallest tree he could find, enduring the lashing wind and
snow, until at last his sharp eyes saw something, large and black,
moving toward him and shaking the forest. But the bird still didn't
move, not yet. He was still unsure until he saw their fires, which
were big and bright. Part of Cackle's primitive brain told him that
this was the duke coming home, and he took wing to investigate.

Now that it was nighttime, Cackle had found a new perch.
Unobtrusively, he had alighted in a fir tree over the camp of
soldiers. They were so numerous, they covered the forest floor like
ants, and they had brought machine-things with them, strange and
frightening. The other birds and animals had sensed the danger
and had fled. Cackle had watched them go. He was not in Dragon's
Beak anymore, but rather right on the border, and the river that fed
the homeland of his duke was wide here and clear, a gathering
place for elk. Men usually avoided this thick part of the woods, but
these metal men were without fear. Cackle's eyes narrowed,
searching until he found his red-haired master. And when he did,
the bird felt satisfaction.

Duke Enli was near one of the great blazes, putting his hands up to
the flame. Great puffs of steam drifted from his mouth in the cold.
He was eating. There were other men around him, the metal men
with their shiny skin. Cackle was right above them now. The raven
never took his eyes from his master. And then at last it
happened—Duke Enli acknowledged him.

It was only for a moment, but it was enough for the bird to know he
had been noticed. Something like a smile crossed the master's
lips. And Cackle, cold and satisfied, settled down with a ruffle of
his feathers and patiently waited for the duke's summons.

Duke Enli sat by the fire, warming his frozen hands and doing his
best not to gaze upward and betray his raven. When he saw
Cackle, he smiled to himself. The bird was close by, low enough in
the trees to be easily seen. It was late now, and the day of riding
had exhausted Enli. All around him, Vorto's legionnaires went
through the usual rituals, tending fires and making food, and rolling
out beds for the night. The column of soldiers stretched far down
the road, disappearing into the dark. Campfires burned all along
the roadside. Horses and greegans drank from the river, sating
their enormous thirst, and animal tenders covered the steeds with
blankets and oiled the leathery hides of the greegans to stave off
the skin-cracking cold. On the other side of the road, Enli could
see war wagons burdened down with rocket and acid launchers.
And the wagon of the poison—the stuff Vorto called Formula
B—was positioned safely away from the fires, under heavy guard,
patrolled by teams of sword-bearing legionnaires. Without wanting
to, Enli's eyes flicked up at Cackle, acknowledging his pet with a
blink. Now that the bird was here, Enli could finally relax. Things
were going perfectly.

He picked up his plate full of beans and bits of meat and started
eating. He was famished from the day's ride and the dreary food
was delicious to him. Around him, Faren and the other men ate,
too, oblivious to the bird in the trees and listening with disinterest to
General Vorto. Vorto had already eaten and was now shaving his
head with a straight-razor, dipping the blade periodically into a
helmet full of river water. His gleaming scalp froze over with ice
crystals in the ungodly wind, but Vorto ignored what should have
been painful, carefully cutting down every hair as he spoke. ". . . by
afternoon," he bragged. "And then on to Gray Tower."

Enli sighed as he ate, barely hearing the general. For weeks now
he had endured the same arrogant predictions every night, of how
they would first roll into the north fork, taking down Eneas' troops
before storming the tower. Vorto was supremely confident of
victory, and now, on the eve of battle, he was jubilant. His head
shaving, he had explained, was a ceremony.

"I always shave my head before battle," he explained. "It makes
me look bigger."

Bigger was one thing the general didn't need to worry about, but he
kept up with his ritualistic shave, slowly drawing the razor over his
head until it was completely bald and gleamed in the moonlight. As
he ate, Enli snickered at Vorto. Over the past month he had grown
to hate the general, and was looking forward to killing him. If all
went well, Vorto would be dead by this time tomorrow. Enli would
be back in Red Tower, and all of Dragon's Beak would be his to
rule. Biagio's grand design was coming together flawlessly.

"So, Enli," barked Vorto as he rinsed his head with icy water. "Why
so glum? I thought you'd be the most talkative of us all tonight."

The duke swallowed his mouthful of food, trying to think of
something to say. He didn't like talking to Vorto. Just looking at him
was effort enough. "I think we should be very careful about getting
cocky," he said at last. "We're still not in Dragon's Beak yet,
General. Who knows what we'll find over the border?"

"Bah," Vorto scoffed. "You worry like an old fishwife, Enli. You
should be happy to be home."

The general dried his head with a towel handed to him by his aide,
the stoic Colonel Kye. Throughout the journey, Kye had said
almost nothing. Of all the legionnaires, Enli liked Kye best. There
was something contemplative about the colonel, something
genuine. And he wasn't at all like his superior, always spouting holy
writ. Kye stood dutifully beside Vorto, waiting for the towel to be
handed back. He never ate until the general did. And never did he
have a cross word or say anything to hint at his feelings. He was an
enigma, this Naren colonel, impossible to read. Still, Enli thought
he looked troubled.

"When we're done and I've returned to Nar," the general continued,
"I'm going to sit myself down in a bath full of hot water. And I'm not
going to get out of it for days. God, the weather here! You must
have skin like a greegan, Enli, to endure such misery."

"It's in the blood, General," Faren piped in. Always eager to defend
Dragon's Beak, the soldier never let an insult of his homeland pass
unchallenged. "We grow hardy men up here. Not like your
legionnaires, too accustomed to the sun all year."

Vorto laughed. "Hardy? Hardy like a maggot, I say. I look forward
to wasting Eneas' rabble and being done with it."

"We shall see," said Enli warily. "Tomorrow will tell much. They'll be
ready for us, though. We should be prepared. Eneas' men have
surely seen us by now."

"No doubt," agreed Vorto. "But it hardly matters. Look around, Enli,
We have enough men here to easily best your brother's troops.
They'll know that as soon as they look at us. There may be no fight
at all." The notion made Vorto frown. "I'd prefer a fight, to be
honest. But it's likely we've come this way for nothing. You'll be
sitting on your brother's throne by nightfall."

Enli couldn't take it anymore. "You forget the army of the air,
Vorto," he said sharply.

"I have not," the general retorted. "I simply have no fear of them.
They are birds, and only a fool would be afraid of birds."

The duke smiled. "And you're not a fool, are you, Vorto?"

"No, I am not," declared Vorto proudly. "But I am hungry. Kye, get
us some food. I need my strength for the coming day. Meat!
Meeeat!"

Kye nodded wordlessly and stalked off to get them both some
food. While he was gone, General Vorto sat down with Enli and his
men, putting his hands to the fire and grinning like a madman. His
enormous shadow fell across Enli's face like an eclipse. Enli
watched him in the firelight, eager for the morrow when his ravens
would peck out his eyes and send all his legion with him to hell.
They were his one, great chance, the ravens. Without them, Enli
knew his plan would fail. He hadn't the force needed to defeat
Vorto's soldiers, but the army of the air, he knew, could destroy
them.

"I'll ride out in the morning and rally my men," said Enli. "Whatever
is left of my army, I'll bring to join your legions here."

Vorto shook his head. "No. Ride out and gather your men if you
wish, Enli, but I won't wait. I have force enough to show Eneas.
And I'm eager to move against him. We don't need your troops to
back us up. I doubt that there are many of them left, anyway."

Enli raised his eyebrows, hoping what he heard was true. "You'll
push on to Gray Tower, then? Without me?"

"You and what's left of your army can catch up with us. But yes, I
intend to drive straight on to Eneas. He will see us from Gray
Tower and surrender, I'm sure. And if not . . ." Vorto sighed with
pleasure. "So much the better. I will kill him, and all his wretched
birds." Then he crossed himself and closed his eyes. "For God,"
he added. "We do it for God."

Colonel Kye returned with two plates of food. One plate, heaped
high with beans and meat, he handed to the general as he sat
down. Vorto took up his spoon and began shoveling the hot stew
down his throat with remarkable speed, hardly pausing to breathe.
After a minute of non-stop eating, he let out an enormous belch.
Enli grimaced, disgusted with the company. Not all these Narens
were like Vorto, but Enli could still see killing them. Without
remorse, he thought of his lead raven in the trees above, and how
on the morrow Dragon's Beak would be his. If Grath and the other
mercenaries were waiting for him as planned, and if Nicabar had
managed to get his dreadnoughts into position, then the day would
be interesting indeed.

Drive to Gray Tower, Vorto, thought Enli happily. Nicabar will see
you there. Vorto was such a perfect fool.

The next morning, at the first hint of dawn, Enli gathered Faren and
the others and made ready for the trip across the border. They
would ride just beyond the woods to the village of Larn, where,
hopefully, Grath and the mercenaries would be waiting for them.
Enli shook off his nervousness as he mounted his horse,
desperate to be gone from the camp. The next time he saw the
general, he would be a corpse.

"Don't wait for us," Enli told Vorto as he settled into his saddle.
"Take your men and head for Gray Tower. We'll catch up. There
may not be many of us, but we'll be there."

"Come when you can," Vorto agreed. "We'll try to save something
for you."

For a brief second Enli stared into Vorto's eyes, searching for one
reason not to kill the man. He found nothing. Vorto stared back at
him with a kind of confusion.

"You look afraid, Enli," he observed. "Do not be. We will win your
land for you."

The duke smirked. "Yes," he said softly. "Thank you, General."

Enli reined his horse around and rode off, his fellows of Dragon's
Beak following. They plunged into the still-dark morning, taking the
road toward their homeland and heading toward the south fork,
Enli's own fork, where Grath and the Dorians would be waiting for
them. None of them spoke as they rode, but Enli could feel the
glee of his men, all of them eager to be away from the Narens and
to join with their hired brothers. Enli wanted to laugh, but he let only
an unseen smile creep beneath his red beard, and when they had
ridden for long minutes and were deep in the forest, Enli brought
his horse to a sudden stop. Faren and the others did the same.
Enli looked over his shoulder and saw nothing but dark forest
behind him. Listening, he heard nothing. Satisfied, he gazed
heavenward, putting two fingers in his mouth and whistling.

"Cackle!" he cried. "Come to me, my friend. It's safe now!"

His eyes scanned the dark canopy of branches and the spots of
sky peeking through. Long seconds passed. His men began to
murmur. But Enli was confident, and in a moment a black speck
wheeled overhead, becoming ever larger as it spiraled down. Duke
Enli thrust out his arm, summoning the creature. Cackle swooped
down in a graceful arc, alighting on his master. When he saw Enli's
red-bearded grin, the raven laughed. "Master," it cawed. "Home!"
"Home indeed, my friend," declared the duke. With his free hand
he took up the raven and brought it to his face, gazing into its onyx
eyes. "You've done well, my beautiful bird," he crooned. "Tell me
the others are ready for me. What of my army of the air?"

The raven bobbed its head, its awkward signal for "yes."

"Then we ride," Enli declared. He put the bird on his shoulder and
turned to his men. "For Larn, lads. And be quick, like the wind."

Quick they were, riding hard in the growing light, racing down the
narrow forest road toward the south fork. There were farms and
villages nearby, but Larn was the closest, and as they thundered
through the dawn Enli's heart raced, hoping that Grath had indeed
bested the troops of his brother and cleared the way for Vorto's
run to Gray Tower.

We will drive him to the ocean, thought Enli. We will drive him there
and destroy him!

Nicabar's dreadnoughts would do the rest. Trapped between the
naval guns and the army of the air, Vorto's battalion would be
decimated.

"Ride, lads," urged the duke. "We race against time." The sun was
fully up when at last the riders reached the village of Larn. It was a
tiny community of farmers and smiths, all nested together in small
stone houses. At this time of year, with the cold and snow, Larn
was a sleepy bump in the road, barely alive in the choking winter.
Enli knew it was the perfect place to hide his army. Being so close
to the border, they could strike at the north fork in an hour. As they
rode into Larn, Enli called out for his mercenaries.

"Grath!" he shouted. "We are here. We are here!" He saw his hired
soldiers, waiting impatiently on horseback in the center of the
village. The people of Larn had shuttered themselves in their
homes, giving the warriors full run of their village. There were at
least three hundred of them, milling around aimlessly. They were a
cruel-looking lot, and in their eclectic armor they seemed like a
fractured mosaic of colors and metal, a sea of unruly barbarians.
Long spears glinted in the new morning sun and unshaven faces
laughed, and when they saw the approaching duke, the
mercenaries hardly stirred to attention. Enli raced up to them,
looking around for their leader. "Where's Grath?" he barked. "Tell
me!" Some of the duke's own men, who were mixing within the
throng, trotted over quickly to greet him. Yarlyle, a dragon soldier of
Red Tower, led the procession. He looked gaunt and worried. Enli
glared at him.

"What is it, Yarlyle?" he growled. "What's wrong?"

"My Duke, I'm sorry," the soldier stammered. "Grath isn't here. He
is . . ." Yarlyle frowned. "Dead, sir."

"Dead?" blurted Enli. "How?"

"Killed in the fighting?" asked Faren.

"No, sir," said Yarlyle. He addressed Faren directly, who was his
superior. "Not in the fighting. He was killed by the beasts, we think.
The ravens."

Enli fell back in his saddle with a groan. "Explain it all to me," he
ordered. "Quickly, man. I want answers!"

Yarlyle explained how the mercenaries had subdued the north fork.
As per Enli's orders, the town of Westwind and all of Eneas' troops
had been slaughtered.

"So?" said Enli. "This is good news. What happened to Grath?"

Yarlyle grimaced. "My Duke, I'm sorry, but . . ."

"What?"

"Your daughter," said the man shakily. "Nina. Grath and some
others took her to Gray Tower. They did not return."

It took a moment for the words to sink in, and when they did Enli's
jaw fell open with a moan. "Nina?" he gasped. "My Nina?"

"Sir . . ."

"Nina! Oh, God, God!" groaned Enli, balling up a fist. It was
unthinkable. Faren and the others were speaking, trying to comfort
him, but he heard their words as if through a fog.

"You're sure?" he managed. "You have seen her dead?"

"I have not," said Yarlyle. "But truly, it is impossible for her to have
lived. The ravens—"

"No!" Enli railed. "They would not have harmed her if Cackle was
with her!" He turned angrily toward the bird. "Tell me," he
demanded. "Where is Nina, Cackle? Does she live?"

The mention of Nina's name made the raven dance excitedly.
"Nina!" he cawed. "Alive! Alive!"

Enli held his breath. Alive! Cackle would know, surely. And if she
were alive, there was only one place she could be.

"Good Lord," Duke Enli cried. "Gray Tower."

General Vorto rode at the front of his thousand-man column,
resplendent in his armor and newly shaved head. On his back
rested his giant war-axe, and in his heart was the need for blood.
Colonel Kye rode in silence next to him, brooding over the cold,
and beside the colonel trotted a standard-bearer, a proud young
man bearing aloft the Light of God, high and white so everyone
could see. The sound of snorting horses and clanking armor filled
the air, and Vorto could hear the reassuring, grinding din of the war
wagons as they rolled forward on their metal tracks. They had set
out an hour ago and were making steady progress, having already
crossed the border into Dragon's Beak. A peculiar calm lay before
them, making the general uneasy. This was the one real road into
the north fork. He was sure the inhabitants had spotted them by
now. They hadn't reached a homestead yet, but their numbers
were too big to conceal, and General Vorto frowned a little in the
biting wind.

"We should ride ahead," suggested Kye. "Find out what's waiting
for us. Or else wait for Enli to return. He knows the terrain better."

"Look around, Kye," said Vorto. "There's nothing here to threaten
us. We go on."

"General, I think—"

"I don't care what you think, Kye. Really, I don't." Vorto didn't like
being questioned, especially by Kye, who lately was less loyal than
he should be. The general was beginning to think his aide a
coward. "We don't need Enli and his dregs. And it looks to me like
the fighting's stopped on its own, damn it all to hell."

Kye wasn't convinced. "It's winter," he reminded his superior.
"Wars like this aren't fought in the winter. Perhaps they've called a
truce until spring. Or perhaps they've seen us, and are laying a
trap."

"A trap? With what? Eneas has maybe two hundred men. Probably
half that now from the fighting. You worry too much, Colonel. We
ride on."

Colonel Kye looked over his shoulder. Their numbers were vast
indeed, enough to easily crush Eneas' troops. Yet there was real
fear in Kye's expression, and it soured Vorto to see it. The general
sighed bitterly, turning on his aide.

"Tell me, Colonel," he said. "What worries you? The ravens?"

"Yes," Kye replied. "And the quiet."

"We carry the Light of God into battle, Kye. Have faith. God will
protect us."

"I prefer the protection of my sword, General."

Vorto laughed. "I wear no helmet because I fear nothing, Colonel
Kye. I am protected by Heaven. You should have that kind of faith."

"I have instinct," Kye argued. "That serves me well enough, sir."

"Faith, Kye," repeated Vorto. "Faith."

They rode on in silence, and the column behind them ground
forward. A snow began to fall, adding to their misery. Slowly at first,
it soon quickened into a white fog that whipped at their faces and
speckled the road. The horses snorted and greegans honked, but
Vorto's legion didn't grumble or complain. The general stuck his
face into the wind, smiling.

They are the best, he reminded himself proudly. They will do as
expected.

But when the snow began to thicken, Vorto himself grumbled. His
head was burning from the cold, and Kye was periodically blowing
into his hands, trying to warm them. They would need shelter if the
storm kept up. Should they stop and make camp? the general
wondered. He bit down hard on the notion. No. There was work to
do, and do it they would, and so they continued to ride, though the
road became slick, and soon they were in a clearing rolling with
hills and dotted on the horizon by shabby homesteads and farms.
Again Vorto thought to stop, but a happy exclamation from Kye
changed his mind.

"There, sir," said the colonel. "Look."

Vorto peered through the wind-blown snow. Across the hills, far off
in the distance, stood what looked like a village. From his vantage
the place looked decrepit and old, but it was shelter from the
storm, and the sight of the village lightened Vorto's mood. He
brought up his hand and ordered his column forward.

"Ride with me, Colonel," the general ordered, then spurred his
horse on faster, eager to learn what the village could teach him.
Colonel Kye snapped his reins and chased after his leader, and
soon the pair were far ahead of the others, dashing through the
storm toward the collection of broken homes and storefronts.
Vorto knew that the people of the village had seen them by now.
He expected to find peasants waiting for him when he reached the
village, gawking at him in the middle of the avenues. But when he
and Colonel Kye rode into the outskirts of the village, he saw no
one. Not a single soul was there to greet him, and all the windows
of all the shops were tightly shuttered. Vorto suddenly pulled in his
reins, abruptly halting his charger. Something in the streets
disturbed him.

"What is it?" Kye asked, bringing his own steed to a stop beside
Vorto's.

The general stared very hard at the village and its avenues of dirt
and gravel, scanning it all with a practiced eye. The snow hadn't
been falling very long and still left uncovered patches of earth
beneath his feet. There were hundreds of hoof marks in the dirt all
around him, the telltale marks of hard riding. And the eerie quiet of
the homes spoke to him loudly, reminding him of Goth. He looked
around, studying the buildings. There were people inside them,
watching him, fearing him.

"They've seen us," he told Kye. "Even now they watch us."

Kye spied the buildings, confused. "It's cold and storming.
Maybe—"

"No, Kye. Look at the ground. Horses have been here. Lots of
them. Recently, too."

Kye nodded, understanding. "A battle?"

"Maybe. Or maybe they just rode on."

"But where are the soldiers?" Kye asked. "Where are Eneas'
men?"

Vorto chewed on the question for a long time. Defeated, maybe?
Had Enli's men been that good? Had they already won? The
general looked around suspiciously, unsure what to think or say. He
listened to the snow falling, listened to the wind. He needed
answers but the town wasn't talking.

Angry, he rode deeper into the village and drove his horse right up
to the door of a storefront. Kye followed, confused. The general
dismounted and unstrapped the battle axe from his back. Without
asking why, Kye drew his own weapon, a thin sword of polished
steel. Vorto didn't wait for anyone to answer the door. He didn't
even knock. Instead he lifted up a heavy boot and slammed it into
the door, kicking it open in an explosion of splinters. There was a
scream from inside and the cry of a child. Vorto clasped his hands
firmly around his axe and stepped inside the darkened home.

"In the name of Archbishop Herrith, come out!" he bellowed. "I
order it!"

There was more worried gibbering from the shadows. Vorto's eyes
adjusted to the light.

"I am General Vorto of Nar!" he roared. "Come out now, or face my
judgment!"

At last there was movement from a darkened corner. A cowering
figure appeared in a doorway, followed by two more. It was a man,
a farmer from the looks of him, and his wife and daughter. All of
them looked at Vorto fearfully. The child, barely past toddling,
clutched at her mother's dress.

"Come here," Vorto ordered, trying to sound mild. He lowered his
axe just enough to encourage them. "All of you."

The man led his little family out of their hiding place and into the
center of the room. He averted his eyes, looking down at his feet.
Vorto studied them all quickly, and, realizing they were no threat,
took a step closer. The girl with the wild eyes cried when she saw
his face, bursting into tears. Frantically her mother tried to calm her.

"Be easy," Vorto told them. "You'll not be harmed. I am General
Vorto, supreme commander of the legions of Nar."

The farmer grimaced. "Yes, sir," he said meekly. "We've done
nothing wrong, sir. I swear it. We were just afraid. All of us in the
village. Just afraid."

"Afraid of what?" Vorto asked. "Enli's men?"

"Yes, sir," said the man. He finally looked up at Vorto, brightening.
"You've come to help us against them? Enli's mercenaries?"

Vorto blinked. Unsure how to answer, he simply said nothing. He
gave a questioning look to Kye, who returned it with equal
confusion. A terrible feeling of dread quickly swept over the
general.

"What mercenaries?" he asked. "What are you talking about?"

"Dorians," said the man nervously. He patted his daughter's head
to quiet her. "Fighting alongside Enli's dragon troops from Red
Tower. Hundreds of them."

Colonel Kye groaned. "My God . . ."

"Tell me everything," Vorto insisted. "What happened here?"

Suddenly the farmer seemed as confused as they were, but he
explained how Duke Enli's men had invaded, killing Duke Eneas,
and how the north fork had been ruined. The mercenaries, he said,
had slaughtered Westwind, a town just outside of Gray Tower.

"There's nothing left of Duke Eneas' army," said the man. "Maybe
the ravens still live, I don't know. But we've been afraid to leave our
homes. There's no one to defend us now. And if the mercenaries
come back . . ."

Vorto put up a hand to silence him. He needed to think, to decipher
this puzzle Enli had laid at his feet. He felt warm suddenly, flush
with fear.

"Clever beast," he whispered.

Enli had lured nearly a thousand legionnaires away from Nar City.
Now they were trapped on this peninsula, miles from home, with
winter bearing down on them. Dorian mercenaries, too. The
general ran a hand over his bald scalp nervously.

"Kye," he said simply. "We're in trouble."

"We should hold up here," said the colonel quickly. "Make a stand
against them."

It was a good idea, but not good enough.

"No," said Vorto. "We need a better place to fight from." Quickly he
turned again to the farmer, demanding, "Gray Tower. Is it
undefended?"

"I don't know," stammered the man. "I think so."

"That's it, then," said the general. He grabbed hold of Kye's
shoulder, spinning him toward the door. "Quickly, Kye. We have to
move."

Duke Enli rode like a madman through the gathering storm, loudly
exhorting his men to follow. Three hundred strong, they galloped
along the slick road, through the howling wind and driving snow, to
the north fork of Dragon's Beak and the waiting forces of Nar.
Faren rode beside him, and Cackle the raven wheeled above,
leading them deeper into the unknown. Enli's beard was stiff with
snow and frozen spittle. At his side his long sword slapped, eager
for blood. The hot flesh of his horse steamed in the cold, run to a
lather in the duke's zeal. They had long ago crossed the border
and had already galloped through the first village. As Faren had
predicted, it was shut up tight, and they hadn't bothered to stop for
rest or information. Enli had known from the newly disturbed snow
that Vorto had already passed through the village. He could see
the wide tracks the war wagons had cut through the ice and the
obvious prints of galloping horses. Vorto's men had moved
quickly.

He has discovered me, thought Enli nervously. He knows we have
trapped him.

Now he would go to Gray Tower to make his stand. Enli cursed
himself, hating his arrogance. If Nina was still alive, she would
certainly be there waiting for him. Vorto would discover her and . . .

Unable to bear the thought, he banished it from his mind. With
ferocious single-mindedness he grit his teeth, refusing to accept
defeat. If Nina still lived, he would rescue her. He would, and no
one—not even Vorto—would stop him.

They were in a meadow now, wide and white with snow. The trail
they were following was almost invisible, blanketed in ice, and the
winds howling off the hills tore through their garments and dug at
their skin, eating it alive. Enli's face burned with pain. If he could
have seen his nose, he knew it would be black with frostbite. Great
gushing tears poured from his eyes to stave off the wind, and his
fingers bled beneath his gloves. Worse, his Dorians and dragon
troops were faring no better. They rode with him because they
knew they must, and because Vorto would turn on them all if their
trap failed. But they were weary now from riding, hungry and
unbearably cold. And Enli didn't know what they would be facing.
He knew only that his daughter, whom he still called a daughter
despite all evidence, was in desperate trouble, and that the love he
had for her could make him endure any cold.

What seemed like an eternity passed in the storm. And then
through the gales Enli saw the moving horde of Vorto's troops. He
raised his hand, bringing his column to a halt. The Light of God
flew above the legion. A dozen war wagons pulled by giant
greegans trudged along, and the horses drove on, undaunted,
toward Gray Tower. They were very close to the tower now. Enli
could see the first inklings of it from his place atop a hill. But the
ocean beyond was hidden, and he could not tell if Nicabar and his
dreadnoughts were positioned there as promised. The duke
rubbed his hands together, desperate for a plan. They were
woefully outnumbered. And if Vorto saw them first, they would be
slaughtered. To Enli's mind, there was only one hope.

"Call the ravens," said Faren desperately, as if reading the duke's
mind. "Do it now, before they see us."

"Aye," agreed Enli. It would only take a moment for Vorto's legion
to discover them, and time was their enemy now. He stretched out
his arm toward the sky, shouting, "Cackle! To me!"

The bird, who had been circling overhead, now swooped down to
rest on Enli's arm. Enli looked at the raven desperately.

"I need you now, my friend," he said. "Call your brothers. Bring
them here and attack our enemies. Kill, Cackle! Kill!"

He snapped his arm and sent Cackle winging skyward. The bird
hurried into the storm, sailing toward the western horizon and Gray
Tower. Enli watched him go, licking his lips with worry. A thousand
yards away, he saw Vorto's legion coming to an unexpected stop.

"There they are!" seethed Vorto, pointing eastward. "There they
are!"

Through the gauzy snowfall he had sighted them, waiting on an
eastern hillside. There were three hundred, he supposed. Maybe
more. And Dorians, just as the farmer had claimed. Vorto could tell
by their haphazard colors that they were indeed mercenaries.
Among them was a sprinkling of Enli's dragon troops, dressed in
spiky armor and bearing the reptilian helmets of their ilk. One by
one, the heads of Vorto's legion turned eastward to see their
enemy. The column came to an abrupt halt.

"We have them now," Vorto laughed delightedly. He shook his fist
in the air, hoping Enli could see him. "I have you, you traitorous
dog! You're no match for us!"

He was glad he had brought so many men with him, glad he had
war wagons and acid launchers for the fight. Enli had miscalculated
the force he would bring, and it would be the duke's undoing.

"Stupid, stupid man," said Vorto. "Today you die." Vorto looked
around quickly, studying the terrain. They were in a snow-covered
valley between the hills, wide out in the open with plenty of room to
maneuver. That, along with their sheer numbers, gave them the
advantage.

"This will be our battlefield, Kye," he said. "We will fight here!"

"Sir, they won't attack us," said the colonel. "When the mercs
realize how many we are, they will retreat."

"Then we will run them down, Colonel Kye! For God and country,
we shall destroy them! Make your men ready. This is why we've
come so far!"

Without wasting another word, General Vorto thundered eastward,
toward the hill where his enemies waited, and shook his giant fist
again and cursed all manner of creatures in the name of God. He
was possessed now, frozen to the bone and full of violence. And
when he had separated himself from his legion, standing apart so
he was easily seen, he spun his horse around and addressed
them.

"We have been deceived, my men!" he cried. "But our true enemy
shows himself! There, on yonder hill! Duke Enli!"

The legion of Nar let out a battle cry, pushing back the storm with
their fury. General Vorto unstrapped the gleaming battle axe from
his belt and brandished it.

"We have come to fight!" he shouted. "Are you ready?"

Another cheer, bold and bloody, rose up from the ranks. Swords
leapt from scabbards and banged against shields in an anxious
drumbeat. Greegans honked, filling the air with a prehistoric noise,
and battle-ready horses pranced, eager to take their riders to the
fight. Colonel Kye rode through the soldiers, shouting orders and
positioning his battalions. War wagons circled around to flank the
men, readying their acid launchers. Formula B, that noxious stuff
that could kill them all, was in the center of the crowd, still heavily
guarded by a troop of brawny soldiers. Vorto smiled, proud of his
men. They wouldn't need the formula today. Today it would be old-
fashioned steel.

He turned back to the hillside. Enli and his men were still there.
Surprised they hadn't run yet, Vorto waved at them.

"Can you see me, Enli?" he shouted. "I'm going to kill you!"

There was a speck on the hill that looked vaguely like the duke.
Vorto could just make out the hint of a red beard. As he shouted,
the speck stared back at him, resolute, unmoving. Vorto took it as
an insult.

"Brave bastard, aren't you?" he muttered. "We shall see about
that."

"Good God!" someone cried.

Vorto whirled. He looked out over his men, confused, then noticed
they were all staring westward. The general's eyes narrowed on the
horizon. Something gigantic was moving toward them, a storm
cloud maybe, big and black. Over the wind he heard a high-pitched
tremor, like a thousand squeaky hinges opening. The thing that
approached was moving quickly, too animated to be a storm, and
far too loud to be a thunder-head. All at once Vorto's soldiers
pointed skyward, gibbering and terrified. The general himself sat
upon his horse, dumbfounded by what he was seeing. If the ocean
were black and could fly, the thing would be a tidal wave.

"Mother of God," he whispered. "What in hell is that?"

But he knew what it was, and the revelation made him wither. The
army of the air was winging toward him, filling the world with its
horrible noise, bearing down on them with sharpened talons. Vorto
crossed himself, begging God for strength. Never in all his
imaginings had he considered anything like this. He rode back to
his men, flailing his arms to get their attention.

"Be easy!" he ordered, hoping to steady them. "They are only
birds! We will fight them! And we will win!"

Yet even as he made his claim, Vorto doubted its likeliness. The
rapidly approaching beasts were like something from Hell, huge in
the extreme and winged like demons. The air throbbed with their
cries.

Determined not to die like a coward, General Vorto wrapped his
fists around his axe handle and waited for his enemies to descend.

From his place atop the hill, Duke Enli watched the ravens fill the
sky and fall upon the unprotected Narens. It was a horror to behold,
and of such great pleasure to Enli that he could not help but grin.
The ravens, he knew, would decimate the brigade, no matter how
many or how well armed. They were in the open, easy prey for the
flying monsters despite their metal armor, and would be driven one
by one to their knees until the beasts pulled their helmets off and
ate their eyeballs out. Duke Enli put his hands to his frostbitten
nose. It had gone numb.

"My God," whispered Faren. The soldier's face was drawn with
shock. "God help those poor wretches."

"What?" joked Enli. "God is on their side, remember? Surely He
will help them."

"Should we attack?" asked one of the mercenaries. "Drive them to
the tower?"

"No need," said Enli. "We'll let the ravens pick them clean first.
Then we will go to the tower—alone."

And find Nina, he hoped. Vorto was the only thing blocking him
from his daughter. Duke Enli grit his teeth, worried about the girl.
He loved her truly, and to think of her gone was untenable. So
instead he focused on the melee at his feet, pushing the ghastly
image of a dead daughter from his mind, and hoped against hope
that she still lived, and that these ravenous birds hadn't gotten her.

"Please God," he whispered. "Let her be all right."

Or maybe it was as Vorto claimed, that God only heard the prayers
of the faithful. If God was truly Vorto's God, Enli knew his daughter
was doomed.

Colonel Kye was in a panic. The sky had turned black and the earth
was shaking, and all he could feel was the scrape of talons against
his body and the insistent hammering of knifelike beaks. He was
still on his horse, though only barely, and the thickness of feathers
had blinded him so that he couldn't tell where Vorto was or even if
the general still lived. All around him, men were shouting and
swinging swords uselessly, and the ground was littered with fallen
horses, their bellies picked apart by beaks. Kye had dropped his
own sword and was using his hands to shield his helmeted head.
As he rode through the insanity he felt the nutcracker jaws of the
ravens chewing at his fingers, trying to pry them loose. He wanted
to scream but could not, for there was precious little breath in him
to waste.

Kye's horse stumbled through the snow, unsure where to go. The
colonel tried to steer it westward, toward the distant tower and,
maybe, to safety. But the ground was choked and slick with ice. His
horse faltered. Ravens screamed everywhere, and as he moved
amidst the battle, Kye heard the cries of tortured men as the birds
somehow managed to pull off helmets and feast on the flesh
beneath.

Fighting was useless; Kye knew that now. He had to call retreat, try
and make it to Gray Tower. And then another thought occurred to
him, a dark thought that made his insides curdle. The formula. If its
cannisters were damaged . . .

"General!" Kye screamed. "Where are you?"

He swatted his way through the ravens, searching for Vorto. At last
he found the general, near the wagons with the cannisters,
desperately trying to retrieve a discarded helmet from the ground.
Kye caught a glimpse of Vorto's bare head, now scarred horribly
and bleeding. The colonel steered his frenzied horse up to the
general.

"General!" he cried, offering his hand. "It's Kye! Take my hand. We
have to retreat!"

Vorto was in a daze. His bloodshot eyes blinked at Kye through the
slits in the helmet. On wobbly legs he moved forward, grabbing the
colonel's hand and letting him pull him up onto the horse. Kye's
charger whinnied under the weight but didn't stumble or throw
them.

"To the tower," Vorto seethed. "We have to get to the tower."

"Sir, the formula. We can't—"

"I've already told the others to guard it," wheezed Vorto. "Once we
reach the tower, we can launch the poison against the beasts. God,
Kye, call retreat. Hurry!"

Seeing Vorto's weakened state, Colonel Kye took up command,
waving his hands and crying out to his men. "Retreat!" he bellowed.
"To the tower!"

Admiral Danar Nicabar was weary.

For five days now, he and his small fleet of dreadnoughts had
been anchored off the coast of Nar, taking up positions within
range of Gray Tower. It was tedious, boring work, and Nicabar felt
useless, as if the entire world was somewhere else, living its life
while he was stuck in this frozen wasteland. An arctic wind blew
across the deck of the Fearless, biting through the admiral's long
coat. Snow had been falling for over an hour, cutting down his
visibility, but he kept an eye glued to his spyglass, hoping vainly to
see something interesting. On the deck beneath him, the big
cannons of his flagship were trained on the tower, primed and
ready to fire. Black City and Intruder were also in position, to the
flagship's bow and stern. They had the ancient tower in their sights,
in an inescapable cross fire that would bring it crumbling down, and
Nicabar was anxious to give the order. But so far, Vorto hadn't
shown.

"Don't cheat me, General," said Nicabar to himself. "I've come a
long way for this, you big bastard."

He had endured the cold and the long voyage, lived through the
tedium without losing his mind, and all for the simple pleasure of
blasting Vorto to Hell. As he stared through his spyglass, he
wondered what might have happened to the Naren. Maybe Enli's
schemes had been discovered. But Nicabar had seen the ravens
take flight an hour ago. Surely they were on their way. Gray Tower
was the only cover for Vorto's men. He would order them there.
Nicabar was sure of it.

"Call down to the gun deck," he said to a boatswain. "Have them
check the azimuths on the cannons. I don't want any mistakes."

"Sir, they've been checked," said the sailor. "Just a moment ago."

"Well, check them again!" Nicabar growled, sending the young
man off in a scurry. The admiral lowered the spyglass and
collapsed it with a curse. No one knew the pressure he was under,
the enormous strain of their mission. If it worked, Vorto would be
dead, along with a goodly chunk of his army. What was the matter
with all these fools, not to see the importance of it? Nicabar shook
his head. He had already had so many disappointments in his
career, had seen the loss of the Empire to Herrith and lost a ten-
year battle against Liss. Now, on the eve of Vorto's destruction, he
couldn't bear the thought of failing again. All he needed was a little
luck, and for Vorto to have the common sense to come in out of
the rain.

A sudden shout from the rigging grabbed the admiral's attention.
He snapped his spyglass open again and peered through the
whiteout engulfing Gray Tower. For a moment he saw nothing and
swore at the lookout in the masts, but then his vision cleared and
something came to his eyes, something big and moving
ponderously. Something black and armored.

"Vorto," Nicabar hissed triumphantly. "Welcome to Gray Tower."

He turned to his sailors, who were awaiting his commands. "Make
ready," he said happily. "Tell the gunnery deck to prepare to fire.
Signal Black City and Intruder. And no one fires till I give the order.
This one is all mine."

Vorto and his men reached Gray Tower through a haze of shock
and blood, kicking open the gates of the keep and barreling inside.
They had lost many men, so many Vorto couldn't count. All that he
knew was that he'd left behind a trail of lacerated bodies stretching
from the battlefield to the tower. They had abandoned the
greegans in the frenzy, leaving the war wagons and acid launchers
to Duke Enli, a tactical blunder which might well come back to
haunt them. But they had managed to save the Formula B. The
wagon containing the super-poison was intact, along with a single,
modified launcher. Now, as his men piled into the keep, Vorto
ordered his soldiers to unload the cannisters of Formula B, even
as the monstrous birds continued their endless assault. They were
crashing against the windows now, breaking the glass and tearing
at the shutters. The entry hall of Gray Tower echoed with their
cries. Vorto and Colonel Kye hurried the men inside, urging those
unloading the poison to hurry.

"Quickly now!" Vorto roared through the open door. He had picked
up a sword and was swatting at the beasts buzzing around him like
giant wasps. Kye was tending to the wounded, fretting over their
dwindling numbers. The casualties had been unbelievably high.
Even now, just outside the courtyard, Vorto could see some of his
men being dragged off, pulled into the storm by the impossibly
strong birds. Knowing they had to shut the doors quickly, he
dashed outside to help unload the formula. The wagon was
covered with squawking ravens, violently biting and scratching at
his men, denting helmets with their iron beaks. Vorto threw himself
onto the wagon, crushing a raven beneath his boots and grinding it
to pulp. There were only two of the cannisters left to unload, so the
general wrapped his arms around one of them and lifted it with a
grunt, ignoring the ravens covering him and clawing at his helmet.
Blood from his previous wounds spilled into his eyes, blinding him.
He could hear Kye's voice, encouraging him forward. Next to him,
two others were manhandling the last cannister into the keep. A
raven seized on his helmet just as he staggered into the keep. The
doors shut loudly behind him and Vorto dropped the cannister,
then reached up with his bare hands, pulling the bird from his
shoulders and strangling it with a scream, snapping its neck.

"Damn you!" he roared, tossing the carcass against the wall.
"Damn you to Hell!"

Vorto collapsed to the floor, his whole body battered. He tore off
the pitted helmet and tossed it aside, then ran his hands over his
scalp to feel his hundred wounds. All around him men were
groaning, wide-eyed with shock. Quickly Vorto counted up their
numbers. There were at least a hundred of them in the hall.

A hundred. He closed his eyes in grief. So few. So many more lay
dead outside, a feast for the demon-birds. They were trapped here
now, with no hope of escape save for the formula, and Duke Enli
and his mercenaries would soon be circling outside, making
demands. Vorto balled up a fist and slammed it against the floor.

"We're not done yet," he hissed. "Kye, have some of the men
search this place, anyone who can walk. I want all the windows
closed and shuttered. Doors, too. Barricade them fast. And find
any weapons you can." He looked around the bleak chamber,
realizing only now that not all the bodies in the hall were Naren.
There had been a slaughter here, just like he had seen in
Westwind, the little town below the tower. "God condemn your soul
to Hell, Enli," he said, examining the ruined hall. "Hurry now, Kye.
We don't have much time."

"General, sir?" came a voice from across the hall. "Look at this!"

Vorto looked up, blinking the blood from his eyes. He saw a man at
the end of the hall, one of his soldiers, with another figure next to
him. Vorto blinked again, unsure what he was seeing. A woman?

"What the hell . . .?"

The soldier dragged the woman forward, shoving her toward Vorto.
She was hissing like a snake. The general got unsteadily to his feet
and studied her. Kye did the same, and soon all the men in the hall
had their eyes on the woman.

"Who are you?" Vorto demanded.

"Be damned!" the woman spat.

Vorto's hand shot out and slapped her across the face, sending
her tumbling backward. Vorto stalked after her, taking her jaw in his
hand and squeezing until she screamed.

"I am in no mood for games, wench. Tell me who you are, or I will
throw you out a window for those birds to eat." .

"Nina," she choked. "My name's Nina. I'm—"

"Enli's daughter!" Vorto released her at once. "What are you doing
here, girl? Are you alone?"

She grit her teeth in defiance, but a threatening, raised hand from
Vorto loosened her tongue. "Yes," she said. "I'm alone. I came
here looking for something and got trapped here."

Vorto stepped back with a malicious grin, his mind racing with an
idea. "Kye, I think we have a weapon here."

Duke Enli and his band of mercenaries had chased the Narens into
Gray Tower, a contingency that now had the duke frantic. Just
outside the courtyard, his men began to circle the tower, milling
around on its eastern face where the gates were and where the
ravens now rested, full of blood and waiting for their prey to re-
emerge. Enli fretted as he galloped through the group, unsure what
to do. Gray Tower was locked up tight, and though Vorto's ranks
had been decimated, they suddenly had the advantage of the
fortress. They also had the formula, a secret weapon the duke had
not told his men about. But he was too desperate to call retreat
now. Especially if Nina was inside.

Through the storm, he could see Nicabar's dreadnoughts floating
threateningly on the horizon. He wondered if Vorto had noticed
them yet. He wondered also if he needed to signal the admiral, or if
Nicabar would simply open fire. Enli cursed, wringing his frostbitten
hands. His mercenaries wanted to fall back, to let the Fearless and
her sisters finish what they'd started. There was a murmur of
dissent from the men as they milled about the courtyard. Duke Enli
ignored it, trying to focus on saving his daughter. If she was alive,
then Vorto had probably discovered her by now. The general
would have terms, surely.

"Son of a bitch," muttered Enli, watching the tower's windows for a
sign. "What are you waiting for, Vorto?"

Faren, slick with snow and mud, rode up to his master and gave
him a disapproving scowl. "We must go, Duke Enli," he insisted. "If
the ships open fire, we're done for!"

"We stay," growled the duke. "I won't leave Nina."

"You don't even know if she's alive," said Faren. "Please, listen to
me. Let the ravens guard the tower. Vorto won't dare try to escape.
And we can't do anything to signal Nicabar. We have to go!"

"No!" roared Enli, turning fiercely on his man. "We stay until I know
she's not in there! I won't—"

"Enli, you hellspawn!"

The duke looked skyward, amazed to hear his name. Up on one of
the balconies a door had opened, revealing a fist-shaking figure.

Vorto.

The general's head was pitted with cuts and bleeding badly, and he
had a woman in his arms. Enli gasped when he saw her.

"Oh, God," he groaned. "Nina . . ."

At Nicabar's orders, the signalmen on the deck of the Fearless
waved their flags at Black City and Intruder, giving the go-ahead to
fire. All along the flagship, sailors braced themselves for the
coming concussions, stuffing balled-up fabric in their ears and
holding tight to rigging and rails. Admiral Nicabar lowered his
spyglass confidently, sure that all of Vorto's soldiers were trapped
inside the tower by now. He would give one warning shot to let
Enli's men get clear—then he would pulverize Gray Tower.

"I have waited a long time for this," he said to his lieutenant, a
young man who had spent the last hour standing next to him. "One
shot to start, high across the tower. Let's make Vorto know we're
here. Give the order, please, Lieutenant."

The young man shouted the order down the line. Nicabar folded
his arms across his chest, waiting for the fireworks to start.

"What do you want?" Enli called up to Vorto. He was desperate to
deal, certain he was running out of time. "Tell me and I will
consider it!"

"First, call those beasts away!" demanded Vorto. He had Nina in a
headlock, one massive arm wrapped around her neck. She
struggled to free herself from the unbreakable grip. "Then we'll
talk! Not before, traitor! You know I have the formula. Meet my
demands, or I'll use it, I swear!"

Enli considered the ultimatum. He wasn't at all sure if Vorto was
bluffing, but he knew the risks the formula posed to them all, even
the general. Trapped within the tower, the poison might easily kill
them, too. The duke cringed, knowing he had no choice, but before
he could speak he saw a gigantic flash of light from far off behind
the tower . . .

. . . and then heard the thunderous report.

Overhead, a funnel of flame blasted by, scorching the top of the
tower and burning back the storm. The sky opened in a world-
shaking boom. Enli's horse reared up in a panic, sending the duke
tumbling to the ground, and all around him the steeds broke out in
a frenzy, snorting and whinnying uncontrollably. The men began to
shout. Faren was looking around, astonished. Enli gazed up to the
balcony. Vorto, completely in shock, was craning his neck to peer
at the horizon. Even in the snow the general looked white with
terror.

"The dreadnoughts!" Faren called to Enli. "They're firing! Sir, we
must leave! Now!"

Enli was in a fugue. "Nina," he said blankly. "My God, I have to save
her."

Faren grabbed the duke's sleeve, trying desperately to pull him to
safety. "No, sir!" he shouted. "There's nothing to be done for her!
Come on!"

"Go, Faren!" cried Enli, snapping free of the man's grasp. "Go and
get to safety. All of you! I have to find Nina!"

There was another blast, shattering the sky, and this one was close
enough to feel. Enli's nose now burned with a sudden heat as the
plume from the flame cannon smashed against a tower wall,
wrapping around it like a hand. Two more detonations followed
directly. Enli's head rang with their roars. He grabbed Faren's
shoulders and shook his friend, demanding his attention.

"Hurry, Faren," he insisted. "Take the others and get back to Red
Tower."

Faren's face collapsed with grief. "My Duke . . ."

"Do it!" screamed Enli. With all his strength he pushed Faren
toward the woods, then turned and ran toward the barred gates of
Gray Tower.

Inside the hall, Colonel Kye could hardly believe his bleeding ears.
The place had become a chamber of echoes, so loud and painful
Kye thought his teeth would rattle from his jaw. His already
wounded men were beginning to vomit from the pressure, hardly
able to get to their feet as the barrage hammered their haven and
made the walls shake. Vorto hadn't returned from the top of the
tower, and Kye wondered if he would at all. He recognized the
sound of naval guns and knew they were in a cross fire. Weakly,
his head swimming with pain, he put his hands over his ears and
got to his feet.

"We have to get out of here!" he shouted, hoping his men could
hear him. He gestured to the doors they had barricaded. There
was a desperate thumping from the other side. Unbelievably,
someone was trying to get in. A pair of legionnaires stumbled
forward and began removing the piled furniture from the doorway.
Two more blasts rocked the tower. Kye went to join them, to help
free them all from their deathtrap, then noticed the teetering
cannisters of poison. With each cannon shot the cannisters
shivered a little more, threatening to pop their seals. Kye stared at
them, not knowing if he should touch them or not. The ceiling
overhead began to crumble, shaking down gritty dust and pieces
of plaster. The pressure in the hall continued to grow with each
blast, louder and louder, until the colonel felt himself blacking out
with pain.

Shaking off the agony, he threw himself toward the doors, digging
his fingernails into the cracks to open them. His men were grunting
and cursing, pulling away the heavy barricades and lowering the
wooden bar stretched across the threshold. The banging at the
doors continued. Kye heard a desperate voice outside, begging
them to open up. When the last of the locks was unbolted, he
threw open the doors and was almost barreled over by Enli.

"My daughter!" cried the duke. "Where is she?"

"Get out, you fool!" Kye hissed.

Outside, he could see the deserted courtyard in flames. The
horsemen had fled and the ravens had scattered to the winds. The
air glowed orange as the naval guns bombarded them, tossing
scalding streams of molten fire into the yard and making the granite
foundation quake.

Duke Enli heard nothing of Kye's warning. He pushed past the
colonel, stumbling through the hall and the crowds of wounded
men, now dragging themselves to safety outside.

"Get out, all of you!" Kye clamored. He helped his men to their
feet, pushing them toward the door, keeping one eye on the
unstable cannisters as he worked. They were metal, he reminded
himself. Surely they would hold. But the unbelievable noise had
done something to them. Each bombardment made them
resonate, loud and louder, until they now sounded like a nest of
angry bees. As the tower rocked, so did the cannisters.

Colonel Kye worked like one possessed, desperately helping his
wounded men to safety.

High up in the shaking tower, General Vorto stumbled down the
stairs, the girl still in his arms. She was biting and kicking but his
choke hold was weakening her, and he was determined not to let
his only chance at survival slip away. The endless blasts from
Nicabar's dreadnoughts had blown off the roof of the tower, and
half the stairway stood exposed to the sky, letting wind rush in with
the heat from the cannon blasts. A red flash blew by overhead,
making him duck. The stairway shook, jarring his knees. Through
the ruined wall he could see the Fearless in the distance and knew
that Nicabar had come to kill him.

"Let me go!" the girl screamed, wheezing in his hold. She drove
her booted feet into his armored shins to free herself. Vorto flexed
his biceps to still her, almost snapping her neck.

"You little bitch," he sneered. "I'm going to make your father pay for
you!"

His head swam and his face burned from cannon blasts, and the
stone risers beneath his feet buckled, threatening to give way. He
had barely taken three more steps when he noticed Enli rushing up
to greet him.

"Vorto!" cried the duke. "Put her down!"

"Not another step, Enli!" warned Vorto. "Or God help me, I'll snap
her like a twig."

"There's no time for this, you idiot. Let her go and we'll both
escape. The dreadnoughts—"

"You ordered the dreadnoughts here, you treacherous dog! I came
here to help you and this is what you've done! You've ruined us!"

"We can live," argued Enli. "Just put my daughter down."

Vorto shook his head, but before he could speak the girl in his
arms slammed an elbow into his jaw, making him stagger. She
tumbled out of his arms and down the stairs toward Enli. A cannon
blast detonated against the tower, enveloping Vorto in a dazzling
heat. When he could see again, he realized suddenly that his
armor was smoking. A great pain seized him, a searing of skin and
eyeballs. Enli and the girl were looking at him in shock. Vorto
screamed in agony as his whole body exploded with fire, covered
with the burning fuel from a flame cannon. He staggered down
toward Enli, cursing.

"God damn you!" he roared.

Another blast cut off his words. It skimmed the top of Vorto's bald
head, blowing out his brains.

"Daughter!" Enli cried. He was blinded by the blast, unable to see
her through the orange haze. "Where are you?"

"Father?" came a thin reply. Nina's voice reached him out of the
confusion, weak and unsteady. "Father, where are you? I can't see
you."

Enli groped along the shaking staircase, blinking against tears and
smoke. His own skin was horribly burned. He could feel it through
his icy numbness, like acid eating up his flesh. Each step was an
agony, but he moved swiftly, dreading what he would find when the
smoke cleared.

"I'm here, daughter," he gasped. "I'm coming for you."

The stairway was in flames. Vorto's decapitated body slid down
past him. As the smoke and fire cleared, Enli found his daughter.
He let out a sigh of relief and scooped her into his arms.

"I've got you!" he told her. "Don't be afraid." Nina's blond head
bobbed. Her eyes opened for a brief moment; she was feather-
light in his arms. "Father," she moaned. "Am I hurt?" Enli looked at
Nina and discovered with horror that her legs were gone, blown off
at the thighs and gushing blood. Enli's knees buckled. He fell to the
ground with his daughter in his arms.

"You're my daughter," he cried. "My daughter. Mine!"

Nina shuddered. "Is it the truth?" Duke Enli stared at the girl he had
called his daughter, the beautiful young thing so much like the
woman he had loved. She was very much like her. And his brother.

"Yes," he lied to her. "You are my daughter. Mine alone, Nina."

"Father?" Nina whispered. "I'm still alive. I'm . . ."

Dead.

Enli screamed. All of Dragon's Beak would have heard his cry, but
a jagged bolt of orange lightning slammed into the tower, silencing
him forever.

Colonel Kye had almost evacuated all his men when the ceiling
collapsed.

He lay beneath a bone-crushing slab of granite, his legs shattered,
his vision blurred, and watched through angry tears as the
cannisters of Formula B shuddered and hissed, ready to breach.
The vibrating containers filled the chamber with a high-pitched
drone, glistening with dew as the poison inside them heated and
stirred, becoming ever more unstable. Outside, his men were
hurrying to escape the relentless bombardment. He heard their
screams as they cooked in their armor and clawed their way
desperately across the yard. But Colonel Kye knew that he was a
dead man. The cannisters were just out of reach, and even if he
could touch them he didn't know how to stop the reaction setting
them off. He cursed, hating life in that instant, hating everything he
had ever done for Nar and its indulgent rulers. His life had been a
waste.

"Dear God," he prayed. "I am a sinner. If you exist at all, forgive
me."

And then the cannisters lost their tenuous cohesion, springing
leaks one by one and spewing forth a pestilent vapor.

Colonel Kye shut his eyes, happy to die.

After nearly half an hour of bombardment, Nicabar finally gave the
order to stop firing. His signalmen along the Fearless passed the
order to the other dreadnoughts, and the world fell eerily silent.
Nicabar pulled the tiny balls of fabric from his ears as the smoke
cleared. The snow had stopped but the wind was still fierce. A long
gale brushed away the last remnants of smoke, until at last Nicabar
could see the damage he had wrought.

Gray Tower was a smoking skeleton. Nothing living moved along
its courtyard, not even the ravens. Nicabar's first feeling was pride.
But then it turned to puzzlement. Surely he couldn't have destroyed
everything? And everyone? He snapped open his spyglass and
peered toward the tower. Truly, it was demolished. Great fissures
gutted the place and the walls were crumbling and smudged with
blast marks. But in the courtyard lay an astonishing number of
corpses. Ravens rested among the dead, unmoving, littering the
white snow, and men that should have made it easily to safety sat
frozen on the ground, stiff with death. The bodies of fallen horses
dotted the courtyard, not blown to bits by the cannons or pulled to
pieces by the birds. To Nicabar's eye, they looked strangely intact.

But when he saw a wisp of green fog, he understood.

"Holy Mother," he whispered. Then, exploding into action, he
screamed, "Hoist anchor! Get us out of here! Right god-damn
now!"

The bombardment had released the formula. Vorto had actually
been fool enough to bring it here! Nicabar ran across his deck,
shouting for his men to hurry and hoping the wind wouldn't carry the
gas to them. Across the flagship sailors snapped into action,
making ready to get the behemoth moving. They had to hurry,
Nicabar knew, before any of the poison could reach across the
ocean.

But he would be back. He would give the gas time to dissipate, a
week maybe, but he would return to the ruined Gray Tower. He had
to. He had promised Biagio he would deliver a very special
message to Herrith.

As he listened to the rattling chains of the rising anchor, Admiral
Nicabar wondered how much would be left of Vorto's body. He
only needed a piece.
THIRTY-ONE
Reunion

F rom his tiny cabin window onboard the Intimidator, Simon
watched the Hundred Isles of Liss come magnificently into view.
He held Shani's face up to the glass, and together they stared at
the islands, not exactly sure what they were seeing. Simon had
never been to Liss, but he'd heard the stories from sailors like
N'Dek. It was rumored to be an incomparable place, with ancient
bridges and spires, and waterways instead of streets. Anxious for
a better look, he wiped the obscuring mist from the window. The
sun was coming up behind the islands, making them glisten. A far-
off copper tower caught the light and reflected it. Shani cooed in
Simon's ear, entertained by the sight and laughing a good child's
laugh. Simon held her closer. She would see her father soon. He
had done it. And he was remarkably proud of himself.

"Land ho, N'Dek," he mocked. "I told you we'd make it."

Captain N'Dek, still in ropes, sat on the side of the cabin's bunk,
looking drawn and exhausted. For days he had been trapped in the
room with his captor and the child, having Simon feed and clean
him, reduced to shouting orders through the door at his worried
crew, who were all sure they were sailing into disaster but who
knew better than to challenge the authority of the Roshann. Even in
this time of imperial strife, the Roshann had sway. Enough, Simon
had noted with relief, to convince Intimidator's crew to sail to Liss.
They had spotted the islands an hour ago and were coming
dangerously close now. But N'Dek didn't bother going to the
window to see. He was full of hate for Simon and shame for
himself, and had barely uttered a word throughout his captivity.

"Once they see us they'll send ships," said N'Dek bitterly. "Are you
ready to die, Darquis?"

"They won't sink us," said Simon. "We're only one ship. They'll
want to talk to us first. I'll have them escort us in to talk to their
leaders."

N'Dek laughed. "What? Just like that? What is this mission of
Biagio's?"

"Just keep your mouth shut," snapped Simon. He hadn't explained
any of his plan to the captain. He didn't really have a plan. He
hoped only that Richius had made it to Liss safely, and that having
his daughter aboard would buy all of their lives. "I'll do the talking
when the ships come," said Simon over his shoulder. "Remember
that, N'Dek. I'm still in command of this vessel."

"Do you know what I'm going to do if I get back to Crote, Darquis?"
said the captain. Behind his back he fidgeted with his hand, the
bandaged one Simon had driven a dagger through.

"Tell me, please," drawled Simon.

"I'm going to tell Nicabar what you've done. I'm going to tell him
that it was all on orders of that man-loving freak Biagio. And when
he finds out, he's going to cut both of you into chum and feed you
to sharks."

"That's nice."

"I'm a captain of the Black Fleet, for God's sake!"

"Quiet down, N'Dek," advised Simon. "You're making an ass of
yourself."

N'Dek seethed. Simon could almost taste his fear.

Fear was a contagious thing, and Simon felt a tremor of it, too. But
he tried not to pass any of it onto Shani, whose mood had
improved perceptibly at the sight of land. No doubt she was as
eager as any of them to leave this stinking chamber. So together
they stared out through the octagonal glass, watching Liss loom
ever larger, until eventually four ships appeared, heading fast for
them. They were big ships, all of them, with white sails and sea-
serpent flags and gleaming rams on their prows. Shani laughed
when she saw them, pointing through the glass.

"That's it, child," said Simon. He leaned into her ear, whispering,
"They're going to take you to your father."

"What is it?" N'Dek asked. "What's out there?"

"Four ships," said Simon. "Coming toward us."

The captain contorted to his feet, ignoring his bound hands.
"Coming fast? What positions?"

"I don't think they mean to ram us, N'Dek," said Simon.

"What the hell do you know? Get out of the way!"

N'Dek shouldered past them, pushing them away from the porthole
and looking outside. There was a sudden banging on the cabin
door.

"Captain, sir!" came a crewman's voice. "Four ships approaching.
Fast!"

"I see them," N'Dek shouted back. He turned on Simon. "All right,
smart fellow. Let's see you work your magic on these devils.
They're coming up quick and they'll want some god-damn answers.
I sure hope you have some."

Simon drew his dagger from his belt, the one he had used to
cripple N'Dek's hand. "You did a very good job of paying attention
to me, Captain," he said, putting the point of the blade beneath
N'Dek's chin. "Don't disappoint me now. We're going to go above
deck. You're going to tell your men to surrender. No swords, no
weapons of any kind. I'm going to talk to these Lissens, make them
understand me. Right?"

"Fool," N'Dek sneered. "They won't listen to you."

Simon pushed him roughly toward the door. "We'll see."

He hoisted Shani up in his arms. The little girl wrapped herself
around his neck.

"Open the door!" he yelled. The command brought the door
swinging open. Two sailors stood outside the cabin, waiting, a little
wild around the eyes. They had seen their trussed-up captain
before, but now the knife at his back seemed to make them more
wary.

"We're going above," snapped Simon. "You two lead. And I swear
to God, if there's any trap waiting for me on deck, the captain gets
it first, and then you two. I'm fast with this knife so don't doubt it.
Now move!"

The bold threat had the sailors jumping. Even burdened with a child
in his arms, Simon could still make men fear him, and the
revelation brought a smile to his face, giving him confidence. All he
needed to do was convince the Lissens he had Vantran's baby.
They wouldn't dare harm them then. If possible, he would have
them spare the crew. N'Dek was a bastard, but a loyal one. Simon
didn't want any of their blood on his conscience.

With N'Dek stumbling in front of him, Simon followed the sailors up
the gangway to the decks above. When they hit the frosty air, it was
like a hammer-blow. None of them were dressed for the weather,
and Shani shivered in Simon's arms, huddling closer for warmth. A
dozen sailors milled around them, watching but keeping their
distance. Simon looked around quickly. He saw the four ships
closing in on them from the east. With his dagger he maneuvered
N'Dek toward a rail, then kept his back to the ocean and the blade
at N'Dek's neck as he spoke.

"Lower the flag. I don't want to do anything to instigate them. And
get a blanket for the child. It's bloody freezing up here!"

The sailors stared at Simon dumbly, unsure what to do.

"Move your tails!" flared N'Dek. The order sent his men scurrying.
The Black Flag squeaked down from its high mast as the ropes
were pulled, stripping the ship of its proud colors. Simon wondered
if the Lissens aboard the schooners could see their goodwill
action. They were getting closer now, close enough to make out
striking details on their odd-looking ships. The lead vessel was
larger than the rest, grander too. When he noticed it, Captain N'Dek
let out a groan.

"Oh, God, that's the Prince."

"Prince?" asked Simon. "What Prince?"

"The Prince of Liss," said N'Dek, bristling. "That's Prakna's vessel.
The lord high Lissen himself."

"Prakna?" Simon squinted harder, then recognized the schooner
he had seen when Prakna came to Lucel-Lor. They were getting a
royal welcome. Or a grand execution.

"You'll need to talk fast to make this one listen. Prakna's a bloody
butcher, and he won't take kindly to us being here. I hope you've
rehearsed your lines well, Darquis. Or we're all dead. Including
you."

The Prince of Liss and her three escorts slowed as they
approached. Simon saw Lissen men on deck, blond-headed
sailors with milky skin that reminded him of the Triin. They lined the
decks of the schooners and looked resolute, like they had no
qualms at all about sinking the stranger that had entered their
midst. But Simon was sure they wouldn't, not without asking
questions. He readied himself and waited for the flagship to come
closer. The Prince was a marvelous-looking ship, long and curved
like some creature of the depths, with a toothy ram that dazzled
him with sunlight. As she approached, Simon could see the men
on her deck.

Prakna was one of them. Tall and hard-faced, he stared at the
Intimidator. He stood with his arms folded, letting his sailors guide
his flagship closer, close enough so that they could see each
other.

"That's Prakna," decided Simon quickly. "Tell your men to
surrender. Unconditionally. Do it now."

N'Dek grumbled for a moment, then gave the order to one of his
lieutenants.

"Get rid of any weapons you have!" shouted Simon. "Throw them
overboard!"

All around him the sailors discarded their rapiers and daggers,
tossing them into the sea in an obvious show of surrender. Prakna
watched through narrowed eyes, obviously suspicious. N'Dek's
lieutenant called over the rail, waving his hands and shouting the
word surrender. Prakna hardly blinked.

"Prakna!" shouted Simon anxiously. "We surrender! Surrender!"

The Prince of Liss came closer, trimming her sails to keep from
drifting too near. Simon continued waving at Prakna, but the Lissen
commander never let a spark of interest light his face. He was
granite, made so by ten years of war, and Simon suddenly worried
that his plan might fail. Maybe N'Dek was right. Maybe they were all
doomed.

"Prakna, it's me!" he shouted. "Simon Darquis! From Lucel-Lor."

Finally, Prakna's face thawed. His eyebrows went up and he turned
to the man beside him on the deck, as if verifying what he had just
heard. The fleet commander moved closer to the railing and
squinted through the sunlight.

"It's Simon Darquis!" said Simon again. "Vantran's friend! I have to
talk with him! It's important!"

The mention of Vantran made the captive N'Dek whirl around.
"Vantran?" he hissed. "What?" "Not now, N'Dek."

"His friend?" cried the captain. "What the hell are you talking
about?"

"Shut up and let me get us out of this," hissed Simon. He tried to
smile at the Lissens, to look unthreatening. Prakna's face was set
with a scowl. Simon lifted Shani higher in his arms. "I have
Vantran's child here!" he shouted. "I need to see him. Quickly!"

"What are you doing here?" bellowed Prakna. "What business
have you in our waters?"

"Let me come aboard and explain it to you," Simon shouted back
at him. "Please. It's very urgent."

The strangeness of everything had Prakna confused. He turned
back to the man next to him, talking and gesturing and generally
wondering what to do. Simon watched him, trying to read his lips,
hoping he had convinced the Lissen to listen. He had Vantran's
child, after all. There was no way Prakna would risk her.

At least he hoped not.

"Prakna, please!" Simon urged. "I swear, we're no danger to you.
We've disarmed and we surrender!"

Fleet Commander Prakna put his hands on the railing and leaned
over. "If this is a trick, Naren, you will die."

Simon put up his free hand, as if to promise to Heaven. "It's no
trick, I swear it. Let me come aboard and bring you the child. I have
news for Vantran. Important news, for all of you. There's no time to
confer, Prakna. Just do it. Please!"

"All right," growled the Lissen. "We'll send over a boat. Just you
and the child are allowed aboard. And listen to me carefully, you
Naren pig—if anything goes wrong, anything at all, I will drown
every last one of you with my bare hands."

After his threat, Prakna turned away in disgust. But Simon was
satisfied. He turned to N'Dek, who was staring at him in
astonishment.

"What is this, Darquis?" asked N'Dek. "What have you done to
us?"

Simon swallowed hard. "I can't explain it to you, N'Dek. It's—"

"You've betrayed us, haven't you? This isn't a Roshann mission.
My God, Darquis. You're a traitor!"

Simon didn't move. He knew he was safe from the Naren crew
now. The Lissens would protect him, for a time. But N'Dek's
accusation rang in his mind over and again. Traitor.

"Nothing's going to happen to you," he said. "I'll make sure of it.
They'll let you go free."

N'Dek grit his teeth. "You're wrong. You've destroyed us, Darquis.
You've murdered us all." The captain stared at him. "Why?"

The only answer Simon could give was to cut the captain's ropes
away with his dagger. He half expected N'Dek to strangle him when
he was finally free, but the Naren only glared at him, rubbing his
rope-burned wrists, his eyes full of confusion. Simon walked
through the sailors toward a rope ladder dangling off the side of
the Intimidator and waited for the little boat from Prakna's ship to
fetch him. The fleet commander had dispatched the boat as
promised, and now the little vessel was splashing toward him,
rowed by two sailors and holding four more, who each kept a short
sword in their hands. When they reached the side of the
Intimidator, one of them called up to Simon.

"Hurry down."

"I have the child," said Simon. "Look out for her."

The boat was positioned directly beneath him. Simon held Shani
firmly and stepped out over the side of the ship. But before he
placed his foot on the first rope-rung, he looked at the girl in his
arms.

"Shani, you've got to hold on tight to me, all right? Don't let go."

Shani coiled her arms around Simon's neck, readying for the
descent. Simon slowly shimmied down the ladder, carefully holding
the girl as he navigated the rungs. It was a tedious trip, but finally
he stepped into the shaking boat and gratefully felt the solid feel of
wood beneath his feet. The sailor that had ordered him aboard
tried to take Shani from him, but Simon guarded her jealously.

"Just take me to Prakna," he snapped at the man. "And keep your
hands off the girl."

The Lissen smirked but said nothing, and soon the little boat
shoved away from the Intimidator, rowing toward the waiting Prince
of Liss.

Within a few short days of coming to Karalon, Richius had learned
a terrible truth about the young Lissens he was training—none of
them had escaped the Naren war without scars. It was, he was
beginning to understand, a disease that afflicted all the people of
the Hundred Isles. And in a sense, these Lissens were all just
different versions of Queen Jelena. Like their ruler, all of them had
lost someone dear to them. It might have been a father or brother,
or maybe a mother taken off and raped. Or, in the case of Shii, an
infant son, ripped from her hands and drowned by Naren sailors.
They were an inscrutable bunch, Richius had learned, eager to
please but close-mouthed about their violent pasts. They trained
hard and rose early in the morning, and they followed orders
without question, because he was Lord Jackal and a hero, and
because they simply had nowhere else to go. They were on a
great and violent mission, these children of Liss, and nothing could
stop them or ease their burning scars.

Just as Shii had claimed, his army was nine hundred strong
now—enough, he was sure, to swarm over Crote and seize it from
Biagio. They were like zealots, these Lissens. Unquenchable, they
longed for Naren blood. And Richius had taken that thirst and tried
to focus it, to channel it into something useful. He had seen the
loss in Shii's eyes, in all their eyes really, and knew the fire in them
could easily rage out of control. He wanted an army, not a band of
berserkers. So he had set to work quickly, talking to them in small
groups, telling them that they had worth and value beyond their
need for revenge, and trying his best to tame the beasts within
them. It wasn't an easy job, and Richius wasn't at all sure he would
succeed. Shii, the one he depended on most, was a fiery woman,
hate-filled and driven, and like Queen Jelena she was convinced of
the Rightness of their mission.

"An army isn't built on revenge," he had told his young assistant. "If
we're to be an army, we must have honor and discipline."

The words had resonated in Shii. Day by day, she was becoming
less the wildcat and more the soldier, inclined to think before
reacting. Because he was Lord Jackal, Shii listened to Richius.
And he got down in the mud with them all. Refusing to direct the
training from a comfortable chair, he was with his army every day,
getting filthy and insect-bitten, staying up late and rising early. He
showed them how to move like an army, the way he had in his war
against the Triin, how to slink through the brush with your sword at
your side, how to side-wind through mud and cover your face with
it. Prakna's raid on Nar had won them a bounty of swords, and
Richius instructed them in the art of close combat, recalling his
early days in Aramoor at his father's knee, and how the older
Vantran had been relentless in his teachings—insisting that his son
learn—because he had the foresight to know that war was
inevitable.

Inevitable. For Richius, it was a sad truth, and he thought about it
often as he taught his army. He wasn't an expert in any of these
things. There were swordsmen and tacticians far better than he,
but he had experience and memories, and the young Lissens of
Karalon respected him.

Of all the things Richius tried to teach them, the most important
was how to listen. They were supposed to be an army, after all.
With Shii's help, he had organized them into platoons, each led by
a capable young man or woman, so that he could confer with the
platoon leaders and talk over certain troubles or concerns. He was
open with them, always willing to lend an ear. After only a few days
as their general, Richius was, he supposed, having an effect on
them. And he was proud of himself.

In mid-afternoon of his fifth day on Karalon, Richius worked in a
tent just outside the parade field where his platoons were drilling.
He was leaning back in an uncomfortable chair, fretting over a map
he was drawing. Despite his appeal to Jelena, he still had no maps
of Crote, only vague charts put together by Prakna and other
sailors. Lissen intelligence about their target was spotty at best,
and their chances of a successful invasion would be vastly slimmer
without more information. Richius knew only what he had heard
throughout his years in Nar—that Biagio lived in a great villa near
the sea, and was protected by a contingent of personal
bodyguards, all of them Cretans, who watched over their master
day and night and who, presumably, had learned some tricks from
their Roshann teacher. Whether or not there were actual Roshann
agents on Crote was another thing entirely. Richius supposed
there were some, at least—especially since there were members
of the Iron Circle who had fled to Crote with Biagio. And they all
might have their own bodyguards, another factor Richius had to
consider. It wasn't actually the numbers that frightened him, though.
He had nine hundred crazy Lissens on his side. What concerned
him was the imprecision. Unless Biagio's villa shined like a beacon,
they might not even find it. They might be stranded on the Cretan
beaches with no sense of where to go, and that troubled him
greatly. He could teach these people how to use a sword, but not
how to sniff out Biagio.

As he studied his charts and papers, Richius ran a worried hand
through his hair. He hadn't been sleeping lately, and his eyelids
drooped as he tried to read his scratchy penmanship. A draft from
the tent flap stirred the papers on the table and crept over his skin,
making him shiver. He poured himself another cup of hot tea and
wrapped his hands about it for warmth, then saw Shii in the
doorway, watching him. She was a bold woman normally, but shy
when around her new lord. She didn't smile when he noticed her,
but instead offered an apologetic grimace.

"Shii?" Richius asked. "You need me?"

Shii wavered in the door. "I'm sorry, Lord Jackal," she said. "There
is someone to see you."

"Who?"

"Fleet Commander Prakna," said the woman. "He's just arrived. He
says he needs to speak with you urgently."

"Prakna?" Richius sprang to his feet. He hadn't seen the
commander since coming to Liss. "Here?"

"Yes, Lord," said Shii. "But he's not alone. He's brought someone."

"Shii," said Richius mildly. "I don't understand. Who's with Prakna?"

"Lord Jackal, I think it's a Naren," Shii replied. "I saw him from
Prakna's boat."

Richius drifted slowly over to Shii, making very sure he understood
her. "A Naren is here with Prakna?"

Shii shrugged. "He looks like a Naren, dark like you. I saw him from
a distance. Prakna was landing his catboat. He called across to us,
saying it was urgent he see you. I think you should come."

"I think you're right." Richius buttoned up his coat and pushed back
his hair, eager to see Prakna again but worried about who—or
what—the commander had brought with him. Maybe a prisoner,
caught in one of the Lissen raids. Or a spy, perhaps. Whoever he
was, Prakna wouldn't have brought him to Karalon without the best
of reasons.

Richius followed Shii out of the tent and onto the field where teams
of Lissens worked with spears, training with them just as he'd
shown them, burying the blunt ends in the ground to deflect a
charging horse. Richius frowned a little. He didn't even know if
Crote had horses! He might have been training them for nothing.
He followed Shii toward the dunes. Prakna was already coming
toward them in the distance. Three well-armed Lissen sailors were
with him, surrounding a fourth man with a bundle in his arms that
looked like a child. Richius squinted to see better. The man was tall
and lean, dark like a Naren. When he saw the man's face, Richius
had an odd flash of familiarity. It looked like . . .

He paused. "Son of a bitch!"

Shii turned on him, worried. "Lord Jackal? What is it?"

It was impossible. Richius knew it was, and yet there he stood,
walking with Prakna.

"Simon," he whispered dreadfully. "What the hell . . .?"

"Simon? You know that man?"

Richius wasn't listening. Prakna was coming closer, his face rigid.
Neither he nor Simon waved at Richius when they noticed him.
Richius couldn't move. That was Simon, wasn't it? What was he
carrying? The men and women on the field stopped what they
were doing. They had noticed the commander and his odd
companion, and looked as shocked as Richius at the intrusion. But
as they drew closer Richius lost all doubt about what he was
seeing. Simon's face was perfectly clear. And the child in his arms
was no less a mystery. When he realized it was Shani, Richius
bolted forward in terror.

"Shani!" he cried, racing toward them. "My God, what's wrong?
What happened?"

Prakna put up his hands quickly. "Easy, boy," the commander
urged. "There's nothing wrong. Your daughter's safe. I looked her
over myself."

Richius caught up to them and ripped his daughter out of Simon's
arms. Shani squealed with delight when she saw him. Richius put
his hands to her face, holding her close, thrilled and horrified to
see her.

"My God, what are you doing here?" he roared at Simon. "What
happened? Where's Dyana? Is she safe?"

"Richius," Simon sputtered. "I swear to God, Dyana's safe. I swear
to God."

Richius stepped up to him. "What is this, Simon?" he hissed.
"Answer me! What are you doing here? Why do you have Shani?"

"He came here on a Naren ship," Prakna answered. "We
intercepted her on her way here to Liss. She was coming here for
you, Richius. This Naren said he had your daughter. I brought him
here as soon as I could."

Richius looked at Simon. "What's going on?"

Simon went white, chewing his lip with consideration. He glanced at
Prakna, then at all the Lissens in the field, staring at him. "It's . . .
difficult," he said. "I don't really know where to start."

Prakna exploded, bringing up a flashing boot and kicking Simon in
the back. The blow sent Simon sprawling to his hands and knees in
the dirt before Richius.

"You'd better talk, you Naren pig," Prakna threatened. "Or I'll cut
your heart out and eat it."

"Simon," began Richius gravely. "I think you'd better give me an
explanation."

Simon didn't get to his feet. He merely knelt in the dirt with his head
bowed, sighing miserably. "I took your daughter," he said. "I'm not
who you think I am." He raised his face to Richius. "You were right
about me the first time, Richius. I'm Roshann."

Roshann. The word hung in the air. Richius stared down at Simon,
a man he had come to call friend, and all the world came crashing
down on his shoulders, suffocating him. He glared at Simon in
disbelief, not believing, or not wanting to believe.

"It's true," said Simon. "I'm sorry. I took your daughter away from
Dyana. My mission was to bring her back to Crote for—"

"No!" roared Richius. "Do not say it!"

Simon closed his eyes. "I'm sorry, Richius. It's true."

Richius hugged Shani closer, looking her over with worry. She
seemed fine, albeit pale, and she laughed happily, running her
fingers over her father's face. A knot of emotion swelled in Richius'
throat. He wanted to weep, or to run from them all with his
daughter, to dash across the ocean to Dyana and hide them both
away. But something else grew in him, too. Without thinking he
handed his daughter to Shii, then lunged at Simon.

"Bastard!" cried Richius. He was straddling Simon and wringing his
neck. "How could you do this?"

"Had to . . ." Simon gasped. "Had to!"

A crowd was gathering, but Richius hardly saw. His vision had gone
red.

"You tell me what that devil Biagio wants!" he roared. "You tell me
or I'll kill you!"

Simon could barely breathe. His face purpled as he tried to speak.
"Shani," he managed awkwardly. "Your daughter . . ."

"Why?" Richius lifted Simon's head, then banged it hard against
the ground. "What for?"

The Naren stared at him sadly, uttering a remarkable word. "You."

Suddenly, Richius stopped. He sat on Simon's chest, reflecting.
Biagio was still on the hunt. Even after all this time.

"Did he send you?" Richius asked. He was breathing hard and
shaking with rage. "Did Biagio send you to take my daughter?"

Simon looked away in shame. "Yes. He wanted me to take her
back to Crote. I think he wanted to lure you there."

"Where's Dyana?" asked Richius. He took up fistfuls of Simon's
clothes and gave him a violent shake. "If you've hurt her . . ."

"I didn't, I swear," said Simon. "She's safe. She's still in Falindar."

Richius sat back, closing his eyes. Dyana must be in agony, he
knew, and the thought of his wife in so much pain was staggering.
Losing control, he made a fist and slammed it against Simon's
face. Simon winced at the blow but did not cry out. He only stared
back at Richius as blood gushed out of his nose.

"Richius, I—"

"Don't talk to me," hissed Richius. "Don't you ever. You may have
killed my wife without knowing it, you bastard. I should have known
when I met you what filth you are."

"My God, we will kill him," spat Prakna. "Let me take him away,
Richius. Give me the honor of gutting this pig, please!"

Still Simon said nothing. He seemed lost, almost like a child.

"Is that what you want, Simon?" Richius barked. "Should I have
Prakna cut your liver out?"

"It's what he deserves!" Prakna flared. "Jackal, please!"

"Say something, Simon. Please say something to keep me from
killing you."

Still Simon wouldn't answer. He closed his eyes, blocking out the
world.

"Simon, look at me," Richius ordered. "Open your eyes and look at
me."

Simon looked. His eyes were deep, rich with pain.

"Why did you bring her back to me?" Richius asked softly. "There's
something, I know there is. Tell me."

The Naren's lips began to tremble. "Because I love a woman."

"Rubbish! Don't listen to him, Richius!"

Richius put a hand up to quiet Prakna. "What do you mean?" he
asked Simon. "What woman? A wife?"

"Not a wife. Not yet." Simon turned his bleeding face away. His
nose was on fire, just like the first time Richius had broken it.
"She's trapped on Crote. I had to do this, Richius. I had to. Or
Biagio would have kept her from me." He put his hands to his face.
Richius thought he might be weeping. "Now he'll kill her. He will, if
we don't stop him. That's why I brought your girl back to you. God,
Richius, help me. . . ."

"What? Help you how?"

Simon swallowed his choking emotions, summoning enough
steadiness to look at Richius directly. "I can help you with your
invasion of Crote. I know Crote better than anyone. If you'll let me, I
can get Eris out of there! You can—"

"Lies!" Prakna roared. "Don't listen to him, Jackal!"

"I'm not lying!" Simon cried. He was desperate now, near hysteria.
"Please, Richius, listen to me. I can help you. If you'll let me go
with you I can lead you straight to Biagio. Then I can rescue Eris
and you can take the island. It's true, every word of it!"

Richius shook his head sadly. "You swore to me once before,
Simon. Remember? You swore you'd never harm Shani or Dyana.
How am I supposed to believe you now, after what you've done?"

"I can help you," Simon said again. "I'm not lying. If I was lying I
wouldn't have brought Shani back to you."

It was sound enough logic, Richius supposed. He glanced at
Shani, who had her little arms wrapped around Shii's neck and was
looking down at him, confused by the whole situation. Richius rose
and went to his daughter, taking her from Shii. Prakna reached
down and lifted Simon roughly to his feet. The fleet commander
held the Naren by the collar as he waited for Richius' answer. They
were all waiting—Prakna's men, Simon, Shii and all the
Lissens—staring at him as if he had some great wisdom to impart.
But Richius ignored them. He smiled at Shani, cooing at her and
rubbing his nose against hers, and all he wanted was to be away
from here, back in Falindar with Dyana. He would have to get word
to her. Somehow, Prakna would have to send a ship back to
Falindar, to let Dyana know their daughter was safe.

"Oh, Shani," he sighed. "Your mother must be so worried about
you."

"Richius," Prakna interrupted. "What should I do with this piece of
filth?"

"I'm not lying, Richius," said Simon desperately. "You have to
believe me. I'm not asking this for myself, but for Eris. We were to
be married when I returned to Crote with Shani. But if I don't return,
Biagio will kill her. He will, and that won't be my fault. It will be yours
if you turn me away."

"Don't you dare blame me for any of this," flared Richius. "And if
this Eris is anything like you, I say let her die."

Simon shook his head. "You don't mean that. I know you don't. Eris
isn't like me at all. I may be evil, but she's not. She's innocent." He
tried to shake off Prakna's grip, but the fleet commander didn't let
go, so Simon stood there imploringly. He looked exhausted, as if
he was about to collapse. "Richius, please. I can help you. I know
Crote. And you don't, do you?"

"Very perceptive, Roshann," spat Richius. But he knew Simon was
right. Without at least a map of Crote, they might all be cut to
pieces. In typical Roshann fashion, Simon had maneuvered them
into a corner. Richius wondered if he had any choice at all. Yet
even with so much logic, Richius couldn't bring himself to answer
Simon. At that moment, he couldn't even look at him.

"I'm going to my quarters," he said. "And I don't want to be
bothered. Not by any of you."

He turned away. Simon called after him desperately, but he
ignored the Naren's pleas. Only when Prakna called did he bother
to answer.

"Jackal?" asked Prakna. "What should I do with him?"

"Nothing," replied Richius bitterly, then walked away.

That night, sleep didn't come to Richius. Too restless from the
day's events, he spent hours alone in his private quarters, a little
room attached to one of the barracks and warmed only by a small
stone hearth the Lissens had built for him in the center of the room,
far enough from the close wooden walls to keep the place from
catching fire. The floor was dirt and the hearth was dug deep, with
poorly cut slate tiles laid on the ground to lend a semblance of
finish. Richius had given Shani his bed. A carefully preserved fire
glowed in the chamber, turning her sleeping face orange above a
pile of blankets. It was very late now and Shani was exhausted, not
only from the trip but also from the hours of attention Richius had
lavished on her. Seeing his daughter again had done something to
him. He couldn't take his eyes off her. He wouldn't.

A cloud of insects droned somewhere off in the dunes. Richius sat
back in his creaky chair, listening to them while he watched Shani
sleep. Because it had been built so quickly, there were no windows
in the room, but the distant noises seeped through the boarded
walls. There was probably a moon outside, and stars. Richius
thought about waking Shani to show them to her. The stars were
very clear here. But she was so perfectly asleep he didn't want to
disturb her. In the morning he would have to send her back to
Dyana. Somehow, he would have to convince Prakna to spare a
ship for her. Richius wasn't sure the fleet commander would do the
favor for him, and hoped he wouldn't have to get Queen Jelena
involved.

And then there was the question of Simon.

"What should I do?" Richius whispered. Simon had come a long
way just to give Shani back to him. The Naren had even risked his
life. Richius wanted to think that signaled some change in him, but
Simon was a Roshann agent and that they were all master
manipulators, not to be trusted. Like Biagio.

Biagio. Richius remembered how he had told Dyana that Biagio
would never forgive him or forsake his vengeance, and how Dyana
and Lucyler had both thought him paranoid. But they were Triin.
They didn't know the truth about Biagio, and couldn't possibly
understand his insanity—not like Richius could. He had only met
the count a few times, but he still remembered his blazing eyes
and golden skin, all the foppish mannerisms belying the iron
beneath. Biagio was frightful, both beautiful and terrible to behold,
and a demon without peer. Of all the dead emperor's henchmen,
Biagio was the worst.

There was a knock at the door, startling Richius from his musings.
He looked at Shani, still asleep, then got out of his chair.

"I asked not to be disturbed," he said crossly as he pulled open
the door. He didn't expect to see Simon staring back at him.
Prakna was with him, holding him by the arm.

"What is this?" asked Richius.

"He wouldn't shut up until I brought him here, Jackal," said the
Lissen. "He says he has important things to talk to you about."

"And it couldn't wait 'til tomorrow?" "No, Richius, it couldn't," said
Simon. He had lost his earlier deference and now was his old,
arrogant self again. "It's important you listen to me. I told you once
before, I won't be your prisoner."

Richius scowled at Simon. "There's nowhere for you to go, Simon.
I could let you loose right now and you'd die of exposure in a day.
You are my prisoner, Roshann. Like it or not."

"Don't be a stubborn fool, Richius," Simon advised. "I can help
you. You know I can."

"But I don't know that you will," Richius corrected. "You're a liar.
You've already proven that."

Simon's face hardened. "I'm not lying. You have my word on that."

The claim made both Richius and Prakna laugh. Simon shook off
the Lissen's grip and glared at Richius.

"Don't send me away," he warned. "You'll be sorry if you do. I know
what your mission is, remember? And I know Crote, better than any
one of you. Right?"

"You're a Naren pig," jeered Prakna.

"Right, Richius?" pressed Simon.

Richius wanted to close the door on him, but couldn't. They just
looked at each other, Simon imperious, Richius trying to retain his
hatred. But eventually his expression softened just a little. Simon
seized on it.

"I can help you," he said with earnest. "Please, for Eris."

"I don't even know Eris."

Simon smiled. "But you'd like her if you did."

Richius shook his head in exasperation. "Prakna, do me a favor.
Please leave us alone. I'll look after him for now."

The fleet commander's eyes rolled in disgust. "Richius . . ."

"No, it's fine. Really. I just want to listen to his offer. Please,
Prakna. Trust me on this."

"Whatever," the commander rumbled, then stalked off into the
night, leaving Simon alone with Richius.

An awkward silence engulfed them. Richius shut the door so as not
to disturb his daughter. Simon stared down at his feet,
embarrassed. Then he shrugged.

"You broke my nose again," he said.

"I think you deserve that, don't you?"

"I suppose."

Richius looked at Simon in the starlight. The bleeding had stopped
but his nose had indeed swollen into a purple mass. It looked like it
hurt badly. Richius was happy to see it. But Simon didn't seem
happy about anything. He seemed dejected, sick of himself and
weary of his life. He couldn't even bring himself to lift his head.

"Look at me, Simon," Richius directed. He wanted to see into
those eyes, to try and gauge the truth in them. Simon looked up
reluctantly.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Believe it or not, I am sorry."

"I don't know what to believe," said Richius. "I thought you were a
friend, Simon. Do you know what a colossal fool I feel like now?"

Simon didn't look away, though it was clearly a struggle for him. "I
don't blame you for hating me. You have that right. And you have
the right to turn me down. But if you do, you'll only be hurting your
own chances. I know what you want, Richius."

"Oh, really? And what would that be?"

"Biagio."

Richius grimaced. "Good guess."

"I can help you get him," Simon continued. "I know everything
about him, all his habits and strengths. I can serve him up to you on
a silver platter."

"And why would you do that?" asked Richius. "Isn't he your
master?" He spat out the word in disgust.

"I'm doing this for Eris," Simon insisted. "That's the only reason."

"Nonsense. You're a Roshann agent. I know what that means.
You're supposed to serve Biagio until you die. That's the deal, isn't
it? Death before dishonor? What you're saying is treason." Richius
poked at Simon. "Why?"

Simon sighed, leaning against the wooden wall and staring up at
the stars. "My life is complicated, Richius. I'm not what I used to
be. And neither is Biagio. He's insane now. He takes a drug to
make him immortal."

"I know about the drug," said Richius. "Go on."

"It's made him mad, I think. I know he would kill Eris if he found out
I betrayed him. And he will find out. If I don't get her away from
him, she'll die."

"And why should I care about that? Any woman who loves you
must be as mad as Biagio."

Simon gave Richius a sad smile. "I know you better than that,
Richius Vantran. Eris is innocent. And you can't stand to see
innocent people die."

"So?"

"If you don't let me help you, Eris is going to die. And probably a
whole lot of these children you're planning on leading against
Crote."

"They're soldiers," corrected Richius icily. "They don't kill because
they're getting paid for it, Roshann. They have honor."

"All right," Simon conceded. "But maybe I have honor, too. Maybe
just a scrap of it, something the years haven't buried yet." His eyes
flicked back to the stars. "I guess that's what I'm trying to tell you."

There was something so genuine in Simon's tone that Richius
wanted desperately to believe him.

"Can I ask you something, Richius?" asked Simon quietly.

"Go ahead."

"What are you trying to accomplish here? I mean, besides killing
Biagio?"

The odd question made Richius bristle. "Simon, I don't
understand."

"I looked around. I saw these so-called soldiers of yours. They're
just kids."

Richius chuckled. "You have a lot to learn about these people.
Once I thought as you do, but not anymore. There's more heart on
this little island than in all the nations of Nar combined." He looked
out over the darkened camp, proud of himself. "I'm not just leading
an army. I'm championing a cause."

"Is that right?" Simon quipped. "And what cause would that be?"

"One word," said Richius. "Justice."

"Justice," scoffed Simon. "Looks more like revenge to me."

"Call it whatever you like. But these men and women have
something you'll never have. They have heart. You say you're
going back for a woman. You think that gives you heart? Maybe it's
just lust, did you ever think of that?"

Simon regarded Richius. "You know, I remember another story
about a man who turned his back on his country for a woman. Lots
of people thought he was insane, caught up by a pretty face. But
he did what he thought was right. At least that's what he claims. I
never argued with him, or questioned his heart."

"That's different," Richius snapped. "I never kidnapped anyone."

"I brought her back, Richius. I did because it was the right thing to
do. Please, at least try to believe that." Simon put his hand on
Richius' shoulder. "Don't make me beg for this. Not to save the
woman I love." Richius didn't shrug off the Naren's hand. He knew
he should have, knew that Prakna would be appalled to see their
camaraderie, but he liked the touch and the sincerity in it. He
closed his eyes, considering things for a long moment.

"You know, Prakna might kill me for this," he said finally. "Are you
sure you can help me?"

"Yes," said Simon. "Very sure."

When Richius opened his eyes, the Naren was looking at him
brightly, his face aglow with new hope. He stuck out his hand for
Simon, who took it and gave it a hard, promising squeeze.

"Don't make me regret this, Simon."

"I won't," said Simon softly. "If I have a soul, I pledge it to you
now."

Richius nodded, giving Simon his tepid approval. Then he turned
his back on the Naren and returned to the chamber where his
daughter slept, closing the door gently behind him. He knelt down
beside the bed, resting his head on the mattress and lightly playing
with Shani's fine hair.

"Forgive me, Shani," he whispered. "But I have to trust him. I need
his help."

Just then, Shani opened her eyes. She yawned, confused, and
looked at her father through a sleepy haze.

"I love you," Richius told her. "Please don't hate me for what I'm
about to do."

His soft voice made Shani smile.
THIRTY-TWO
Prakna Defiant

A black sea greeted Prakna as he stood on deck. Silent and sure,
his Prince of Liss cut a swathe through the ocean, racing toward
the three schooners anchored in the harbor and the Naren
dreadnought they were guarding, the one called the Intimidator.
The Naren vessel had been their prisoner since coming to Liss,
not daring to make a run from the faster schooners, and Prakna
knew that her crew was waiting onboard, fretting over their fate. He
stood on the Prince's prow, letting the wind pull back his hair, and
wondered what would happen if he listened to Vantran.

The Jackal had left Prakna with clear orders. He was to take the
Naren sailors ashore as prisoners, and bring their ship back to
dock. After the invasion of Crote, the prisoners could be returned
to the Empire. Not until then, Vantran had said, because they might
compromise the mission. Prakna steamed as he thought about his
orders. Apparently, the Jackal still had a soft spot for his own kind.

On the deck next to Prakna, Marus directed the flagship toward the
waiting schooners. There were lights flickering on the other Lissen
ships, signaling them closer. The Prince slowed on Marus' order
as she drew near. Prakna squinted through the blackness. The
Intimidator was still in the center of the ring, as ugly as ever. Men in
Naren naval coats stood on the deck, talking among themselves
nervously. Prakna was nervous, too. He tried not to show it, but he
knew Marus could tell.

"Bring us about," he told his first officer.

Marus called the order down the line. The flagship bent in the wind,
leaning starboard toward the other ships.

"How close do you want to get?" Marus asked his captain.

"Close enough to talk," Prakna replied. "I want to see this Captain
N'Dek."

"He won't believe you, you know."

The fleet commander shrugged. "He doesn't have to."

A rushing wind blew over their conversation. The Prince skirted
closer, until at last she slipped between two of the Lissen
schooners and approached the Intimidator. Marus called his
orders, bringing them up along the dreadnought's port side. All
along the Naren's deck, the men turned their heads expectantly
and fretted over the coming schooner. Prakna stepped off the
prow and went to the side of his ship, which was coming perilously
close now to scraping the dreadnought. But Marus' masterful
piloting brought them up alongside with room to spare, and the
Prince paused there, bobbing on the ocean as her crew worked to
still her.

The fleet commander put on his harshest scowl. He stared out
over the thunderstruck Narens, their dirty faces sickening him. It
was like looking at a bunch of rats.

"Where's your captain?" Prakna shouted. "I want to speak to him."

A figure emerged out of the crowd, a man with a beaklike nose and
sharp eyes. His uniform was torn and filthy and he favored his right
hand as he came forward, playing with the bandages wrapped
around it.

"I'm Captain N'Dek," he said without flinching. "You're Prakna,
right?"

"Fleet Commander Prakna," replied Prakna icily. "I'm your master
and your better, pig. Remember that."

N'Dek glowered. He had that same awful arrogance as all Narens,
the same ridiculous confidence. "What's your business?" he asked
tersely.

Prakna cleared his throat, quickly going over the lines as he'd
rehearsed them. "You're free," he said. "On the orders of Richius
Vantran and Simon Darquis, you're being released."

"What?" N'Dek blurted. "You're letting us go?"

"Get the seaweed out of your ears," rumbled Prakna. "You heard
me. Your ship's being released."

The proclamation sent a ripple through the Naren crew. N'Dek put
up a hand to quiet them. "Why?" he asked suspiciously. "Why are
you letting us go?"

"Don't ask me," said Prakna. "It's not my decision. It's Vantran's."

"Same question," said N'Dek. "Why?"

"Would you rather be taken prisoner?" snapped Prakna. "Because
if so, I'd love to arrange that for you."

The Naren captain looked around, surveying the three schooners
encircling his ship. He seemed pensive, not at all sure of himself.
Prakna struggled to keep up his facade. If the Naren suspected
anything, they might not set sail.

"Get under way," Prakna ordered. "I want you out of Lissen waters
within the hour. And if you don't sail straight and true, I'll come after
you myself and sink the lot of you."

N'Dek flashed an arrogant grin. "I know what you look like now,
Fleet Commander Prakna. This has been an honor for me. Shall I
send Admiral Nicabar your regards?"

Marus exploded forward. "You lice-covered—!"

"Enough," Prakna demanded, putting his hand on his officer's
shoulder. There would be time enough to avenge the insult. "Get
under way, Naren," he commanded. "I'm going to escort you out of
Lissen waters myself. Make your heading due east. You deviate,
you die."

The captain gave him a sarcastic bow. "As you say, Fleet
Commander."

He turned and began barking orders to his startled crew. Prakna
stood at his ship's edge, watching. The Narens jumped at their
captain's orders, readying their vessel for sail. Marus shouldered
up to Prakna and nudged his friend.

"Well played, Prakna," he observed.

Fleet Commander Prakna spared a modest grin. "Move us off,
Marus. Let's give our pigeon room to fly."

An hour after leaving the Lissen coast, the Prince of Liss broke off
its escort of the Intimidator. Captain N'Dek stood on deck and
watched the schooner turn back into the night, happy to see it go.
He had escaped with his life and the lives of his crew, and, most
remarkably, his ship. In war terms, that was a victory. N'Dek closed
his eyes for a moment and let out a tremendous sigh. His hand
ached and his stomach growled for food, but most of all he was
tired. All he wanted was to disappear into his cabin and sleep.

"Sleep." He chanted the word like a prayer. For the last several
days, the only sleep he'd gotten was when Simon Darquis had let
him, sprawled out on the cold floor of his cabin. N'Dek grit his
teeth, remembering the Roshann agent. He recalled his promise to
Darquis, that he would return to Crote and tell Nicabar what had
happened. Nicabar would be outraged.

Good, thought N'Dek bitterly. Maybe then he'd do something about
Biagio.

The only thing that vexed N'Dek now was the mystery of his
survival. Vantran was on Liss? That had been a surprise. And for
some reason, the Jackal had let them go. N'Dek shook his head,
baffled by the turn of events. Perhaps Vantran was part of Biagio's
grand design. Or maybe Simon had convinced the Lissens to
spare their lives. The captain shrugged, knowing he would never
have his answers.

Be happy you're alive, he told himself, then headed for his cabin.

The Prince of Liss headed west for two nautical miles before
Prakna gave the order to turn. They were almost in sight of their
sister ships when the order came. Dawn would be breaking soon,
and Prakna wanted the cover of darkness for his attack. He
remained above deck as his flagship began its arc, turning
eastward again in pursuit of the fleeing dreadnought.

Captain N'Dek would never get his chance to send regards to
Nicabar. That much Prakna had promised himself. He didn't care
about Vantran's orders, and couldn't stomach the thought of
sparing the Narens. They had entered Lissen waters. They were
Naren. That made them prey.

"Marus," he called to his waiting officer. "Take us in fast, before the
sun breaks. I don't want them to see us coming."

Marus nodded. Like Prakna, neither he nor any of the Prince's loyal
sailors cared about Vantran's orders. Here on the sea, Prakna's
word was law. When he got back to Liss, he would explain to
Richius how the dreadnought had tried to break away, how the
crew had resisted being taken prisoner. He had been given no
choice but to pursue them, Prakna would say. He wasn't sure
Vantran would believe him, but then he didn't really care, either.
None of them cared.

Prakna knew his Lissen sailors would never betray the truth.

The Prince of Liss devoured the waves. Soon the Intimidator
would be in sight. Prakna drew his heavy collar close around his
neck, settling in for the brief wait. He was looking forward to sinking
the dreadnought. It had been too long since he'd sent Narens to
the bottom. This one he would sink for J'lari.

Alone in his tiny cabin, N'Dek finished a simple meal of cold soup
and beer, then blew out the candle and settled in to the sheets.
The soft embrace of his mattress was like the touch of a woman to
his aching body, and he moaned as he got comfortable. His cabin
had one porthole, a window of octagonal glass that let in starlight.
He had already given the command to head straight for Crote, and
was confident that he would have no more troubles. In a little more
than a week, he would be safely back in the waters of the Empire.

Captain N'Dek closed his eyes and began fantasizing about a
prostitute he had met once in Casarhoon, when a distant shout
reached him. His eyes opened slowly and he cursed, angry at the
disruption. Then he heard the shout again, loud and desperate.
N'Dek blinked, unsure what he was hearing, and swung his legs
over the side of his bunk.

"Lissens!" came the shout again. "Off the port side!"

N'Dek's stomach somersaulted. He went to his little porthole and
looked outside. It was dark and the glass was covered with sea
spray, but he could just make out a hint of something monstrous
and shining.

N'Dek realized a Lissen ram was racing toward him. In the next
second he was dead, cut cleanly in half by the all-devouring blade.

Prakna and his crew howled like madmen as the Prince of Liss
slammed into the unsuspecting dreadnought. They had come
flying out of the darkness, catching the Intimidator amidships and
landing a fatal blow. Water poured into the gash in the
dreadnought's hull, flooding her lower decks as the Prince bobbed
up, pulling free its fanged ram and ripping off a mouthful of
timbers. A tide of freezing ocean blasted across the dreadnought,
sweeping away its sailors and pushing her down like a giant hand.
Exhilarated, Prakna shook his fist, shouting above the beautiful
noise.

"Give my regards to Nicabar!" he crowed.

All across the sinking vessel, sailors clung vainly to rigging as their
ship listed to port. The ocean gushed in, drowning their screams.
Prakna hoped his victims were married and would leave behind
widows. With cold detachment, he folded his arms over his chest
and watched the Naren warship sink, enjoying the show.
THIRTY-THREE
The Swift

C aptain Kelara of the Black Fleet vessel Swift stood on the prow
of his ship as it swooped out of the rising sun. A full wind filled the
sails of his fleet-footed ship, speeding her along like a dolphin. For
three weeks the Swift had been on patrol in Lissen waters, carrying
out Biagio's orders. They were to wait until the Lissens set sail for
Crote. Then they were to fly home with all the speed of Heaven to
warn the count of the coming invasion. It was a task for which the
scout ship was well suited, for she was of the Leopard class, the
only vessels in the Black Fleet capable of pacing Lissen warships.
She had a keel like a knife and seven wide sails slung low on her
masts, and with a complement of only twenty seamen, she wasn't
fat amidships. She had no armaments or cannons to slow her, no
extraneous weight at all. Built for speed, she had but one
purpose—to be as fast as her Lissen enemies.

Captain Kelara admired Renato Biagio. Because he believed the
Cretan count to be a peerless tactician, he had taken this perilous
commission with pride. Through careful planning and well-placed
lures, Biagio had managed to lull the Lissens into a sense of
superiority. Soon, Biagio had promised, the Lissens would launch
their attack on Crote. And Crote needed to be ready for it. Most
importantly, they needed forewarning. That was Kelara's mission.
And with the Swift at his command, he was sure he would succeed.

But Captain Kelara hadn't counted on the Intimidator, and when
he'd seen it heading recklessly toward Liss, all the bravado had left
him. He had tracked the dreadnought from a distance, careful to
stay hidden in the sun's glare. And when the warship had gotten
too close to Liss and disappeared, he had not pursued it. That had
been nearly fifteen hours ago.

Then she had reemerged.

And she wasn't alone.

Kelara had watched through his spyglass as the Prince of Liss
rammed the unsuspecting Intimidator. He had been about to give
the order to rendezvous with the dreadnought when he'd seen the
schooner. Too late to warn his doomed comrades, he had
witnessed the dreadnought's quick destruction. The Prince had
remained in the dark waters for nearly an hour, watching the
Intimidator go down. Only when the Lissens had gone did Kelara
finally order the Swift forward.

Now, with lookouts posted high in the masts, the Naren scout ship
raced to the place where the dreadnought had been, scanning the
sea for survivors and the horizon for the Prince. Thankfully, Kelara
saw no Lissen ships. He barked orders to his crew, telling them all
to look sharp. He didn't like approaching Liss in the daylight, and
after seeing the bloody murder of the Intimidator, he was taking no
chances. As they approached the area where the dreadnought had
gone down, bits of flotsam and buoyant wood floated up to greet
them. Kelara ordered the vessel to slow, scanning the dark waters.
The impact of the Lissen ram had been enormous, shattering
Intimidator's hull. She had cracked like an egg.

Not far off, he began to see the bodies. They were stiff in the
freezing water, bobbing slowly on the waves among the remnants
of their ship. Each of the corpses had turned an icy blue.

"Seven hells," cursed Kelara, shaking his head. He was too late. If
there had been survivors, they had already frozen to death. The
captain smashed a fist into an open palm, infuriated with himself.
The Swift was a fine vessel, but without guns she could do nothing
against a schooner. A feeling of impotence engulfed Kelara.
Someday, the Black Fleet would return to Liss. And when they did .
. .

"Captain, look!"

The cry came from the masts above. Kelara looked to the crow's
nest, then to the place in the ocean where the sailor was pointing.
At first he saw nothing but empty water. Then his vision focused,
revealing a bobbing speck far off starboard. Instantly the captain
snapped open his spyglass and located the object—a living man,
waving at them.

"Holy Heaven!" Kelara exclaimed. "Lieutenant Nan, bring us about.
There's a survivor!"

At the captain's orders, the Swift pitched starboard toward the
flailing man. Kelara's heart leapt with new hope. If there was one,
there might be others. Quickly he scanned the area, looking for
survivors and finding none. The man was surrounded by bloated,
blue corpses.

"All right," said Kelara. "Just the one. I was quick enough for him, at
least." He whirled back to Lieutenant Nan, who was carefully
guiding the ship toward the man. "Faster!" the captain bellowed
angrily. "Get him aboard before he freezes to death!"
THIRTY-FOUR
Dyana's Discovery

T o Dyana, who had known both privilege and poverty, Count
Biagio's mansion was a marvel. Since coming to Crote, she had
lived like a pampered pet, hardly a prisoner at all, with all of the
count's splendid surroundings about her. She admired his private
beaches, ate his exotic foods, and dressed herself in silk, the
softest she had ever felt. Biagio spared no expense for her
comfort. He had no argument with her, he had explained, only her
husband, and had left orders with his vast staff of slaves that she
was to be well treated. He had even given her a splendid room, a
rambling chamber with antique furnishings and glass doors leading
to a garden. At night she heard the ocean as she slept, and she
roused each morning to a delectable breakfast laid out for her by
Kyla, the young slave that had greeted her on her first day in Crote.
Dyana didn't know how long her captivity would last, or when Biagio
would take her to Nar as promised, but he had obviously decided
to make the last days of her life exceedingly comfortable.

With nothing to occupy her, she spent most of her days wandering
the mansion's manicured grounds, admiring the gardens and
extraordinary topiaries, and reading books from the count's
impressive libraries. She avoided the other Narens, who Eris had
explained were exiles like Biagio. They weren't at all like Richius.

They were pale-skinned and oily, and even the men painted their
lips. Eris said they were Naren lords. Dyana wondered exactly what
that meant. In Aramoor, Richius had been a king. But he had never
been girl-pretty like Biagio or the others. She feared going to Nar
City as Biagio had threatened. Of all the tales Richius had told her
of that place, only now was she beginning to believe them.

Among the Narens there was one that Dyana feared the most, the
lanky one named Savros. He had been watching her. Sometimes,
when she was alone in the gardens or reading, she suddenly felt
his eyes on her back. Eris had warned Dyana to stay clear of
Savros. She had said that he was a torturer, one of Biagio's close
confidants, and that he was called the Mind Bender. He killed for
pleasure, Eris had told her, and the claim made Dyana shudder.
There was murder in his eyes. Dyana had seen it, along with a kind
of childish adoration. He was a volatile creature, and Dyana did her
best to avoid him.

She hardly saw Biagio, either. The count had spoken to her only
once since her arrival on Crote, and only then to make small talk, to
see if she was comfortable in her rooms. Dyana thought him a
braggart. He had shown her the marvelous gardens and then
walked away with a regal smile, his sapphire eyes burning brightly.
After finally meeting the Count of Crote, Dyana still didn't know
what to make of him. Eris claimed he was insane, but that he hadn't
always been so. He could be kind and gentle, she had told Dyana,
and Dyana had actually seen some of that, two virtues she would
never have expected of Biagio. Still, he had a remarkable cruel
streak. He still used her as a lure, and would probably kill her when
his game was done.

Of all the people in the mansion, only Eris was a friend. She and
Dyana spent long hours together, took their meals together, and
gossiped over the goings-on in the Empire across the sea. Dyana
told Eris all about Richius and Shani, whom she missed beyond
words, and Eris danced her beloved ballets for Dyana, taking
Dyana's mind off the constant horrors plaguing her. When Dyana
watched her perform, perfect and without music, she would stare
with wonder and forget her troubles for a time, marveling at the way
a trained body could move. Dancing was the girl's life. She loved it
more than anything—even more than she loved Simon—and she
seemed not to mind her slave status at all. Biagio had made her a
great dancer, she told Dyana. He had trained and shaped her, for
he had an ear for music and an eye for greatness. Back in Nar, his
vast fortune had paid for the finest tutelage. As much as she
feared her patron, Eris also loved him. And she truly believed he
loved her, too.

It was the love a collector feels for gems, Dyana knew, but she
didn't tell that to Eris. That truth would have broken the girl's heart,
and Dyana had no wish to shatter Eris' illusions. So she let Eris
believe as she wished, listening to her stories and watching her
dance, grateful to have a friend.

On a night like every other, Dyana awoke to the strains of the
distant sea. The shades were open over her glass doors and she
could see the island beyond her rooms. Swaying grasses in the
garden tossed shadows on the walls, and Dyana sat up in the grip
of fright, recalling a nightmare with awful clarity. She had been on a
ship with Richius and Shani. A storm had come and sunk their
vessel, and she alone had swum ashore. Dyana put a trembling
hand to her forehead. Richius and Shani were gone. Somewhere.
And suddenly, it was all too much for her. She wanted to weep but
found herself empty of tears. Instead, she sank back against her
pillows and stared out the glass doors. Shani might still be on her
way to Crote, but that seemed unlikely now. And Richius was lost,
too, gone off on some fool's vendetta. Dyana was alone. Again.

Unable to sleep, she rose from the bed, feeling the urgent need to
move. She dressed in a fog, putting on some of the expensive
clothes Biagio had supplied, and slipping her feet into a pair of
leather shoes with soft soles that wouldn't make noise when she
walked. A quick check in the mirror revealed a face lined with
exhaustion, but she ignored the frightening visage, going for the
door and stepping out into the echoing hallway. The marble
corridor stretched out on either side of her, decorated with
sculptures and scalloped woodwork. It was immensely quiet this
late at night. Dyana closed the door behind her, quickly deciding on
a direction.

Count Biagio was a very private man. Though he had given her full
run of his palace, he had his own private wing that was forbidden to
all, even his Naren henchmen. Dyana was resolute about seeing it.
He meant to kill her anyway, she reasoned. She might as well see
what he was hiding. She moved swiftly through the corridor, and
passed the place where the slaves were quartered, far from her
own rooms but no less elegant. Even Biagio's servants were
coddled. Past the servants' area, she came to an enormous,
circular chamber with white columns and decorated with portraits of
Biagio's family, all lean and golden like the count. Dyana paused to
regard the paintings. She caught Biagio's likeness in most of them,
but none had his blue eyes or girlish beauty. Biagio was far more
striking than any of his kin.

Dyana left the chamber and soon found herself near the count's
private wing. An archway of baby-smooth plaster separated the
place from the rest of the villa. Festoons of flowers hung on the
walls, perfuming the air, and a small fountain babbled in the
corridor. From the mouth of a naked nymph, water cascaded over
smooth, white rocks. Dyana listened, loving its sound, then heard
something else in the distance down the hall. Music? She cocked
her head to listen closer.

What sounded like a piano rang in the distance. It was very late,
and the sound drowned the melody of the fountain. The music was
harsh and thunderous. But it drew Dyana forward. She moved
toward it, following its strains through bends in the halls, until at last
she was deep in Biagio's private wing, outside a pair of slightly
open doors. Behind the portals she could hear the fractious music
and the determined slamming of fingers on a keyboard. Dyana slid
closer to the doors, peeking inside. The music was atrociously
loud. Inside, she saw a room of pink marble and thick, wine-red
rugs, decorated with porcelain busts and furious-looking portraits.
At the edge of her vision she saw the end of a white piano, but she
couldn't see who was playing. Feeling bold, she pushed the door
open a little more, and saw to her astonishment a crazed Biagio.

He was hunched over the instrument, violently hammering the keys
as sweat dripped from his face and drenched his flying, golden
hair. The music he made screamed from the piano, shaking the
room and its fragile decorations. He was lost in it, pounding it out
like a madman as he swayed to the fierce rhythms. He was
dressed in his usual silks, but the sleeve of one arm had been torn
from his shirt, revealing golden skin and a flashing needle. A tube
ran from the needle to a vial on the piano. The vial jumped along
the piano with each pound of the keyboard. Biagio's face was set,
his eyes gushing tears, his jaw tight. He looked to be in enormous
pain, but he didn't cry out, nor even utter the smallest moan.

Dyana stared at him, dumbfounded by the sight. She inched the
door open a fraction. A blue residue stained the vial on the piano.
The last of the stuff swam through the line into Biagio's arm. The
count continued his thunderous playing, unaware of her intrusion.
He was breathing hard and perspiring in torrents. He looked on the
verge of collapse. The luster of his golden skin had turned pallid,
the color of sickness, and his hair hung in strings around his neck
and face. Dyana didn't know whether to help him or flee. She knew
that this was the drug treatment, just as Richius had described it.
But she had no idea it was such a violent, rapelike act. Biagio
looked weak, destroyed and void of his usual strength. With his
tears and tired eyes, he looked like a little boy.

And then suddenly his playing stopped. His breathing raced in the
silence, and he raised his head with an agonized groan. That's
when he saw Dyana, frozen in the doorway. He erupted at the sight
of her, springing from the piano bench.

"What are you doing here?"

Dyana staggered back. She wanted to run but knew it was too late.

"Get in here!" the count commanded. "Now!"

Dyana held her breath and pushed the doors open wide. She
walked into the room and stood before the shaking count. He was
inhuman-looking, about to teeter from exhaustion. But his rage kept
him upright, and his chest heaved with angry gulps of air. He balled
his hands into fists and shook them at his sides, pulling the empty
vial from the piano and sending it smashing to the ground.

"This is my place," he hissed. "Mine! What are you doing here?"

"I am sorry," Dyana stammered. "I meant no harm. I heard the
music and came to find out what it was."

"It's my music!" he screamed. "You have no business here!"

"Sorry," said Dyana again. She backed toward the door. "Forgive
me, Count. I will leave."

"Don't you dare!" he roared, racing forward and seizing her arm.
His grip was iron and painfully cold, and when he clamped his
fingers around her wrist, Dyana cried out.

"You are hurting me," she said, trying to stay calm. "Please . . ."

"You want to hear music?" he asked indignantly. "Or did you come
to stare at the freak?"

"I did not!" Dyana protested. "I just heard your music. I did not
know you were in here." She grimaced at the strength of his grasp,
then looked up at him, pleading. "Let go," she said softly. "Please."

Biagio's face softened. Slowly his fingers uncoiled from her wrist,
letting her loose. Dyana's first instinct was to bolt, but she curbed
the urge. Biagio was watching. He stumbled backward and fell
upon his bench, sitting there with his hands trembling and his skin
dripping sweat.

Dyana said nothing. Biagio closed his eyes and sighed, then used
his dainty fingers to dig out the needle, poking it from his flesh. He
tossed it nonchalantly to the oor, among the broken glass of the
shattered vial. With painful slowness, his breathing normalized and
a healthy color gradually returned to his skin. When at last he
opened his eyes again, they were the old iridescent blue.

"Music is the only thing that helps me," he rasped. "Otherwise the
treatments would be unbearable. Arkus used to listen to a harpist
when he took his treatments. He said the music took away the
pain."

"Are you all right?" Dyana asked. She chanced a step closer, afraid
he might erupt again, yet somehow compelled to remain.

"I will be," he said. "The drug is very strong. It takes time."

"I know this drug," said Dyana. "It makes you young, yes?"

Biagio nodded. "Something like that." He looked up at her. "You
shouldn't have come. I don't like being seen this way."

"You are right," said Dyana sheepishly. "I am sorry."

She turned and made it halfway to the door before he stopped her.

"Why aren't you sleeping?" he asked.

Dyana hovered in the doorway. She should have hated Biagio, but
in that moment he seemed too frail to loathe. "I had a dream," she
answered. "It woke me."

"I have dreams," said Biagio. He ran his hands over his damp hair.
"You can't imagine the nightmares I have."

"I think I can," Dyana replied. "I have lost my child and my husband
both."

The count scoffed. "That's nothing compared to losing an empire."

"If you say so." Dyana went for the door again. "Good-night,
Count."

"Wait," Biagio called. "You might yet be wrong. Your child might still
be alive."

"If she is . . ."

"Yes, yes," said Biagio with an annoyed wave. "I remember my
promise, woman. You needn't remind me every time you see me."
He ran his fingers over the keys distractedly, hitting a string of
discordant notes. His shoulders slumped and a vacant expression
crossed his face. Dyana knew he was thinking about Simon. Once
again she approached him.

"You need not do this, you know," she said carefully. "I am no
threat to you. And neither is my husband."

Biagio's eyes flared, insulted. "Believe me, I know that. Your
husband and his wretched Lissens are of no concern to me.
They're insects."

"Then why hurt us?" Dyana knew it was a lost cause, but she had to
try. "If you let me go, I can tell Richius that you know about his
plans. I can get him to call off his invasion of Crote."

The count smiled. "Now why would I want that? Your husband is
the perfect sheep. He's part of my grand design, you see."

"What do you mean?"

He waved her away. "You ask too many questions."

"But you know I am right," Dyana pressed. "Why do you not let me
go free? Richius never meant you any harm. And he did not kill
your emperor. I am sorry for your loss, but—"

"What do you know about my loss?" spat Biagio. "Save your pity,
woman. You know nothing of what you speak."

"You are wrong," Dyana countered. She got even closer to him,
close enough to feel his remarkable cold, then fell to one knee
beside the bench. "I know you loved Arkus. Richius told me so. I
know the emperor was very dear to you. And you to him."

Biagio's face twitched. "Yes," he whispered. "That is true. I loved
him dearly." He fingered more notes on the keys, his mind skipping
back over memories. "But you may not be so right about his love
for me. He had the chance to give me Nar. He knew he was dying,
yet couldn't admit it. He wanted to live forever."

"And there was no magic in Lucel-Lor to save him. The mission
you gave Richius was impossible."

"There was magic," Biagio insisted. "I know there was."

"There was a man," Dyana corrected. "My first husband, Tharn. He
was touched by the Gods. But even he could not have saved your
emperor. Even if he had wanted to, he could not. You have to
believe that, Count Biagio. Richius did nothing to you."

Biagio was silent. Dyana sighed.

"Look at you," she said. "This drug will kill you someday. It is not
natural."

The count gave a black laugh. "Not natural? Ah, then it's perfect for
me. For I'm not natural and never have been. Archbishop Herrith
could tell you that." He turned and sneered at her. "Don't you know
what I am, woman? Or is that why you feel so safe with me?
Because you know I'll never take you to my bed?"

"I know what you are," said Dyana. "And I am not afraid of you."

"Well, you should be. I'm a monster."

He turned his back on her, resting his elbows on the keyboard and
burying his face in his hands. Dyana didn't know if it was a signal to
leave, but she remained in the chamber, waiting for Biagio's
gloomy mood to pass. Eris was right. The drugs had made him
insane. Yet Dyana didn't fear him. Something inside her told her to
stay, to try and coax enough humanity out of the count to make him
see his mistakes. And maybe, to save Richius' life.

"It does not have to be this way," she said softly. "I have heard
things about you. And not just from my husband. I can even see it
myself."

"See what?" Biagio growled.

"The drugs, what they have done to you. People say you were not
always this way. They say you were different when you were
younger."

Biagio lifted his head and stared at her. "Eris has been very
naughty, hasn't she?"

"Do not blame Eris," said Dyana. "She only told me what I asked.
And it is obvious, anyway."

"What is?"

"That you are insane. Like Arkus."

"How dare you!"

"It is the drug," Dyana insisted. "It has made you mad. Anyone can
see that just by looking at you."

"Fool," scoffed Biagio. "You're only seeing the treatment. I'm not
always like I am tonight. The drug keeps my body young. I am
better than I ever was. Stronger and smarter." He made a
dismissive gesture with his slack wrist. "Don't believe everything
you hear, woman. If you were a Roshann agent, you would know
better."

"I know what I know," said Dyana. She knelt down beside him. "All
of this, everything you have done—it is all for revenge. But if you let
me go, if you send me to Liss on a ship, I will tell Richius not to
invade. He will listen to me, and then you can both end this
madness."

"I don't want to end it. Haven't you been listening? I want Liss to
invade!"

"Why?"

Biagio slammed a fist down on the keys. "You think I'm going to tell
you that? Suffice it to say, I have my reasons."

"Madness," said Dyana softly. "That is all this is. And you are so
insane you cannot even see it. The drug—"

"The drug keeps me alive," spat the count. "It keeps me beautiful."
He took her wrist again, forcing her to look into his hypnotic eyes,
holding her and not letting go. "Look at me. Am I not beautiful?"

Dyana was afraid to answer. He was beautiful, but he was also
inhuman, and in those lovely, blazing eyes she saw madness.
"Yes," she replied. "You are beautiful. But not beautiful enough."
She pulled free of him. "I still see you as a monster. And not
because of the way you look." Carefully she reached out a finger
and tapped his chest. "It is what is inside you that is diseased."

"You are wrong, Lady Vantran. The drug makes me strong. I would
not be able to tame the Empire without it."

"And that is all that matters? You arrogant man. Maybe Arkus was
right about not giving you the Empire. Maybe he saw how mad you
were. He never—"

Biagio's hand shot out, slapping Dyana hard across the face. She
fell back, startled by the blow. Biagio towered over her, his face
twisting.

"Don't you ever speak his name to me again," he seethed. "You
wretched bitch. Arkus loved me! I was like a son to him."

Dyana put a hand to her cheek. "Mad," she said again. "That is
what you are."

She turned and left the chamber. Biagio called after her but she
darted down the hall, desperate to be away from him. Her face
stung but that was hardly a concern. What hurt far worse was her
pride. Like a fool she had tried to reason with him. And for a
moment, she had even thought it was working.

Stupid, stupid woman, she chastised herself as she hurried from
the count's wing. Her soft shoes echoed with her eagerness, but
she didn't care who heard her now. She was irate, not only with
Biagio but with herself. If Richius had seen her beg, he would have
been appalled.

She made her way past the slave quarters toward her own rooms
far removed from Biagio. Only when she saw her chambers did
she breathe a little easier. But her relief was short when she
noticed her door slightly ajar. She took a careful step forward and
listened at the door. Hearing nothing, she pushed the portal open
and peered into her rooms. All seemed just as she'd left it. The
chamber was dark, but a paralyzing moonlight froze the furniture in
its rays. Without a sound she took a cautious step inside, then,
emboldened, took another. She heard the wind outside but nothing
else. Shadows danced on the walls, reflecting the moonlight.
Dyana frowned, sure that her imagination was getting the better of
her. No doubt she had forgotten to close the door on her way out.

"I need sleep," she said softly. Sleep would take her mind off
things.

She went to her bedchamber and found it dark. The shades were
drawn over the glass doors. Dyana stared at the doors uncertainly.
And then she felt afraid.

"I left those open," she whispered to herself. "I know I—"

From out of the darkness a hand shot over her mouth. Arms
wrapped themselves around her, enormously strong.

"Don't be afraid," came a voice. Its tone was high, like a hissing
snake. Not Biagio. Worse. Dyana tried to scream but the cold hand
muffled her sounds. She tasted chemicals on the flesh. Savros the
Mind Bender leaned forward and put his cheek against hers.
"Pretty thing," he cooed. "Pretty, pretty thing."

He was breathing fast and lustily. Dyana fought to break free. She
kicked and twisted against his lanky arms, amazed at his iron grip.
Savros giggled at her struggles.

"Oooh, please, save your strength," he whispered. "Don't fight me
so. Save your vigor for the chains."

No! Again Dyana tried to scream and heard only a feeble gurgle.
Savros tightened his coiling arms. She could see him smile from
the corner of her eyes.

"I've watched you so long," he moaned. "You're so beautiful. Your
skin, like a flower. I have to take you, pretty Dyana."

He parted his lips and let his ruby tongue dart out, lapping at her
cheek. Dyana hit a wall of nausea. She drove an elbow into his ribs,
but Savros' reedy body was made of stone, and he absorbed the
blows too easily for a normal man. His arm came up in retaliation,
snaking around her neck and tightening until she thought she'd
black out.

"I have a place," he said. "Downstairs. I've prepared it just for you.
Yes, yes, just for you."

He was gibbering, overcome with perverted lust. Dyana could feel
the unnatural heat pouring off his cold skin. He began dragging her
backward toward the door. Still she fought against the pain and
blackness, but her acrobatics only delighted Savros the more.

"Yes, yes!" he chimed. "Dance for me, pretty thing. You will dance
for me."

He pulled her out of the bedroom and into the main chamber.
Dyana could barely breathe now. She was exhausting quickly, but
knew she had to break away before he got her down into his
dungeon. Fear exploded in her brain, an awful mix of pain and
bloody visions. Amazingly, Eris' voice came to her out of the fog,
telling her to watch out for Savros.

The Mind Bender hadn't even broken a sweat. Like it had to Biagio,
the drug had given him preternatural strength. He forced her out
into the hallway, pushing open the door with his shoulders as he
kept a hand over her mouth and a steel arm around her neck.
Dyana was about to suffocate when another figure cast a shadow
across the corridor. Savros stopped, and his solid arms weakened
to water. Down the hallway stood Biagio, pausing in mid-step when
he saw them.

"Savros," he exclaimed. "What is this?"

The Mind Bender's hands fell away. Dyana tore free of him, darting
toward Biagio. But Biagio was already racing forward, his two
hands reaching out for Savros. He blazed past Dyana and fixed his
hands around the torturer's throat.

"How dare you defy me!" he cried as his fingers tightened. Savros
was gasping, taking great gulps of air and begging for mercy.

"Master, please . . . !"

Biagio heard none of it. He was in a rage, lifting Savros off the floor
and pinning him against the wall. "You little beast! I'll kill you!"

"No, Master!" pleaded Savros, his voice barely a rasp. He fought
like a wildcat, trying to pry loose Biagio's determined fingers. His
feet kicked at the air. Dyana fell back against the wall, horrified. Her
own breath was returning and she tried to steady herself, shocked
at what she was seeing. Savros' face turned a ruddy purple. His
blue eyes bulged, threatening to burst. And still Biagio kept up his
throttling, banging the Naren's head against the wall and cracking
the plaster.

"Die, you wretched pig! Die!"

There was the rattling of breath and the popping of bone. Savros'
gangly body trembled in the air, hanging there in a moment of
rigidity. Biagio's hands tightened still more, until the neck between
them cracked. The Mind Bender's body suddenly went limp. Biagio
held it for a second, then flung it to the floor in disgust.

"I warned you," he spat at the corpse. "Don't tell me I didn't!"

Then he turned on Dyana, stalking toward her. She could see the
struggle on his face for control.

"Are you hurt?" he asked.

Dyana shook her head, unable to speak. The count went to her and
gave her a swift inspection. He took her hand with a reassuring
squeeze.

"This is an outrage," he said. "I am sorry."

Finally, Dyana found her voice. "I am all right," she said. "I think . . ."

"You look uninjured," observed Biagio. "I was coming to speak to
you. To . . ." He shrugged, looking away. Amazingly, he seemed to
have forgotten the corpse on the floor.

"What?" Dyana probed. She kept hold of his frozen hand, hoping
vainly to thaw it.

"I should not have struck you as I did," the count managed. "I
apologize. I do not want us to be enemies, Dyana Vantran. That's
not what you're here for. And this . . ." He gestured to the dead
Savros. "This brutalization wasn't what I wanted for you."

He was such a contradiction, Dyana couldn't fathom him. In mere
seconds he had gone from a madman to something almost
human. She closed her eyes, suddenly overcome. The night had
overwhelmed her and her knees began to buckle. Only Biagio's
hand kept her upright.

"You are not all right," he insisted. "Come, you need rest."

"I need air," said Dyana. She still felt Savros' arm around her throat,
choking her. And the blow across the face Biagio had given her
wasn't helping. "Please, just let me sit."

Without a word he swept her up in his arms and took her back into
her chambers, ignoring the dead Savros. He went straight to her
bedchamber, then laid her down on the mattress. Dyana's head
was swimming. The bruise he had given her was starting to swell,
and the struggle with Savros had taken all her strength. Biagio
hovered over her bed, watching her. He looked strange in the
moonlight, glowing with an amber aura.

"I'll fetch Kyla for you," he said. "And get rid of that disgusting thing
outside your door."

Dyana nodded. "Thank you."

"Do not thank me, woman. It was my stupidity that caused all this.
Savros would not have attacked you if I had been more vigilant. It
won't happen again."

"No," Dyana agreed. "I suppose not."

They stared at each other in awkward silence. Biagio's expression
was pained.

"I am not mad," he said softly. "You are wrong about me."

Dyana tried to smile. "Perhaps," she said gently. "And perhaps you
are wrong about Richius."

Biagio grimaced. "Unlikely." He left her bedside and went to the
door. But he paused there for a moment before crossing the
threshold. "Though I suppose anything is possible."

And with that remarkable admission, he left her alone in the dark.
Dyana stared at the place where he had been, hardly believing her
ears.
THIRTY-FIVE
Gifts

T wo days before the great holy day of Eestrii, Nar City waited
beneath a blanket of penance. The streets far below the Cathedral
of the Martyrs had been swept clean of acrobats and menageries,
and pilgrims had begun pouring into the city, ready to bend their
knees to God and beg His forgiveness. In all the city, hardly a hint
of the festival of Sethkin remained. On Eestrii, the vast square
outside the cathedral would swell with people, a great mass of the
faithful, ready to receive the word of God through His servant,
Herrith. It was a time of reflection, the day when the lords of the
Empire looked inward and decided if their souls were clean or
unclean. They would listen to Herrith, and he would tell them what
the year would bring, and if the angels in Heaven were pleased with
what they saw below. And after his speech, Herrith would go down
among the people and perform the sacrament of Absolution. He
would spend the rest of the day touching foreheads and doling out
forgiveness, and all for the good of Nar's rotten soul.

In the days of Arkus, Eestrii was always a time for pride. But now
the archbishop ruled Nar, and no one knew for certain how this had
changed Heaven's view of things.

For years, Herrith had made the same annual trip to his balcony,
raising his hands to the masses and imparting his wisdom. It was a
perilously brief moment, and Herrith always tried his hardest to
come up with something special for the day. Usually, he locked
himself in his chambers for days before the event, carefully writing
a speech and praying for divine inspiration.

Usually.

But not this year.

This year, Archbishop Herrith had other matters occupying him,
and though he still locked himself in his chambers, so alone that
not even Lorla came to see him, he was not busy with a speech or
prayer. He was in the early throes of a violent withdrawal, and not
even God could save him this time.

The shades of his window were pulled wide open, letting in a
stream of sunlight. Herrith sat at his ornate desk, his hands
trembling as he stared at the tiny vial. A blue residue barely coated
the interior of the vial. It was the last of the drug Biagio had given
him, hardly enough to blend into a potion. Every few days, he had
been mixing a few drops of the potent stuff with water, making the
elixir that kept him ageless. Just as Nicabar had claimed, Bovadin
had made this batch powerfully strong—strong enough to have
lasted Herrith for weeks. But now it was gone. Only the faint blue
residue remained.

Herrith let out a whimper. His bones ached and his eyes burned.
The withdrawal had seized him two days ago, squeezing the life
out of him like a constrictor, and since then he had puzzled over his
nearly empty bottle, mourning its loss and trying to devise the best
way to ingest what little of the life-giving drug remained. He knew
the dangers of mixing so little with water. To do so might kill him.
And he worried that he might mix the solution so weakly as to have
no effect on him at all. That was unthinkable, because that meant
enduring more withdrawal and, quite possibly, madness. He set the
vial down and ran his hands over his head. He had already gone
through the hellish withdrawal once. He couldn't face it again.

"Merciful Heaven," he whispered. "What shall I do?"

He needed more of the drug, enough to sustain him just a little
while longer, just long enough to think of a way out. Bovadin
couldn't wait forever on Biagio's island. Herrith was certain the
midget would someday return to Nar, but Herrith had been unable
to think of a way to coax him back. He had even hoped himself free
of the drug, a theory Biagio's gift had plainly proven wrong. Worse,
Vorto had tried to warn him. The bishop grit his teeth against the
pain, the thought of the general assailing him.

Vorto. He had always been the strongest. Herrith knew the general
had more faith than anyone, even himself. He hadn't even flinched
when he'd seen Biagio's gift.

I should have listened to him. I should have resisted the urge. Now
look at me.

Herrith slammed his fist down on the table. "Enough! No more
whining." He picked up the vial with his shaking hands. "I will take
you," he said softly. "And if you kill me, you will simply send me to
God."

There was a pitcher of water on the desk beside him. Herrith
picked it up, spilling some, and poured the liquid into the drug vial,
filling it halfway. Then he put down the pitcher and stopped-up the
vial with his thumb, giving it a shake to wash all the precious blue
liquid from its sides. He looked at his concoction in the sunlight. A
hint of azure tinged the water. Herrith felt a dreadful quiver in his
stomach. He thought of just swallowing it down, but that would be
suicide. For reasons no one really knew, the drug needed to be
introduced directly into the bloodstream, or it would not work at all.
The bishop stared at the vial uncertainly. He was a faithless fool.
He realized that now.

But he was tired, so very tired. And the drug meant strength and
vigor. It owned him. Herrith surrendered to it.

"I fear you're the one power greater than Heaven," he said. "We
should both be damned forever."

So he went to the place where he kept his apparatus, and blithely
administered the last of the drug.

He awoke with his head on the floor, realizing that hours had
passed.

His tear-stained eyes opened warily to the stabbing sunlight. He
had vague memories of sickness. In his guts moved a strange
burning. Herrith took a breath to test the life in him. Except for a
cramping in his bowels, he felt strangely satisfied, without the
marrow-chewing pain of earlier.

"Dear God," he whispered, lifting his head and examining himself.
"It's worked. I'm all right again."

He clasped his hands before him and gave Heaven its proper
thanks, unspeakably relieved. This had purchased him at least
another day, a whole bagful of clear-headed hours to plan his
bargain with Biagio. Somehow, he needed more of the drug. And
quickly, too, before the pains seized him again.

Now that he was strong enough to walk, he stood and went to the
window. Outside, all of repentant Nar was at his feet. Soon they
would be looking upward toward him, waiting for his words. The
realization startled him. Eestrii was only two days away, and he had
no idea what he would say.

"God will inspire me," he reasoned. "I will pray for it."

And I will pray for forgiveness for my own sins, he added silently,
and hope that Heaven still has a place for me.

He had been so sure of himself when he'd conquered the drug that
first time. Now he was weak, and his vague reflection in the window
sickened him. Had he been so wrong about things? Did God really
speak to him at all?

"I am still a man of God," he told the reflection. "Do not doubt it."

There were signs enough to convince him. He still had Nar. Even
now he towered over it. And Vorto would be returning soon, with a
subdued Dragon's Beak to his credit. Surely God would not allow a
heretic to rule an empire so vast. It was why He had killed the
immortal Arkus. Herrith put a hand to his head. Sleepiness tugged
at him, bidding him back to his chair. But the aches of his body had
subsided a little. He smiled to himself.

"I'm still alive, Biagio," he said softly. "You'll have to do better."

From across the vast chamber he heard a knock on his door.
Before he could reply, Father Todos pushed the door open. He
looked troubled.

"Holiness?"

"Yes?" replied Herrith tersely. "What is it?"

Todos stepped into the room and eyed his superior. Herrith had
hardly seen the Father since taking to his chambers, and Todos
had prowled outside the bishop's domain like a worried mother.
Now the priest's face brightened at seeing his master robust again.

"It's good to see you up and around," Todos remarked. "I was
concerned."

"Thank you."

Todos eyed the empty vial on the desk. Suddenly the cheer left his
expression. "Is that all of it?"

"The last drop."

"Holiness . . ."

"Don't lecture me, please, Todos," said Herrith gravely. "I know
what I'm doing."

"Do you? I wonder sometimes." Father Todos came closer,
inspecting the bishop. "You look terrible; your color. And you
haven't been eating again."

"I have," said Herrith indignantly.

"No, you haven't. I've been keeping a close eye on what's been
coming in and out of here, Herrith. Your trays are almost as full
when they leave as when the women bring them. It's that God-
cursed drug. You're withdrawing again."

Herrith turned toward the window. "It will pass," he said. "I'm in
control."

"But now you're done with it. What will happen now?"

I don't know, thought Herrith bleakly.

"I'll think of something," he said.

Todos stepped around him, blocking his view. "And if you can't?"
he asked. "What then?"

"Have faith, old friend," Herrith said gently. "Biagio wants Nar. He
gave me that drug as a bribe. And yes, I fell for it. But that won't be
the end of it. We will hear from the count soon enough. When we
do, I will secure more of the drug for myself." He looked at his
friend seriously. "There's still much work to do, Todos. Nar is
diseased. I need to be strong. An old man can't do what's
necessary."

"Herrith, please . . ."

"Enough," bid the bishop. "Believe in me. I am guided by Heaven."
He smiled warmly, forgetting the pain swimming through his head.
"Now, what is it you came here for?"

Father Todos brightened again. "Yes, I almost forgot. That
toymaker is here. He's brought the gift for Lorla."

Herrith looked up excitedly. "Has he? That is good news. It's
almost Lorla's birthday. She'll be pleased."

"He's brought men with him, too, Holiness. The dollhouse you had
him build is enormous! It takes four men to lift it."

"You've seen it?"

"No, Holiness. It's still crated. But he wanted to deliver it to you
personally. Shall I have him wait?"

"By all means," said Herrith. "I must see this thing he's built." He
rubbed his cold hands together gleefully. "I'm sure it's a marvel.
Lorla will be thrilled."

"Shall I go and find her?" asked Todos.

"No, not yet. I want to see it for myself first. And Redric Bobs
would likely take all the credit. He'll be paid, of course, but I want to
see Lorla's face. That reward will be mine alone." He looked down
at his wrinkled clothes, frowning. "I must wash and dress. Go and
tell the toymaker to wait for me. And have him move his dollhouse
into the great hall. Make sure Darago isn't in there. If he is, have
him leave."

Todos grimaced at the order. "Holiness, I don't think Darago would
care for that."

"I don't care what that pompous painter wants," said Herrith. "He's
done with his work now. He shouldn't be spending so much time in
the hall."

Todos laughed. "He's very proud of his work."

"As he should be, no doubt. But this dollhouse of the Piper's is a
work of art, too. I want to unveil it with the ceiling on Eestrii. Lorla's
birthday must be special. Go now, Todos, please. Do as I say. I'll
meet you in the hall presently."

With a reluctant bow, Todos left the chamber so that Herrith could
dress. The bishop hurried to his wash basin and splashed his face
with cool water. The mirror above the basin revealed a weary,
weathered face, not young at all. His eyes were still blue but
noticeably dimmer. Herrith fretted over the visage, frightened by
what it might mean. It was like a ghost staring back at him, or one
of those vampires from Dorian folklore. He put up his hand and
shielded himself from the reflection, then turned away and went to
his dressing chamber where he found himself a robe and cassock
and quickly slipped everything on. He was eager to see the thing
the Piper had made. Four men! How elaborate it must be, how
beautiful. Lorla would be ecstatic. And she'd been such a good
girl, and such a fine daughter. To please her, he would have done
anything.

When he finished dressing, he took a drink of water to steady
himself, then headed downstairs. He passed the confession
booths filled with silence and was soon in the great hall, that part of
the cathedral that had stood empty for so long, closed to the public
while Darago and his assistants worked their magic on the ceiling.
Herrith sighted Redric Bobs in the center of the gigantic chamber,
staring up at the ceiling. The panels of the painting were each
covered with sheets, all carefully layered over the masterwork to
hide it from curious eyes. But the Piper craned his neck anyway.

Beside him was a giant crate with three of its sides still erect. The
fourth side had been torn away to reveal the glimmering contents.
Herrith licked his lips in anticipation. Redric Bobs was alone in the
room. Blessedly, Darago was nowhere to be seen. The bishop's
footfalls echoed as he walked, catching Bobs' attention. For a brief
second, Herrith thought he saw a flash of disdain in the toymaker's
eyes.

"You've brought it, Redric Bobs," said Herrith. "How wonderful."

"As promised, Holiness," said the toymaker. He inclined his head
slightly in deference. "The girl's birthday is only days away, yes?"

"Two days," said Herrith. "On Eestrii. You've been timely, Redric
Bobs. I thank you."

"And would your Holiness care to see what he's bought?" Bobs
asked. There was a distinct ring of pride in his voice.

"I'm as curious as a little boy," replied Herrith. "Let me see this
jewel!"

The Piper stepped aside so that Herrith could see inside the crate.
What the bishop saw in the wooden box took his breath away.
Redric Bobs had built a masterpiece, a perfect likeness of the
great cathedral, meticulously detailed and lovingly ornamented,
replete with tiny angels and gargoyles, and bearing a steeple of
iron and copper. Over the cathedral's miniature gates flew an
archangel, a winged-man with a trumpet to his lips, a flawless
rendition of the real one. It was a stunning representation, true in
every detail, and Herrith was awed by it. He stared at the model,
basking in its tall shadow, and could not imagine anything more
lovely.

"It's priceless," he whispered. "Absolutely priceless."

"Well, actually no," quipped Redric Bobs. "In fact, it's quite
expensive."

"Oh, Piper Bobs," sighed Herrith. "Compared to this fantastic thing,
money is nothing. You have no idea the joy you've brought me.
And Lorla."

"I'm pleased to oblige," muttered the toymaker.

Herrith turned and regarded him questioningly. "What ails you,
Piper Bobs? You've created a masterpiece. You should be
pleased with yourself. If it's payment you're worried about . . ."

"No, Holiness, I'm not worried about money. Your Father Todos
has gone to fetch me some of my payment. He says the rest will
be delivered to me soon."

"So then? Why the long face?"

The Piper shrugged. "Nothing," he said evasively. "I am glad you
approve, that's all."

"I do," said Herrith with a smile. He didn't know if it was the drug or
merely the sight of the magnificent model, but he felt invigorated,
better than he had in days. He stepped closer to the dollhouse.
The fine details required eyes sharper than his own, but he could
see all the care and time that was lavished on the thing, the tiny
components glued expertly together, the bits of precious metals
and woods, and all the carvings running along its sides, so
perfectly mimicking the runes that decorated the real cathedral's
walls. But most amazing of all was the angel in the middle. Herrith
reached out for it.

"No," cried Bobs suddenly. "Don't touch it."

"What? Why not?"

"It's very fragile. You might break it. Please, it's really not meant to
be handled."

Herrith's expression soured. "It's a dollhouse, Piper Bobs—for a
little girl."

"It's also a work of art, Holiness," said the toy-maker defensively.
"If she plays too roughly with it, it might break. Especially the
archangel. I say again—please don't touch it."

"Very well," sighed Herrith, stepping away from the model. Fragile
or not, it was a marvel. "Thank you for bringing it," he said. "And for
finishing it on time."

The toymaker nodded. "You're welcome, Holiness. I hope it gives
you and the child much pleasure."

"It will give all of Nar City pleasure, be assured. We will leave it
here for all the faithful to see, so that they may admire it with
Darago's great ceiling."

"Yes, the ceiling," remarked Bobs. "When will this be unveiled? On
Eestrii?"

"Indeed. You should come to the unveiling, toy-maker. It will be a
fabulous day. It's my gift to Nar, you see. I want all the faithful to
admire it."

Redric Bobs flushed a little. He wasn't "faithful," and they both
knew it.

"Perhaps," replied the toymaker mildly. "If I can get away."

The arrival of Father Todos ended the awkward moment. In his
hand was a small sack of coins.

"For you, Redric Bobs," said Todos. "With our thanks. You will
have the rest soon."

Redric Bobs smiled. "No hurry. Just seeing your faces is payment
enough."

"Nevertheless," Herrith interrupted. "You will be paid handsomely
for your work. Thank you, Redric Bobs. You're a true craftsman."

The toymaker bowed, then backed out of the chamber, sensing the
dismissal in Herrith's tone. The bishop was pleased to see him go.
Redric Bobs was such an inscrutable man, and not a friend to the
church. But he was a genius, and his rendering of the cathedral
was without peer.

"Find Lorla for me, Todos," said Herrith. "Tell her that her birthday
gift is waiting."

Lorla was in the chapel when Todos found her, watching a wedding
between a baron's son and a young redheaded woman from Goss.
She was on the landing, crouched behind a statue of Saint
Gowdon, doing her best not to disturb the fascinating ritual. It was a
small wedding by Naren standards, maybe three hundred people in
all, and the duke's son was a handsome fellow with jet hair. Very
soon it would be her birthday. The ticking clock had set her to
thinking.

Father Todos let out an exasperated sigh when he found her, loud
enough to echo in the chamber and stir the crowd below. Lorla
cringed when she saw him. She spent a lot of time in the chapel
watching the priests work, and none of them seemed to mind her
presence. Only Father Todos treated her like a nuisance. She
supposed he was jealous of the attention Herrith gave her.

"Lorla," he whispered loudly, beckoning from across the landing.
"Come over here."

"Shhh," Lorla scolded. She pointed down to the floor below. "I'm
watching the wedding."

"Now," said Todos sternly.

Whenever he took that tone with her, Lorla knew she had to obey,
so she carefully backed away from the landing's edge, scooting
out of Saint Gowdon's shadow. "What's wrong?" she asked. "I
wasn't doing anything. Father Herrith always lets me watch the
weddings."

"It's not that," said Todos. "Archbishop Herrith wants to see you.
Your birthday gift has arrived."

The words struck Lorla like a fist. Birthday gift? Already? She
wasn't sure that she wanted her gift to arrive anymore. Ever.

"Really?" she chirped, feigning a smile. "Where is it?"

"In the great hall. His Holiness is waiting there for you."

"Yes. Yes, all right," said Lorla. "That's wonderful."

"It is wonderful, child. You won't believe your eyes! Father Herrith
spared no expense for you. I hope you realize that."

"I know," said Lorla sharply. She didn't like Todos' constant
reminders about Herrith's good nature. She already knew the
bishop was kind-hearted, not at all like she had been taught to
believe. "We can go now to see it?" she asked.

Todos shook his head. "You know the way, child. I think Father
Herrith wants to share this gift with you alone."

The priest flashed her an insincere grin before departing. Lorla
watched him go, afraid of him. Sometimes she wondered what
Todos thought of her. He alone seemed to sense the difference in
her. When he was near, Lorla felt suspicion. Still, none of that
mattered. Herrith loved her, and that was all she had ever hoped to
accomplish. She spared a glance over her shoulder, looking
forlornly at the wedding below, then hurried off toward the great hall
and her waiting gift.

As she moved through the quiet corridors, she heard voices in her
head—again. Lorla slowed, cocking her head to listen. The voices
had been getting louder recently. They didn't frighten her, though.
They were like hearing music. And she couldn't make out what they
were saying. Sometimes she thought it was Master Biagio's voice,
gently cooing to her like a father. The sound of it comforted her.
Lately she had been wondering about her place in the world. When
she did, the voices always came to calm her. Master Biagio still
had a plan for her, and hearing his voice, if it was his voice, made
her feel less alone. Herrith seemed like a decent man and she
cared for him greatly now. But he was the Master's enemy.

That was all that mattered.

Lorla quickened her pace, driven on by the murky voices. She left
the wedding far behind, then descended a set of stairs leading to
the lower levels. Cowled acolytes passed her by, prevented from
greeting her by their vows of silence. But other priests gave her
gentle nods, and scholarly monks who had come to the cathedral
on pilgrimages flashed her curious smiles, obviously amazed to
see a little girl wandering the sanctified halls. Lorla reveled in the
attention. She loved the cathedral and all its odd denizens. She
loved its soaring ceilings and the way her feet could fill a room with
echoes.

When she reached the great hall, she slowed. She caught a
glimpse of Herrith alone in the chamber, looking up at the covered
ceiling. He looked weak and white-faced. Lorla hadn't seen him for
days, and his appearance troubled her. Beside him was a wooden
box, far bigger than himself. One of its sides had been torn away,
but from her angle Lorla couldn't see what was inside it. And
suddenly she no longer cared.

"Father?" she called down the corridor.

Herrith looked up at the sound of his name. A smile lit his gaunt
face. "Lorla! Come here, little one. I have something for you."

Lorla hurried up to him, scanning him with a worried eye. "Are you
all right?" she asked.

"Fine, fine," said Herrith, waving off her concern. "Your gift has
arrived, Lorla. It's magnificent." He stepped aside so she could
see within the crate. "Look!"

Lorla looked, and what she saw was mesmerizing. The whole
Cathedral of the Martyrs was there in miniature, magically shrunk
and put in the box.

"Oh," she sighed. "It's beautiful."

It was more than beautiful, but there were no words good enough
to describe it. Its metal steeple, its rune-carved walls, its tiny
gargoyles with lolling tongues—all of it bespoke perfection and the
hand of God. Lorla was entranced by it. And when she saw the
archangel flying over its gates . . .

A bracing shock seized her. She stared at the angel, her eyes
wide, and the voices that had whispered in her brain now exploded,
screaming at her.

"The angel!" they cried. "The angel!"

Lorla swallowed hard, almost staggering backward. She felt hot,
like scalding water were falling on her head. Herrith was staring at
her, frowning. She fought to steady herself, to beat back the
insistent voices and regain her possessed mind.

"I love it," she said breathlessly. "Oh, yes, it's very nice."

"Nice?" asked Herrith. He came closer to her, looking down at her
with concern. "Lorla? Are you all right?"

I don't know! thought Lorla. What's wrong with me?

"Yes," she lied. "Fine."

"You don't look fine."

Stop yelling at me! she demanded, but the voices didn't obey.
They kept after her, crying "angel" over and over. Lorla forced a
twisted smile.

"I love it, Father," she said. "Thank you so much."

Herrith seemed disappointed in her reaction. Lorla hurried to
salvage the moment.

"It's sooo lovely," she said, falling down to her knees before it.
"And so real-looking! Was the toy-maker here? Did he bring it
himself?"

"Yes," said Herrith. He got down on one knee next to her, and
together they admired the impossibly beautiful dollhouse. The
voices inside Lorla subsided a little. But still she stared at the
angel, somehow knowing what needed to be done.

"Will you unveil it on Eestrii?" she asked softly. "With the ceiling?"

"That's up to you," replied the bishop. "It's your birthday present,
Lorla. If you want to put it somewhere else, you may."

"No," said Lorla quickly. "No, I want to leave it here. I want
everyone to see it on Eestrii. With Darago's ceiling."

Lorla tilted her eyes upward. Far above them, the ceiling was
covered with lengths of cloth to hide Darago's masterpiece. The
scaffolds had been pulled away too, so that now the great hall was
empty except for the huge crate and the marvelous, meticulous
dollhouse. Lorla's gaze drifted toward the panel where she knew
the little orphan girl, Elioes, was hidden behind the cloth. Elioes
had been touched by God. She was one of Heaven's favored,
someone very special. The thought saddened Lorla. Wasn't she
special, too? That's what everyone had always told her. Soon it
would be Eestrii, her birthday. She would have to prove her
worthiness to the Master. And now she didn't want to. Slowly, she
slipped her hand into Herrith's. The bishop looked down at her and
smiled.

"Father?" she asked in a whisper. "Does God love everyone?"

Herrith grinned. "Of course, little one."

"Does He forgive our sins, no matter what they are?"

"Yes. But you needn't worry about that, Lorla." He squeezed her
hand tightly. "You're pure. You're without sin."

Lorla grimaced. For now.

"Holiness!" came a sudden voice from across the chamber. Both
Lorla and the bishop looked up to see Father Todos hurrying
toward them. The priest looked distressed, his face drawn with
worry. He was clearly out of breath, and by the time he reached
them was gasping. Herrith rose to his feet.

"Todos, what is it?"

Father Todos clasped his hands out in front of him. "God in
Heaven, he's back," he said quickly. "He's delivered something for
you. A message."

"Make sense, man," rumbled Herrith. "What message? What are
you talking about?"

"Nicabar! His ships have returned to the harbor!"

Lorla blinked at the name. Nicabar?

Herrith blanched. "Merciful God," he droned. "What's that devil
want now?"

"He's left a message for you, Herrith," said Todos. "A box and a
note. He had some of his sailors bring it ashore. It's waiting for you
in your study."

"A box?" parroted Herrith.

"And the note," added Todos. "Please, Herrith, come quickly.
Nicabar's ships might open fire on us! And without Vorto to protect
us . . ."

"Be easy, Todos," bade the bishop. "I'll see what the devil has
brought us this time." He turned to Lorla apologetically. "I'm sorry,
little one," he said gently. "I have business to attend. We'll sup
together tonight, all right?"

Lorla nodded. "Yes, Father," she replied, then watched him leave
the great hall with Todos.

An awesome silence filled the chamber. Lorla looked back at the
cathedral model. The angel was speaking to her.

Herrith hurried toward his study, his mind racing. Another delivery
from Nicabar could only mean one thing: Biagio had delivered
more of the drug. He would have known that the small dosage he'd
first given would have run out by now. Herrith wrung his hands as
he walked, full of hope. Behind him walked Father Todos. The
priest's worried chattering hadn't ceased since he'd come to the
hall.

"I don't know what it is," he repeated. "And our defenses are
weaker without Vorto here. There are three dreadnoughts, I think.
Or four. I don't know why the admiral didn't come ashore. Afraid, I
suppose."

Todos was babbling; Herrith hardly heard him anymore. He didn't
care why Nicabar hadn't come ashore. Really, the reason was
obvious. Without an escort sent to protect him, the legionnaires in
the city would tear him to pieces. Herrith wondered if Nicabar's
note would explain things. Perhaps he wanted to come ashore and
was waiting for safe passage to the cathedral. No matter. They
would know soon enough.

The door to Herrith's study stood open. Inside, a pair of priests
loomed over his desk, their expressions bleak. On the desk sat a
wooden chest. Next to the chest rested an envelope. Herrith eyed
the chest greedily as he entered his study. A box so large could
hold a gallon of the drug!

"You haven't opened it, have you?" he asked his priests. Each of
them shook their head.

"Holiness, it's for you," explained Todos. "We wouldn't dare."

"Fine, fine," said Herrith absently. He hovered over his desk,
inspecting the chest. A little latch kept the lid closed. Herrith ran his
hand over it, feeling the leather, afraid to open it. Biagio was a
devil. If the chest did contain the narcotic, the count would be
bargaining for it. Herrith held his breath as he fingered the latch. It
sprung open with a metallic click. The three priests watched,
mesmerized. Herrith slowly opened the lid and peered inside.

Something rotten and dead stared back at him. Herrith's heart
froze. He stared at the thing, and realized at last that it was a head,
and that the head was Vorto's.

"Mother of God!"

Todos screamed. The two priests crossed themselves, horrified at
the sight. A stench rose up, striking Herrith squarely. Vorto's head
was like a shattered melon, bald and burned almost beyond
recognition.

Herrith put his hands to his mouth and backed away from the desk.

"God have mercy on you, Biagio," he whispered.

"What happened?" Todos cried.

Herrith took a deep breath, then slowly closed the chest. A
trancelike mood fell over him. He was fighting the devil himself, he
realized suddenly. Biagio was more of a monster than he'd feared.

"Vorto," he said softly. "Rest, my friend. You were a loyal soldier."

"My God!" exclaimed Todos. "How can this be?"

"Todos . . ."

"Herrith, Biagio's killed him! We have no general anymore!"

"Shut up, Todos," snapped Herrith, turning on his friend. "Let me
think." He collapsed into his chair in front of the desk, brooding
over the chest and the terrible circumstances Biagio had delivered
him. Todos was right. Without Vorto, they had no commander.
They had soldiers still, but they would be demoralized by this.
Biagio was very slowly turning the tide.

Then Herrith noticed the envelope again.

With an unsteady hand he reached across the desk and retrieved
the note. Todos started to say something, but Herrith silenced him
with a glare.

"Todos, you stay," he said. "Jevic and Merill, please leave us."

The two lesser priests bowed and left the room, shutting the door
behind them. Todos hovered over Herrith.

"They're demands," he prophesied. "Biagio means for us to
surrender."

Herrith opened the envelope and pulled out a piece of paper. The
penmanship was Biagio's. But he didn't read the letter aloud.
Instead he studied it, holding it close so that Todos couldn't see.



Dearest Herrith,

It is sad indeed that things have come to this. But you see now that
I intend to get your attention, and will not be ignored. Your
champion is dead, as are the soldiers who went with him. There
has been much bloodshed, for which I am truly regretful.

I ask you again to come to Crote with all the Narren lords loyal to
you. I cannot come to the Black City myself, as you well know. Now
that I have slain their general, the legions would not have me on
Naren soil. But I sorely want peace, and beg you to treat with me.

There is also the matter of the drug. It is here, waiting for you. You
have my word that I will not withhold it if you do as I ask. Nicabar
and his ships will remain in the harbor until you decide to join me.
Do not try and send him away, because he will not leave until you
change your mind.

And you will change your mind.

Your friend,

Count Renato Biagio



Herrith tossed the letter onto the desk before him. "You're certain
of that, are you, Biagio?" he seethed.

Todos snatched up the letter and began to read.

"He thinks I'll change my mind!" Herrith thundered. "He thinks he is
stronger than me and God!" He smashed a fist down onto the
desk, sending the gory chest jumping. "Well, he is not!"

Todos shook his head, worried. "He taunts you with the drug,
Holiness. If you don't talk peace with him—"

"Not on his own island, I won't," snapped Herrith. "Let Nicabar wait
in the harbor 'til he grows spiderwebs. I will never set foot on
Crote."

He laid his hands on the chest containing Vorto's head, praying to
God for strength. It was all unraveling now, raster than a hurricane.
Only Heaven could save them.

"Send a message back to Nicabar," the bishop directed. "Tell him I
will not speak peace with Biagio, and that neither I nor any Naren
lord will be going to Crote. Tell him also that we are still strong.
Biagio may have killed a handful of our army, but we are not
doomed yet. Go, Todos. Make haste with my message."

Todos departed, leaving Herrith alone to brood. The bishop got out
of his chair and walked weakly toward the wall of glass displaying
all of sprawling Nar. In the harbor he could see the Fearless and
her sister dreadnoughts bobbing on the ocean. They were a
formidable trio. Like Biagio, Nicabar, and Bovadin. At his worst,
Herrith had never dreamed Biagio would go this far. Or accomplish
so much.

"It's slipping away," he said mournfully.

A year ago, he had thought himself invincible. Now he just
wondered what the morning would bring.
THIRTY-SIX
Betrayal

C ount Renato Biagio felt wonderful. One day remained before
Eestrii. The count was in a lazy mood. He was world-weary and
profoundly satisfied with himself, for his grand design had almost
been achieved after a long year of planning. Tomorrow, if all the
pieces of his vast puzzle fell into place, Nar would understand the
power of its true master.

Biagio leaned back in his giant leather chair, sipping at a glass of
sherry and admiring the view through his window. Crote was very
beautiful. He would miss it sorely. But great victories always came
at a price. Someday, when Nar was his, he would retake the island
of his ancestors. He wondered how it might change in that time.
What would the Lissens do to his precious homeland? The thought
made him take another sip, deep and contemplative. Every
building they burned, every statue they defaced, would be paid
back in magnitudes. He would see to it. And so would Nicabar.

But that was the future, and Biagio didn't care to think so far ahead.
He was basking in the moment, and in the moments soon to come,
and as he drank his fine sherry he smiled to himself, imagining
Bovadin in the streets below the cathedral, watching his device go
off. The midget had worked exceedingly hard. He was a loyal
servant, and Biagio was proud of him. Just as he was proud of
Nicabar and, to a lesser extent, the little girl named Lorla.

Lorla.

Biagio mulled the name over in his mind. It suited her. He had
named her himself. The count smiled. She had been the perfect
candidate for his mission, and Bovadin had worked his miracles on
her. Lorla was like a clock ticking toward midnight. Outside his
window, Biagio noted the position of the sun. It would be dark
soon. Not too much longer.

"And so I will win, Herrith," he said to himself. "And you will come to
Crote because you are weak and because you underestimated
me."

They had all underestimated him. Even Arkus. His beloved
emperor hadn't had the foresight to leave him the Empire. It wasn't
vanity or self-promotion. He was simply the logical choice, and
Arkus had forsaken him. A full year later, Biagio still didn't know
how to forgive the man who'd been like a father to him.

The one bright spot in his days was the Vantran woman. Dyana
was a marvel he hadn't expected, and after almost two weeks, he
no longer minded having her around. She had the brains not to
contemplate escape, and on those rare occasions when they
spoke she always tried to convince him of her husband's
innocence. She was a good and loyal woman. And faithful to her
husband. Biagio's own wife Elliann had never been like that. But
then, neither had he.

He would find Elliann, he decided. When he returned to the Black
City, she would crawl back to him like the bitch she was, smelling
wealth and power, and he would turn her away for the simple
pleasure of seeing her scowl.

Biagio put down his glass. On his desk sat some loose leaves of
paper, a journal of sorts that he had been keeping of recent
events. He had chronicled everything meticulously, sometimes
transcribing whole conversations, for he wanted a record of his
grand design not only as a souvenir but also as a guideline of sorts
for his Roshann agents. They were still scattered throughout the
Empire, awaiting his return. He would have much to tell them.

But sometimes his journal wasn't about his reforms at all.
Sometimes his notes were just the offerings of a cool, reflective
mind. Biagio picked up his pen and began to write.

The Jackal's wife is nothing like I imagined, he wrote. She sees my
secrets with the eyes of a jaguar, and yet she seems not to care.
Nor does she have fear of me. When I tell her my plans to take her
to Nar, she hardly flinches. And she calls me mad. Clearly, my
mastery of her means nothing.

Still, she has set my mind to thinking.

Biagio put the end of the pen into his mouth, chewing on it
pensively. Thinking about what? His own mortality? Yes, that and
so much more. He didn't like having his sanity questioned,
especially not by the Jackal's wife. There were plenty in the Empire
who thought Richius Vantran insane, yet that didn't seem to bother
Dyana. She was blinded by him, dazzled by his strange glamour.
Just like everyone else.

And Biagio still hated him. Despite Dyana's appeals, the count's
fury knew no satiety. His one wish was that he could be here on
Crote when Vantran invaded. He would have liked to see his old
nemesis again.

"Patience," he counseled himself. "You have the woman."

Dyana could lure Richius Vantran to the ends of the earth. She had
proven that once already. Biagio leaned back, putting his hands
behind his head and resting his feet on his handmade desk.
Today, life was good. Tomorrow, it would be even better. He
closed his eyes and started to daydream, but was quickly
interrupted by a knock at his door. The count's eyes snapped open
with a growl.

"Leraio, if that's you . . ."

"Master, please," came his house slave's voice. "It's urgent."

"Come in, then, damn it."

Leraio opened the door and stepped meekly inside. He knew his
master hated disturbances, so he got right to the point.

"A ship just arrived, Master," said the slave. "One of the fleet."

Biagio quickly pulled his feet off the desk and got out of his chair.
"The Swift?"

"Yes, Master," replied the slave. He had a worried smile on his
face that made Biagio wonder.

"What else?" probed the count. "I can tell by that stupid grin you're
not telling me everything."

"Captain Kelara has already come ashore, Master. He says he has
to meet with you urgently."

Biagio tossed up his hands. "Well? Bring him in here!"

"I'm sorry, Master, I just thought—"

"What, Leraio? What did you think? I told you I wanted to see
Kelara the moment he arrived. So why are you wasting my time
with this nonsense? Just bring him to me."

"But, Master," the slave implored. "It's not what you think. Captain
Kelara isn't alone. He's brought someone ashore with him. Another
sailor."

Biagio grimaced. Why were there so many surprises lately? "What
sailor?"

"Master, Kelara says he's from the Intimidator."

The count fell back into his chair with a groan. "Oh, no . . ."

It wasn't just interesting news. It was terrible news. Biagio tried to
tame his emotions, but they were suddenly overwhelming. This
unpredicted arrival could only mean one thing.

Simon was dead.

"Bring them in," whispered Biagio. "Both of them."

Leraio backed away with a bow. Biagio picked up his sherry and
quickly finished the glass, ignoring the pleasant sting it gave his
throat. He wanted to run away suddenly, to hide where no one
could find him. And he cursed himself for his foolishness, sure that
the mission he had thrust on Simon had killed him. He set down the
glass and stared at the threshold, waiting for his guests to arrive
and bracing himself for dreadful news.

Captain Kelara appeared in the doorway first. He was dressed in a
clean uniform, and readied himself for the audience by taking off
his hat and giving Biagio a deferential bow.

"Count Biagio?" he asked. "A word, please?"

"More than a word, I hope," replied the count. He beckoned him
closer with a finger. "Come in, Kelara."

Kelara stepped aside to reveal another man, a much younger sailor
with fair hair and an eager look about him. He was thin and pale like
many of Nicabar's ilk, and when he saw Biagio he gave a quick,
awkward bow, mimicking Kelara.

"What's your name, sailor?" asked the count.

"Boatswain Dars, sir," replied the young man nervously.

"Boatswain Dars of the Intimidator, is that right?"

"Yes, sir."

"How is that possible?"

The boatswain grimaced, shifting his eyes toward Kelara for
support. Kelara took a step forward. His expression grew grave.

"We rescued him, Count Biagio. I'm sorry to say, the Intimidator
was lost. Dars here was the only survivor. "

"Lost," echoed Biagio. "How?"

"We were rammed by a Lissen schooner," the young man
interjected. "She came out of the dark and struck us amidships.
We didn't even see her coming. Captain N'Dek and the rest of the
crew went down with her." His eyes hit the floor guiltily. "I'm all
that's left."

Biagio felt his insides twist. No other survivors. Not Simon. And not
the Vantran child. He let out a heavy groan.

"There's something I'm not understanding," he said. "The
Intimidator was struck by a Lissen schooner. And then, what . . .?"
The count shrugged. "You swam to Liss?"

"No sir."

"Then how did the Swift find you?" pressed Biagio, losing
patience. "Where the hell was the Intimidator?"

"Uh, Count Biagio, I think I should explain," said Kelara.

"Yes, Captain, that would be very nice."

"Count, the Intimidator wasn't en route to Crote as planned. She
was in Lissen waters when she went down. That was her heading .
. . on the orders of Simon Darquis."

"What?" hissed Biagio. His eyes darted between Kelara and Dars.
"What are you saying, man? Explain yourself."

"It's true," said Dars. "Simon Darquis was aboard. He had the
Jackal's daughter with him. He ordered us to Liss."

"Darquis took Captain N'Dek hostage in his cabin," added Kelara.
"He ordered the Intimidator to Liss on authority of the Roshann.
Your authority, Count Biagio. N'Dek did as he was told, and they
dropped Simon off on the islands. According to Dars, here,
Richius Vantran was on Liss, too. Darquis stayed with him."

"Darquis said it was all part of your plan," said Dars. "We didn't
understand it, but when they let us go we didn't care. Only they
didn't let us go. We thought we were free, but then the Prince
came."

"The prince?" probed Biagio.

"The Prince of Liss," Kelara explained. "Prakna's flagship. And he
didn't really let them go. When they thought they were safely away,
the Prince came after them in the night. Sunk 'em." The captain
shook his head ruefully. "I saw the whole thing, but I was too far
away to do anything. And the Swift doesn't have any cannons. All
that I could do was rescue poor Dars here."

Biagio listened, appalled at the tale. He didn't care that the
Intimidator had been sunk, or that a whole crew was dead. What
fixed his mind—what screamed at him—was that Simon was on
Liss. It was unthinkable, and yet the word that best described it
rang unceasingly in his mind.

Betrayal.

"This is impossible," he gasped. "What business had Simon in
Liss? I gave no such orders!"

"I swear, it's true," insisted Boatswain Dars. "Every word of it.
Simon Darquis took control of our vessel and sailed us to Liss.
That's where we left him." The young man sneered. "That lice-
ridden dog. He betrayed us, and on your orders, sir. He did, and I'll
go to my grave saying so."

"I'm sorry, Count Biagio," added Kelara. "But it's all the truth. We
picked up Dars and then sailed for Crote. I thought you'd want to
hear this news quickly."

Biagio was silent. Kelara looked at him questioningly.

"My lord?"

"Yes, yes," whispered Biagio. "You did the right thing, of course,
Captain."

Kelara and Dars exchanged puzzled glances. Biagio saw them
only peripherally. He was lost in a fog, crushed by the news and
unable to lift himself from the chair. Simon had betrayed him. The
thought of it was agonizing. It had been painful to think him dead.
But this new revelation was crippling.

"Thank you, Captain Kelara," he said finally. "But you must return to
your patrols."

"Yes, my lord, just as soon as we're ready. We'll take on some
supplies and head back. I thought maybe we could rest a day,
maybe take on some fresh crewmen from the other ships."

"Whatever you wish," replied Biagio absently.

Boatswain Dars stepped forward. "Sir," he asked. "I'd like to go
back with the Swift. I'd like to take my revenge on those Lissen
pigs in any way I can. With your permission . . ."

Count Biagio glanced up. "Revenge?" he said bitterly. "Certainly.
Why not? If Kelara can find a place for you, you have my
permission to go with him. Take all the revenge you want,
crewman. Gorge yourself on it."

The two sailors bowed politely and left the chamber. Biagio
listened sadly to the closing of the door. A powerful feeling of
aloneness settled over him. He glanced at his sherry glass and
found it empty. He looked absently out of the window and saw no
one in his garden. Past the glass doors, there was only silence, not
even the distant call of a bird. Winter was coming to Crote, walling
them up.

"Why?" Biagio whispered. "Oh, my dear friend. Why did you do
this?"

There were no answers. He had given Simon everything—including
Eris. He had lavished his favorite friend with gifts and freedom,
opulent clothing and jewelry galore, yet still Simon had betrayed
him. Like so many fools before him, he had fallen for the spell of
Richius Vantran. Biagio swatted the wine glass from his desk,
sending it shattering against a wall, then rose from his chair,
shoving it violently backward.

"How dare you do this to me!" he roared. "I am Count Renato
Biagio!"

Near his bookcase he found the sherry bottle. In a rage he tipped it
to his lips, swallowing down great gulps and spilling it over his satin
shirt. He didn't care about being genteel anymore. He didn't care
how he looked or what others thought of him. That game had been
played-out long ago. Now he drank like one of Nicabar's sailors,
ceaselessly and without a breath until almost all the bottle was
drained. Then he threw the bottle against the wall, too, striking a
priceless painting and splattering it with glass and wine stains.

"Oh, I'm not done with you, Simon," he rumbled. "I loved you. And
you spurned me!"

His eyes darted around the room for something to smash. An ivory
bust of Arkus was the nearest item. He stalked toward it, suddenly
hating his old mentor, and with a grunt hefted the statue off its
pedestal and tossed it through his garden doors. The glass
shattered.

"Damn you, Arkus. You and Simon both!"

He was out of control and he knew it, and the sherry was burning a
hole in his guts, snaking up toward his brain. It was a delicious
madness, and the count did nothing to stop it. He was possessed
with loathing and the sting of unrequited love. But the smashing
and the screaming did nothing to ebb his growing pain. His mind
flashed with pictures—of Elliann, the wife who had left him, and
Arkus, the emperor who had died on him. But most of all he
thought of Simon, and the image of the man burned him and tore at
his heart. The great wall Biagio had erected around himself began
to crumble, and with it went all his self-control.

"Hurt me?" he growled. "No, Simon. I will hurt you."

He raced from the room in a blind rage, and the servants in the
halls gave him a wide berth as he thundered past them, shoving
aside any who got in his way. Simon didn't have very much in
Crote. He had possessions, of course, but they were meaningless
because he was a Roshann agent and accustomed to being away
from home. Biagio had thought of burning his clothes, of throwing
all his trinkets into the ocean and forbidding his name ever to be
spoken. But what harm would that do his treacherous friend? None
at all, and Biagio wanted to do harm. He was in that nether-world
between normality and madness, clear-headed enough to think but
powerless to stop himself.

Abruptly he found himself outside his music room, its doors shut
tightly closed. But he didn't stop. With a great howl he kicked open
the doors. As expected, Eris was inside, stretching against the
warmup bar. She jumped at his intrusion, frightened. Biagio saw
her through a red veil.

"Master?" she asked. "What's wrong?"

Biagio stalked toward her. "You took him from me. You turned him
against me!"

Eris backed up against the wall, terrified. The count's tall shadow
fell over her face.

"Master, please!" she stammered. "What's happened to you?"

He seized her, clamping a hand around her windpipe. Eris
screeched in fear and struggled against his icy fingers. Biagio's
voice trembled.

"He was dear to me, girl," he hissed. From beneath his cape he
produced his Roshann dagger. "Now I will take what is dear to
you\"

Twenty slaves heard Eris scream. Not one of them dared to help
her.

Dyana had spent most of the afternoon in her private chambers, far
removed from the slave quarters. It was a quiet area of the
mansion, and since she had already eaten her midday meal, she
sat undisturbed as she read through volumes from Biagio's library,
practicing the Naren language. She could speak it almost
flawlessly now. But she still had trouble reading the Naren tongue
and making the strange symbols on paper, and as she read she
studied everything with careful clarity, sometimes reading aloud to
be sure her interpretations were correct.

Because she had very few acquaintances on Crote, Dyana kept
mainly to her chambers. Since the incident with Savros, she took
great pains to avoid the other Narens. Except for Eris, she hardly
spoke to anyone, and Eris had a daily ritual of practice that kept her
busy. Today, Dyana had decided not to disturb her friend. They
would be returning to Nar soon, Eris had said, and she needed to
practice diligently to perform at her peak. She would be the toast of
the Black City. Biagio had told her so. Dyana looked up from her
book, grinning at the thought. She and Eris weren't so far apart in
age, but the dancer had an innocence that made her seem vastly
younger. No matter what Biagio did, she refused to see him as
anything but her master.

A glance out the window told Dyana it was getting late. She
realized suddenly that she was hungry again. The midday meal had
passed hours ago, and soon it would be time to sup. Since she
always took her supper with Eris, she decided to go find her friend.
At this time of day, Eris would still be in the music room, endlessly
practicing to make herself perfect.

Dyana set her book aside and left her chambers, going down the
soundless hallways toward the more populated parts of the
mansion. The first thing she noticed were the long faces of the
servants she passed. Each of them avoided her eyes and had a
vacant look about them. Dyana spied them suspiciously. Biagio's
home was full of unintended surprises. But when at last she
approached the music room, she noticed that a crowd had
gathered near the doors. Among them was Kyla, Dyana's
bodyservant. Dyana paused before going any closer, studying the
mournful throng. A few of the women were crying.

"Kyla?" Dyana called. "What is wrong?"

"Oh, Dyana," sighed Kyla, hurrying up to her mistress. "It's Eris.
The Master has hurt her."

The words were jolting. "What happened?" asked Dyana
desperately. She looked over Kyla's shoulder toward the milling
servants. "Where is Eris? Is she all right?"

"No, Lady Dyana, she's not. She's hurt. Master Biagio . . ." The girl
broke down into sobs. Dyana grabbed hold of her shoulders.

"Kyla, tell me what is wrong!" she demanded. She was in a panic
and needed answers. "Where is Eris? What has happened to
her?"

"She's in her rooms," replied Kyla. She was shaking, almost
incoherent. "The others took her there, bandaged her. God, there
was so much blood."

Dyana didn't wait another second. She flew from the hall, heading
straight for Eris' rooms. Her mind raced with black possibilities.
Had Biagio raped her? Beaten her? He was a taskmaster when it
came to his teachings. Dyana grit her teeth as she ran. If he had
hurt her . . .

Outside Eris' room, Dyana found another crowd of women. They
were silent, as if holding a vigil. The door to the dancer's chamber
was closed. Dyana shouldered her way through the crowd.

"What happened?" she asked. "Is she all right?"

An older woman with blood on her clothes shook her head ruefully.
Her name was Bethia. "The Master took a knife to her," she said.
"She's in great pain. I've given her something to help her sleep,
but—"

"A knife?" blurted Dyana. "My God, he stabbed her?"

Bethia put a calming hand on Dyana's shoulder. "He cut her," she
said gently. "Her foot."

Dyana blinked. "I do not understand," she stammered. "Why did he
do that?"

"To punish her," replied the woman. She went on to explain how
Biagio had gotten news from Liss, and how Simon Darquis had
betrayed the count. He was with Dyana's husband, the woman
explained, helping the Lissens.

Dyana couldn't believe her ears.

"Simon is alive?" she asked. "What about—"

"Your child is with him," said Bethia. There was a wide, sad smile
on her face. "Shani's alive, Dyana."

Dyana wept. Without shame, she let the tears run down her face.
Shani was alive! And safe with Richius. There could be no happier
news. Except. . .

"What happened to Eris? Why did he hurt her?"

The woman shrugged. "I don't know, child. He meant to punish her,
I suppose, for what Simon has done. But it's cruelly unfair. He's
killed her, that's what he's done. He's taken off half her foot."

"Oh, no," Dyana moaned. "Oh, Eris."

She had to go to her. None of the servants protested as she
moved toward the door. Dyana mustered up her courage and
pushed the door open without knocking. A dark room with drawn
shades enveloped her.

"Eris?" she called lightly. "It is Dyana."

"Dyana, go away," came Eris' pleading voice. "God, don't look at
me like this."

Dyana saw her through the darkness, lying across a bed on the far
side of the room. There were blankets over most of her body, but
her wounded foot stuck out of the coverings, swathed in bandages.
Hot tears outlined her red eyes, and when she saw Dyana she
turned away. Dyana ignored Eris' pleas for her to go. She slipped
into the room, shutting the door behind her. The darkness grew
with the door's closing. Carefully, she picked her way through the
blackness, approaching the bed as her eyes gradually grew
accustomed to the dark.

"Eris, do not send me away," she said gently. "I want to help you."

"No one can help me. Look what he did to me, Dyana. Look what
he did. . . ."

Dyana could barely see the ruined appendage in the darkness. But
she knew what Bethia had meant. In a sense, Biagio had killed
Eris.

"Why did he do it?" sobbed Eris. "I never harmed him."

"Oh, Eris," sighed Dyana. "I am so sorry."

"I'll never dance again. Never. He's taken that from me. Why?"

There was no answer for the agonizing question. Biagio was mad.
It was the only suitable excuse. Dyana knelt down at Eris' bedside,
reaching under the blankets to grab her hand. The fingers were
lifeless. Two eyes stared at her blindly.

"Eris, be strong," Dyana begged. "Please. For me. I need you here
with me. You are all I have."

"I can't, Dyana," whispered Eris. "I'm lost. He's taken my life away.
There's nothing else for me. I'll die."

"You will not die," insisted Dyana. "I will not let you. And there is
more than dancing to live for. Simon is alive, Eris."

The girl nodded. "I know. That's why the Master did this to me."
She turned her face away. "And Simon couldn't love me now. I'm a
cripple, a freak."

"Eris . . ."

"Go, Dyana, please," cried Eris. "Please just leave me alone."

Dyana rose and hovered over the bed. She wanted to comfort Eris,
but there were no words to soothe the pain, or ease the enormous
loss. Eris was a dancer, body and soul. Now she was nothing, and
it was like a wraith had come to replace her.

"I will look in on you later," said Dyana. "Rest now."

Eris didn't reply. She merely lay there in the bed, unmoving. Dyana
bent down and kissed her forehead, then turned and left the
chamber.

This time, though, she wasn't going back to her own rooms.

"Where is Biagio?" she barked at the slaves. They milled like
sheep, afraid to answer. "Tell me!" said Dyana. She whirled on the
old woman who had greeted her. "Bethia, where is he? Do you
know?"

"Dyana, don't go to him. He'll only get more angry."

"Do not protect that monster," rumbled Dyana. "Just tell me where
he is."

"I don't know," said Bethia.

"I know," a small voice interjected. A servant girl stepped forward.
"I saw him go out the southern gates, toward the beach."

Dyana didn't thank the girl. She just stormed off toward the south
side of the mansion. Bethia called after her, but Dyana ignored the
old woman's pleas. She was enraged, and wanted to face Biagio
while she still had the courage.

There were two guardians near the southern gate. Dyana braced
herself for a confrontation, but was surprised to see them step
aside. Sunlight struck her face as she exited the mansion. Down
the beach, she sighted Biagio sitting in the sand, staring blankly at
the warships on the horizon. He looked remote and contemplative,
far worse than he had that night she had seen him taking his drugs.
Dyana quelled her trepidation and strode toward him. The wind had
picked up and the surf smashed against the shore, spraying Biagio
where he sat. It was frightfully cold. Without a coat, Dyana
shivered.

I'm not afraid, she told herself.

"Biagio!" she called across the beach.

When he heard her voice, he merely shook his head. Dyana came
up to him, staring down at him. His hair was wind-blown and damp
with sea spray, and wine stains splattered his shirt. When he finally
looked up at her, she saw how red his eyes were, inflamed from
weeping. His face was an insane mask.

"I knew you'd come," he sneered, half laughing. "Will you scold me
now?"

"You bastard," Dyana boiled. "How could you do it?"

"Count Biagio does what he wants, woman. He doesn't ask
permission."

Without thinking, she reached out and slapped his arrogant face. A
stunned silence rose up between them. Dyana took a step back,
sure she had doomed herself. But Biagio didn't fly into one of his
rages. Instead he put a hand to his bruised cheek and, remarkably,
looked chastened.

"Talk," Dyana demanded. "Do not ignore me. I am not one of your
slaves. And I am not afraid of you."

"Then you are like your husband, woman. Afraid of nothing." The
count paused. "Do you know what has happened?"

"I think I do. Simon is alive."

"He's on Liss."

"That is no reason to savage Eris. My God, you butchered her."

"He betrayed me!" Biagio flared. "After I gave him everything. He's
on those cursed islands with your husband, even now. I merely
took from him what he took from me."

"You had no right—"

"I had every right!" he cried. He was shaking, sick with rage. "I am
Count Renato Biagio! Eris is mine to do with as I wish. Everything
on this island is mine!" Then he looked away again and began
babbling to himself. "Soon the whole Empire will belong to me.
Things will be like they should have been. I'll sit on the Iron Throne.
I'll bring back the Black Renaissance. My grand design will work!"

He was almost beyond coherence. Dyana didn't know whether to
stay or go. But Biagio's guards had let her pass for a reason. She
knew the madman wanted her here.

"You are not telling me everything," said Dyana. "Your guards let
me pass. Why?"

Biagio shrugged. "You already heard the news."

"What news?"

"About Simon. And your child."

"Shani? What about her?"

Biagio shook his head in exasperation. "Why are you so dense?
Your child is alive. I thought you should know. That's all."

The incredible admission left Dyana speechless. "You wanted to
tell me that?" she asked softly. "That is why you let me come out to
you?"

"Yes," said Biagio flatly. "Now you may go. Goodbye."

"I am not leaving," said Dyana. "Not yet." She sank down into the
sand next to him, close enough to feel his breath. He was horrible-
looking. All the golden beauty had left him in a flood of tears. But
when she came close to him he flinched, turning his face away.

"I don't want you here," he said. "Go away."

Dyana tried to smile. Progress with this madman was painfully
slow, but she was sure she was making some. "You destroyed
her," she said. "Do you not know how terrible that is?"

"What I did to Eris was my right," he seethed. "I own her, woman.
And I own you, whether you know it or not."

"No one owns me," said Dyana. "I am a free woman."

Biagio gave a wicked chuckle. "You're my prisoner. Unless you can
swim back to Lucel-Lor, I own you. And do not think me so gentle,
woman. Today has given me more reason than ever to hate you
and your husband. If you don't fear me, you're a fool."

Dyana was resolute. "I do not fear you. Not anymore. Look at you,
weeping for someone you love. I had never thought that possible
before, but now I see what you really are. Oh, you can say that you
are something special, but you are not. You are just a man."

"I am not just a man," said Biagio, insulted. "Soon I will be the
emperor. And then you'll treat me with the respect I deserve, and
you won't presume to speak to me like this." He leered at her. "I
am taking you back with me to the Black City, Dyana Vantran. Do
not doubt that for a moment."

Dyana shook her head. "No matter how I try, you will not listen, will
you? You are so full of hate."

"With good reason. Your husband keeps taking from me. Taking,
taking, taking! First Arkus. And the Empire. Now . . ." Biagio
stopped himself. "Well, I will take from him this time. You will be
my lure. And when he comes to rescue you, I will have him. I'll
make him linger, I promise."

"You are insane," said Dyana. She rose from the sand, realizing all
her efforts were wasted. "And you are right. I am a fool. I thought I
could convince you how wrong you are. I thought I could get
through all your madness, make you hear me. But I cannot. No one
can." She sighed miserably. "If you're going to take me to Nar, then
go ahead and do it. But I will not live in fear of you, Biagio. You will
never own me."

Biagio smiled. "I'm still sane enough to remember our bargain,
Dyana Vantran. And I will never seek out your child again. I don't
have to with you here. Remember that."

Dyana stared at the count in bemusement. It was like looking at two
different people, two sides of a broken mirror. He had gone to the
ends of the earth to steal her daughter, and now was promising her
safety. At last, unable to decipher him, Dyana merely shrugged,
resigned to his mystery.

"Do not expect me to come to you anymore," she said. "I will not
speak to you again."

Then she turned and left the brooding count, heading back to the
mansion.

Eris lay awake in her bed, caught in a narcotic embrace. The
simples Bethia had given her had done a surprising job of
deadening the pain in her butchered foot, but they did nothing to
ease her loss. She had trained all her life to perform; it had given
her meaning and dimension. She wasn't just a slave; she was a
performer, sought after and respected.

Now she was nothing.

She didn't understand why the Master had done this to her. She
knew only that it had been done, and that she would never walk
again like a normal person, much less grace a dance floor or
perform in the Black City to crowds of adoring nobles. Those
girlhood dreams were gone. Now she was looking forward into an
endless void of obscurity.

I am nothing now, she told herself. Her voice was loud and rang in
her head, amplified by the feeling of drunkenness. And I don't want
to be here.

Eris climbed painfully out of her bed and pulled off one of the
sheets. This she coiled into a long rope, tying one end of it around
a sturdy sconce high on the wall. She kept the shades drawn as
she worked. With great effort she pushed a chair against the wall,
climbed onto it unsteadily, and tied the other end of the sheet
around her neck.

No one knew she had killed herself until later that night—when
Dyana discovered her.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Eestrii

L orla stared up at Darago's masterpiece. For more than an hour,
the faithful of Nar City had been streaming into the cathedral's
great hall to be awestruck by Darago's ceiling, which the painter
himself had unveiled in a storm of fanfare. Dorians and
Highlanders, pilgrims from Casarhoon and families from far-north
Criisia, had all come to see the result of the artist's long toil. They
filled the cathedral and the grounds outside by the thousands.
Priests and bodyguards moved through the crowds, keeping order,
and wailing children stopped their cries when they looked up,
baffled by the beautiful thing above them. The hall was swelled to
capacity. A long line queued up just beyond the chamber, snaking
through the cathedral and spilling out onto its grounds, where
thousands more milled in the cold sunlight, patiently awaiting their
turn to see the ceiling of the great Darago, the gift Archbishop
Herrith had bestowed on them.

Lorla waited in the great hall, admiring the artwork with the other
spectators. Today was Eestrii, the highest of the Naren holy days.
It was also her birthday. Or was it the day Master Biagio simply
called her birthday? She wasn't sure anymore. All that she knew for
certain was her mission.

The angel had told it to her.

It spoke to her with a disembodied voice, something that came
from inside her own brain. Every time she saw the angel it
reminded her of her duty. Her memories were clearer now. She
recalled the war labs and the strange potions they had given her,
and the shiny needles and cold rooms. All those fractured faces
that for so long had been gray ghosts were now evident. She saw
Biagio. He had a golden face and a compelling smile. And she saw
a midget, too, but she didn't know his name. Lorla felt like a
different person. And it frightened her.

Not far away, Darago was standing on the side of the crowds,
calling to them as they admired his masterpiece. He wore a proud
smile on his face. Occasionally he would turn to Lorla and wink. His
assistants were gone now, and only Darago remained to show off
his accomplishment. The crowds adored him. They loved what he
had done for them, and the most faithful among them wept when
they saw his vision of the holy books, stretched out in a marvelous
fresco overhead. All the characters Darago had shown Lorla were
fully alive now in vibrant colors. The orphan girl Elioes received her
touch from God. Adan was betrayed and thrown out of Heaven,
while on another panel his children slew each other. Lorla saw the
great battles and the creation of souls, and laughed like the rest of
them at the comical rendition of Judik, the saint who had betrayed
God. Father Herrith had explained these things to Lorla. He had set
her on a path to righteousness and unfolded the mysteries of the
holy books. As she stared up at the painting of Elioes, she didn't
feel like an orphan anymore. She felt loved.

But Herrith was the Master's enemy. She didn't know why, but it
was so. And the Master was her true father. He had rescued her
from some horrible life with her terrible parents, and had chosen
her for this because she was special. Even the angel told her she
was special. She glanced at it now from across the hall. The
fantastic model had been put on display as well, and it drew almost
as many raves as Darago's ceiling, a fact that made the Cretan
painter simmer. Like his masterwork, the cathedral model was
meticulous, and all who saw it commented on its perfection and
design, and the obvious love that went into its construction. All
except Lorla. When she saw the model, she hated it. It was
beautiful and perfect and devilishly clever, and though she didn't
know its exact purpose, she knew that something bad lurked within
its walls.

Bad? she corrected herself. No, that couldn't be right. It was the
Master's will, and the Master always had a purpose. Angrily she
shook her head, hating the voices inside her. She had been
arguing with them and they had been scolding her, and part of her
knew that they were right to be angry.

"Master Biagio has given you life," they would tell her. "Why would
you betray him?"

Guiltily, Lorla always acquiesced to the voices. Biagio was her
master. He had given her life. Hadn't he? But Herrith had given her
love. She cared for the old man now, and didn't want to hurt him.
She had come to his cathedral expecting a devil, and had found a
gentle, troubled patron instead. More, he had not seen past her
ruse. To him, she was just a perfect little girl of eight.

I'm a freak, she told herself bitterly. Not a woman or a child.

Duke Lokken and Kareena, Duke Enli and Nina; they had all tried to
tell her what she was, but not Herrith. He had merely accepted her.
He alone had let her be what God would have made if the labs
hadn't interrupted Him.

"Master Biagio," she whispered desperately. "Don't make me do
this. I don't want to."

The voices screamed back at her. Lorla began to cry. A man with
his family, who had been admiring the ceiling, saw her tears and
turned to comfort her.

"Child?" he asked. "What's wrong?"

Lorla looked up at him. He was very tall, and she realized suddenly
how unnaturally short she was. His clothes were plain, not rich like a
nobleman's, and his family was big and plain-looking too, with a girl
and a boy and a weary-faced wife, all staring up and marveling
dumbly. Lorla glanced down at her expensive dress, suddenly
ashamed of herself.

"I'm all right," she said. "It's the ceiling. It's very pretty."

The lies came too easily to her.

"Yes, it is," said the man. "Today we see what God has made for
us. It's so beautiful. He wants the whole world to be beautiful. But
since it can't be perfect, He sends us men like Darago to show us
Heaven."

Lorla blinked, fascinated by the bit of wisdom. "Really? Do you
believe that?"

"Oh, yes," the man declared. "There is so much evil in the world.
But sometimes we get to see a glimpse of Heaven." He looked
back up at the towering ceiling and melted with awe. "God has a
plan bigger than the plans of man, child. No man can stand against
God or nature. Not even a great man like Herrith."

"No?" asked Lorla.

"No," said the man serenely. "There is an order to things. God has
set them. It's not the place of any man to undo those things."

With those remarkable words hanging in the air, he left Lorla alone
to ponder. She watched him return to his family and shuffle out of
sight, getting lost in the crowd. Once more she glanced at the
cathedral model across the hall. A crowd of children had gathered
around it, giddy with astonishment.

Lorla trembled when she saw them. Soon Father Herrith would give
his address to the faithful. When he was done, he would leave the
cathedral to perform the rite of Absolution.

Time was running out.

On a little balcony room overlooking Martyr's Square, Archbishop
Herrith sat with his forehead in his hands. Father Todos and a
handful of other priests stood close by, staring out the glass doors
to the thousands of people below, the throngs of faithful that had
come to hear the bishop's yearly address. Herrith heard their
collective din, like the sound of the ocean. He knew they expected
much of him this year.

But he had nothing for them.

This Eestrii, for the first time in decades, the bishop had no plans
for his speech. He had spent the last two days brooding over
Vorto's death and the slippage of his own body, deeper every day
into the clutches of withdrawal. He had not even attended the
unveiling of his beloved ceiling, an event he had anticipated for
years. It was an awful day and Herrith was profoundly troubled.

Suspicions were already spreading through the Black City.
Nicabar's dreadnoughts waited on the horizon, visible by all in the
streets. People were afraid. They wondered where Vorto was and
why Herrith hadn't sent the Black Fleet away. They looked to the
Cathedral of the Martyrs for guidance, and their needs were heavy
on Herrith's shoulders. The bishop closed his eyes and prayed.

"Dear Father in Heaven, help me. Help me tame this demon inside
me, just for today. I have sinned. I am weak. Forgive me."

It was Absolution day, the day Herrith was to go among the people
and grant them God's forgiveness. He laughed at the notion. How
could he, a sinner without peer, grant absolution to anyone?

"There is so much blood on my hands, Father," he continued. "So
many wrongs. But I did it all for you. I . . ."

He paused, unable to go on. The Black Renaissance was a
cancer. Biagio was a devil. And God had a plan for Nar. Weren't all
these things true? Herrith simply didn't know anymore.

"Herrith?" nudged Todos gently. "It's almost time. They're waiting
for you."

Herrith opened his eyes and looked at his associate. The priest
seemed nervous. Do I look so bad? Herrith wondered. By nightfall,
he would be in the cold grip of withdrawal again, sick with fever and
barely able to care for himself. Food would make him vomit and
music would make him scream. But Herrith didn't care about that
now. He wanted only to get through the day. And if he died in bed
tonight, then he would go to God and answer for his sins, and God
would judge him good or evil, and reward or punish him.

"Waiting? Yes, I suppose they are," he said, managing a crooked
smile.

Todos offered a hand. "Can you stand?"

"I'm strong enough," said Herrith, declining the aid. "For now." He
got to his feet and faced the balcony. Through the glass he could
see an ocean of people in Martyr's Square, waiting patiently for
their spiritual leader. Some said Narens had no God but
themselves, but they were wrong, Herrith knew. They feared for the
future like all men, and looked to the sky for answers. And to
Herrith.

The bishop braced himself with a deep breath, then gave a nod to
his waiting priests, who opened the doors. With a final, silent
prayer for strength, Herrith stepped out onto the balcony to the
cacophonous cheers of ten thousand Narens.

Amid the crowds in Martyr's Square, Redric Bobs stood with his
back to the sea and his eyes lifted to the balcony above. Around
him milled a vast assortment of people, loyal Narens all, who had
come to this place to hear the words of their leader, Herrith, and to
gain wisdom from him. A thrill of anticipation moved through the
toymaker. He had arrived at the square early and waited patiently
for the bishop to appear. Cheers rose up all around him as the
venerable Herrith stepped out onto the balcony. But the Piper
didn't cheer. When he saw Herrith, he gasped.

"My God," he exclaimed. "He looks terrible."

The small, shadowy figure at his side looked up. Minister Bovadin
peeked at the balcony from beneath the thick folds of his hood and
gave a twisted laugh.

"The drug," he whispered over the noise. "It's eating at him."

The Piper nodded as if he understood. Bovadin was a furtive man
with only his blue eyes to betray his secrets. But like most in Nar
City, Redric Bobs knew something about the life-sustaining drugs
of the high nobility. The sight of the bishop above made him wince.
Herrith looked horrid. And Bobs, who hated the bishop and his
church, took a small measure of glee in his misery.

Around him the cheers went on as Herrith lifted a shaking hand to
try and still the crowd. The toymaker smirked, folding his arms
across his chest.

"Listen to these fools," he remarked acidly.

Next to him, Bovadin's hidden head shook. "Herrith is a persuasive
speaker, Redric Bobs. He knows much about the ways of Heaven."

"I'm not interested," the toymaker scoffed. "I'm only here to watch
the . . . festivities."

"Not too much longer," counseled Bovadin. "And believe me, you'll
be dazzled."

There was real pride in the scientist's voice. But Redric Bobs felt
no such pride. He wasn't really glad he had built the dollhouse, or
that he had gotten it into the cathedral so clandestinely. These
were mere necessities. What he was doing today, he did for his
own good reasons. He knew that with certainty. Yet he felt no pride.

"So?" he whispered, bending down so Bovadin could hear him.
"When will it happen?"

"Not until the girl sets the device," replied the midget. "And that
won't happen until Herrith is done with his address. During
Absolution, however, I'd advise you to stand back."

Absolution. Piper Bobs bit his lip. He was still a devout man,
despite all. No one knew that, of course, because he hadn't
attended a service in years, but he kept the holy days in his own
way, and as the clock ticked toward its fateful hour and Herrith kept
his arms outstretched, the toymaker wondered about his place in
the scheme of things, and about his place in Heaven.

"It has to be done, you know," he said absently. "Really, there's no
choice."

Bovadin smiled. "You don't have to convince me."

"No, really," insisted the toy-smith. "He's an evil man. He doesn't
know it, but he is. He's hurt a lot of people. He hurt me and my
wife."

Bovadin turned to look at him. "Steady, Bobs," he warned. "Don't
get weak on me."

"I'm not," snapped Bobs. "I know exactly what I'm doing. And what
I've done. Now be quiet, he's talking."

Up on the balcony, hovering over the adoring crowd, Archbishop
Herrith began to speak. His voice was weak and shaky. Redric
Bobs could hardly hear him. Frustrated, he snapped at the people
around him to be silent, all of whom were only breathing but whose
rasping breath annoyed the toymaker nonetheless.

"What's he saying?" Bobs asked peevishly.

"Shut up, you idiot," rumbled Bovadin.

Slowly, Herrith's voice grew in volume. Redric Bobs leaned closer,
as though the few inches would help him hear. All around him,
thousands did the same, staring up in confusion at the leader of
their church. Bobs felt a sudden wave of nausea. Herrith looked
about to collapse. And the blotches on his face—were they tears?

". . . forgiveness," said the bishop. He put his hands on the balcony
to steady himself. "None of us here is without sin. Even my own
soul is clouded."

Bobs jerked back, stunned by the admission. He stared at Herrith,
thunderstruck, and watched as the feeble man grew in strength with
the conviction of his words, until at last his voice rang through the
square, like the voice of God Himself.

"And just as all of you ask God for Absolution today," Herrith
roared, "so too do I bend my knee to Heaven, and ask the Lord for
forgiveness of my sins. I have led the Empire down a terrible path.
I have killed and maimed in the name of God. I thought it was His
will. But I was wrong."

The bishop paused, and when he did there was an awesome
silence. He had them all in the palm of his hand. Even Redric
Bobs. The toymaker's hard heart softened with every unexpected
word, and as the bishop wept, openly and without shame, Piper felt
his own throat constrict with emotion.

"Oh, no," he whispered. "Don't do this to me, you bastard."

"You have seen the warships over our shoulders," Herrith
proclaimed. "They would bring war back to our land. I have tried my
best to give Nar peace. But I have murdered and maimed to earn
that peace, and my soul is soaked in blood. I beg God to forgive
me." Again he stretched out his arms. "I beg you all."

Another silence ensued, and then the silence ebbed with the first
cry from the crowd, a cry of love that was picked up by another and
then a hundred more, until at last all of the thousands in the square
were roaring their approval. Redric Bobs felt the life drain out of
him.

"What's he saying?" spat Bovadin. The scientist pulled his hood
back, glaring up at Herrith. "What is this?"

Redric Bobs sighed heavily. "He's asking us to forgive him,
midget."

"A ruse," snarled Bovadin. "Another of his tricks. Don't listen to
him, any of you!"

But it didn't look like a trick, and Redric Bobs knew the truth of
Herrith's tears, for no man could be such an actor. The toymaker
shook his head ruefully. Too late. Everything was too late. They
had all pushed the bishop over the edge, and now the weapon they
had in their pockets was about to go off needlessly.

"God help me," he groaned. "Oh, my God . . ."

"Stop saying that, you fool," hissed Bovadin. "We've done nothing
wrong."

Redric Bobs looked down at him. "We have," he said gravely. "And
there's nothing we can do to stop it."

Lorla didn't join the others out in the square to hear Father Herrith's
address. Instead she waited in the great hall and stared endlessly
at the model of the cathedral. She was alone in the vast chamber,
except for Darago. The painter still couldn't take his eyes off his
masterpiece, and seemed to be in prayer as he admired it. High
above Lorla, Elioes and the other paintings stared down, almost
alive. Lorla wished that they could speak, to drown out the voices
screaming in her head. There was a great weight pressing down on
her chest. She wondered what they had done to her in the labs,
and why the pain was so sudden and so strong.

Is this what it means to be special?

Time was ticking away, and the voices grew ever louder,
compelling her to move the angel. The tiny figurine flew over the
cathedral's gates, beckoning to her with its trumpet. She could
almost hear its diabolical music. And whose voice was calling to
her? Was it the Master's? Or was it the midget whose name she
didn't know?

Time moved still faster. Lorla knew Father Herrith was finishing up
his address. Soon he would go into the square and absolve sins.
Lorla took a step forward.

"Do it," urged the voices. "The Master needs you."

Duke Enli needed her. And Nina. Lokken and Kareena, too. She
reasoned that she was part of something bigger than herself,
something vast and important.

"The Master loves me," she said, desperate to believe it. "He
wouldn't hurt me. He needs me to be strong."

"Be strong and finish the mission," agreed the voice.

Darago wasn't looking. Carefully, her hand shaking, Lorla reached
out and touched the angel.

"Side-to-side," the thing reminded her. "Move me side-to-side."

Lorla's hand was as still as stone. Whatever she did here today
would change her world forever. Everyone had told her that her
mission was good. And important. Now she wasn't sure. Herrith
was good. He wasn't the beast she had been led to believe.

Was he?

I don't know!

Yet despite the battle within her, Lorla moved the angel from left to
right. She moved it barely an inch, but it snapped into its new place
with a mechanical click, startling her. She stepped back, staring at
the thing, certain something dreadful would happen. Almost
imperceptibly, she heard a purring drone.

"Lorla," called a voice from across the chamber. She jumped. On
the other side of the great hall stood Father Todos. The priest had
tears in his eyes and wore a huge, uncharacteristic smile.
"Archbishop Herrith is done with his address," he said. "He's going
into the square now, to perform Absolution. He wants you with him,
Lorla."

Lorla stood frozen for a long moment, then stepped away from the
dollhouse. A foggy pall settled over her brain. She had done what
the Master had required her to do. It had all been over in an instant.
Suddenly the voices in her brain fell silent, giving her peace for the
first time in days. Exhausted and confused, she nodded at the
priest.

"Coming," she said wearily, then followed him out of the chamber.

Inside the walls of Lorla's birthday gift, Bovadin's machine awoke.
The hoses that had been dormant for so long now filled with
rushing air, and the pressure within the silver cylinder gradually
began to build. The combustible fuel within the housing swam
through the mechanisms, chilled by scalelike cooling vanes. The
pressure would build for an hour more.

Out in Martyr's Square, Archbishop Herrith sat on a dais
surrounded by priests, doling out forgiveness from his golden
chair. The gigantic crowd that had listened to his address now lined
up in the cold to receive the sacrament of Absolution. For nearly an
hour the bishop worked ceaselessly, his face alight as the
countless pilgrims from around the Empire knelt before him and
asked for God's forgiveness. And the bishop met each request the
same way—by touching the penitent's forehead and mouthing the
same small prayer over and over.

"God forgive you, my child."

From her place near Herrith on the dais, Lorla watched the bishop
work, enthralled by his patience and devotion. He still looked weak,
but his eyes jumped with life. His smile was brighter than the sun.
Lorla loved the bishop, she realized now. And as she waited with
him on the dais she kept looking over her shoulder toward the
cathedral, certain that something dreadful would soon happen.

Father Herrith had wanted her here. He had hugged her when he'd
seen her, kissing her firmly on both cheeks and giving her a place
of honor next to him on the dais, completely oblivious to the thing
she had done to him.

As the minutes ticked by, Lorla grew more anxious. She fidgeted in
her seat on the dais, not far from Father Todos. The priest kept a
careful eye on Herrith, like a mother worried about a sick child.
Herrith himself seemed not to notice his ailments. Lorla looked out
over the crowd. Some of the same faces she had seen in the great
hall were now waiting for their turn at Absolution. And then she saw
another face, vaguely familiar. Lorla puzzled over him for a moment
before realizing it was the toymaker.

Redric Bobs stood in the line, his face ashen. Next, it would be his
turn to kneel before Herrith. The toy-maker kept his head bowed,
and he looked as if he'd been crying. Lorla studied him hard,
terrified he might expose her. But the toymaker apparently had
other things on his mind. Herrith dismissed the young woman he
was absolving and looked up to see his next patron—Redric Bobs.

"Piper Bobs?" asked Herrith incredulously. "Is that you?"

The old man stepped onto the dais in front of ten thousand
onlookers, kneeling before the bishop. He looked up at Herrith with
his wild, pain-filled eyes. Lorla's breath caught in her throat.

"Holiness," rasped Redric Bobs. "Forgive me. Forgive me for what
I've done."

Father Herrith smiled at him. Lorla's heart raced. Slowly the voices
came back into her head.

"Be at ease, Piper," said Herrith, obviously confused. "This is a day
of joy. Do not look so forlorn."

The Piper shook his head. "You don't understand," he said. "And I
can't explain it to you. It's too late. Forgive me, Holiness." He
reached out and grabbed Herrith's hand, then buried his face in it,
sobbing.

Lorla got out of her chair. The voices commanded her to sit, but
she ignored them. Seeing the toymaker's tears had fractured
something deep inside her.

"Father Herrith," she blurted, unable to control herself. "I . . . I'm
sorry!"

"What?" sputtered Herrith, looking between her and Bobs. He
pulled his hand free of the toymaker. "Lorla, what's wrong? What's
the matter?"

Lorla couldn't speak. She could hardly breathe. The voices
clamored in her head.

"No!" she cried, putting her hands to her head. "Stop yelling at
me!"

"Lorla," cried Herrith, getting to his feet. Piper Bobs looked at her,
dumbfounded. From out of the crowd a midget was climbing onto
the dais. Memories hammered into Lorla's mind. She backed away
from the midget, sure he was coming for her, but noticed instead
that he grabbed Redric Bobs.

"Bovadin!" shouted Herrith.

There was an uproar from the crowd. The midget pulled hard on
Bobs' coat, trying to hurry him away. Herrith stared at them,
stricken. The priests on the dais rose and drew daggers. The
midget cursed and threw himself off the dais, vanishing into the
crowd. Lorla watched it all in a blur. Time was ticking madly away.

She had to do something.

So she ran. She bolted from the dais, scrambling through the
crowds and clawing her way back to the cathedral. Off in the
distance she heard Herrith call after her, desperate and confused.
It was bedlam suddenly and the crowds around the dais erupted
with shouts. Lorla tried to ignore them all. She blocked out
everything, focusing all her energies on reaching the great hall.
Again she heard the Master's voice roaring at her angrily. Once
more she squashed it. She hated the Master suddenly. Father
Herrith had been good to her. And Redric Bobs knew that. He'd
been crying and she'd seen it!

"Let me pass!" she cried, shouldering her way through the crowds.
Somehow she would reach the cathedral and stop what she had
done. A group of families waiting at the cathedral gates blocked
her way. She threaded through them like a running dog, skirting
past their legs and racing into the empty cathedral. Her little heart
thumped madly as she moved.

Almost there . . .

The great hall loomed before her. Lorla hurried into it and found
Darago there, admiring his amazing ceiling.

"Go, Master Darago!" Lorla shouted as she ran to the cathedral
model. "Leave!"

"What?" sputtered Darago. "Why?"

"Just go!"

Lorla reached for the archangel and tried to move it. But the angel
wouldn't budge. She heard the relentless drone of something
inside the model.

"Move!" she screamed at the angel. "Please!"

"Lorla, what are you doing?" flared Darago, rushing up to her. Lorla
burst into frustrated tears.

"Leave!" she cried. "I can't stop it!"

Darago grabbed hold of her, dragging her away from the model.
Lorla fought him off with a furious scream.

"Stop!"

Breaking free, she lunged one more time toward her birthday gift.
Then, barely an inch from the angel, she saw a dazzling light.

The force of the explosion roared through Martyr's Square,
deafening the crowd. Herrith put his hands to his ears and watched
a rolling fireball consume his cathedral. A sudden shockwave blew
by with a vengeful wind, tearing at his garments. All around him
priests and patrons screamed as bits of burning metal rained down
around them. Fire poured from the cathedral's gates, and the great
metal steeple groaned as its foundation weakened, threatening to
topple. Giant plumes of inky smoke belched from the shattered
stained glass. Martyr's Square filled with a chorus of screams.

Herrith collapsed to his knees. The hot light of the dying cathedral
burned his blue eyes. He looked away, covering his face with his
hands, and knew with dreadful certainty that Lorla was dead. And
all that came to him was one word, a name that had haunted him for
the past year. Defeated, Herrith sobbed his nemesis' name.

"Biagio . . ."
THIRTY-EIGHT
The Company of the Queen

T he day before he was to set out for Crote, Queen Jelena
summoned Richius back to Haran Island. Prakna was with him, as
were Simon and Shii, too, for she was Richius' lieutenant now and
would be an integral part of their invasion. Prakna piloted them to
the queen's island aboard a catboat. It had been the first time
Richius had left Karalon since his arrival, and stepping foot on
Haran Island felt strange to him.

Since sending Shani back to Dyana aboard one of Prakna's
vessels, Richius had felt profoundly alone. He had Simon and his
work kept him busy, but he missed his daughter. And his wife. Part
of him looked forward to Jelena's company. She was young, like
Dyana, and she reminded him of his wife sometimes. As he
walked quietly toward the queen's palace, Richius remembered
what Marus had said to him weeks ago, that Jelena was a
remarkable woman.

The queen wanted to know what her subjects had planned.
Tomorrow, they would set sail on the long journey to Crote, and
Prakna had told Richius that the queen was nervous. With good
reason, Richius knew. His army had trained hard, but they were still
unseasoned. Richius wasn't sure how they would perform in battle,
though he wouldn't tell that to the queen. Nonetheless, and to his
great surprise, Richius was looking forward to the campaign
against Crote.

While he would have liked more time to plan the invasion, Prakna's
raiders were getting tired. They needed a port close to the Empire
from which to launch their attacks; Crote would serve that purpose.
It was warm and very near the Black City. And it didn't have a large
army; at least, not according to Simon. Richius glanced over at the
Naren who was walking beside him. Simon held several rolled-up
parchments in his hand, a collection of maps he had been working
on for days. At Richius' insistence he had drawn up all that he knew
about Crote's coast and waterways, as well as the layout of
Biagio's mansion. Richius had been impressed with Simon's
knowledge of the terrain. And the spy had been remarkably
forthcoming with details, a fact that eased everyone's suspicions.

Everyone except Prakna. The fleet commander did nothing to hide
his disdain for Simon. To Prakna, Simon was not only a Naren pig,
but now he was also a traitor. The Lissen commander kept a close
eye on Simon whenever he was near, and when they argued, which
was often, Prakna was vocal. But Simon had the hide of a greegan;
insults bounced off him like a summer rain. And Simon had
changed. He had stopped apologizing for his colored past and
looked toward the future with a single-minded purpose. Only one
goal drove Simon now—to save Eris from Biagio.

As the foursome approached the palace, Simon slowed his pace,
staring up at Jelena's home and marveling at the gate. The great,
gushing arch greeted them like a warm smile. Behind the palace,
the sun was beginning to dip. Its red rays made the water jump with
color.

"That's beautiful," Simon said. "Like something from a dream."

"That's what you pigs have been trying to destroy," quipped
Prakna. He breezed past Simon and headed toward the arch.

When the rest of them reached the spouting entrance, a pair of
Jelena's guards came out to greet them. Prakna did the talking.
The sentries gave them all polite bows and led them into a room
Richius had never seen, a council chamber near the western
gates. Queen Jelena was already there, sitting at the head of a
long table. Goblets of wine had been set out for each of them,
along with a few plates of food. A bank of windows offered a
perfect view of the setting sun. The young queen rose when they
entered.

"Hello, my friends," she said brightly, embracing Prakna first, then
Richius, whom she favored with a warm kiss. Richius flushed at her
affection, embarrassed but enjoying it.

"Jelena," he said, smiling. "I'm glad to see you again."

Her eyes flashed with poorly hidden affection. "And I you," she
said. She waved to dismiss the sentries who'd led her guests
inside. The pair left the council chamber and closed the doors
behind them. Jelena took Richius' hand and led him to the table.
"Sit, all of you, please," she told the group. She guided Richius to a
chair beside her own; Prakna quickly grabbed the seat on her other
side. Shii sat down dutifully beside the commander, but Simon
remained standing.

"Queen Jelena," he said. "I'm Simon Darquis." He gave her a
perfect bow. "I'm honored to meet you."

"Yes," said the queen. "The Naren spy. Welcome, Simon Darquis.
I thank you, especially, for coming."

They regarded each other awkwardly. Richius felt the invisible wall
between them. In her own way, Jelena hated Narens almost as
much as Prakna. She did a far better job of hiding her contempt,
however, and when she offered Simon her hand, he kissed it like a
nobleman.

"Sit down, Darquis," grumbled Prakna. "We've business to
discuss."

"That's why I'm here," said Simon. He ignored Prakna and spoke
directly to the queen. "Thank you, my lady, for letting me help you."

Jelena blanched. "It is on the suggestion of Lord Jackal that I trust
you, sir. When word of your arrival reached me, I confess I was
troubled. But Richius speaks well of you." Her gaze narrowed.
"Please don't make a fool out of him."

Simon took the implied threat genteelly. "I've given my word, and I
will give it again to you now. I'm here to help." He laid his maps out
on the table, spreading them wide for all to see. "I know Biagio's
island better than almost anyone. I was born and raised on Crote,
and I've spent time with him in his mansion. These maps contain all
the details I know."

Jelena nodded. "Good," she said, taking her seat. She leaned
back, regarding each of them in turn. To Richius she seemed like
an ice sculpture, glistening with beauty yet hard and cold to the
touch. She was every bit the queen, suddenly. At last Simon took a
seat beside Richius, keeping his sharp eyes on the young ruler.

"You'll all be leaving tomorrow," said Jelena. "And it will be weeks
before I see any of you again. I brought you here because I
wanted to know what you're feeling, what you think of your chances
against Crote. Karalon is remote, even for me. So, a simple
question. Are you ready?"

"We are," Prakna declared. "The Prince of Liss is ready to sail, as
are the other ships. We're taking four schooners with us. That will
be enough to get the troops to Crote. I'd prefer more but the
others are still engaged in Nar. I plan to send word to my armada
as soon as Crote is secure. Other ships can rendezvous with us
then."

Jelena's gaze flicked toward Richius. "And you, Lord Jackal? What
do you think? Are your people ready?"

It was a difficult question, and Richius didn't really know how to
answer. But across the table he noticed Shii straighten proudly in
her seat, and knew that he could have only one reply.

"They're a good bunch," he said. "Shii has helped me work with
them, and I know they won't disappoint us. They haven't had much
time to prepare, but they've trained hard and they follow my orders.
I think we're ready, Jelena."

"We are ready, my Queen," added Shii earnestly. "I know we are.
Lord Jackal speaks truly. We have trained hard, and we're eager
for this mission. We won't fail. I promise you that, on the soul of my
son."

"Richius makes good choices, no doubt," said Jelena. "He must
think highly of you to make you his second, Shii."

Shii looked down at the table modestly. "I will try my best."

"And lastly, you," said Jelena, staring pointedly at Simon. "Tell me,
Naren. What do you think of our chances for success?"

"I think they're far better with my involvement," said Simon. He was
never shy, and the queen's iciness didn't frighten him. "Without me,
you'd be going in blind. Richius practically admitted that to me. But
I've got everything you need right in here." He tapped his skull.
"Don't worry, Queen Jelena. We'll take the island for you. And get
Biagio in the bargain."

"You seem remarkably sure of that," quipped the queen. "Why?"

"Because Biagio's not a god," replied Simon, "no matter what he
thinks. And his mansion isn't protected by many guards. He's got a
handful, maybe forty in all, but Crote doesn't have an army. They've
never needed one."

"They've always had the protection of the Empire," Richius added.

Simon nodded. "That's right. So nine hundred men and women
armed with swords can overrun the mansion easily. And once that
is taken, Crote will be ours."

"What about the populace?" argued Prakna. "Won't they fight us?"

"No," said Simon. "I'm Cretan, remember; I know what they're like.
Without Biagio, they won't lift a finger against us, not if we secure
the mansion and make our presence known. They'll see the Lissen
ships in their waters, and they'll know they've been beaten. They
won't fight back."

"What about other countries?" asked the queen. "Do you think
they'll come to Crote's aid?"

"How can they?" asked Simon. "Other countries have armies, but
the Black Fleet would have to take them to Crote, and the fleet isn't
anywhere near Crote anymore." He glanced at Richius. "That's
right, isn't it?"

"I think so. Prakna?"

"Darquis is correct," said the commander. "My schooners have
them busy off the coasts of the Empire. By the time the Black Fleet
does return to Crote, we'll have it secured. I intend to call my
armada back to surround the island. Even the Black Fleet won't be
able to break us. Not this time."

Richius loved the conviction in Prakna's voice. He knew why men
followed him so willingly. Prakna was the lion of the ocean.

"Prakna," asked the queen. "Are you satisfied with the maps Simon
Darquis has made?"

The fleet commander gave a grudging nod. "They seem
adequate."

"They're better than that," snapped Simon. "They're as detailed as
you'll need, Prakna. I know something of tactics, remember."

"Oh, we remember," sneered Prakna. "Perfectly."

Richius cleared his throat. "Fellows . . ."

"Don't patronize me, Lissen," said Simon hotly. "You should be
glad I'm helping you."

"Glad? A traitorous Naren pig? If it wasn't for the Jackal—"

"Stop," flared Richius, slamming a fist down on the table that sent
the wine goblets jumping. "I don't want this arguing. We've got a
mission to perform. We have to work together. This bickering is
pointless."

"I agree," said the queen mildly. "Remember where you are,
please."

Prakna took a breath. "Forgive me, Jelena. You're right, of course."

Richius smiled. "You see? We're a happy family, Jelena."

"Yes," laughed the queen. "You've done a splendid job with them,
Richius. If they don't kill themselves on the way to Crote, we might
have a chance."

"We'll have more than a chance, my Queen," Shii interjected.
"Simon Darquis is right. If Crote is unprotected, we'll have no
problem taking the island from Biagio. I promise you, my Queen. I
won't let us fail."

"None of us will," agreed Prakna. He kept his eyes on Simon as he
spoke. "Isn't that right, Darquis?"

Simon chuckled darkly. "I have my own reasons for wanting this to
succeed. It won't fail because of me, that's for certain."

"Good," said Prakna. "Then we understand each other."

Simon was about to reply, but Richius interrupted him.

"We won't fail, Jelena," he said quickly. "We've got good people
and a solid plan."

"And we've got you to lead them," added Jelena with a smile.
Richius saw that familiar fondness in her eyes again. Jelena was
so beautiful. Like Sabrina. He supposed the resemblance had
something to do with his need for victory. Maybe it was that part of
him that still wanted to rescue Sabrina.

Too late, he reminded himself.

Sabrina was dead and there was no going back. This was
something he was doing for himself. And when it was done, he
would return to Lucel-Lor and live there with Dyana and Shani,
satisfied that he had killed Biagio. Maybe then Sabrina's ghost
would stop haunting him.

"I want to be clear on something," he said, surprising himself.
"After we take Crote, you're all on your own. Just like Simon, I'm in
this for my own reasons. I want Biagio. That's all."

Jelena looked heartbroken. "We understand that, Richius," she
said softly. "But there will always be a place for you here. And we
may need you a little longer than that. Please don't talk about
abandoning us. Not until your work is done, at least."

"Just so you know what my work is, Jelena. I want Biagio."

"We all want that, Jackal," said Prakna. "Believe me."

Richius nodded. "I do believe you. But it goes deeper for the rest
of you. I just want the count."

"You'll get him," said Simon. He slipped a hand on Richius'
shoulder. "He won't be able to escape us. Promise."

The odd pledge made Richius shudder. He didn't know whom to
trust anymore. He wanted to believe Simon, but Simon was
planning on murdering his master. He respected Prakna, but the
doom-haunted commander had a wildness around the eyes, just
like Shii. And Jelena? She was the greatest mystery of them all.

They spoke for nearly an hour more, going over Simon's maps and
discussing timetables for the invasion. It would take them more
than a week to reach Crote, Prakna predicted, so they needed
fresh food and water for the voyage, all items that his crews were
taking care of. Richius' troops would be divided into three main
groups, each of which would be led by a separate commander
reporting to Shii and to Richius himself. They would converge on
the mansion from three sides, surrounding it and securing it with
minimum casualties.

At least that was the plan.

Richius hoped Biagio would simply surrender when he saw himself
trapped. Simon didn't hazard a guess either way. He said only that
Biagio was proud and crafty, and that he might fight to the death
before surrendering his homeland. He loved Crote almost as much
as anything, Simon explained to them. Getting it from him wouldn't
be easy. But Richius didn't care if Biagio died. That was the plan,
after all. He wanted only to spare the others in the mansion,
including Eris. For Simon's sake, he prayed the girl would be all
right.

When they had concluded their business, they lingered a while
over the wine and food trays. Finally, Jelena rose from her chair
and smiled at them all wearily.

"I don't know what to say now," she confessed. "All that I can do is
wish you luck, and hope you all come back to Liss safely." She
grinned at Simon. "Even you, Simon Darquis. If you are truly what
you say you are, you are welcome to bring your woman back here
to hide from your Naren enemies."

Simon seemed moved by the offer. "Queen Jelena, that is
generous," he said softly. "We will need a place to go. But I didn't
think it would be Liss."

"If the Jackal leaves us, we might need a man of your skills and
knowledge, Simon Darquis. It's something to consider."

"Yes," agreed Simon. "Yes, it is."

Prakna smoldered at the pleasantries. "I think you would be better
off among your own kind, Darquis. Not all Lissens are as forgiving
as the queen."

"Nevertheless," corrected Jelena sharply. "You're welcome here,
Simon Darquis. If you do as you say."

"I will, Queen Jelena. Just give me the chance to prove it to you."

Jelena nodded. "Then good luck to you all. Come home safely."

All of them rose and began leaving the chamber. They would stay
the night in the queen's palace, then set out in the morning. Always
eager for a bed, Simon was the first through the doors. Shii
followed him, and then Prakna, but Richius never made it.

"Richius," called Jelena softly. "Please wait. I want to talk with you."

Shii waited for her lord, pausing in the threshold. Richius gave her
an encouraging nod.

"It's all right," he told her. "I'll catch up. You and Simon go rest.
We'll talk later."

Shii politely shut the doors again as she left the chamber. Richius
took a deep breath, smelling Jelena's perfume When he turned
around she was right behind him, beaming a beautiful, forlorn
smile.

"What is it? "he asked.

"I'm going to miss you, Jackal," she said. "More than you know. I
wanted to spend some time alone with you, just to tell you that."

"Just that?"

Jelena blushed. "I think you know the rest."

Richius backed up a step. "Don't," he cautioned.

"But I want to," said the young woman. She looked up at him, and
the sorrow in her eyes was so real Richius drowned in it. Jelena
said, "There's so much I wanted to learn from you. Now I'll never
get the chance. If you don't come back, I'll never see you again."

"Never is a very long time, my Queen. Let's not try and predict the
future."

Jelena embraced him, putting her head against his chest.
Suddenly she seemed like a brave little girl again. "It doesn't have
to be this way, you know. Crote might just be the start for us. After
that, we'll grow stronger. We can reach the Black City itself from
there."

Richius sighed. "Perhaps."

"There will still be a place for you. There's still so much for you to
show us. And me."

"Jelena . . ."

"Shhh," the queen bade. "Just listen to me. Just this one more
time."

Richius closed his eyes. "All right."

"When you first came here, I expected something more," she
whispered. "I thought you would be a hero, even though Prakna
warned me you were just a man, and not much older than myself.
Now I see that we were both right. You are just a man. But you're
still a hero to me. I want so much for you to stay here, even just to
have you near. I need you, Richius." She tightened her embrace.
"I'm afraid."

"It's all right to be afraid," said Richius as gently as he could. "But
you don't need me."

"Oh, but I do . . ."

"No," said Richius. "You've been a queen without me, and you'll be
a queen when I leave. You've done a fine job. You just don't see it.
And I can't give you that confidence. That has to come from inside
you." Firmly, he broke the embrace. "Look at me, Jelena. I'm just a
man."

She smiled sadly. "And what am I? Just a woman?"

"A woman and a queen. You should be proud of that."

It wasn't what Jelena wanted to hear, so she drifted away from him,
going back to where her wine goblet rested. She took a long, slow
sip. Richius watched her curiously, sure that she had something
else on her mind.

"I'm going to worry about you, you know," said Jelena finally. "I'm
glad you're confident, but I wonder about Simon Darquis. And
about your troops."

Richius raised an eyebrow. "You were the one who gave me those
troops, remember?"

"I know. But they're young and untested. Like me."

Richius laughed. "If they're as strong as you, Jelena, I should have
nothing to worry about." He glided over to her, sitting himself down
on the table beside her and grabbing his own goblet. "Don't be
afraid," he urged. He touched his glass to hers. "This is a new
beginning."

But Jelena didn't drink. "Do you believe that?"

"I do," said Richius. "I'm certain of it."

"I suppose," replied the queen dully. Then, more forcefully, "Yes.
Yes, it is."

"Good," Richius beamed. "Because these children of Karalon are
going to make you proud. You'll see."

"Richius," added the queen, looking up at him. "Just be careful."

He gave her a wink. "I will."

"I'm serious," said Jelena. "Watch out for yourself. And watch out
for Prakna. He's a vengeful man, and I see the way he looks at
Simon Darquis. He might be trouble."

"I can handle Prakna," said Richius. "We understand each other, I
think."

"You know he sunk that Naren dreadnought, don't you?"

Richius nodded. He'd heard Prakna's explanation and was
satisfied. "I don't think he had a choice. The ship tried to escape."

Jelena shrugged. "Still . . ."

"Jelena, please don't worry about these things. I've got a good
group of people, thanks to you. And with Simon's help I know we'll
succeed. You might not trust him, but I really believe him this time."
Richius scoffed at himself. "Maybe I'm just a fool. After what he did
to me, I don't know why I should trust him. It's just a feeling I get
when I'm around him now. He's going to help us. I'm sure of it."

Queen Jelena put out her hand for him to take, and when he did
she smiled warmly. "Thank you for everything," she said, her voice
breaking. "Please don't forget us."

"I never will," promised Richius. He put her hand to his lips and
kissed it. "Never."

Slowly her hand slipped from his fingers. Richius felt her eyes on
him as he went to the door. Before leaving, he turned and gave her
one last look.

"Good night, Queen of Liss."

Jelena lingered in her council chamber, waiting for Prakna to arrive.
She had left orders with the sentries outside the chamber to
summon the fleet commander when the Jackal was gone. It didn't
take long for Prakna to respond to her order. The sailor appeared
at the door, a little concerned that his queen wanted to see him.

"My Queen?" he probed, sticking his head inside the chamber.
"You summoned me?"

Jelena put down the glass she'd been sipping at and bid Prakna
forward. "Come in, please, Prakna," she said lightly. She was flush
from the wine and her encounter with Richius, and her mood
hovered somewhere between sour and profoundly sad. "Close the
door."

Prakna did as his queen commanded, stepping into the chamber
and shutting the doors behind him, sealing off the outside noise.
The room had grown darker since he'd left, and Jelena could
barely see him in the shadowy lamp-light.

"Sit near me," she said. "Talk with me."

"What about?" asked Prakna as he took a chair beside her. He
looked genuinely concerned for her, a trait that made her love him.
"My Queen, what troubles you?"

"Tomorrow you will set sail and I will not be there to control you,
Prakna. You will take all that vengeance with you to Crote. That's
what troubles me."

Prakna went ashen. "Jelena, I will do what must be done. No more
or less."

"Like you did with the Naren ship?"

The commander nodded. "It was necessary. And the Jackal still
knows nothing of it."

"You're right," said Jelena sadly. "He believes your story. We've
deceived him perfectly, and that troubles me, too."

"I know," admitted Prakna. "He's a good man. I don't take pride in
lying to him. But he will get what we promised him. He'll have his
revenge on Biagio. That should satisfy him. You heard it
yourself—that's all he wants."

Jelena grimaced. She hated herself for deceiving Richius, her
beautiful new friend from across the ocean. He was nothing like
other Narens. He was a hero. Certainly, he deserved better than
lies.

"I don't want you to do any more than you must to take Crote," she
said finally. "Richius wouldn't want that."

"I know," said Prakna.

"Do you? I've heard about your handiwork, Prakna."

The fleet commander leaned back, obviously offended. "Jelena,
did it ever occur to you that the Naren pigs on that dreadnought
might have been the same ones that slew your parents? Or Shii's
child? Would you feel so bad for them then?"

"No," admitted Jelena. "I wouldn't."

"Of course you wouldn't. So let me do my job. Let me erase the
memory of Liss the Raped. Let's make sure the Empire of Nar
doesn't trifle with us again."

The speech stoked a fire deep within her. He was right, of course.
Nar deserved every bit of derision. Jelena didn't care about Nar,
but she did care about Richius Vantran, more deeply than she had
ever thought possible.

"I want no harm to come to the Jackal," she said firmly. "Or I swear,
Prakna, you will know my anger."

The fleet commander grinned. "I respect that boy as much as you
do, my Queen. I swear to you, I won't let anything happen to him."

"And the other one. Simon Darquis. I see how you hate him,
Prakna. Give me your word you will protect him, too."

The commander frowned. "Don't make me wet-nurse that pig,
please."

"Your word, Prakna," she insisted. "You will treat him as an ally.
Yes?"

After a long pause, Prakna reluctantly acquiesced. "I promise," he
said bitterly. "But I don't approve."

"You don't have to like it," Jelena reminded him. "Just do as I say."
She smiled to herself, remembering Richius' words. "After all, I am
the queen."
THIRTY-NINE
Eleven Lords

T wo days after the tragedy of Eestrii, Herrith and his loyal Naren
lords set out for Biagio's island of Crote.

It had been a surprisingly easy decision for the bishop, because
he knew he simply had no other choice, and the Naren lords
agreed. Biagio could reach them, even from his island. With the
orchestrated murder of Vorto and the destruction of the cathedral,
Biagio had proven that he could not be safely ignored. And Herrith,
distraught over the death of Lorla, didn't care about his own safety
anymore. He hoped only to convince Biagio that the Black
Renaissance was a godless heresy, and that the Empire had been
better off since the old emperor's death. He was not planning on
handing the Iron Throne over to Biagio. None of the Naren lords
would agree to that, anyway. This journey was simply the opening
of a dialogue. Where it would lead, no one wanted to guess.

Archbishop Herrith chose eleven Naren lords to accompany him to
Crote, the most influential men in the Black City. Among them was
Baron Ricter, master of the Tower of Truth; Claudi Vos, Arkus'
former Lord Architect; Tepas Talshiir, the city's leading merchant,
who lived in a royal-sized palace of his own; and Kivis Gago, Nar's
Minister of Arms, representing the civilian interests of the Empire's
military machine. Since Vorto's death, Kivis Gago had been very
busy, rearranging the power structure of the legions and convincing
the irate soldiers that he was capable of leading them. The military
leadership had been calling for Biagio's head in retribution for
Vorto's slaughter, and Kivis Gago's job was to convince them that
this was essentially impossible, at least for now. Biagio was on an
island, with the entire Black Fleet protecting him. It was this fact,
more than any other, that convinced the eleven lords to accompany
Herrith to Crote. Biagio had forced them into a corner.

It was a gray morning when Herrith and the noblemen, all
accompanied by throngs of bodyguards, disembarked from the
docks of Nar City. The Fearless and her two sister dreadnoughts
waited far off in the harbor, and Nicabar had sent long rowboats to
ferry his passengers over. Herrith was the only one who didn't bring
guardians. Not even Father Todos accompanied the bishop on the
dock. With the Cathedral of the Martyrs in ruins, every one of
Herrith's priests and acolytes were needed in the Black City. There
were deep spiritual wounds to tend, for the audacious attack had
left the population stunned.

"It is now," Herrith had told Todos, "that we really do the work of
God."

God might want him to speak to Biagio, or God might not. Herrith
didn't know, because his prayers went unanswered. He was quickly
becoming faithless. As he shivered in the cold, waiting for his own
ferry boat, he wondered if God had abandoned him. Or if he had
abandoned God. He saw the sunlight glint off the big guns of the
Fearless. The warship had her cannons trained on the city. One
slip-up, Nicabar had promised—one act of sabotage against his
vessels—and he would open fire. He would pummel Nar City day
and night in retaliation to any attack. That message had gone to
Herrith and Kivis Gago both. Gago in turn relayed it to the legions,
who impotently agreed. At least for a while, there would be a truce.

Time enough, Herrith hoped. He pulled up the collar of his coat,
hating the wind. He was sick and weak, and the thought of the long
sea voyage brought bile to his throat. The last effects of the drug
had worn off and his entire body was in rebellion, hellishly craving
more. He thought his bones might break in the breeze, and he had
swallowed down pain-killing potions from his physicians, hoping to
stem the unbearable pain. The remedies were useless. Herrith had
been through the drug withdrawal before. He knew the ordeal
facing him.

From across the harbor, another of the long rowboats approached.
Herrith spied it warily. It bore the markings of the Fearless. He and
Kivis Gago both would be travelling aboard Nicabar's flagship.
Apparently, Nicabar hoped to prepare them for the coming peace
talks. The other Naren lords, steadfastly refusing Nicabar's
hospitality, would voyage on Black City and Intruder. Herrith braced
himself as the boat approached the dock. Onboard were four
sailors, all of them dressed in the dark uniform of the fleet. As the
boat slid into a mooring, one of the sailors, obviously a man of
some rank, jumped out and approached them. Kivis Gago's
bodyguards coiled, ready to defend their master.

"Archbishop Herrith," said the seaman loudly. "My name is
Lieutenant R'Jinn. I'm to take you aboard the Fearless, along with
Minister Gago." He gave the minister a polite bow. "Admiral
Nicabar requests that you be at ease. He promises no trickery, and
that no harm will come to any of you aboard his vessel."

"That better be true," spat Gago. He was a tall man, prone to gaudy
threats. "If anything happens to me, Nicabar will be the most
hunted man in the world." The seaman didn't flinch. "You may bring
your bodyguards or any belongings you wish. Admiral Nicabar
wants your voyage to be a pleasant one."

"I go nowhere without my bodyguards, pup," sneered Gago. "I
don't need Nicabar's permission."

"And I don't have any bodyguards," said Herrith. "Just take us
aboard."

The lieutenant frowned. He looked at the stooped bishop, and
Herrith thought he saw pity in his eyes.

"Very well," said the sailor. "Let me help you."

Weak from sickness, Herrith didn't refuse the offer. Two more
sailors climbed out of the rowboat to help him aboard. Every step
was an agony. His head swam with nausea and his joints screamed
with fire, and when he placed his foot into the boat, the rocking of
the vessel made him groan. The lieutenant guided him into one of
the benchlike seats. Herrith took a weary breath. He felt
unconscionably old.

When Kivis Gago and half his bodyguards were aboard, the
rowboat shoved off again. Another was passing them, approaching
the dock. The second vessel would take the rest of the minister's
entourage to the Fearless. Gago sat down next to Herrith, rocking
the boat with his weight.

"Traitorous skunks," he scoffed, loud enough for the sailors to
hear. Gago had always been a loudmouth, and Herrith wished one
of the other lords had come with him instead. None of them were
friends, precisely, but he cared for Gago the least. Like General
Vorto, Gago didn't know when to keep quiet. Herrith looked out
over the sea toward the waiting Naren flagship. He had never been
aboard a dreadnought before, and wondered what it would be like.
Nicabar had been among the best of the Iron Circle. Herrith wished
the admiral had never sided with Biagio.

Biagio is a demon, he thought miserably. A monster who lies with
men and makes the best out of every vice.

It wasn't supposed to be this way. When Arkus had died, Herrith
had seized the Empire for good reasons. Now those reasons
seemed specious. There had been far too much bloodshed for
him to think it worth the struggle. He had ordered the deaths of
thousands and wasn't sure anymore what God would think of that.

And then there was Lorla.

The memory of his precious adopted daughter brought a lump to
his throat. Had she been part of Biagio's designs? Probably. She
was just one more of Bovadin's wicked creations. The war labs had
given Nar the acid launcher and the flame cannons and the
heartless, world-eating Formula B. Herrith had no doubts that
Bovadin could turn his foul imagination loose on a child. The
midget had already proven his diabolical nature, a hundred times
over. After walking through the rubble of his cathedral, Herrith had
seen the twisted remnants of Bovadin's device. He still didn't really
know what it was, but he knew that only Bovadin could have
constructed it.

Herrith thought back to something that Lorla had told him once, that
she was something very special. At the time he had merely grinned
like a proud father, agreeing with her. But now he knew the dark
truth of things. It was the only explanation that made sense. She
had lured him to the toymaker, begging for the dollhouse. And she
had gotten to him through Enli, whose treason was now infamous.
But she had never feigned her love for him.

That was real, he told himself. Maybe it had started false, but in the
end she had loved him. She had even tried to save him.

The Fearless loomed ever larger. The rowboat cut through the
waves, anxious to reach its mother. Herrith and Gago stared up at
the growing warship, mesmerized by it giantness. The dreadnought
was a behemoth, and its numerous cannons poked out of its gun
deck like the thorns of a beautiful, dangerous rose. Lieutenant
R'Jinn guided the rowboat to the side of the vessel. A long rope
ladder dropped down to greet them. All along the deck, Herrith saw
more sailors staring down at them. His holy presence broke their
militant professionalism, and some of them pointed at him,
surprised and maybe pleased to see him.

They're all your flock, Herrith reminded himself. Even if they serve
an evil master.

"Archbishop," called the lieutenant. "Think you can climb that
ladder?"

Herrith looked at the ladder sourly. "God is testing me," he
muttered.

"I'll help you," said R'Jinn encouragingly. "I'll be right behind you."

"Very well," said Herrith. He waited until the row-boat came to a
stop, then got shakily to his feet. Lieutenant R'Jinn and two other
crewmen grabbed hold of his arms, guiding him out of the boat.
The little platform pitched and rolled, making Herrith ill. He
summoned all the strength he could, refusing to look weak, and
took the ladder in his hands. With a powerful grunt he lifted himself
onto the first rung. R'Jinn and the others helped by pushing. Kivis
Gago gave a laugh, clapping.

"Well done, Herrith," he joked. "You can do it!"

The insult was all the prodding Herrith needed. He summoned his
remaining strength, struggling up the ladder just to show the
arrogant nobleman he was able. It was a long climb, but with R'Jinn
beneath him for support he made it to the top without slipping.
When two more sailors on the deck helped him aboard, he had a
giant smile on his face. But the smile vanished quickly. Standing in
front of him was Admiral Danar Nicabar.

"Welcome aboard, Herrith," said the commander. "This is an
honor."

Surprisingly, there was no gloating in Nicabar's tone. His stony
countenance held not a trace of arrogance. Herrith, breathing hard,
nodded at the admiral.

"It seems you were right, Danar," he said. "Here I am."

"Biagio was right," Nicabar corrected. "Myself, I never thought
you'd come aboard."

"Peace guides my actions, Danar, not personal gain. Peace is the
only reason I've agreed to speak with your wicked master."

Nicabar smiled. "Very well, Herrith. As I said, I'm glad to have you
aboard. We're going to try to make this as pleasant as possible for
you. I have a cabin ready for you. It's one of the largest on board."

Herrith scoffed. "Not as big as yours, I'm sure."

"Big enough," said Nicabar. "You'll be well cared for, I promise."

"I'm not a pet, Admiral."

Nicabar sighed. "Do you want to see it? Or do you want to stand in
the cold like a fool? Personally, I think you should rest. You look
awful."

"Yes, well, I've been through a lot recently," jabbed Herrith. He
stared at Nicabar hard. "But you already know that, don't you?"

"Casualties of war, Herrith," replied Nicabar. "And no worse than
some of the things you've done."

It was true, so Herrith didn't argue. "Take me to my quarters," he
said. "Let's get going as soon as we can. I—"

His words died in his mouth. Across the deck he saw the
diminutive figure of Bovadin. The scientist was coming toward him.

"You!" Herrith roared, losing all control. "You little monster!"

Bovadin put up his hands. "Easy, Herrith . . ."

Herrith bolted forward and grabbed the midget's lapels, lifting him
off the ground. Howling, he wrestled Bovadin to the edge of the
deck, pinning him against the railing. All the strength of the drug
flashed back into his muscles with a wrathful charge. The midget
struggled to get free, gasping.

"Herrith, stop!" he cried. "Stop!"

Nicabar came rushing forward. He pulled Herrith away from the rail.
Herrith held fast to Bovadin, shaking him.

"You murderous beast!" he seethed. "You killed her!"

"Herrith, stop!" Nicabar demanded. He pulled the bishop roughly
off of Bovadin. Three crewmen rushed into the fight, stepping
between them. Herrith roared at Bovadin even as the sailors
dragged him away.

"We're not done, dwarf!" he swore. "Not at all. I'll see you burn in
hell for what you did!"

"I'll meet you there, Herrith!" the midget shot back. Nicabar held
him back with a single hand, but Bovadin fought scrappily against
him, cursing at Herrith. "This is your war. You started it."

"Shut up, both of you!" thundered Nicabar. He tossed Bovadin
aside like an insect. "Get away, Bovadin. I told you not to come up
here."

"Danar . . ."

"Go!"

The scientist glared once more at Herrith, then strode away,
shaking his head. Nicabar turned on the bishop.

"You're stronger than you look," he quipped. "But I won't have a
spectacle like that again. This is my vessel. You want to kill
Bovadin? Do it when you get to Crote."

"I just might," hissed Herrith. "And maybe you, too."

Admiral Nicabar growled, "Come with me. Let me lock you in your
cabin!"

Exhausted from the melee, Herrith followed willingly. Nicabar led
him through a narrow hatchway in the bridge, down a small flight of
wooden stairs and into a claustrophobic, swaying corridor. At the
end of the corridor the admiral paused at a door, opening it and
gesturing inside.

"This is your cabin," he said sharply. "I think you'll find it has
everything you need."

Herrith peered inside. It was ridiculously small, with only a cot built
into the wall and a small table and chair. On the table was a letter,
stamped with the familiar seal of Count Biagio. Herrith froze when
he saw it. Holding the letter to the table was a paper weight—a
small vial of blue liquid.

"Oh, no," whispered Herrith. "Please . . ."

"From Biagio," Nicabar explained. "He knew you'd need it by now.
The apparatus for taking it is stored under the bunk." The admiral
gave a victorious smile. "Feel better, Herrith," he said, then
stepped aside to let Herrith enter the cabin. The bishop stumbled
over to the table. He picked up the vial and stared at it, dreading
the upcoming decision.

"You should have thrown it overboard," he said. "It's poison,
Danar."

The admiral's blue eyes laughed. "Not for me."

"Oh, you're wrong," Herrith said. "You're very wrong."

"Rest," advised Nicabar. "It's a two-day voyage to Crote. I'll send a
cabin boy to see to your needs after we get under way. If you need
anything, ask me."

Nicabar was being very kind, making Herrith suspicious. "I don't
want to be interrupted," he said. "When I need anything, I'll get it
myself."

"Stop being a fool, Herrith. You don't know your way around the
ship and my crew isn't yours to order around. Let the cabin boy
help you. That's what he's here for."

Nicabar left the cabin, shutting the door behind him. Herrith
slumped down in the small chair. He studied the vial, hating it and
loving it, dying to pour it into his veins. His body screamed for its
soothing power.

He licked his lips, unsure what he should do, then noticed Biagio's
letter. His hand trembling, he put down the vial and reached for the
envelope, opening it.

My dear Herrith, the letter began.

I knew you would change your mind. Thank you.

It was signed very simply, Count Biagio.

Enraged, Herrith balled up the letter and tossed it aside. Biagio's
arrogance was boundless. He had the obnoxious ability to see into
the future, or to manipulate the present to get the tomorrow he
wanted. Herrith felt the count's cold hands all over him. He was
being worked like a lump of clay. And he felt powerless.

"But I am not powerless," he whispered. "This, at least, I can do."

Slowly, haltingly, his hand reached out and picked up the vial again.
Then he undid the lid and poured the contents on the floor.
FORTY
The Lissens

T he Naren vessel Swift had been in Lissen waters for barely a
day. Captain Kelara, weary from the recent voyages back and forth
he had endured, spent most of his time above deck, scanning the
horizons with his lookouts. For his mission to succeed, he needed
to sight the Lissen invasion force well in advance, and to remain
undetected himself.

Kelara did not expect to see his quarry so soon.

Out on the horizon, he caught a glimpse of a big schooner through
his spyglass. Quickly he tabulated the speed and distances. From
the size of her, she could easily be the Prince. A second later, a
lookout in the crow's nest verified his sighting.

"Four ships!" came the cry. "Off starboard, ten degrees!"

Boatswain Dars, who had eagerly accompanied the small crew
back to Liss, rushed up to Captain Kelara's side. The young man
shielded his eyes with a hand, squinting out over the ocean.

"I can't see anything," he said, annoyed. "Where are they?"

Kelara didn't need his spyglass anymore, so he handed it to Dars.
The boatswain hurriedly pointed the lens ten degrees off
starboard, paused, then let out a venomous curse.

"That's the bastards!" He snapped the spyglass closed and turned
to Kelara. "What now?"

The captain backed away from the railing, ready to give the order.
"Now we head back to Crote, Boatswain," he said. "Here's where
the fun begins."
FORTY-ONE
Secrets

A lone in the cabin he shared with Simon, Richius sat at the tiny
table built into the wall, staring at his journal. Writing was an old
habit he had neglected since the end of the Triin war, but the
tedium of the sea voyage had reacquainted him with the task. It
took his mind off the boredom and the questionable things to
come. The Prince was four days out of Liss. Prakna's best
estimates put them in Crote in three more days. The battle was
joined, looming ever nearer, and Richius daydreamed as he sat in
the flickering candlelight, contemplating the violent times ahead.

We are not far now, he wrote. In three more days we will make
landfall in Crote, and I do not know what we will find there. Perhaps
Biagio's guardians will surrender peacefully. If not, they will have a
massacre on their hands. These nine hundred orphans I bring with
me are bloodthirsty. I have done my best to tame their anger, but
they still seethe for vengeance. Seeing them reminds me a little of
myself. They are all the things I'd hoped never to be.

Richius stared at the line he'd just written. He was sorry for his
feelings, but there they were, put down on paper, making them
real. Long ago, his father had given him a valuable piece of advice;
that a general must love the men he leads. If not, the men will know
it and not fight for him. Richius sighed miserably. Did he love these
Lissens? He didn't think so. He respected and admired them, but
he didn't love them. What he felt was more like pity. The realization
frightened Richius. He lowered his pen, unable to continue.

In Aramoor—if Aramoor still existed—he would have been a king.
It was a title he never sought or craved. He never wanted to go
against the emperor or fight in Lucel-Lor or earn the name Jackal,
and suddenly he felt the years rush over him.

"I've changed," he whispered.

For the first time in his young life, Richius felt old. He was afraid of
going to Crote, and of facing Biagio. Much as he wanted to cut the
count's heart out, he also wanted to turn the ship around and sail
back to Falindar to see Dyana's bright face. It wasn't his own
mortality that worried him; his fears concerned his soul and his
sanity. Sometimes, both seemed to be slipping away. He might live
forever as a madman, like some hero in a Naren fairy tale who
could not be harmed by any blade but whose mind slowly
devoured itself.

"Enough," he chastised himself, throwing down the quill. He
needed to focus.

Suddenly the cabin door opened and Simon staggered inside. It
was very late and normally they both should have been asleep, but
Simon's seasickness always kept him awake and above deck. The
Naren's face was shadowed with an unhealthy pall. He closed the
door and collapsed into his bunk with a groan. Richius noticed the
stains of vomit on his coat.

"You look terrible," he remarked.

"You stayed up to tell me that?" snapped Simon.

"No." Richius closed his journal and pushed it aside. "Just
thinking."

"My guts are on fire," Simon groaned. "You shouldn't have made
me eat."

"Starving yourself won't help. You'll only waste away. And I want
you strong when we reach Crote."

Simon rolled over and glared at him. His eyes were lusterless.
"Staying up all night worrying won't help, either, you know. You can
go over those plans a thousand times, but you'll never know what's
going to happen until it happens. Words of wisdom, boy. Learned
the hard way." Simon's vision narrowed on Richius' journal. "What
are you writing in there, anyway?"

"Just things," said Richius evasively.

Simon smiled. "Come on, I can tell you want to talk. What is it?
What's on that sharp mind of yours?"

Richius didn't answer right away. He listened to the gentle rocking
of the ship and its endless creaking, and considered the man
sharing his cabin. Still, after all that had happened, he liked Simon
Darquis. Richius turned his chair toward his cabin-mate's bunk,
deciding to trust him.

"Simon, don't you ever wonder about yourself?" he asked softly.

Simon chuckled. "What?"

"I saw you when you came to Liss," Richius pressed. "Do you
remember how sorry you looked?"

Simon glanced away. They had never really talked about that, and
Richius had thought it best to stay quiet. But he had seen such
remarkable sorrow in Simon that day. It had made him wonder.

"I remember," replied Simon. "It's not something I enjoyed."

"It's a regret, though, isn't it?"

"Richius, you're not making any sense," said Simon, annoyed.
"What are you asking me?"

Richius shrugged. "Maybe nothing. I'm just a little worried, that's
all."

"About Crote?"

"And about myself," said Richius. He glanced away, unable to
explain it. Dyana hadn't wanted him to go on this journey. She had
warned him that revenge was folly, and seeing Jelena and all the
rest of Liss' orphans made him reconsider his wife's advice.

"If you're worried that you're doing the wrong thing, don't be,"
Simon said. "I know what Biagio did to your lady. I heard about it
when I was in the Empire. He's a beast, Richius."

Richius frowned. "He's your master."

"That doesn't mean anything. So I followed a beast. Maybe that
makes me a beast, too." Simon closed his eyes. "Is that what you
mean by regrets? If so, then you're right about me. I'm not proud
of the things I've done."

"And what about all this?" asked Richius. "Will you be proud when
we kill Biagio?"

"If we kill Biagio," corrected Simon. "And no, I won't be. You don't
understand what it's like to be Roshann, Richius. Biagio gave me
an identity. He gave me something to believe in."

"So why are you doing it? Just for Eris?"

"Mostly. But also because Biagio isn't the same. The drug has
made him a wild man. Personally, I think he's insane. We might be
doing him a favor by killing him."

"A favor?" barked Richius. "I'm not going to kill him for sentimental
reasons, Simon. You can think whatever you want, but for me it's
just plain old revenge."

"And he deserves it," agreed Simon. "I'm not arguing with that. Just
don't expect me to be happy about it. Biagio will always mean
something good to me. I don't think there's anything he could do to
change that." He glanced over at Richius and gave him a knowing
look. "If you knew Biagio ten years ago, you'd probably feel
different about him."

"I doubt it," said Richius sourly. Biagio's impending death was the
one thing he had no qualms about. "I don't know how you can say
he's a good man after all the evil things he's done. Maybe I was
wrong about you, Simon. Maybe you haven't changed a bit."

"Easy, boy," warned Simon. "I'm not so sick I can't stuff you
through a porthole. And I never said he's a good man. All I meant
was that he's not the man he used to be. People change, Richius.
Sometimes for the better. Sometimes for the worse, like Biagio."

"People change," Richius echoed, nodding. "That's what I'm
worried about." He leaned back in his chair, watching the candle
flicker in its glass enclosure. "Before I left, Dyana warned me to be
careful. I thought she meant she wanted me to watch out for
myself, to not get killed. Now I think I know what she meant. She
sees the change in me."

"What change?"

"Oh, it's hard to explain," sighed Richius. "It's what revenge does
to a man. I wasn't always like I am now, either. I guess I've
changed, too—just like Biagio."

"And me," Simon reminded him.

Richius smiled. "I suppose."

Simon sat up, putting his legs over the edge of the bunk. "Richius,
listen to me. You're a good man. After you finish this business with
Biagio, you can go back to your wife and child and start over. You'll
be able to put all this dirty business behind you. With Biagio dead,
you'll be forgotten in Nar. No one's going to come hunting for you
again."

Richius closed his eyes. "Sounds wonderful."

"And your daughter can grow up strong and healthy, and you won't
have to worry about war anymore or spies crawling through your
window. It will be a whole new life for you. You can forget all about
Biagio and Nar. Forget Aramoor—"

"What?" blurted Richius, his eyes snapping open. "Simon, I can
never forget Aramoor."

"You must," said Simon relentlessly. "Or it will haunt you forever.
It's not your kingdom anymore. Forget about it."

"I can't," Richius argued. "It's impossible."

"Do it," Simon urged. "You'd be a fool not to. Because Aramoor is
never going to be yours again, Richius. Never."

The words hung in the air. Richius swallowed hard. Part of him had
never dared acknowledge what Simon was telling him, that
Aramoor was lost forever.

"Then what's all this for?" he asked softly. "Why am I even here?"

Simon grinned. "You know the answer to that one, friend."

Richius nodded.

"Strike a blow for Aramoor," said Simon. "Ease your conscience
the best you can. Take out Biagio, then walk away."

"I don't know . . ."

"Don't know what?" thundered Simon. He leaned forward on his
bunk. "You don't know if you want to live the rest of your life in
peace? Or watch your daughter grow up? Let me tell you
something, Richius. I think you're a fool for being here. The
Lissens could have invaded Crote without your help. They're fools,
too. But you're smarter than them. You should have had the brains
to ignore Prakna when he came to Falindar. But you chose a
vendetta over the love of a good woman. I think that's incredibly
stupid."

Abruptly, Simon fell back into his bunk, turning his back on Richius.
The cabin fell uneasily quiet. Richius stared at Simon.

"You don't understand," he said.

"Right," said Simon. "No one ever understands poor Richius.
That's the story of your life."

"Simon, be fair. You're not a king. You don't know what it's like for
me."

"Good night, Richius."

"You didn't betray a kingdom!"

"Blow out the candle, would you, please?

Seething, Richius blew the candle out, then sat quietly in the dark,
staring at Simon's back. Did he like Simon? He wondered about
that now. The Naren was crass and thoughtless.

But he was also remarkably perceptive.

After pulling off his boots, Richius climbed into his own bunk and
drew the covers over himself. A light draft made him shiver. There
would be no sleep tonight; his mind was too full.

"I'm not like the Lissens," he whispered.

"You're right. You're not. Go to sleep."

"I'm not! You heard what I told Jelena. I just want to get Biagio and
then go home."

"I heard you."

"And you don't believe me?"

"That's right."

"Why not?"

Simon cursed. "God almighty, haven't you been listening? You
could have been satisfied letting the Lissens go to Crote
themselves. They would have killed Biagio for you, and you know it.
But you weren't satisfied with that. And you won't be satisfied when
you get back to Falindar, either. You'll always be whining about how
you betrayed Aramoor. You should listen to Dyana, Richius. You're
not a king anymore. The sooner you realize that, the sooner you'll
start living again. Now, good night!"

Richius said nothing. Simon's outburst had left him speechless.

I'll just get Biagio, he told himself. I will. Then I'll go home.

The words echoed endlessly in his mind. Even as he heard them,
he fretted over their truth.

On the other end of the sleepy schooner, Fleet Commander
Prakna was also awake in his cabin. He was at his writing desk
awaiting a visitor. An open flask of wine waited with him,
accompanied by two mugs. It was very late, and Prakna was weary.
He would have preferred to be sleeping, but he had business that
could only be attended to when curious eyes were closed.
Confident that Marus could pilot the Prince without him, Prakna had
come below decks hours ago. He had whiled away the time writing
a letter to J'lari. In it he had told her how much he loved her, again,
and how much he missed her. Again. The commander was sick of
writing his heart-wrenching notes. Each one was an ordeal. They
reminded him of how old he was, and how much he'd lost. They
reminded him that J'lari wasn't whole anymore.

In three more days, they would reach Crote. Soon, no one would
dare call his homeland Liss the Raped.

"Never again," he mumbled darkly.

There was work to do. They would take Crote in a lightning attack,
then look eastward toward the mainland. The Narens would tremble
when they heard the news of Crote's seizure. Prakna smiled grimly.
He liked the thought of Narens trembling. So many of his own men
had trembled, brave as they were. It was time for some retribution.

Prakna poured himself a little of the wine just as the expected
knock came at his cabin door. "Come in," he called softly, then
poured wine into the second mug. The door opened to reveal Shii.
The young woman stood in the threshold questioningly.

"Sir?" she asked. "You wanted to see me?"

"Step inside, Shii," said Prakna. "Close the door."

Shii did as Prakna bid, quickly and without question. The effect of
his rank was obvious. She stood before him dutifully, waiting for
him to speak. When he offered out the wine mug she declined.

"No, thank you," she said politely.

Prakna smiled. "You're nervous. Don't be. You're doing nothing
wrong."

The young woman relaxed almost imperceptibly. "No, sir."

"You know that, don't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good." Prakna eased the mug into her hands. "Then drink with
me." He got up and offered her the only chair in the cabin, seating
himself on the edge of his bunk. Shii hovered over the chair before
sitting, then took a sip of the wine, obviously trying to relax. Prakna
watched her closely. She was a good soldier. Loyal, both to Liss
and her Lord Jackal. He didn't like seeing her squirm.

"Shii, please be at ease," he said. "I just want to talk to you, that's
all. There's no reason for you to be afraid."

"I'm not afraid," she said defensively. "It's just, well . . ." She
paused, careful with her words. "You told me not to tell Lord Jackal
about our meeting. I'm uncomfortable with that."

"I understand," said Prakna. "Vantran has done a fine job with you.
All of you."

"He's made an army of us," declared Shii.

"And I appreciate that. You'll make him proud when we get to
Crote, I know that. I just want to make sure you understand our
mission."

Shii blanched. "Sir?"

"Our mission, Shii," Prakna repeated. He leaned closer, his tone
growing grave. "Do you understand it?"

"Yes, of course I do," said Shii. "We're to take Crote."

"And?"

"And?" asked Shii. "That's it. We're taking the island and securing it
for Liss. You're going to use it as a base for your fleet." She
looked at him curiously. "Isn't that right?"

"Mostly," said Prakna. "But our mission is more than to just take
Crote. We want to make a statement to the rest of the Empire.
When we seize Biagio's island, we'll be saying to all of Nar that
Liss isn't the Empire's plaything anymore. And we'll be striking a
blow for all the people we've lost." He let that last part work on her.
"Do you understand me, Shii?"

The young woman nodded. "I know about loss, Fleet Commander.
That's why I volunteered to serve with Lord Jackal."

"An admirable decision, no doubt about it," said Prakna. "All of Liss
is proud of you for that. But don't forget that you're a Lissen. You
have an obligation to your people. Lord Jackal isn't one of us. He
might not realize all that we need to accomplish."

Shii looked flustered. "I'm sorry, sir. I'm not understanding you.
What do you mean?"

Tired, Prakna decided to be direct. "I mean to destroy Crote
utterly, Shii," he said flatly. "I don't want there to be a living thing left
in Biagio's mansion when we leave. When we get to Crote, our
dead sons are going to be watching us. I don't want to disappoint
them."

The young woman grimaced. "Sir, my orders come from the
Jackal. He hasn't said anything about this to me. I know he wants to
take the island with as few casualties as possible."

"The Jackal isn't Lissen," Prakna reminded her. "When it comes to
the Hundred Isles, the Empire has a lot to answer for. I certainly
don't want to disappoint my sons when they look down on me.
What about you? Your infant son deserves vindication, doesn't
he?"

Shii hesitated.

"Doesn't he?"

"Yes," cried Shii. She put down the mug and rose from her chair
angrily. "Don't make me say it!"

"There's a thousand more like him, Shii," said Prakna. "All of them
dead. Think about it. A thousand mothers who will never hold their
babies. You think they have that problem in Nar? They take their
children for walks, feed them, play with them. All the things you'll
never get to do."

Shii turned away from him. It was working; Prakna knew it. He
waited a moment before speaking again.

"It's justice," he said softly. "Some people call it revenge."

"I don't care what they call it," spat Shii. "I just want it."

Prakna smiled inwardly. "We all want it, girl," he said gently. "Even
the Jackal. That's why he's here with us. Revenge. I know him. He
plans on pulling Biagio's heart out for what the count did to his wife.
And why shouldn't he? Don't you think Biagio deserves it?"

"Yes," gasped Shii. She was on the verge of angry tears.

"And do you think the Narens that slaughtered your son deserve to
die?"

Unable to speak, Shii gave a strangled nod. Prakna walked over to
her. He put his hands on her shoulders and his lips to her ear.

"So do I," he whispered. "That's why we're going to Crote."

Suddenly, the hard young woman seemed insubstantial in his
hands. In a few minutes he had diminished her. Awful memories
could do that to a person. Gently, he turned her around, making her
face him. She looked up at him, her eyes full of pain.

"It's time," he said softly. "We are obligated to your son, and to my
sons. To all our sons. You know that. Are you with me, Shii?"

Shii couldn't bring herself to look away. He was the Fleet
Commander of Liss, more of a hero than the Jackal himself.
Prakna knew the power he had over his people. He could see it
reflected in Shii's impressionable eyes.

"I'm with you," said Shii finally.

"It's the right thing to do," Prakna promised her. "In three days, we
become the servants of justice."

Without thinking, he placed a light kiss on her forehead. Shii
melted. Prakna sighed. He hated making pawns of these fine men
and women. Shii bent easily to his will, almost crying when she felt
his loving kiss. Prakna held her close. She was desperate for the
contact. It was what war had made of Liss' children; forlorn, touch-
starved orphans. Like Jelena.

"Be easy, Shii," he whispered gently. "In three more days, we'll
start to ease some of your pain."

"Will we?" asked Shii hopefully.

Prakna considered the question for a very long moment. Finally, he
decided to lie. "Yes," he said softly. "It can't last forever."
FORTY-TWO
A Meeting of Monarchs

B arely two days after leaving Nar, the Fearless and her escorting
dreadnoughts arrived in Crote.

Biagio watched the warships from his beach, immensely satisfied
with himself. Around him stood an entourage of bodyguards, a
well-groomed group of peacock-colored Cretans with their
sidearms still sheathed. The count didn't expect any trouble, but he
wanted to make a show. He still didn't know how many of the Naren
lords were aboard the ships. He hoped there were enough of them
to have made it all worth his efforts. Still, Herrith was aboard—that
much Biagio knew for certain. Nicabar had left Crote with clear
orders not to return until the bishop was with him.

It was a clear day, and Biagio could see the rowboats coming
toward him. Some still dropped from the sides of their mother
ships, laden down with Naren nobles and their guards. Biagio's
sharp eyes scanned the blue ocean. The lead boat came from the
Fearless. At its prow stood Nicabar, guiding her in. With him was a
white-haired man in priestly garb, barely visible behind the
admiral's impressive bulk. Biagio licked his lips, anticipating
Herrith's arrival. He had pulled a lot of strings to make this happen,
made a lot of puppets dance. He even felt some remorse. Vorto
was a fine general. His death would make ruling the Empire all the
more difficult. The count sighed, shrugging off the consequences.
He wanted his mind unburdened. No doubt Herrith would engage
him in verbal fencing. Biagio closed his eyes for a moment,
sharpening his foil.

Since learning of Simon's treason, Biagio had been unable to
relax. He paced his mansion like an angry cat, stalking the halls at
night and freezing in the gardens with only a cape to warm him. He
felt friendless and profoundly misunderstood, and Dyana Vantran
had kept her promise to shun him, refusing his polite smiles. She
locked herself away in her rooms, desolate of human contact. Eris'
suicide had struck her hard. Biagio's mood soured. If he had
known his prize dancer was going to kill herself, he might not have
been so drastic with her.

Control, he reminded himself. Control.

That was his biggest struggle now. Lately, his mind had been
slipping into daydreams and flashes of rage. It was the stress, he
knew, and the all-importance of his grand design, but that didn't
excuse some of his actions. Biagio kicked distractedly at the sand
beneath his boots. Dyana Vantran was on his mind often these
days. She was a perceptive little gadfly, and she annoyed him.
More, she had started him thinking about things he'd wanted to
keep buried. Insanity came only to the feeble-minded; he had
always been sure of that. And Arkus wasn't insane, was he? The
drugs that kept them all vital did almost nothing to the brain.

Or so Biagio wanted to believe.

"She's a witch," he scoffed. "She's trying to distract me."

The count squared his shoulders. Nicabar's launch was
approaching. He could see Herrith more clearly now, staring at him
from across the water. The bishop's eyes were lusterless. Biagio
frowned. Hadn't Herrith taken the drug? Nicabar had offered it to
him, surely. The count tried to relax. Eventually he'd get the bishop
hooked again. Herrith was so malleable.

When the rowboat approached, two sailors splashed out of the
vessel. They dragged it onto the sand, bringing it to a halt. In the
boat was another man, sitting beside Herrith, coming into view as
Nicabar stepped out. Biagio's pleasure grew enormously.

Kivis Gago.

Nar's Minister of Arms had made it to Crote. It was a pleasure the
count hadn't really expected. Like Herrith, Kivis Gago had always
hated Biagio. Biagio tried not to let his grin overwhelm him. He
cautioned his bodyguards to keep back as Gago's servants
stepped out of the boat and shielded their master. Instantly they
drew their swords in a net of steel. The tiresome show irked Biagio
but he did nothing to stop it. He merely watched as Kivis Gago
stepped out of the boat and waded through the water. Gago's face
was set with ice. He looked different from when Biagio had last
seen him. The blue of his eyes was gone, replaced with a natural,
vastly less interesting brown. He had dropped weight, too, an
obvious consequence of the withdrawal.

"Welcome to Crote, Gago," said Biagio. He offered his enemy a
mannerly bow. "I would say it's good to see you, but that would be
a lie."

Gago paused, stunned at the statement. Hatred bloomed on his
face. "Still an impertinent little elf, eh, Biagio?" he said. "I had
hoped your exile might have changed you for the better. But I see
it has only made you more bitter."

Biagio wasn't listening. He was looking over Gago's shoulder
toward Herrith. The old bishop was struggling out of the boat and
coming ashore. Refusing Nicabar's help, Herrith walked alone, his
head held high despite his weakened appearance. Behind him
came Nicabar, his expression stoic.

"Who else has come?" Biagio asked absently.

"Claudi Vos, Tepas Talshiir, Deboko," replied Gago. "Eleven lords
in all."

Biagio's heart leapt. "Good," he said evenly. "I'm glad. Maybe we
can accomplish something."

"Don't be too sure of that, Biagio," warned Gago. "Some of us
aren't in the mood to bargain."

But you came, didn't you? thought Biagio happily. Stupid man.

"Let's be open-minded," he said. Then he walked toward the
approaching Herrith. Surprisingly, Biagio felt a little fluster of fear.
Even after so much derision, there was still something awe-
inspiring about Herrith. Biagio made sure to give his nemesis a
respectful greeting, bowing low.

"Herrith," he said reverently. "You honor me by coming here. My
thanks, old friend."

Herrith had the look of the heartbroken about him. He stared at
Biagio vacantly. The count tried to coax him to speak with a smile.

"I want you to be comfortable here," he said. "Have no fear. We're
here to talk, nothing more."

"The sight of you still sickens me," said Herrith finally. "Do not call
me friend, Biagio. We are not friends and never will be. God curse
you for what you've done. God burn you."

The curses stung Biagio's pride. He heard Kivis Gago's annoying
snicker. The minister's bodyguards kept their swords drawn. Biagio
mustered up his diplomacy.

"Still, I thank you for coming, and for bringing the others. Gago tells
me Vos has come. That's good. What about Oridian?"

"He's aboard the Black City," Nicabar chimed in. "The skunk
wouldn't stay aboard the Fearless."

"Never mind, Danar," said Biagio cheerily. "Old differences. We'll
settle them soon."

"No," said Herrith icily. "We will not, Count. Not so easily. I agreed
to come to put an end to the bloodshed. That's all."

Biagio nodded. Herrith had no idea about bloodshed. "As you say
in your sermons, Herrith, peace is the way to Heaven. Let's begin
right here, right now." He glanced at Gago. "No?"

Gago smirked. "We shall see, sinner."

Biagio leveled his eyes on Gago. "We are all sinners, Kivis," he
said. "Make no mistake."

"Some are worse than others, Count," countered Gago. He put up
his hand, and the gesture made his bodyguards sheathe their
swords. "But you are right, at least partially. We will listen to you.
Just don't waste our time."

"You see, Herrith?" said Biagio. "We can put our differences aside,
for a while at least. We must talk. We must also listen."

The bishop scowled. "There are things I want to hear," he growled.
"Explanations. That's first. And I make you no promises, devil. I am
here. That is all."

The venom in Herrith's voice was appalling. Biagio had expected it,
but not to feel its bite so keenly. He swallowed down a
counterattack, gracing Herrith with a smile.

"Walk with me, Herrith," he said calmly. "Please." The count
stalked off down the beach a few paces. Then he paused, waiting
for Herrith to follow. The bishop looked at him questioningly, but he
soon relented, following Biagio down the beach. The bishop
walked slowly and with effort. Biagio waited until they were well out
of earshot before speaking. The constant sound of the surf helped
to mask their words. He decided to start with an innocent question.

"How are you feeling?" he asked. "You do not look fit."

"I am withdrawing from your devil's brew," replied Herrith.

"Withdrawing? Why? Didn't Nicabar give you my last gift?"

"He did. You can suck it out of his floor boards if you like. That's
where I poured it—right on the floor."

Biagio was aghast. "How could you? I mean, look at you! You need
it, Herrith."

"I do not." Herrith straightened. "God gives me vigor, sinner. I will
not surrender my soul to Bovadin's potion any longer."

"It keeps us alive, Herrith," said the count. "And there is more of it.
I plan to spare you the agony of mortality, at least."

"Dying will send me to God," said Herrith. "Someone you will never
see, believe me."

Biagio sighed. "We have much to discuss, you and I. It would be
easier if you weren't so sarcastic."

Herrith stopped dead. His hand shot out and grabbed Biagio's
sleeve, pulling him roughly around.

"Don't talk to me like a child, you sick little monster," he hissed.
"I'm here because of what you and your midget did to my
cathedral. And to my daughter!"

"Daughter?" Biagio grinned. "Oh, yes. I thought you'd like her."

Herrith's face purpled; Biagio thought the old man might strike him.

"God will curse you, Biagio," swore the bishop. "You can laugh in
His face now, but there will come a judgment. You will answer for
your sins and crimes, sodomite."

"Do not call me that," Biagio warned. He held up a finger. "That's
the last time I will listen to that word from your lips. This is my
island. You might still rule Nar, but on Crote I am the lord."

"Blasphemous snake," said Herrith. "Blind and stupid, too. All this
murder. For what?" He looked at Biagio imploringly. "Why, Count?"

"For Nar," said Biagio with conviction. He pointed at himself with his
thumb. "Because it's mine, and you took it from me."

"You're wrong. Nar belongs to no man. It is in the hands of God."

"It's an empire, Herrith," spat Biagio. "It's supposed to be ruled by
an emperor. Arkus wanted me to have it."

"He never said so."

"He was afraid," argued Biagio. "Afraid of his own death. He was
incapable of passing it on to me. But you know I'm right. You knew
it even then, but you stole it from me. Now you see that I can't give
it up so easily, though. That's why you're here. Now you're the one
who is afraid."

The bishop's face was placid. "Biagio, I have more fears now than
I ever thought possible," he said sadly. "You're just one in a giant
collection. I'll listen to your rants. And I'll talk peace with you, if
that's what it takes to stop your murdering. But I'll never agree to
make you emperor."

"Say it, Herrith," Biagio insisted. "Say Arkus wanted me to rule Nar.
You know it's true."

"I'll say it, if that's what pleases. Arkus did want you to have Nar. He
loved you like a son. It changes nothing."

But for Biagio, the statement changed everything. He stared at
Herrith, thunderstruck at the admission.

Loved me. Like a son.

Biagio's anger wilted into sadness. "Then why did you fight me,
Herrith? Why did you start this acrimony?"

"For the same reason I'm going to continue fighting you, Count.
Because you're a lunatic and a sinner. And because the Black
Renaissance is a disease that enslaves men and degrades
Heaven. You want to bring that back to Nar." Herrith shook his
head. "I won't let you."

"You can't stop me, Herrith," warned Biagio. "None of you can. I
can reach you anywhere you go. I've already proven that."

"Yes, you've done a fine job of terrifying us," admitted the old man
bitterly. "But we're all aligned to stop you. You have too many
enemies now, Biagio. You can't beat us all."

The threat made Biagio laugh. "I see there's much to talk about,"
he said. "Let's wait before we make such claims and say things
we'll regret. Today and tomorrow you should rest, all of you. After
that, we will begin our talks."

"I would rather get this over with," snapped the bishop. "I'm not
anxious to stay on your island."

"Stay, Herrith, please. If you won't take the drug, then have some
food and wine. We have plenty of both. I've spared no expense to
make all of you comfortable. And I can tell the sea voyage has
worn you out."

Herrith grimaced. "Very well. The day after tomorrow, then." He
turned and walked back toward the beaching rowboats, leaving
Biagio alone. The count watched his old enemy go, still astonished
at his strength. To refuse the drug was unimaginable. Biagio had
never thought Herrith capable of such resolve. Still, the count was
pleased.

"The day after tomorrow," he whispered.

He had not told Herrith that the Fearless and her escorts weren't
the only Naren vessels to come to Crote today. The Swift had
arrived three hours earlier.

Dyana had spent the day in her chambers, blankly studying the
walls. She had heard the buzzing of Kyla and the other servants,
saying how eleven Naren lords had arrived on the island, and that
Archbishop Herrith was among them. Yet despite the interesting
news, Dyana didn't care. Biagio was simply casting out one more
of his elaborate schemes. Sure that she would somehow get
caught in his net, Dyana decided to wait, and let things take their
course. She was powerless now. Eris was dead, and Biagio was
lost to her, and she knew that the count meant his threats. He
would take her to the Black City. She was his bait in the trap he was
springing for Richius. She had hoped she might reach into his
warped mind and fix the broken things she found there, but Biagio
was far beyond the influence of such naive tampering.

Since Eris' death, Dyana hadn't spoken to Biagio at all. They had
passed each other in a hallway once, and he had given her an
awkward smile, but Dyana had happily snubbed him. She didn't
want his pleasure or his pity, and she was determined not to give
him the satisfaction of seeing her fear. Surprisingly, she didn't
really hate Biagio, not even after the heinous thing he had done to
Eris. Dyana saw him more as a pathetic child, petulantly screaming
for some out-of-reach toy. He was a menace and a murderer, but
the question of his evilness still vexed her. Richius had called him
a devil. The devil, even. But Dyana was Triin, and Triin Gods were
more complicated. None of them were purely evil. To Dyana, that
notion seemed impossible.

But he is unreachable, she reminded herself. So do not even try.

It was well past midnight and the mansion was silent. Dyana lay
awake in her bed, staring at the ceiling. An ornate plaster mural
looked back at her, depicting something from Cretan history, but
she didn't know what. Occasional footfalls passing her door
disturbed her. The Naren nobles who had come were obviously
keeping the servants busy. Dyana thought about Falindar, and how
she had been pampered when she was Tharn's wife. Tharn had
been a good man. He had never let her want for anything.
Sometimes, she surprised herself by missing him. She wanted
desperately to go home.

"Woman," said a sudden voice.

Dyana bolted up, frightened. She searched her dark bedroom and
saw a golden figure in the threshold. Her pulse exploded.

"What do you want?" she asked. She pulled the sheets closer,
hiding her body.

Count Biagio drifted toward her bed. His eyes glowed with
incandescence. A rich cape of crimson trailed out behind him like a
bride's train.

"Don't be afraid," he urged.

"How did you get in here?" she asked, realizing how stupid the
question sounded. But she didn't care that he was master of the
house. This was her bedroom!

"I didn't knock because I feared you wouldn't hear me," he
explained. He was watching her with odd interest. Something like
longing shone on his face. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

"Please get out," said Dyana. She felt herself shrink away from
him. He was magnificent in the dark. "I do not want you here."

Biagio took another step toward her bed. "I will leave presently," he
said softly, "but I want to make sure you understand what I'm going
to tell you. Tomorrow night at this very time, you must be ready to
leave Crote."

"Leave?" asked Dyana. "Why?"

He gave her the answer she dreaded. "We're going back to the
Black City. When it's time, I'll send a slave for you. They'll take you
to the beach. A boat will be waiting. You will get on it."

Dyana sat up. "Why now?" she asked. "Why so soon?"

Biagio grinned menacingly. "Your husband and his Lissen heroes
are coming, woman. They mean to take my island from me."

"Richius?" Dyana gasped. "How do you know?"

The count's eyebrows went up. "So many questions. I thought you
weren't going to talk to me anymore."

"Tell me," demanded Dyana. "Richius is coming? You know this
truly?"

"I am the Roshann, woman," he reminded her. "I have my sources.
Your worthless husband is on his way. No doubt he has a band of
filthy Lissens with him. When they get here, it won't be safe for
anyone. Not even you." The count folded his arms, mocking her
with his glare. "I wouldn't want to lose you so quickly. I still have
plans for you."

He enjoyed tormenting her, but Dyana saw through his motives.
"Do not try to frighten me with your threats, Biagio," she scoffed. "It
seems that you are the one who is afraid. You are running from the
Lissens."

"Oh, woman, you are so shortsighted," he chuckled. "You truly
don't know me at all, do you? Just be ready when I send for you. If
you're not, I will drag you onto the Fearless. Naked, if I must."

From out of his pocket he pulled a key on a little silver chain. Dyana
spied it suspiciously.

"What is that?"

"I'm afraid I can't let you out of these chambers until tomorrow
night. I don't want any of my Naren guests knowing about you."

He turned to go, but Dyana called after him.

"You can lock me in, but I am still not your prisoner," she said hotly.
"I am a free woman. You will never own me, Biagio."

The count paused. "Dyana Vantran, I could snuff you out like a
candle anytime I wish. Is that what you call freedom?"

He didn't wait for her answer. The darkness enveloped him and
she heard him leave her chambers, locking the door behind him.
Dyana sat in bed, listening to the sounds of her captivity. But her
fears weren't for herself.

"Richius," she whispered desperately. "Please be careful."
FORTY-THREE
The Day After Tomorrow

R ichius Vantran waited in the cold hours before dawn, watching
the island of Crote through a spyglass. Biagio's island was barely
visible in the dark, and the Prince of Liss and her three escorts
were reasonably far offshore, letting the night hide them from
Cretan eyes. They had not seen any Naren dreadnoughts in the
waters around the island and had moved in closer with confidence.
The Prince stood at anchor, one nautical mile from Biagio's
mansion. A wicked ocean wind tore through Richius' shirt. Like his
troops, he wore no coat, only a thick woolen shirt topped with a
chainmail chest-guard. A pair of deerskin dueling gauntlets kept the
cold from his fingers.

He peered through the lens, trying to penetrate the darkness. The
Cretan shore was smoother than the shores of Liss, with a long,
white beach and cleanly cut grasses that were visible even in the
pale starlight. Richius was very quiet as he surveyed the terrain. On
the deck beside him stood Simon and Prakna. Shii and a dozen
Lissen troops were piling into the first launch, a long rowboat
dangling off the side of Prakna's flagship. A similar boat was filling
up on the starboard side of the vessel, and on both sides of
Prakna's three other schooners. Each carried as many fighters as
possible.

It was at least two hours until dawn. Enough time, Richius hoped, to
surround Biagio's mansion. He didn't want his troops cut down
trying to get ashore, so he was having them beach away from the
mansion, where Biagio's guards couldn't see them. Simon had
chosen a safe landing spot, a place the Naren promised would be
free of sentries. From there Richius would march a small force
onto the mansion's grounds, taking out the sentries posted around
the mansion. Here, too, Simon would be indispensable. Simon
knew all the habits of the count's household. Or so he claimed.
Richius grit his teeth and handed the spyglass back to Prakna. He
glanced apprehensively at Simon.

"I can't see anything," he whispered. "I hope you're right about
those sentries."

"I'm right," Simon assured him. "Biagio posts about a half dozen
men around his grounds. I told you."

Richius nodded. Simon had told him, countless times. But Richius
kept running over the numbers anyway. Half a dozen men, two at
each entrance and two roaming, patrolling the grounds. Those
latter would be the hardest to find and eliminate. And they had to
be found quickly. That would be Simon's job. The Roshann agent
had readied himself for the task, dressing in black like a lean and
hungry panther. He wore a dagger and short scimitar at his side,
both simple, and had cropped his hair around his skull. In the
darkness he cut a frightening image. His malevolent look reminded
Richius that the Roshann were still a hidden danger throughout the
Empire.

"How long a march to the mansion, do you think?" Richius asked.
"Less than an hour, right?"

"A little," said Simon. "We'll make better time than the rest of them,
though, since I'll be leading."

"The others have the maps," Richius agreed. He was confident
those groups would find their way to the mansion without a guide.
And he wanted Simon to lead the first wave to Biagio's home
quickly. A smaller number could go unnoticed more easily. Shii and
the others in the boat would come with them. The other three
leaders, Tomr, Loria and Delf, would take up positions on the
north, west and east, respectively. Together they would form a
noose, tight enough to force Biagio out of hiding. Prakna, it had
been agreed, would stay aboard the Prince with Marus and the
other sailors, none of whom were experienced fighters anyway.
Nevertheless, they had curved Lissen scimitars ready if they were
needed. Richius didn't plan on calling the sailors into combat, but
Biagio might surprise them. He looked at Prakna in the starlight.
The fleet commander's face was grave.

"Time to get aboard, my friend," he said, gesturing to the waiting
launch. Then he stuck out a hand for Richius to shake. Richius took
it warmly.

"Don't leave without us, Prakna," Richius joked. He felt the Lissen's
grip tighten.

"Richius, no matter what happens, I want you to know I've always
thought well of you. Liss thanks you for what you've done."

The peculiar sentiment flustered Richius. "Don't worry, Prakna," he
said. "I plan on coming back."

"A good plan." Then Prakna turned to Simon, saying, "Naren, good
luck to you as well."

It was an unaffectionate good-bye, but Simon grinned anyway.
"Luck to you, Prakna. I hope no dreadnoughts show up."

"These waters are safe," said the commander. "Just worry about
yourself."

"I always do," quipped Simon. He stared at Prakna. "Isn't that
right?"

Prakna shrugged, not wanting to argue. "As you say, Simon
Darquis. As you say."

"Let's get aboard," said Richius, taking Simon's shoulder and
steering him toward the rowboat. Four sailors waited by the rail with
ropes, ready to lower the launch into the water. Shii waited
onboard, standing amongst her sitting troops. She looked resolute
in the murky light, the perfect symbol of Lissen honor. Richius felt
profoundly proud of her. He took the first step into the boat,
squeezing past the other troops who looked up at him with earnest
faces. He recognized Johr in the crowd and his sister Teeli, and
the youngest one of the group, Griff, a boy of barely sixteen. Griff
looked afraid, just as he had the night before, when Richius had
told him he didn't have to go ashore. But Griff had been adamant
about invading Crote. He gave Richius a nervous nod. Richius
winked back at him, taking a seat beside Shii. Simon entered next,
without a smile or greeting of any kind. He was still an outcast
among the group and as such took a seat at the prow of the boat,
away from them all. Four of Prakna's sailors would row them
ashore, so not to tire out the troops before their march.

"Let us down," Richius ordered. On his command the pulleys
began to squeal as the rope-men lowered the launch. Across the
water, he saw other boats begin dropping from the sides of the
escort vessels. Richius glanced up as the rowboat sank and saw
Prakna staring at them. The fleet commander offered a little wave.
Richius looked at him, perplexed. He had expected Prakna to be
elated. The rowboat slipped down the Prince's side and splashed
into the water. The oarsmen quickly took to rowing, shoving them
off from the side of the flagship and pointing them toward the dark
coast of Crote. Simon guided them in. Other boats took their point,
following them through the gloom. Richius drew a breath of salty air
and tried to still his racing pulse. Beside him, Shii had gone white.
He nudged her a little with his elbow.

"You all right?"

Shii only nodded.

"You sure?" he asked. "You don't look it."

"I'm fine," replied Shii distractedly. She licked her lips, betraying
her fear.

Richius raised a hand to get his group's attention. "Listen to me,
everyone," he whispered. "We're about to do this thing, and I know
you're all afraid. But that's all right. I'm afraid, too."

"You're afraid?" asked Griff. Richius smiled at him, remembering
other young men like him from Aramoor.

"It's normal to be afraid," he said. "But you've all trained hard and
you know what to do. And if we're lucky, Biagio will simply
surrender."

They all glanced away, looking sheepish.

"I know you don't believe me, but Biagio isn't impractical," Richius
went on. "When he sees how many of us there are, he just might
surrender."

"We're all right, Lord Jackal," said Shii imploringly. "Please . . ."

Richius said nothing more. He could tell that Shii was nervous, so
he let her collect herself on the trip to shore. Simon sat in the prow,
guiding the boat with hand signals. He had promised Richius that
he knew a place on Biagio's vast property where the count's
sentries couldn't see them land. Richius still feared it might be a
trap. As much as he wanted to trust Simon, there remained a
nagging suspicion. Perhaps even this was part of Biagio's
elaborate scheme. Perhaps the count knew they were coming and
that Simon was leading them.

"There," whispered Simon to the oarsmen. "Put in there."

A lagoonlike inlet appeared out of the darkness. The Lissens
piloted the rowboat into it. It was wide enough to accommodate a
dozen boats and was bordered on all sides by secretive, sandy
hills. Richius smiled when he saw it. Simon had kept his word.

One by one the other boats followed them into the inlet. Delf's boat
was first. He waved to Richius when he saw him. Richius looked
over Delf's shoulder to the other incoming launches. The Prince
and her sisters were barely visible on the horizon, but he could just
make out the image of more departing rowboats. The boats would
have to make multiple runs to get the nine hundred fighters ashore.

Quickly, Richius got out of the boat and splashed through the
water. His troops followed. Soon the inlet was filled with bodies.
Richius watched them carefully, sizing up their precision. They
moved just as he had taught them—silent and swift, and without
any wasted moves.

"All right then," he said to Shii. "Let's go." He turned to Simon, who
would lead the first dozen to the mansion. "Ready?"

"Ready," said Simon, then turned and stalked off up the northern
hillside. Richius followed him, ordering Shii and the rest of the
platoon after him.

Very near dawn, Archbishop Herrith left his luxurious rooms in the
mansion's west wing and went in search of Count Biagio. Like all
who had been addicted to Bovadin's drug, Herrith was an early
riser, sometimes going the entire night without sleep. Because he
knew Biagio suffered from the same insomnia, Herrith was sure the
count would also be awake. It was the day after Herrith's arrival,
and the bishop was eager to begin his talks with the devil of Crote.
His stay had so far been restful, and Herrith felt refreshed despite
his gnawing cravings. A month's supply of the drug had been
waiting for him in his rooms when he'd arrived. It was a well-
appointed room, and Herrith had taken pleasure in dropping the
blue liquid onto the carpet. Kivis Gago and the other Naren lords
had been given similar apartments in the mansion's west wing.
Herrith had been awed by Biagio's wealth. He had always known
the count to be a man of expensive tastes, but there were Daragos
in his home and works from other renowned artists, and everything
seemed to be made of gold or silver, or upholstered in the finest
leather, or sculpted from the best imported marble. All the hallways
were gilded, and all the sheets were silk. And Herrith had hardly
been able to concentrate from the parade of slaves offering him
foods and services. He had spent the day before talking with the
other Naren lords. All of them loved the lavish lifestyle, and all
agreed that the talks with Biagio should take place on schedule.
But none of them knew what that schedule was, because Biagio
hadn't come to them, and neither had any of his aides. So Herrith
had elected himself spokesperson for the group, and had decided
not to wait for the sun to rise. He wanted to see Biagio. Now.

But now was very early, and as he moved through the empty
corridors, the dearth of servants did not perplex him. Even slaves
needed their rest, and the eleven lords and their numerous
bodyguards had kept the count's staff ridiculously busy with petty
requests. Herrith moved quietly through the halls, not wanting to
disturb anyone who might be sleeping.

Herrith paused in the hallway for a moment, staring through a bank
of body-length windows. The island was very dark and he could
barely see the ocean for the lack of light. It was a peaceful
moment, the kind he liked to think God created to make men
thoughtful. Today, Herrith was very thoughtful. Lorla would have
loved this view, and this magnificent place. But she wasn't alive
anymore to share such things—if she ever really had been alive.
She was a creation of the war labs—Biagio had practically admitted
it. That made her something less than human. And, in a way,
something more than human, too. Herrith still ached over her death,
and he didn't care if she had been spawned for the sole purpose
of seducing him. In the end, she had tried to trade her life for his,
and that was all that mattered.

I'll make you pay, Biagio, thought Herrith relentlessly. He caught a
glimpse of something moving in the distance outside, but in his
rage ignored it. We're not done, you and I. Not yet.

He wanted to squeeze every bit of blood out of Biagio's body and
feed it to rats. He wanted to peel off Biagio's golden skin and
upholster a chair with it. Herrith realized how clouded his mind had
become, but he could do nothing to stop it. His daughter, his
beloved cathedral, even Darago's laborious masterwork; all gone
in a blaze of madness. When Herrith shut his eyes, he saw his life
in flames. He had so many regrets on his shoulders these days, he
could barely stand. And not all of them were Biagio's fault.

When I get back to Nar I will do things differently, he swore. There
would be no more Formula B. He would keep peace some other
way, without murdering children. He had thought the Black
Renaissance the greatest threat in the world, worthy of the most
drastic means imaginable, but he had been wrong. All the while he
had thought God was speaking to him, but now Herrith knew the
voices were only in his mind.

Herrith opened his eyes and saw something peculiar outside the
window, something quick and shadowy. He squinted to see better,
but was quickly distracted by the call of his name from down the
corridor.

"Archbishop Herrith," said the voice. "Good morning, Holiness."

It was Leraio, Biagio's manservant. Herrith had met him two days
before, but it took a moment to recall the face. Leraio was coming
toward him with a smile. Herrith recoiled, unsure why. Perhaps
because Biagio had a penchant for having underlings deliver bad
news—like Vorto's head.

"It's very early," Herrith observed. "What are you doing up and
around?"

"Looking for you, Holiness," the slave answered. "Count Biagio
wanted me to deliver a message to you. He told me you might be
up very early, and that I should speak with you as soon as
possible, as a matter of respect to you."

"Biagio? I was on my way to see him," said Herrith, baffled.
"What's your message?"

Leraio reached into his silky vest and pulled out a letter, another of
Biagio's dreaded envelopes. Herrith groaned when he saw it.

"What is this?" he asked. "I want to see Biagio."

Leraio shook his head, smiling implacably. "I'm sorry, Holiness.
Count Biagio isn't on Crote any longer. He left last night, while you
were sleeping."

The words were so strange Herrith hardly heard them. "Left? What
do you mean?"

"I'm sorry to say, Count Biagio is gone," Leraio explained. "With
Admiral Nicabar. As I said, they left last night. I'm sorry, Holiness. I
really don't know any more than that. That is my message. Perhaps
the letter will explain it better."

"What are you talking about?" Herrith barked. "Biagio's gone?"

Leraio blanched. "Yes, Holiness," he replied meekly. "I'm very
sorry."

"Gone?" Herrith roared. "Gone where?"

"To the Black City, Holiness. He wanted me to tell you when he
was gone, and to give you that letter, with his respects."

Herrith was stunned. "Is he coming back?"

"I don't think so," said Leraio. "I'm very sorry, Holiness."

"Sorry doesn't help me, you fool!" Herrith spat. He fumbled with the
envelope, trying to get it open. Leraio offered to help but Herrith
angrily turned him away, tearing open the paper housing and
unfolding the note. Again he saw Biagio's distinctive, mocking
handwriting.

My dear Herrith,

Thank you again for bringing so many of my enemies with you. It
was good to see them again, though I fear it will be for the last
time. I have gone to the Black City with Nicabar, and we have taken
all the ships with us. There is no way off the island.

I hope you enjoy the rest of the day. Please help yourself to
whatever you like. If I'm correct, you have very little time.

your friend,

Count Renato Biagio.

"My God," Herrith gasped. "What is the meaning of this?" He
shook the letter in Leraio's face. "He's left us! Why?"

Leraio didn't bother to answer.

"He's abandoned us!" Herrith roared, tossing the letter to the floor.
"What wicked plan is this?"

Outside the window, something flickered again past Herrith's
vision. "What is that?" he growled, pressing his nose up to the
glass. Dawn was slowly creeping awake, barely lighting the world.
Herrith caught a glimpse of four ships on the horizon. For a
moment he was heartened.

"Is this a joke? Look, the dreadnoughts are still—" But they weren't
dreadnoughts. They weren't of Naren design at all. Herrith backed
away from the window.

"Oh, merciful Heaven," he moaned. "Liss . . ."

Simon worked with the speed of a leopard, darting through Biagio's
yard and locating the two roving sentries. The first one was by a
flower bed, urinating, when Simon slipped his dagger into his
spine. The man went to the ground silently, paralyzed, and didn't
know what had happened until he saw Simon staring down at him.
A slice to the throat finished him. The second sentry had been
harder to find, but Simon had kept to the shadows, waiting for him
to come in search of his comrade. He remembered that the two
used a circular pattern to walk the grounds, one coming clockwise,
the other counterclockwise, around the perimeter. It took them
about ten minutes to complete one circuit. Eight minutes after he'd
killed the first one, Simon homed in on the second. It was still very
dark but the man was by a window in the west wing, looking up
stupidly at the stars. He saw Simon leap out of the trees—barely.
The Roshann agent was on him in a second. Simon plunged his
dagger into the sentry's windpipe and covered his screaming
mouth in one perfect movement. The sentry dropped dead to the
ground. Simon hurriedly dragged the body away from the window,
hiding him in a small batch of fruit trees. The rush was on him now
and he looked around wildly, his eyes wide, his muscles tingling
with energy. Two down, he thought quickly. Four more.

Richius had led his troops to the mansion in the cover of darkness,
but dawn was breaking fast on the horizon.

He needed to work quickly. Griff and the others had gone off to the
north gate to deal with the two sentries there. Richius led Shii and
the twins, Akal and Wyle. They were quickly creeping up to the
south entrance, where Simon had promised they would find two
more sentries. Richius and his team were on their bellies when
they sighted their quarry. They had slithered through a group of
topiaries trimmed to look like birds and were almost near the
entrance. As Simon had warned, there was no cover for the next
fifteen yards. Without speaking, Richius signaled his team to hold
up, then pointed toward the gate. Shii nodded. Akal handed each
of them a crossbow, already loaded with a bolt. Richius and Shii
would take the first shots. If they missed, the second missiles from
Akal and Wyle would have to silence the sentries. Richius waited
until he was ready. The two sentries in their brilliant blue outfits
were talking casually, oblivious to the assassins hunting them.
Richius wished he could hear what they were saying. I'm sorry, he
thought. You're innocent, I know. He rested his elbows into the dirt,
putting the crossbow to his chin. Then again, no one on Crote was
innocent. Not if they served Biagio.

I was trained as a horseman, he told himself. Not a killer. Not like
Simon.

Richius closed one eye and focused on his target, the sentry on
the left. Shii had already fixed her aim.

I have him, she signaled.

Richius signaled back, cuing the attack.

They both pulled the triggers and sent their silent missiles racing
forward. Shii's caught its quarry through the eye, dropping him
instantly. But Richius didn't match the amazing shot. His bolt
hammered into the wall, inches away from the sentry's head.
Richius grit his teeth, biting back a curse. Akal and Wyle fired. Akal
missed. Wyle didn't. The sentry cried out as the bolt entered his
skull. He let out a wailing scream.

"Damn it!" Richius hissed, leaping from his position and drawing
his dagger. Amazingly, the sentry saw him coming and put up a
defense. Richius barreled into him, driving his knee into the man's
face and shattering his teeth. The dagger flashed and ripped
through flesh, severing the man's throat. A hot stream of blood
gushed out, catching Richius on the cheek. The man slumped
against the wall. Shii raced forward and helped Richius drag the
dying man aside. Richius felt the dizzying rush of fear. He looked
around, trying to spot his troops on the hill in the distance, but
couldn't see anything. They were still perfectly invisible. And more
were coming. Soon Tomr and Delf would have their troops in
position. Richius wondered if Simon had found the other sentries.
Then, as if magically summoned, Simon appeared like a wraith out
of the darkness.

"Fall back," he whispered. "I got them."

Richius signaled Shii and the others. "Fall back," he ordered.
"That's it."

Now he had to get everyone into position. The noose was forming.

The eleven Naren lords had come quickly to Herrith's call,
gathering in the west wing with their bodyguards. The mood was
generally a panicked bedlam. Baron Ricter was still in his sleeping
clothes. The master of the Tower of Truth held a gigantic mace in
his meaty hands and was screaming incessantly at his red-caped
servants, ordering them to protect him. The baron's booming voice
rocked the hallway. The noblemen had gathered into a tight little
circle, unsure what to do and gawking at Herrith for guidance. Kivis
Gago was at Herrith's side, frantically trying to piece together what
had happened. All that they knew for certain was that Biagio had
abandoned them and that Lissen soldiers were swarming around
the mansion. There was no way out, except through a bloody fight.
Herrith quickly counted heads. Eleven lords, most capable of
combat. Each had about a dozen bodyguards with them. That
meant they had over a hundred men. Not a bad number, Herrith
supposed. But he wasn't a military man. That's why he leaned so
heavily on Gago.

"I don't know," said Gago desperately, shaking his head. "I don't
know how many Lissens there are!"

"We will fight them," spat Oridian. The Naren Minister of the
Treasury was as accomplished with a sword as he was with an
abacus, and he held his serrated blade out before him, grinning
like a madman. "Lissen pigs! We'll slaughter them all!"

"We don't know how many there are, you idiot," Claudi Vos
reminded him harshly. Unlike Oridian, Vos was only an architect,
and didn't seem to own a weapon. He stood wringing his womanly
hands in the outskirts of the circle, sticking close to his
bodyguards. "We should talk to them."

"They're not here to talk, fool," snapped Oridian.

"Biagio brought them here," Tepas Talshiir chimed in. "That devil
has trapped us."

That much was obvious. Herrith rubbed his forehead nervously.
They were trapped, maybe without escape. And he knew Biagio
wouldn't have brought them here if he'd thought they'd make it out
alive. The bishop forced the clutter from his mind, blocking out the
arguing voices. Somehow, he needed to get control. He needed to
find out what the Lissens wanted, if anything. Maybe they were
looking for Biagio. If they found out the count wasn't here . . .

No, Herrith scolded himself. There were enough Narens in this hall
to satisfy Lissen vengeance for a year. Biagio wasn't the only one
Liss hated. Still, the only option that came to Herrith was talk. If they
were to have any chance of surviving, they would have to try and
reason with the invaders.

"Claudi Vos is right," he said finally. "We have to talk to them. Find
out what they want."

"They want to kill us!" Oridian shrieked. "What do you think they
want?"

"They haven't attacked yet," argued Gago. "Maybe they'll listen."

Baron Ricter, who had overheard the conversation, stopped yelling
at his men and came forward. "I won't bargain with those animals,"
he boomed. "They're untrustworthy snakes, like Triin. You can't
believe a word they say. We should fight them." He gestured
around the room. "We have the strength."

An agreeing cheer went up from about half the noblemen. Herrith
held up his hands, begging for silence. "We don't know how many
Lissens are out there," he reminded them. "We might fight them
only to get cut to pieces."

"We'll take our chances," said Oridian. The treasurer grit his teeth.
"I say bring them on. Who's with me?"

"I am," said Tepas Talshiir. The merchant folded his arms over his
chest, emboldened by his contingent of bodyguards, the most
numerous of the group. "I pledge all my men to fight them. Claudi
Vos, are you with us?"

The Lord Architect grimaced, contemplating their situation. He
looked apologetically at Herrith. "What choice have we, Bishop?"
he said at last. "We are many, after all."

"But perhaps not enough," replied Herrith. "Please. We came here
to talk peace with Biagio. Can't we now talk peace with these
Lissens?"

Oridian sighed. "You don't know them, Herrith. They're dogs. If we
let down our defenses they'll cut us to shreds. We can't show them
any weakness. Gago knows this." He turned to the minister. "Don't
you, Gago?"

Kivis Gago looked away, shaking his head. "I don't know," he said
gravely. "We are many. Enough perhaps." He glanced at Herrith.
"Bishop, I just don't know. . . ."

"Fine," growled Herrith, his patience snapping. "Fight them, then.
Win if you can. Die if you must. I want no part of this."

Herrith turned and walked away. They called out after him, but he
ignored them all, even Kivis Gago, who hurried up to Herrith and
tried to pull him back into the protective folds of the guards. Herrith
shook off the nobleman's grip, practically shoving Gago aside. The
minister, who had never been a friend to Herrith, looked shocked.

"Herrith," he cried desperately. "Come back!"

"I will not," Herrith replied. He was almost out of the hall.

"Where are you going?"

Herrith didn't answer. He headed out of the west wing and through
the maze of corridors, doing his best to remember where the
mansion's gates lay. Something told him none of Biagio's sentries
would be around to stop him.

Richius waited on the south side of the mansion, at the head of his
gathering troops. Shii was beside him, looking paler by the minute.
The sun was rising, lighting the gardens and burning away their
cover. Messages were coming in quickly. Tomr's forces were
almost in place on the north side of the mansion, and Loria and
Delf were close behind, walling in the west and east sides. Richius'
own troops were already fully assembled. His army of orphans
lurked in the bushes and bramble of the south side. Richius had his
weapon drawn and was quietly giving orders to his troops, relaying
them through Shii, who also kept a wary eye on the mansion.
Things were eerily quiet. They had expected more of Biagio's
sentries to come in search of their murdered brothers. Richius
spied the rising sun nervously. They had been sighted by now,
surely. So why the quiet?

"Simon, what's going on?" he asked. "Why hasn't Biagio made a
move?"

Simon shook his head almost imperceptibly. He did not turn to look
at Richius or take his eyes off the mansion. There was no
movement in the windows.

"I don't know," Simon admitted. "It's early. Maybe no one's seen
us."

"We shouldn't hide anymore," said Shii. "Let them see us. We're
too many to hide."

"True enough," agreed Richius. They were many and quickly
growing more numerous. Once the sun came up, there would be
nowhere to hide their numbers. Richius stopped crouching and
stood, urging his followers to do the same. One by one their heads
popped out of hiding, until there was a sea of young Lissens
visible in the yard. To the east, Delf's group did the same,
materializing out of the haze. Richius turned to Shii.

"Send someone to Loria and Tomr. I want Biagio to see us. Let's
make some noise."

Shii fired the order to another young woman, sending her
scampering off to the west, where Loria and Tomr were getting
their troops organized. Richius gripped his sword, readying for
Biagio's response. He hoped the count might surrender, but he
expected a fight.

"There are nine hundred of us," he reasoned aloud. "He must see
that."

"Don't underestimate him, Richius," cautioned Simon. The Naren
had sheathed his dagger and now favored a long, Lissen scimitar.
The weapon gleamed in the burgeoning light, looking dangerous in
Simon's skillful hands. It was no mistake that he was an assassin.
With the glint in his eyes and the sharpness of his stance, he
looked every bit the part. "When he sees us, he'll send word,"
Simon guessed. "He'll try to talk. That's the most dangerous time.
Don't trust him, Richius."

"No talk," spat Shii angrily. "That's not what we're here for."

Richius regarded her icily. "We will listen," he said sharply. "I don't
want anyone dying who doesn't have to."

"Lord Jackal, please . . ."

"Quiet, Shii," Richius snapped. "Just follow my orders."

Shii shrank back like a wounded child. Richius ignored her,
focusing instead on the mansion. He didn't have time for an
argument, and he didn't want his orders questioned. Not now, when
so much was at stake.

"Simon," he whispered. "If Biagio sees you . . ."

Simon nodded. "I know. But I have to get her out of there, Richius.
Somehow."

"Then go," urged Richius. "Try and find her. Bring her out if you
can, before the fighting starts."

Simon looked at Richius. "You'll need me," he warned.

"Eris needs you," Richius replied. "Go." He gave Simon a sad
smile. "I'll be here when you get back."

Simon didn't say another word. He slithered away through the
graying darkness, shooting toward the south face of the mansion,
ducking behind sculptures and huge urns of plants. He tested a
window by peeking inside, broke it with his gloved fist, and quickly
went through it, disappearing from view. It all passed in the space
of seconds. Richius stared at the place where Simon had been,
marveling at the man's speed. He turned to make a remark to Shii. .
.

. . . and saw Prakna coming toward him.

The fleet commander was flanked by two of Richius' soldiers, a
man and a woman he had assigned to Delf. They looked afraid, as
if they had done something stupendously wrong. But Prakna's
expression was resolute.

He held a scimitar out before him as he walked, and Richius
noticed that he had doffed his naval coat and wore fighting mail like
the rest of them.

"What the hell . . .?"

Prakna waved at Richius. "Don't be alarmed, Jackal; I've come to
help." He stepped up to Richius and offered out a hand. When
Richius didn't take it, the commander retracted it with a grin. "I
know you're angry," he said. "I caution you, do not be."

"Prakna, what are you doing here?" asked Richius desperately.
"Go back to the Prince. We don't need you!"

Prakna shook his head. "I can't do that," he said. "I'm sorry, but I'm
here to make sure you do the right thing."

"What?" sputtered Richius. "What are you talking about? I'm trying
to—"

"Lord Jackal," interrupted Shii. She stepped forward with an
agonized expression. "Don't stop us. Please . . ."

"Shii, what the hell is going on here?" Richius demanded. "Do you
know about this?"

"They all do," said Prakna. "And they'll do as I say. Don't stand in
our way, Jackal." His jaw tightened. "Please."

"Is that a warning, Prakna?" asked Richius angrily. "After all I've
done for you?"

Prakna sighed. "You don't understand."

"Yes, I do," spat Richius. "You're planning on massacring everyone
inside. I didn't want that!"

"They deserve it!" roared Prakna. He towered over Richius, staring
down at him irately. "You know they do. We're not going to stop
you from butchering Biagio. So don't you try and stop us from
taking our revenge!"

Richius whirled on Shii. "God damn it, Shii, how could you?"

Shii's face collapsed. "Lord Jackal, please," she gasped. "It's the
way it must be."

"No!" Richius cried. He stepped out of Prakna's shadow so all the
troops could see him, waving his sword to get their attention. "It
doesn't have to be this way. You can be men and women of honor
today. Fight them 'til they surrender. Don't butcher them, please!"

The troops looked away, unable to face him. Richius lowered his
sword. They weren't listening. They were unreachable, full of the
same poison that had polluted Shii and Prakna. Richius turned to
growl at the commander.

"You're a bastard," he said. "You used me to make an army of
murderers. Well, I won't lead them." He tossed his sword down
into the dirt. "You want a massacre, Prakna? You lead them."

Prakna stooped and retrieved Richius' weapon, handing it back to
him. "Biagio's in there, my friend," he said mildly. "Don't throw away
this chance. You've come too far. And if you don't do it, I will."

Richius stared at his sword, then up at Prakna. There was no
malice on the commander's face, just the vast emptiness of the
driven. Richius knew he would never dissuade him. In a sense, it
was something he'd known all along.

"Do what you must," he said finally. "I can't stop you." He turned to
Shii sadly. "Shii, I expected more from you. You're not a murderer.
You know you're not."

"Lord Jackal," Shii whispered. "There's no choice for me."

Richius shook his head. "You're wrong. You just can't see that yet."

"Lissens!" came a call from across the yard. They all turned toward
the gate. In the morning light stood a figure dressed in robes, an
old man with outstretched hands and a fearless look in his eyes.
Richius gasped, vaguely recalling the face. Nearly two years ago,
this very man had married him to Sabrina.

"Oh, my God," whispered Richius. "That's Herrith."

"Who?" asked Prakna, stunned at the interruption.

Richius was too flabbergasted to explain. Herrith waved at them,
within plain shot of a crossbow, beckoning them to listen. The
young army broke into a concerned murmur. Prakna swore as he
finally realized who had appeared.

"Herrith!" he said breathlessly. "How?"

The impossible question went unanswered. Richius' first instinct
was that they had blundered into a gigantic trap. But Biagio and
Herrith were enemies. Weren't they?

"What is this?" he asked blankly. He took a step toward Herrith. Shii
immediately jumped in front of him.

"No, Jackal," she cried. "Get back!"

Prakna grabbed Richius' shoulder, pulling him into the safety of the
fold. "Easy, boy," he cautioned. "Shii's right. You stay back."

"Lissens, listen to me," cried Herrith. "Let me come forward. I want
to talk."

"No talk, holy man!" Prakna roared. "Today we fight you!"

"No," Richius insisted, pressing past Shii and the others who had
gathered to guard him. Akal and Wyle stood by with their
crossbows, loading them quickly and beading on Herrith. Prakna
held on to Richius' sleeve as he tried to struggle forward.

"Let me talk to him," Richius pleaded. "He knows me."

"I want to make arrangements," Herrith cried, oblivious to his
danger. He held up his hands in a show of peace. "Let me come
forward." He took one careful step toward the army.

"Not another move, butcher," Prakna warned. "One more step and
you die."

"Herrith, it's me," Richius cried. "Richius Vantran!"

The bishop paused for a moment, clearly confused. "Vantran?" he
called back. "King Vantran?"

"Don't move!" demanded Prakna. He let go of Richius and ripped
the crossbow from Akal's hands, aiming it at Herrith. "Or I swear to
Heaven, I'll kill you!"

"Stop, Prakna," Richius seethed. "Don't you dare fire!"

"I will, Richius," said Prakna evenly. "I'm warning you—"

Richius reached out for Prakna's crossbow, grabbing at it
desperately. Prakna howled in anger, bringing up a boot and
slamming it into Richius' belly. The blow knocked the breath from
Richius and sent him tumbling backward. He struggled to rise as
Prakna took aim. Herrith held up his hands and took one more
fateful step.

"No!" Richius bellowed.

Prakna shot the bow, putting the bolt into Herrith's heart. The
bishop's white tunic exploded with crimson. He staggered back,
looked down at his punctured chest, then collapsed in a heap.
Richius got to his feet and stared at Herrith's body. He glanced at
Prakna, who lowered his crossbow with a resolute nod.

"A trap," he said gravely. "It's a trap."

"You fool," Richius hissed. "You murdering fool!"

Prakna exploded. He grabbed Richius by the lapels and shook
him, spittle spraying from his mouth. "They murder!" he hollered.
"Not me!" He tossed Richius aside. Turning on his troops, he
screamed at them to attack.

"Take them!" he cried. "Drag this god-damn mansion down to
Hell!"

Richius watched, horror-stricken, as all the young men and women
he had worked so hard to mold reverted instantly back to the mob
he had first met on Karalon. The cry was picked up by the forces
on the east and west sides, and all at once they started running
toward the mansion, swarming toward the gates in a great,
unstoppable torrent. Prakna led the charge to the south gate. He
had his scimitar in his hand and he was howling with lust, his blond
head shining terribly above the army as they rushed inward.
Everyone followed the Lissen hero, leaving Richius standing alone
in the garden.

Except for Shii.

The young woman had dropped her weapon and was weeping, her
arms folded over her chest, her head slung helplessly low. She
didn't dare look at Richius.

"Lord Jackal," she said desperately. "Forgive me."

The morning erupted in a melee of cries and shattering glass. The
Lissens stormed through the gates and the broken windows, their
weapons eager for the feast. Richius went to Shii. He wanted to
strike her.

"Shii," he gasped, shaking. "I could kill you for this."

"Forgive me," she sobbed. "Forgive me. . . ."

"You knew," said Richius. "Why?"

At last Shii lifted her tear-stained face. She had the same
unreachable madness in her eyes as Prakna. "Because I want to
kill them," she said. Then she stooped, retrieved her weapon from
the ground, and stalked off after her comrades.

Richius watched her go, utterly appalled. "Fool," he scolded
himself. "This is my fault."

But he wasn't done. There was one criminal on the island, one man
who truly deserved to die. Richius had come this far to find Biagio,
and still couldn't let the count slip away. Like Shii, he picked up his
weapon and went in search of his quarry.

Kivis Gago and the other Naren lords had looked out the windows
of the west wing and had seen the Lissen army in the growing light.
The numbers had stunned them. Gago quickly tabulated the
figures and knew they were vastly outnumbered. He called his
guardians to surround him and took a sword from one of the suits
of armor in the hall. They would make a stand here, they had all
decided, and would hold the wing as long as they could. Baron
Ricter and his troop of red-caped soldiers lined the windows facing
westward. Oridian's men barricaded one side of the hall, while
Claudi Vos' men took the other, backed up by the troops of Tepas
Talshiir. Gago's own men stayed in the center, readying to aid
whoever needed it. And as he waited for the Lissens to descend
on them, Kivis Gago's only thoughts were of Biagio, and how the
count had bested them.

"If I live through this I will kill him," the minister muttered. "I will
make it my life's work to punish him."

But Kivis Gago didn't expect to live, or even to last more than
another hour. There were hundreds of Lissens waiting for him, all
full of hate from the decade-long war his ministry had overseen.
Kivis Gago resigned himself to die with a sword in his hand.

He didn't have a very long wait.

The windows along the western wall shattered in a violent
implosion. Lissen soldiers swarmed inside. Ricter's men hacked at
them, trying desperately to push them back. But the wave kept
coming. Kivis Gago ordered his own men into the melee, sure that
they'd be shredded.

Simon hurried through the familiar corridors with his sword in his
hand, trying to reach Eris' quarters. He could hear the battle ringing
through the halls and knew that Richius' efforts at peace had failed.
That didn't give him much time. But Simon had expected more
resistance. Instead he found the halls empty. Guessing that Biagio
had ordered all his sentries against the Lissens, Simon started
running. He was in a headlong dash now, very near Eris' chambers.
She would be frightened by the fighting. She might even be hiding.

I'm coming, thought Simon desperately. Hold on, my love.

Near the slave quarters he saw his first group of familiar faces. A
gang of servants were huddled together, peering around the
corner. They pointed at him as he raced forward.

"Where's Eris?" he cried, coming up to them. "Tell me, quickly!"

The slaves were thunderstruck at his appearance.

"Simon Darquis!" they said. "You're back!"

"Tell me where Eris is!" Simon thundered. He recognized Kyla,
one of Biagio's slaves. Simon grabbed her arm and shook her.

"Tell me," he demanded. "Where is she?"

Kyla shrieked, trying to pull free. "She's dead!" cried the girl.
"Please, let me go!"

Simon's iron grip turned to water. He stood in horror, unable to
move. "What?" he gasped. "What did you say?"

"They're close," cried one of the slaves. "I can hear them."

"Dead?" asked Simon. "That's impossible. Eris . . ."

"She's dead," cried Kyla desperately. She was about to run when
Simon seized her again. The rest of the slaves scrambled, dashing
for cover. Simon heard the din of fighting in the distance. He
ignored it all, sick with dread.

"Tell me!" he demanded. "Tell me you're lying! Eris is alive!"

Kyla shrieked hysterically, breaking into sobs. "Please, let me go!"

"Tell me!"

"She's dead! She killed herself! Please . . ."

"You lie," Simon roared. His whole body began to shake. "Don't tell
me that. Eris . . ."

Kyla finally tore free of him. She raced away, desperate to be
gone. Simon's brain descended into a foe "Eris," he moaned.
"Eris!"

He broke into a run, dashing through the corridors to Eris' rooms,
screaming her name all the way.

Prakna prowled quickly through the corridors, searching for
Richius. He had promised his queen he would protect the Jackal,
and he knew that Richius had entered the mansion in search of
Biagio. Prakna had left behind the protection of his army. Most of
his soldiers were in the west wing, fighting their way through a
barricade of Naren soldiers. There had been more guards on the
island than they'd thought, but Prakna was confident his troops
could best them.

"Richius!" he called, scanning every opulent crevice.

No one came out to challenge the commander. He had seen some
slaves race around corners, but they hadn't threatened him.
Suddenly, Prakna felt invincible. Liss the Raped was a quickly
fading memory. Today, Liss the Glorious was reborn. They were
unstoppable, just as he'd always known they'd be. But he had to
find Vantran. Vantran was alone, questing for Biagio in this
dangerous place. Prakna stumbled through the halls until at last he
heard a weeping voice in a room up ahead. He cocked his head to
listen.

"Eris," said the voice miserably. "My beautiful dancer . . ."

Prakna stopped, recognizing the voice. "Darquis."

Carefully, he inched forward, approaching the chamber. He peered
inside and saw Simon Darquis huddled on the floor, weeping. The
Naren held a pair of small shoes in his hands. The sight appalled
Prakna. For one brief moment, his hate-filled heart softened. The
Naren didn't hear him enter the chamber, so lost was he in grief.
Prakna hefted up his sword.

"Darquis," said Prakna softly. "Look at me."

Simon looked up at Prakna. He noticed the sword in the Lissen's
hand and the terrible expression on his face, full of madness.
Simon didn't move. He couldn't move. He held Eris' dancing shoes
against his chest.

"Eris is dead," he said weakly.

Prakna said nothing.

"I tried to save her," Simon choked. "I truly did. Damn me to Hell
for failing."

He knew what Prakna intended. Surprisingly, he didn't care. He
could have exploded up and saved himself, he could have
wrestled the scimitar from Prakna's hand, but he did nothing but
wait, weeping like a child while the Lissen hovered over him,
blinded by his own enormous wrath. Simon smiled sadly, yearning
to be dead.

Prakna held the scimitar, unable to strike. He stared down at the
thing at his feet, and the only emotion that came to him was pity. He
had never seen anything as broken as Simon Darquis. Not even his
ghost-like J'lari seemed so frail.

"Do it," Simon whispered. "Kill me."

He wanted to die, and his longing frightened Prakna. The fleet
commander lowered his weapon.

"I'll not be your executioner, dog."

"Oh, you god-damn coward," spat Simon. Tears ran down his face.
Angrily he wiped his nose on his sleeve. "Kill me!"

Prakna sheathed his scimitar. All the hatred had gone out of him,
replaced by a brooding sympathy. "Get up," he directed. "Get out
of here."

Simon clutched the shoes closer to his breast. "Go where? I have
nothing now."

"You have your life, Roshann. Be glad for it. Now hurry. Run now,
or I will not be able to save you."

Darquis rose unsteadily to his feet. He looked confused, staring at
the world through bleary eyes. The shoes in his hands caught his
falling tears. He gave Prakna a vacant glance, wondering what to
do.

"You are not safe here," said Prakna. "Go as quickly as you can.
Find a boat and get off Crote. I will tell Vantran what has
happened."

"Richius . . ."

"Go!"

The order shattered Simon's stupor. Still clutching the shoes, he
darted out of the room.

Richius hadn't been able to stop the slaughter. He hadn't even
tried. The west wing of the mansion clamored with battle as the
army of Liss swarmed over the defenders barricaded inside. It
would be a massacre. The Lissens certainly outnumbered the
Narens. And Prakna had whipped his troops into a frenzy, filling
them with blood-lust. It was just a matter of time before the melee
was over and the mansion was reduced to rubble. Time was the
enemy now, and Richius felt it slipping through his fingers.

He needed to find Biagio.

Instead he found himself in a magnificent hallway, facing down a
curious little man with a retiring smile. The man was dressed in silk
and gold, and he stood at the end of the hall, watching Richius
approach. All around them the sounds of battle rang out,
threatening to come nearer. But the man stood unwavering at his
post, blocking Richius' path.

Richius pointed his sword out at him. "Stand aside," he warned. "I
won't let you stop me."

"I recognize you, young Vantran," said the man. "From the Black
City."

"You're one of Biagio's servants," guessed Richius. "Get out of the
way. I mean to find your master."

"You won't find him," said the man. "He isn't here. But he left me
behind to tell you that he's waiting for you."

"What?" spat Richius. "Where is that monster?"

"Gone," said the man. "I am Leraio, Count Biagio's manservant.
The count has left for the Black City. You will not find him on Crote,
King Vantran."

The news was staggering. Richius lowered his sword. "Son of a
bitch," he muttered, not certain if he should believe the slave.
"Why? Why has he left you here, then?"

Leraio frowned as he considered the question. "I suppose it suits
his purposes. But I am not done with my message yet. There is
more."

"Tell me," Richius demanded.

"Count Biagio wanted me to give you this." The slave reached into
his vest and pulled out something white and unremarkable. Richius
squinted to see it better.

"What is that?" he asked angrily.

Leraio came closer, dropping the item into Richius's hand. It was a
lock of white hair, soft and short. Triin hair.

Richius puzzled over it for a moment. "Explain this," he said.
"Whose hair is this?"

"Count Biagio has your wife, King Vantran. He has taken her back
to Nar City. He requests that you—"

"No!" Richius grabbed the little man and pinned him against the
wall. "That's impossible."

Leraio was remarkably calm, even with Richius strangling him. "It is
true. She went searching for your child, the one called Shani. She
was captured by Naren ships and brought here. I promise you, she
is unharmed. For now."

Richius let go of the slave, staggering backward. "You're lying!" he
spat.

"I am not," corrected Leraio.

The world around Richius swam with doubts. Was it possible? He
rummaged over the floor, picking up the bits of hair where he'd
dropped them. A quick run through his fingertips revealed the
same silky softness as Dyana's hair. Hardly proof. But with Biagio,
anything could have happened.

"He has her," Leraio promised. "He left last night aboard the
Fearless. And he wants you to follow."

"My God," Richius groaned. As impossible as the tale sounded,
Biagio was capable of anything. He turned and bolted out of the
hall, screaming for help.

Prakna was racing back to the west wing when he heard Richius'
cry. Vantran was in a panic, and when he saw Prakna the young
man came to a skidding halt, hardly able to breathe. They were not
far from the battle and the sounds were deafening. Prakna heard
shattering glass and human screams, and the unmistakable din of
metal on metal. He wondered desperately how his troops were
faring.

"Richius!" Prakna shouted. "What's wrong?"

Richius was flushed with sweat. He took great panting breaths as
he struggled to speak. "Dyana," he gasped. "He has her. . . ."

"Dyana?" blurted Prakna. "Your wife?"

"Biagio. He's taken her."

Prakna couldn't understand. "Take it easy, boy," he directed.
"Breathe. And tell me what happened."

Richius struggled with every word, but Prakna managed to glean
that Biagio had somehow taken Richius' wife to the Black City.

"God, Prakna, help me," begged Richius. "He'll kill her. I have to
get to her."

Prakna listened to the fighting; he wanted to join the battle.
"Richius, listen to me," he implored. "You go outside and stay safe.
Hide yourself. When this is done, we'll find a way to get your wife."

"No!" Richius begged. "That's too late. We can catch them if we
leave now. Biagio left aboard the Fearless, just last night."

Prakna felt himself turn white. The Fearless. Suddenly, all the noise
in the world fell away. "How do you know that?" the Lissen asked.
"Are you sure it's the Fearless?"

Richius nodded, still struggling to catch his breath. "Yes, I'm sure.
Biagio's slave told me. They're not far, they couldn't be. Not yet.
We can catch them, Prakna, aboard the Prince."

Prakna shook his head. "I can't. The others . . ."

"They can fight for themselves," roared Richius. "They don't need
me or you. Please, Prakna, I'm begging you. Help me."

"Richius . . ."

"God-damn it, you owe me! You got me into this, you arrogant
bastard! Now help me save my wife!"

"All right," said Prakna. "I'll take you."

Richius glanced around. "I want Simon," he said desperately. "Do
you know where he is?"

"He's gone," said Prakna. "I'll explain later." He spun Richius
around, facing him in the opposite direction of the murdered Naren.
"Come on, we have to move."

Together they raced out of Biagio's embattled mansion,
abandoning their bloodthirsty comrades and hurrying to reach the
Prince of Liss. Prakna's heart soared. Finally, his chance had
come to battle Nicabar. And as he ran, Prakna saw the faces of his
two dead sons. Very soon, he would avenge them.
FORTY-FOUR
The Fearless

T en nautical miles off the coast of Crote, Admiral Nicabar ordered
the Fearless and her escorts to slow, beginning a long circling
pattern that took them absolutely nowhere. They raised their sails
halfway on the yards, catching less of the winter wind, and turned
their rudders against the tide, tacking back and forth. A beautiful
sun had risen on the watery horizon, painting the sea a glowing
green. Biagio stood on the warship's forecastle, contemplating the
dawn. To starboard and port, the Black City and the Intruder waited
with the flagship, drifting aimlessly over the waves. The count liked
the way the dreadnoughts looked in the morning sun. They were
powerful, invincible. They would herald his return to the Empire. He
kept his arms folded over his chest, huddling in his crimson cape.
The wind was strong on deck and made his sensitive skin shiver.
But he didn't want to go below. He wanted to see the Prince when
she arrived.

It had taken Renato Biagio a long time to reach this moment. It had
been a long and arduous climb, and it had taxed him dearly,
requiring all his faculties. The strings he had pulled were long and
treacherous. Not everything had gone perfectly. He had been
betrayed by Simon and had resorted to the most violent methods
to get Herrith to Crote, and his grand design had cost him his
beloved homeland, at least for a while. He wouldn't be returning to
Nar as a hero, either. He would have the politics of the army to deal
with and assassinations to guard against.

And, of course, there was the Vantran woman. She was aboard,
unwillingly, in her cabin below deck. Since she couldn't escape
without going overboard, Biagio had left her unguarded. The count
considered her for a moment, and the picture of her face brought a
little smile to his face. She was very beautiful. He understood now
why the Jackal had abandoned the Empire for her. Some women
had that effect on men.

And some men, too.

Biagio's smile vanished. It made no sense that Simon had
betrayed him. More, it pained him. At times he wanted to kill
Simon—but he knew he never would. He wouldn't even hunt for
him, or try to find out where he had gone. Perhaps Simon would go
to Lucel-Lor with the Jackal. Or perhaps he would simply stay in the
Empire, constantly looking over his shoulder. Roshann agents
were good at hiding. Biagio sighed forlornly. If he'd had a flower,
he would have thrown it into the ocean.

"Why the disappointment, Renato?" asked Nicabar suddenly. The
admiral had appeared out of nowhere, shattering Biagio's mood.
He had a smile splashed across his face, anticipating the coming
battle.

"Just thinking, my friend," replied Biagio. "And waiting."

"Thinking about Herrith?"

Biagio smirked. "As little as possible."

"He beat the drug, you know," Nicabar observed. The admiral's
brow furrowed. "He was stronger than I thought."

Stronger than me? Biagio wondered. For the first time, it seemed
plausible. Originally, Biagio had thought the withdrawal would kill
Herrith. Yet in the end, it seemed to have made him stronger. The
fact that withdrawing was even possible intrigued the count.

"I do not want to speak of Herrith anymore," he said. "And we have
the Lissens to deal with yet, don't forget."

Nicabar nodded, looking out in the direction of Crote. "They'll be
here," he promised. "Prakna won't be able to resist."

"How soon?"

"Soon," said Nicabar. "The Prince is a fast ship." His smile
widened. "But not fast enough. When she opens fire—"

"If she opens fire," Biagio interjected. "And not until she does.
Control yourself, Danar. I want the Jackal on board first." Then,
more mildly, he added, "Don't worry. The Lissens are too
bloodthirsty to leave without a fight. You'll get your chance at
Prakna. And after we return to Nar, I'll turn you loose on Liss."

Nicabar snorted. "I don't understand you anymore, Renato. You're
not the man you used to be."

Biagio looked at his friend curiously. "No?" he asked. "Maybe not.
Please do as I say, Danar. This one last time."

"I'll do it," promised Nicabar reluctantly. "I won't start anything until
the Jackal is aboard." The admiral glanced across the deck. Then,
"Renato," he said, pointing off toward the stern. "Look there."

Biagio followed Nicabar's finger and saw Dyana Vantran above
deck, staring aimlessly over the ocean. A group of sailors milled
around her, but Dyana seemed not to notice their glances. She
merely watched the nothingness of the ocean, lost in a fugue.
Biagio studied her. She was a curious creature, and he wasn't sure
what he really thought of her. At first he had hated her, simply
because she was the Jackal's wife. Now he sometimes surprised
himself by liking her.

"Excuse me, Danar," said the count, then strode across the deck.
The sailors parted like a curtain when they noticed him, scurrying
back to their work. Biagio went to the railing beside Dyana. He saw
her eyes flick toward him momentarily, then back out to sea,
ignoring him. She wore a cape around her slight shoulders to stave
off the cold, but Biagio could tell she was shivering.

"You should be below, out of the wind," he observed.

"Why have we stopped?"

Biagio thought before answering. "We're waiting."

Dyana nodded. "For Richius."

"Indeed."

She looked at him. "So this is how it ends, then? You will kill him
here and now? No torture?"

The count smiled mildly, ignoring her insults. "Liss will send a
schooner with him. We'll be here to greet it."

She glared at him, her gray eyes full of pain. "I hate you," she said.
"I thought I could make you understand how wrong you are, but you
are too insane to understand anything but revenge. And now . . ."

Her voice trailed off as she looked away. She pushed at him to
leave her. "Go," she pleaded. "Leave me alone."

But Biagio wouldn't go. There was still a magic about her that
enamored him, making him want to be near her. And it wasn't a
lusty attraction, either. It was something else, maybe just her
gentleness. Either way, Biagio couldn't leave her side.

"Nar will be mine soon," he said. "I will make changes in the
Empire."

"Please "Do not doubt me, Dyana Vantran," he warned. "Others
have underestimated me before. Now they are dead."

"And you are proud of that?"

"My enemies deserved to die. They stole the Empire from me,
when they knew it should have been mine. I am not a usurper. I am
merely Nar's rightful heir. And when the Iron Throne is mine, there
will be a change."

"Your Black Renaissance," spat Dyana. "Yes, I have heard of it. A
madman's fantasy."

The count shook his head. "You understand so little, you and your
husband both. The Black Renaissance brings peace to the
Empire. There are no wars, no civil strife. I'll rule with an iron hand,
because that is what an empire requires. You may think it cruel—"

"I think it is insane," Dyana argued. "Now go. Please. Leave me
alone."

She turned from him and looked back at the horizon, refusing to
acknowledge him, even as he stood there watching her. Finally,
Biagio backed away.

"Make yourself ready. It won't be long," he said, then returned to
the forecastle.

The Prince of Liss tore through the ocean in pursuit of the
Fearless. She was three hours out of Crote with the sun high in
front of her. Marus and the officers kept a tight leash on the men,
trimming sails and spinning the wheel to make the most out of the
wind. Great gusts filled the schooner's sails, speeding her along,
and the cannoneers readied their weapons, preparing powder and
shot. Richius stood with Prakna on the prow, spying the endless
ocean before them. He was exhausted and full of dread, and the
Prince simply couldn't go fast enough for him. His every thought
was of Dyana, captured and at the mercy of Biagio. All sorts of
wicked imaginings played in his mind. If he had hurt her . . .

"There!" cried Prakna, pointing northeast. Richius jumped at his
shout. He tried to focus on a little speck bobbing on the horizon. A
call came from the crow's nest, affirming the commander's call.

"It's them, Prakna," said Marus. The first officer had hurried up to
his captain's side. "That's the Fearless."

Prakna stared studiously through his spyglass. "Yes. And she's not
alone. There are two other dreadnoughts with her." He paused,
puzzling over the sight. "But they're hardly moving. Fearless has
her sails pulled. What the hell is she up to?"

Richius understood instantly. "They're waiting for us," he said.
"Biagio knew we'd come."

Prakna lowered his spyglass. His face was set in the most
disquieting way. "The Fearless," he whispered. "Look at her,
Marus."

"Aye, sir," the first officer replied. "She's a big bitch."

"Too much for us, do you think?"

Marus smiled. "Doesn't mean we shouldn't try."

"They won't make us fight them," said Richius. He was certain of
Biagio's motives. "Biagio wants me. He's not going to open fire
until he has me aboard. You can get away if I go to him."

Prakna shook his head. "Very brave, boy, but I'm not giving you up
that easily. If Nicabar wants a fight, he'll get one."

"Prakna, please," Richius implored. "Don't open fire. You wouldn't
stand a chance against them, and you know it. Just bring us in, and
let's try to talk with them. Maybe I can get Dyana off the ship.
Biagio might trade for her."

"You instead of your wife," said Marus darkly. "A sick trade."

Richius knew he had no choice. "If that's what it takes," he said. "I
think Biagio might agree. It's me he wants, not Dyana."

"Very well, Jackal," said Prakna. "We'll get in closer. Let's see what
the devil wants."

Dyana noticed the Lissen schooner just as the call came from the
masts above. All along the deck of the warship, men made ready
for the conflict. She heard the admiral barking orders and the
strange creaking of metal monsters below her feet, where the gun
deck held Nar's infamous flame cannons. Biagio flew to the ship's
railing, pointing out the incoming ship.

"There she is!" he shouted. "The Prince of Liss." He shook his fist
in victory. "I told you they'd come, Danar. I told you."

Admiral Nicabar wasn't listening. He was getting his ship into
position, ordering it around to face the interloper. Dyana watched in
confusion as sailors along the deck signaled the two other
dreadnoughts with colored flags. The dreadnoughts signaled back,
responding with shouts and movements of their own. Together the
two ships broke their mindless pattern and slowly came into
formation, flanking the flagship and turning their starboard guns
toward the Lissen schooner. Dyana panicked.

"No!" she screeched, dashing along the deck toward Biagio. "Do
not fire! Please!"

She grabbed a fistful of Biagio's cape and tugged wildly, fighting to
make him listen. Biagio seized her wrist, almost lifting her off the
ground.

"Let go, little beast!" he hissed. "I'm not going to fire unless I have
to!"

He tossed her aside, sending her tumbling backward. She
scrambled up again, refusing to be ignored. "Listen to me," she
begged. "Richius is no threat to you. You do not have to do this.
Please!"

"Shut up, woman," Biagio snapped. "I can't hear myself think."

Dyana grabbed his hand, falling to her knees before him. "You
want me to beg?" she asked angrily. "All right, then, I am begging. I
am your prisoner. You have won. You have already beaten him."
She stared up at him, hating herself for pleading. "Please, Biagio.
Do not kill my husband."

Count Biagio looked down at her. For a moment she thought he
would strike her, but there was no rage in his eyes. He took her
hand, squeezing it with surprising gentleness.

"Do not beg me, Dyana Vantran," he insisted. "Rise."

He lifted her to her feet. Dyana trembled. Why didn't he do
something?

"Count Biagio, please . . ."

"I'm going to call the Jackal aboard," he said. Then, without
explanation, he turned his back on her and went to Admiral Nicabar.

Prakna piloted the Prince toward the waiting dreadnoughts,
ordering her cannons moved to her port side. The starboard guns
of the Fearless and her smaller sisters tracked the Prince's
movements as she slipped closer, still at full sail. They were barely
a quarter mile away, and the three dreadnoughts grew in their
vision, looking ominous. The Black Flag of Nar flew from their
masts, stiff with wind. Richius waited on the Prince's prow, cracking
his knuckles nervously. A boat was descending off the side of the
Fearless. In it were a handful of sailors. Richius couldn't tell exactly
how many, but none of them looked like Dyana.

"What the hell's he doing?" wondered Prakna. "Sending over a
launch?"

"It's for me," said Richius. "He wants me to come aboard."

"Well, you're not going," said Prakna. "Not just like that."

"Yes, I am. It's my decision, Prakna. Please don't try and stop me."

The fleet commander groaned. "All right. We'll have to get you
closer, then."

He ordered his crew to slow them. The sailors responded with their
usual precision, working the sails and yards until the schooner lost
the wind and drifted toward the waiting dreadnoughts. But he made
certain that his cannons were ready, ordering his gunners to stay
alert.

Slowly the Prince of Liss approached the dreadnoughts, coming
up alongside of them and matching their speed. Hardly a ship's
length lay between them. The little launch struggled across the
gap, rowed by four brawny seamen. Richius went amidships.
Prakna and Marus followed like two older brothers. All the Lissen
crewmen watched as Richius waited for the rowboat. He could feel
their eyes boring through his back and wished suddenly that he had
never left Lucel-Lor. Biagio had beaten him. Now, his only hope
was that he could get Dyana free.

"Wait for my wife," he said to Prakna. "If Biagio lets her go, take
her back to Lucel-Lor." He smiled awkwardly at the fleet
commander. "Will you do that for me, Prakna?"

Prakna's hard face melted. "God, you honor me," he said sadly. "I
am pleased to have known you, Richius Vantran."

"Will you, Prakna? Promise me. A real promise, this time."

"I can't make that promise, Jackal," said the Lissen. "Nicabar won't
let me go. Even if your wife comes aboard, she would only die in
the battle."

Richius knew Prakna was right. Nicabar's hatred of Prakna was
legendary. And mutual. So he settled for shaking the commander's
hand, and hoping that somehow, Biagio would let Dyana go.

"Good luck to you, Prakna," said Richius. The graveness of the
moment seemed to erase the earlier events. Now they were just
men again, rivals against Biagio. "Tell Jelena I'll be thinking about
her."

"Richius," said Marus, gesturing over the rail. "The boat's here."

Richius looked down and saw that the rowboat had indeed reached
the Prince. The four Naren sailors glanced up anxiously.

"Are you here for the Jackal?" Prakna called down to them angrily.

"We are," replied a sailor.

Marus gave the order to drop the rope ladder, then told the crew to
slow the Prince to a standstill. Richius gazed down at the bobbing
rowboat, so small and insignificant beside the grand schooner. A
rush of fear overwhelmed him for a moment, but he subdued it
quickly. In many ways, he had lived longer than he should have.
Today, at last, his charm of protection had worn off.

With a final nod to his Lissen comrades, Richius straddled the rail
and dropped over the side, catching the rope ladder and easing
himself down toward the waiting Narens.

Biagio stood beside Nicabar, his heart thundering with anticipation.
Across the gap between the Fearless and the Prince, the little
rowboat they'd dispatched was returning with Richius Vantran. The
Jackal sat up straight, scanning the deck for his wife. Dyana leaned
over the railing, calling out to him with tears in her eyes.

"Richius!"

The Jackal saw his wife and smiled, holding out his hands as if to
touch her. Biagio watched their reunion, astonished. Richius
Vantran looked much as he had two years ago—dark and brash
and far too young to have brought an empire to its knees. Seeing
him made Biagio's jaw go slack. The count listened to Dyana's
cries, wondering if he should silence her. But he did not. He let her
call out to her husband.

The rowboat ground against the hull of the Fearless. Nicabar called
down to his men, ordering them to get Vantran aboard. Dyana
hurried over to him, shouldering Nicabar aside and reaching out to
her distant husband.

Biagio stepped back, so as not to see their reunion. He heard the
rope ladder fall and the sounds of his enemy climbing aboard. He
was safe, certainly, and yet he feared the man coming toward him.
Or rather, he feared seeing him. Richius Vantran was a potent
reminder of all the things that had gone wrong in his life.

The first thing Richius saw when he looked up was Dyana's
beautiful face. She was reaching down to him with tears in her
eyes.

"Dyana!" Richius cried. He threw himself onto the warship's deck
and into Dyana's waiting arms, ignoring all the sailors around him.

"Dyana," he moaned. Her smooth arms encircled him in a
rapturous embrace, and he buried his nose in her hair, smelling its
sweetness. She kissed him savagely, refusing to let go.

"Richius," she sighed, "I am all right. Do not worry. . . ."

He peeled her away and looked at her at arm's length, running his
eyes over her perfect body and seeing that she was, indeed, all
right.

"You're all right," he gasped. "You really are . . ."

Then he saw Biagio. The count had yet to step forward or say a
word. Richius turned slowly toward his enemy, holding Dyana's
hand. Biagio's golden face was lit with a strange fascination. He
stared at Richius curiously, but remained remarkably hushed.

"I'm here," said Richius, trying to sound brave. He wondered if
Biagio could see him trembling. "Now, let Dyana go."

Count Renato Biagio merely looked at Richius, his blue eyes
sparkling with unnatural light, his amber skin beautiful. He was
frightening to behold. Richius could barely stand the sight of him.

"Say something, you bastard," Richius demanded. "I'm here. Isn't
that what you wanted?"

Biagio's eyes flicked toward Dyana for a brief second. Then he
offered a dazzling smile. For the first time in years, Richius heard
his treacly voice.

"Your wife says I have no quarrel with you, Jackal of Nar," said the
count. "I wonder, what do you think?" "Let her go, Biagio. You don't
need her." The count took a step closer, regarding Richius coldly,
the way a scientist might stare at a specimen. "You haven't
changed very much, Jackal. A bit older. Still the same arrogance,
though. Perhaps that's what your wife loves so much."

The riddles enraged Richius. "Will you let her go or not?" he flared.
"I came aboard in an honorable exchange. Just for once, show the
world you have some honor, too. Let Dyana go."

"First, answer my question," said the count. "What about our
quarrel?"

"Your quarrel," replied Richius bitterly. "I never had one. All I
wanted was to save Dyana. That's why I left Nar." He grit his teeth,
trying to contain his rage. "And that's why you killed Sabrina. God, I
hate you, monster."

Biagio laughed. "That is the second time today I've heard that," he
mocked. "But continue, please. Have you no quarrel with me at
all?"

"I would kill you if I could," said Richius, meaning every word. "But I
give myself to you instead. Let Dyana go. I won't fight you."

"And if I let you both go free?" asked Biagio. "What then?"

Richius was stunned. So was Dyana. She let go of Richius, taking
a step forward.

"What are you saying?" she asked. "Would you let us go?"

Count Biagio's face was impossibly serene. His expression
brightened when he looked at her.

"You have given me much to think about, Dyana Vantran. Perhaps I
owe you something in return."

"Don't play with us," Richius growled. He took a step toward the
count, only to be halted by Nicabar's sailors, who grabbed at his
coat and dragged him backward. But Biagio raised a hand to them,
making them release Richius. Richius looked around, unsure what
was happening.

"A trick," he sneered. "Dyana, don't believe him."

Biagio ignored him. "Lady Vantran, I offer you back your wretched
husband. You're free to leave."

"What?" blurted Nicabar. "Renato, what are you doing?"

"Repaying a debt, Danar," replied the count lightly. He reached out
and took Dyana's hand, then gave it a gentle kiss. Richius couldn't
believe his eyes.

"Why?" he gasped. "I don't understand."

Count Biagio turned and went to him. "You have a remarkable
wife," he said with soft anger. "This favor is for her, not you."

"Biagio, if this is a trick . . ."

"It is no trick, Vantran," said Biagio. "I have an empire to rule now. I
cannot entertain myself with trifles like you any longer."

Richius was astounded. "That's it? You're letting us go? After all
you've done?"

"Biagio," said Dyana, coming up to him. "Look at me.

The count obeyed. Dyana studied his face. After a moment, she
slowly nodded.

"I believe you," she said. "But why?"

Biagio scoffed, straightening proudly. "Count Biagio does not
explain himself," he said gruffly. "And Jackal, know this—our
quarrel is done. Do not try to seek your revenge on me again. If
you do, I will most certainly kill you."

Richius was speechless.

"Go in peace," Biagio added. "Keep your hands off of Nar, and I
will keep mine off Lucel-Lor. Are we agreed?"

"Yes, but . . ."

"Good," smiled the count. "You are a cagey opponent, Richius
Vantran. It has been interesting dueling with you. But I'm tired of it
now. Please leave me alone."

"You do the same," said Richius. "Then we will have a bargain."

Biagio rubbed his hands together, grinned wickedly, then said to
Dyana, "Farewell, Lady Vantran. We will not be seeing each other
anymore. But you were a graceful guest. I will miss you."

Dyana put a hand to her mouth. "Thank you," she gasped. "Thank
you."

"The boat will take you to the Black City. From there you'll be
brought back to the Lissens on Crote."

"What?" flared Richius. "Take us back to the Prince!"

"I cannot," said Biagio. "It wouldn't be safe for you there." He
glanced at his admiral. "Danar, Black City and Intruder can escort
them back to the Lissens, can't they?"

"I suppose," replied Nicabar. "But, Renato, I don't understand. . . ."

Biagio smiled. "You will," he said lightly. Then, to Richius and
Dyana, "Go now. And do not trouble me again, Jackal."

Astonished, Richius wondered what Biagio had planned for
Prakna. But he realized also that he had just struck a remarkable
bargain with the count, one that might evaporate without warning.
So he took Dyana's hand and led her quickly off the Fearless,
accompanied by a sailor who would explain Biagio's orders to the
captain of the Black City. Before she descended the rope ladder,
Dyana gave a last lingering look at the inscrutable man of gold.
Then she followed Richius into the rowboat, as amazed as her
husband to still be alive.

Prakna watched in mute fascination as the little boat left the
Fearless with Richius and his wife aboard—then set off in the
wrong direction. She was headed toward the lead dreadnought, the
one just behind the Fearless on her port side. Prakna stared at the
rowboat uncertainly. He could see Richius standing up in the boat,
shouting and waving his arms wildly.

"What's he saying?" Prakna asked.

Beside him, Marus studied the goings-on through a spyglass.
"He's waving us off," said the first officer. "I think he wants us to
go."

"Go? Go where?"

Marus shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe Biagio set them free."

"And sent them to another dreadnought? What for?"

Even as he left the rowboat and climbed up the side of
dreadnought, Richius continued shouting at them. With his free
hand he went on waving, trying to signal them. Prakna let out a
frustrated curse. What was Vantran saying?

"Shall we move off?" asked Marus. "They have him. If they're not
letting him go, we won't be able to get him back."

Prakna considered the option. He waited a very long time before
answering, long enough to see the two rear dreadnoughts unfurl
their sails again and pick up the wind, pulling away from the
Fearless. But the big flagship still made no moves. Prakna
snatched the spyglass from Marus and scanned her deck. He saw
Nicabar on board, scowling at them.

"That whoreson," Prakna rumbled. "He's waiting for us."

On the forecastle of his giant ship, Admiral Nicabar watched his
nemesis across the narrow gap, impatiently hoping that she'd open
fire. Even without the protection of Black City and Intruder, he knew
the Fearless could devour the Prince. Biagio stood beside him,
tapping his foot impatiently. The insipid noise did nothing to break
the admiral's steely concentration.

"Ready, my friend?" asked the count.

Nicabar nodded. "Yes, thank you."

"It's nothing," quipped Biagio. "I just thought it was time I paid you
back, as well. You've been very loyal, Danar. I appreciate that."

The admiral smiled. It had been a great gamble to side with Biagio
against Herrith, but now his bet was paying off. He balled his hands
into fists, anticipating the coming battle. If he knew Prakna as well
as he thought, the fleet commander wouldn't run from the fight.

"He's baiting me," said Prakna. "He wants me to fight him."

The deck of the Prince had gone quiet. Sailors stood ready,
awaiting their captain's orders. Marus leaned against the rail beside
Prakna, both of them considering their options. Nicabar was giving
them a chance to turn and run. Or a chance to land the first blow.

"We could leave," Marus suggested.

Prakna nodded. "Aye. We could."

They looked at each other. Two men who had served together for
years, who had both lost sons to the devils of Nar, gazed deeply
into each other's eyes and saw the same restless need for
vengeance.

"Or we could fight," said Marus.

Prakna clasped his comrade's shoulder. A lot of people had died
today. In the great scheme of things, a few more hardly seemed to
matter. And for Prakna and his crew, it was the difference between
living like sheep or dying like lions.

"Give me full sails, Marus," said Prakna. "I want speed."

When he saw the Prince unfurl her sails, Biagio frowned, surprised
that he had been wrong. "They're moving off," he said
incredulously. "They're not fighting."

"No," replied Nicabar, blackly jubilant. "They're just giving
themselves some room to maneuver." The admiral turned to his
waiting lieutenants, shouting orders down the line. "Full sails!" he
cried. "Bring us five degrees starboard. Don't let them out of our
sights. And tell the gun deck to stand by."

The warship sprang to life, lurching forward as the endless yards of
silk sails ate up the wind. The Fearless banked gently starboard,
still paralleling the Prince. Nicabar knew she had put all her mobile
cannons on her port side. She wouldn't waste time trying to turn.

"Renato, you might want to go below," the admiral suggested. "It's
about to get damn noisy up here."

Prakna stood amidships on the Prince, waiting near the cannons.
His crew had primed the guns with grapeshot and had aimed them
at the Fearless' masts, hoping to tear her sails. The Prince was
picking up speed, trying to pull away from the dreadnought.
Surprisingly, the other two dreadnoughts had kept back so not to
join the fight. Prakna considered the move respectfully. Nicabar
knew he already outgunned the schooner. Anything more than the
Fearless would have been gratuitous, and not really worth bragging
about.

"And so we go down," sang Prakna softly, remembering the lines
to a sailors' poem. "To the bottom far, far below."

Prakna knew his vessel had no chance at all, but he didn't really
care. He was prepared now to die. So was his crew. Today they
had struck a blow for Lissen freedom. Today was a good day to go
to the bottom. He hoped J'lari would understand.

Because her cannons didn't have the reach of the Naren guns, the
Prince would have to fire early, hopefully damaging the Fearless
and slowing her. But the Fearless had guns on both sides, while
the Prince's were already committed to port. The fleet commander
wondered how much damage four good shots could do to the
black behemoth.

He gave the order to fire.

The flash from the Prince's deck caught Nicabar by surprise. He
hadn't expected it to come so early. But he didn't bother to duck.
He knew Prakna's targets were the sails. A great, fiery eruption
exploded overhead as the grapeshot from the Prince burned the
foremast, chewing at its sails. Nicabar surveyed the damage,
impressed with the aim. He knew Prakna's crew were preparing
another volley. A few more similar shots would slow the Fearless
to a crawl. And the Prince was too quick to let go easily. A piece of
burning silk fell down onto his shoulder, singeing his coat. Nicabar
batted it away with a growl. Off the starboard bow, he saw the
Prince pulling away as her crew worked diligently to cram another
round of powder and shot into her guns.

"Lieutenant R'Jinn," shouted Nicabar. "Return fire."

R'Jinn cried the order. The command quickly ricocheted down to
the gun deck. Nicabar felt the wood beneath his feet rumble. He
stuck his fingers into his ears, waiting for the concussion.

Three long-barreled flame cannons opened up. Fire flew across
the water, rocking the Fearless and blowing apart the morning.
Nicabar waited for the smoke to clear, then saw the Prince
enveloped in flames. She was still moving away from them, burning
but intact.

Nicabar ordered continuous fire.

Prakna scrambled across the deck of the Prince, rallying his men.
The first blast from the Fearless had torn away the stunsail and a
big chunk of the prow. The Prince's cannons opened up again,
returning fire and catching the dreadnought amidships. More of the
Naren's sails caught flame. Prakna ordered his ship hard about,
steering her away to narrow her profile. But even the Prince of Liss
couldn't outrun the Naren guns. They opened up in a non-stop
volley, one by one hammering at her hull. The whole world turned
orange. Prakna's breath burned in his lungs. He choked up a ball of
blood, stumbling through the haze. Another shot crashed against
the hull, blasting a hole in it. The Prince began listing to port as
water flooded her holds.

It was over before it had really begun. Prakna searched the burning
chaos for Marus, but couldn't find his friend. He craned his neck to
see, forgetting the battle, wanting to die near his first officer.

One more shot from the Fearless blew him off the deck, scattering
pieces of him over the ocean.

Richius and Dyana watched the carnage from the deck of the Black
City, covering their ears to shut out the bombardment. Dyana
huddled close to Richius, her head against his chest, blinking in
disbelief as she witnessed the awesome firepower of the Empire.
The Prince of Liss was quickly being incinerated. Constant volleys
from the Fearless had tattered her sails to burning husks and
excavated a giant hole in her hull. She limped over the waves,
directionless, letting her giant rival pummel her. It was hopeless for
Prakna and Marus and the rest of them. The ship that had been
their home and greatest love was suddenly an inferno. The Prince
sent up huge plumes of fiery smoke, opaquing the horizon. The
Fearless hammered her ceaselessly. Somewhere on the
dreadnought's deck, Richius knew, Nicabar was crowing, pleased
with himself for finally vanquishing his old nemesis.

And Biagio was with him. Biagio the mystery, who had somehow
puppeteered an entire empire into his palm. As Richius watched
the Prince of Liss fade to ashes, he thought about the ruthless
Count of Crote, and all the fears he had engendered. Biagio had
reached across a continent and snatched a baby from its parents.
He had somehow convinced his greatest enemy to come to Crote
and be murdered. He was a great and powerful enigma, and
Richius knew he would never fully understand him, or why he had
let Dyana go free. Richius lowered a hand from his ear and stroked
Dyana's hair, kissing her. She was a remarkable woman, his wife,
extraordinary enough to make any man think twice—even Biagio.

The Prince of Liss slowly began to sink like a burning sun.
FORTY-FIVE
Outcast

S imon ran from Biagio's mansion, racing like the wind. He ran until
he thought his heart would burst, seeking cover where he could,
and never looking back at the massacre taking place at his
master's former home. And when Simon could not go on, when his
muscles screamed with fatigue and all his body burned with pain,
he stopped running. It was late morning. Biagio's mansion was far
behind him, but the news of the Lissen invasion had already swept
through Crote. Simon had made it to the town of Galamier, where
he had grown up. The fishing village was aghast at the sight of
Lissen schooners on their shores. Already fleets of scows were
abandoning Crote, desperately fleeing to the mainland. And
Simon, who still had his wits about him despite the shocking
morning, found his way onto one of them.

The sun was overhead as the little vessel slipped away from Crote,
going unnoticed by the Lissen invaders. She was smelly and
packed with panicked people, and the owner of the boat urged
them all to keep calm, shouting above the sea and the cries of
children. But Simon didn't need to be yelled at. He was already
perfectly calm. His Roshann-trained mind had focused on survival.

On the horizon he watched Crote float away. Something told him
that Biagio had already fled. Richius wouldn't find him. Simon knew
it instinctively. Biagio was already safe. Somewhere.

Simon forgot his seasickness. In his mind was a vision of Eris,
dancing across her practice floor. The memory was flawless. Eris
had been very beautiful. Simon pulled her dancing shoes out of his
pocket. A girl standing next to him eyed the shoes curiously. Simon
smiled to her, then tossed the shoes overboard. The girl blinked.

"You don't want them," he told her. "They're tainted."

Everything was tainted now. But it was no more than he deserved,
Simon supposed. If the fishing boat made it to the mainland,
Simon planned to flee to Doria. He would go underground, just as
he had hoped to do with Eris. He was still Roshann. There were
tricks he could use to avoid being discovered. Even Biagio
wouldn't find him.

After a life of spying and assassinations, Simon wondered what it
would be like to be a farmer. Perhaps he would work as a stable
hand, or try to find employment in a coopery. Dorians often hired
mercenaries, but Simon sniffed at the notion. He had already
thrown his dagger overboard, too. Convinced that he had spent
enough time killing, he decided to forgo such bloody employment.
Simon Dark-Heart was dead.

"Hello," he said to the little girl next to him. "What's your name?"

"Numa," replied the child. "What's yours?"

Simon considered the question. "Simon," he told her. "Simon
Jadiir."

In the tongue of Vosk, where his mother had been born, the name
meant "barrel-maker."
FORTY-SIX
Emperor

A fter destroying the Prince of Liss, the Fearless waited before
returning to the Black City. Because he wanted the protection of
additional ships, Biagio arranged a rendezvous off the Naren
coast, finally sailing into the city's harbor four days after leaving
Crote. Accompanying the Fearless was a contingent of ships
recalled from battling the Lissens, including the dreadnoughts
Shark and Intruder, and the cruisers Conqueror, Angel of Death
and Furious. Together they dominated the harbor, and all Naren
eyes fell on them and wondered if the world was coming to an end.

Count Biagio knew he had many enemies in Nar. But he had
already annihilated the bulk of them. Kivis Gago, Claudi Vos, and
all the others who had so foolishly aligned themselves with Herrith
were dead now, fallen under Lissen scimitars. The Naren Empire
was leaderless, completely. And the people of Nar, who had never
been able to function without a strong ruler, looked on the arriving
Count of Crote with apprehension.

Biagio explained to them how Liss, their great enemy, had invaded
his homeland during the peace talks, savagely murdering the other
Naren noblemen. Because he had barely escaped with his life,
there had been no way for him to save the others. And Liss was on
the prowl, he told the citizens of Nar, and had sinister designs on
the Empire. With the Lissens firmly on Crote, only the Black Fleet
could protect Nar City now.

There would be politics and enemies still, Biagio knew—and
maybe feeble attempts on his life, which would all certainly
fail—but he was home again and immensely happy, and when he
sat himself down on Arkus' Iron Throne, an unimaginable thrill went
through him.

He was emperor.

He had struggled for the title, as Nar would struggle, still. Herrith
had left him a land in strife. Like the rubble of the great cathedral,
the Empire needed rebuilding. Goth was a wasteland, and
Dragon's Beak was torn by civil war, as ambitious lords scrambled
to fill the void left by the twin dukes. All across the fractured land,
kings and princes questioned the authority of the capital,
wondering what Biagio and his new Black Renaissance might
bring. And rumblings out of Talistan were worrisome, too, as King
Tassis Gayle made very clear his feelings about the foppish new
emperor.

But Biagio had time. Time, at least, to rest. Tomorrow there might
be war, but today he had won the Iron Throne. For him, that was
enough.

After a week as emperor, Renato Biagio called a meeting of his
Roshann agents, a secret gathering that took place in the highest
tower of the Black Palace. A winter wind ripped through the walls,
chilling the air and sending the great hearth into ripples. A giant,
circular table rested in the center of the chamber, seating Roshann
members from around the Black City and the outlying Empire, all of
whom still adored their master and loudly reaffirmed their pledges
to serve him until death. Emperor Biagio thanked them all with gold
and kisses, and gave them lands for their loyalty and the beautiful
slaves he had purchased with the remains of his private fortune.

After rewarding them, Biagio turned to business. He had only two
remarkable orders for them. The Jackal of Nar was never to be
hunted again. Neither was Simon Darquis. The peculiar command
made the agents murmur, but none of them questioned the edict or
looked disapprovingly at Biagio. He was their master; that was all
that mattered.

After their meeting, Biagio returned to his quarters. He had set
himself up in the old rooms Arkus had enjoyed, with a peerless
view of the magnificent city and all the old emperor's clutter around
him. The trinkets and baubles connected Biagio to Arkus, and he
liked the memories they evoked. At last, his grief was fading. And
Biagio thought of Dyana Vantran often too, and the things she had
said to him. Her scathing accusations had started the new emperor
thinking. He wondered how true it was that the drug had warped his
mind.

Biagio sat alone by his window, well past midnight, contemplating
these things. The wind howled around the tall tower. There was
much for him to do, and Nar needed him sound. It had been over a
week since he had taken the drug, and his cravings were
enormous. But he knew that Herrith and Vorto had both been able
to endure the withdrawal, and he was determined not to be bested.
FORTY-SEVEN
The Jackal at Rest

T he Naren dreadnought Black City had indeed returned Richius
and Dyana to Crote, leaving them off where the Lissen schooners
could not see them. From there they walked across the tiny island,
astonished at the things they'd seen.

The Lissens had devoured Crote. It was theirs now, just as Prakna
and Jelena had always wanted, the perfect base from which to
continue their violent mission against the Empire. The slaughter
had not stopped at the mansion, but rather had carried over to the
surrounding farmlands and villages, until at last the army of orphans
had come to their senses and began occupying Crote without
killing it. Richius supposed Shii had something to do with their
change of heart. He had seen her before leaving, aboard a Lissen
schooner. She looked vacant and afraid and not at all young, and
Richius knew she had murdered her youth during the campaign,
trading it for vengeance.

A Lissen schooner with the dubious name The Dolphin took
Richius and Dyana back to Lucel-Lor. It was an uncomfortable
journey. The Lissen sailors mostly avoided Richius, embarrassed
that they had betrayed him. Apparently, "Lord Jackal" no longer
existed. He was merely Richius Vantran again—not a king, and
certainly not a hero. And when at last he and Dyana arrived at
Falindar, the world seemed a wholly different place.

Falindar smelled a little sweeter than it had. The winter was cold
and the wine was strong, and Dyana and Shani were happy again.
And Lucyler had returned from Kes. The master of the citadel was
no less preoccupied than when he'd left. There was still trouble
brewing between the warlords Ishia and Praxtin-Tar, and Lucyler
worried endlessly about the tenuous peace he had arranged. But
Richius didn't think about those things. He thought only about being
alive and about his miraculous luck, which continued to save him
from death. He didn't want to be troubled any longer with talk of
war. More than ever in his life, he craved peace. Even Aramoor
seemed a distant memory. It was lost to him, that was certain, and
he had no plans to break his bargain with Biagio. The Empire was
Biagio's now. And Richius had all of Lucel-Lor to occupy him. He
would make his life here, among the Triin.

Or die trying.

A week after returning to Falindar, Richius set off with Lucyler to
hunt and came upon the place where he and Simon had felled the
ancient oak. It was just a stump now. The grass around it was
trampled and littered with snapped branches. Richius recalled the
tree with melancholy. It had been remarkable. At the time, he had
not understood Simon's hatred of it. He lowered his bow as he
stared at the stump, wondering about Simon. Prakna had told him
that Simon had fled the mansion. Apparently, Eris had been killed.
Now no one knew where Simon was, or even if he was alive.

Richius sat down on the stump, forgetting the hunt, and invited
Lucyler to sit beside him. His Triin friend relaxed gladly, weary from
stalking through the woods. Neither spoke for a very long time.
Lucyler had the gift of silence. He hadn't even asked Richius the
obvious, impossible questions, like why he'd gone to Liss and
abandoned his wife and child, and why he had been so profoundly
unhappy in Falindar. And he wouldn't ask, either. Lucyler knew
Richius' heart well enough.

Then, after several long minutes, Lucyler finally spoke.

"Cold," he remarked.

Richius nodded. "Yes." The cold felt good. It reminded him of
Aramoor.

"Ishia worries," said Lucyler. "I do not know what I should do."

Another impossible question. Richius shrugged. "Is it really your
concern?"

"I am Master of Falindar," replied Lucyler. "These things are
expected of me." He sighed. The light caught his eyes, revealing
sadness. "I am riding a wildcat, and I cannot control it. Praxtin-Tar
is a madman."

Richius grimaced. He'd had his fill of madmen recently.

"The warlords need to fight, I think," Lucyler continued. "I am not
sure I can stop them."

"If it's their nature to kill, you won't be able to stop them, Lucyler.
Don't kill yourself in the process."

The Triin gave a black laugh. "Is that your wisdom now, my friend?
Is that what you've learned? I could use more than silly prophecy."

"That's all I've got these days."

"I was thinking that perhaps you would come with me to speak with
Praxtin-Tar," said Lucyler. "He remembers you from the Naren war.
He knows that Tharn respected you. If you speak to him, he might
listen."

"No," said Richius. "He will not listen."

"You are so sure? You should try, at least."

Richius shook his head. "Sorry."

"You will not do it?"

"Can't do it," said Richius absently.

The promise he had made to Biagio extended past the borders of
Nar. It was a promise to himself, really. As Lucyler watched him
questioningly, Richius studied the sky, enjoying its grace. Suddenly
the sky seemed more important than anything.