The Talismans of Aerdrim

An excerpt from "The Unscholarly Journals of Darren the Senalline" (guest post)

It is perhaps a touch too bold to claim that I am the first captain to have piloted a ship having never been to sea before in his life. Knowing the arrogances of nobles and the privileges they claim for themselves, I don't doubt that more than a few of them have taken charge of a ship with a seasoned first mate as a loincloth to cover their nakedness. But I have little doubt that I am the first in this world to have captained many voyages before first getting his sea legs. I doubt the Path of Horizons would approve (let alone the rank I have claimed since then), but my membership in that order has been somewhat complicated, to say the least.

I suppose it is fitting, then, to note that I come from a land where there are no working ships and am hence utterly unqualified for a life at sea, especially when you consider I have far too many reasons to never, ever want to go there. Not that that sort of thing has ever stopped me from biting off more than I can chew. In any event, luck has played at least as great a role as audacity in placing me where I am now.

My first real taste of sea-tang came in the air of Lynar. In the wake of the first assassination attempt on General Marcor d'Syrnon, I sought along with Ash and Meeshak to find out who had paid Patriarch's gold to ensure such a murder. As the assassin had confessed to being hired at the "Dastard's Dregs" tavern, we headed to that part of Lynar to see if anyone else had seen or heard of his "stammering, hooded man".

Meeshak and Ash went to the tavern itself while my newfound dwarrow friends accompanied me to the disused shipyards nearby, a likely place to look for rumors of strange persons seen entering and leaving the tavern. After having impressed Mullod so at my skill with a club, I would have been embarrassed to admit that I was glad also to have the company of dwarrow protection as we passed through the dingy alleys of the lower city. The docks of Lynar are one of the more squalid and dangerous parts of that city, given their disuse and unsuitability for commerce of any but the most sordid kind.

For all I'd heard, I was unprepared for what I saw. My home of Rim Square, of course, was a farming community on the edge of the mountains, well enough inland that I had never been to the ocean, nor seen its vastness. So I froze in place rounding a corner as I saw a great pillar of wood rising at an angle. It was the mast of a ship. Out beyond the quay were piers of wood that once would have risen and fallen evenly with the tides but had long since become treacherous with disrepair. And all along the piers were rotting hulks and many more masts, some floating at crazy angles, many full of holes or mostly below water but all dead and useless.

Not to me, though. I saw what was, or perhaps what might have been: magnificent contraptions the size of great houses, all for the purpose of carrying people across this great ocean that I could scarcely comprehend. I could just imagine the work, the planning, the skill involved in crafting and using such a thing, compared to which my noisemakers and locks were the merest of toys for all their complexity. I inched forward to the edge of the quay and nearly fell in for not paying enough attention to my feet. I saw how they could be if only they were repaired or created anew, if only I had any idea how. Little did I know, whenever lowest tide hit, those same boats would be beached on the sand below, the piers half-dangling between the sand and the quay, and I would not have had the water below to catch me if I fell.

(The next few pages of text are interspersed with rough diagrams of the ships of Lynar that in the original copy appear to have been delicately pasted in and written over in the same ink and language as the main text. Some sketches are half-finished, others sketched out several times with ships' holes or missing masts replaced with several iterations of design. Most are accompanied by cryptic notes, such as "broad and flat... the Floating Gardens? Olosso." or "probably beaches gracefully... suitable for the Storm Sea text?")

A sweet and curious female voice snapped me out of my trance, "Have you been here before?" I turned and saw a pretty young woman, blonde of hair and blue-eyed, with a gentle smile. Her coloration was perhaps not as exotic to me as it may be to many of my readers, but even the men of Senallin hold such things of account. (scribbled in the margins: Rest assured that to me she was utterly plain and could never compare to, say, the beauty of a woman who whose dagger would gleam effulgently in the light of the moons before plunging silently into the neck of a perceived rival, were it not for the fact that such a dagger would also likely be too thick with lampblack or okordo to gleam properly.)

"No", I said. "I didn't even know such things were possible."

"They haven't sailed in many, many years. The last shipwrights and sailors who could make them sail died when our great-grandparents were children. And they were never easy to maintain even before they were abandoned." She said this with the sort of half-felt sadness reserved for the long-lost dreams of others. And I as she gazed out into the harbor, I found I could not took my eyes off of hers.

"They're amazing", I quietly responded. And then I remembered myself, "But who are you?"

She smiled again at my awkwardness, "I'm Calla. I come here from time to time. I like to watch the ships and think of the way they were. What's your name?"

"I'm Darren. I'm from Rim Square, but I'm here in Lynar for the muster. I'm with the army as a tinker, at least since the Haraks came."

Calla sat down, dangling her feet off the edge of the quay, and I sat down beside her and listened in awe as she pointed from ship to ship and told me what she could of what each one was and how they had worked at one time, or at least how she supposed they did. I asked question after question and she was happy to oblige. I told her a little about Rim Square, but also about the dwarrow, to which she responded with curiosity and amusement. After some time, it had become clear that I was smitten with Calla, though I scarcely had the courage or the presence of mind to do anything about it. But then almost in non sequitur she asked, "Will you be at the Grand Ball the day after tomorrow?"

"I wasn't sure. I'm hardly a dancer. Though I could learn."

"Come and look for me. I'll be there, and maybe we could steal a dance from under those nose of my guardian. He'll want to chaperone me, but he'll be so busy with everything else that I doubt he'd notice us."

I smiled. "I'd like that", I said with the startled enthusiasm of someone for the first time brought near speechless by a girl almost as shy as himself. (again, in the margins: Utter infatuation, of course. The blatherings of a boy who knew nothing of women at the time or what the future would bring.)

"Speaking of my guardian", she said unhappily, seeing how far the tide had dropped during our conversation, "I need to be off now. He's not likely to approve of my little walks in this part of town".

We said our goodbyes and I waved her off, too shy to dare a kiss with a girl I'd just met.

A moment later I startled at a gruff, bemused voice behind me, then wheeled to catch a glimpse of a diminutive figure standing in the alley from whence I'd just come. "Y'know lad, if you've just found our stammering man, that's quite a disguise he was wearing."

"Mullod, were you watching this whole time?" I choked out with some embarrassment.

Mullod grinned, "Mostly. But as we didn't want to interrupt, we've started asking around without ye. And there'll be time enough for us to meet the lass later. Come on, lad, we've work to do."

And by the time we met up with Ash and Meeshak again, we were no closer to unraveling the mystery of the attempt on General Marcor's life.

At the Fencing Court

ON THE FOLLOWING morning (the third day since the party’s arrival in Lynar), Nina strides confidently into the d’Aramant section of the Patriarchs’ Palace, wearing the best new clothes that Marcor’s gold could buy. It doesn’t take long for him to find a circle of similarly preening young men and women.

Agerain senses the newcomer and turns from chatting up a d’Nerein girl to fix Nina with a hard stare. “Who are you? I haven’t seen you in this part of the palace before.”

“I’m your cousin Anseron,” Nina replies, trying to sound natural. “From Mercon’s side of the family. I’m here for the muster.”

Agerain looks him over, then snorts contemptuously. “You’re no d’Aramant, Anseron.” Nina stares back at him, trusting in his disguise. Agerain continues to size Nina up, until his lips bend in a fierce smile and he finishes his sentence. “Not until you’ve blooded a d’Loriad at the fencing court!”

NINA FINDS HIMSELF swept up in a crowd of whooping young d’Aramant cousins and marched down to the heart of the d’Nerein palace, where several dozen young men (and rather fewer women) are practicing their swordplay. Four huge trees mark the corners of the court. Many of the young fencers look up in alarm at the sound of Agerain’s gang approaching, and quickly disperse, leaving a core of d’Loriads and a few d’Orbis in the middle of the field. Nina sees Atrix and his guardians among them, then notices Ontaya and the d’Orbis cousins, and has the sinking feeling that his disguise is going to be ruined by his own friends.

Atrix’s cousin Alan is the first to break from the d’Loriad pack and approach with an insolent grin. “Agerain, didn’t you lose badly enough last time we dueled?”

“It must be pleasant to be ever the winner in your own mind, Alan,” smiles Agerain indulgently. “We have a new cousin in town, named An...?”

“Anseron,” says Nina in resigned tones. Ontaya glances over with surprise at the almost-familiar voice. Atrix is looking half-quizzical, half-angry.

“And you’ve brought him down to take your punishment for you?”

“To see what he’s made of,” Agerain shrugs. He tosses Nina a rapier, then speaks quietly to Alan so Ontaya can’t hear. “To third blood?”

“Blood combat for your new cousin?” Alan says, drawing his own rapier and glancing around to confirm the absence of Castellan Reynalt. “You must not like him very much.”

Nina raises his sword. “Enough talk, d’Loriad. Let’s get this over with.” A ring of excited young nobles forms around Alan and “Anseron” as they circle each other. Nina holds in his mind what Kemeras taught him: observe, guard yourself, turn your opponent’s momentum against him. Alan is the first to lunge in, and comes away with a wound to his shoulder. The handsome d’Loriad is a good hand with a blade, but he never manages to land a blow on Nina, who matter-of-factly stabs him twice more and steps back to roars of approval from Agerain and the d’Aramants.

“Right, Anseron,” says Atrix hotly, springing forward while Ontaya lays hands on Alan to close his wounds. “I don’t know what your game is, but you won’t get so lucky twice. On your guard!”

Nina and Atrix have sparred many times outside Kemeras’ cottage, and know each others’ strengths well -- but Nina always kept in reserve the most significant technique Kemeras taught him. He can remember the old ranger’s voice: You have the patience and intellect to learn one of the higher strategems, my girl. Master this trick, and you can turn a swordsman’s strength against himself. Nina can’t help but guiltily imagine Kemeras’ expression if he had heard that the first opponent Nina used the technique on was Atrix.

Nina’s blade becomes a blur around him. He doesn’t move toward Atrix or attempt to strike him at all. Atrix follows Nina’s rapier warily with his eyes, then strikes at him -- and despite Atrix’s extraordinarily high dexterity, Nina deflects the blow and sends Atrix’s sword flying back into his own shoulder, wounding him with his own blade. A gasp goes up from the watching crowd. Atrix attacks again with all his speed, and Nina ripostes, leaving him further bloodied. Stunned, Atrix tries to disarm Nina -- something he’s always been good at -- and finds himself struck a third time. Nina leaps back out of range and lowers his blade, trying to convey an apology to his enraged friend with his eyes. “Enough of this.”

“Yes, enough of this,” Agerain exults. “You’ve shamed enough d’Loriads for one day.”

“LET SOMEONE ELSE have a turn,” comes a flat voice. A muscular d’Aramant with dusty-blond hair pushes past Nina and stares bleakly at Atrix. “I’ve been waiting for you to come back, d’Loriad.”

“Bloody hellfire,” Atrix growls, shrugging off Ontaya’s offer of healing. “What do you want, Avric?” He’s all too familiar with the best and most belligerent young swordsman of the d’Aramants (before Nina inexplicably joined the Family). Shortly before Atrix’s departure for Rim Square, Avric had challenged him to a duel over a point of familial honor. The duel had ended with Atrix spectacularly disarming Avric, knocking his legs out from under him, and strolling away while Avric was trying to get his wind back.

“Do you people have to give all your sons names starting with A?” Nina mutters inaudibly.

“Just try to disarm me again, d’Loriad,” Avric barks. “Just you try.” The d’Aramants and d’Loriads begin pushing forward, yelling at each other, and it’s clear that at any minute the fencing court is going to degenerate into an all-out battle.

“The Castellan is coming,” Ontaya shouts, shouldering her way through the intensifying brawl. “If you want to stay out of Reynalt’s cells, stand down.” Agerain eyes Ontaya venomously, clearly considering a fight, but again decides the time isn’t right.

Meanwhile, Adgar and Gareth drag Atrix back to one of the trees. “Cos, you’ve got to keep yourself well away from Avric.”

“Oh, for Ain’s sake,” Atrix snarls, “just because Nin... this new d’Aramant cretin can stab me doesn’t mean I’m completely out of practice. I can still take Avric.”

“Do you know who the Swordsmarks are?” Adgar says urgently.

Atrix pauses, his anger receding in shock. “Yes.”

“While you’ve been away, Avric has been getting training from one of them here. He’s since killed one man and maimed five in supposedly ‘safe’ duels.” Adgar shakes his head. “We don’t want you to really die.”

Atrix looks back to the fracas, which has dissipated with the arrival of the bull-like, gray-haired Castellan Reynalt -- who is roaring that if he sees another naked blade, he’ll have the holder in shackles. Agerain and the other d’Aramants hoist “Anseron” onto their shoulders and parade him out of the fencing grounds, cheering wildly. Atrix swears under his breath and shakes himself free from Gareth’s grip, wincing as he feels the cut Nina just gave him across the ribs.

“Atrix?” A newly-arrived Darren taps him on the shoulder. “Can you spare a moment?”

Atrix looks over at the uncharacteristically nervous young tinker. “Are you all right?”

Darren considers for moment, then nods. “But I need to learn to dance.”

Atrix blinks. “To dance.”

“For the Ball,” Darren confirms.

“What, by tomorrow night?”

“Yes.”

Atrix wearily puts one hand to his forehead. “Right. We’ll see what we can do.”

The Dancing Lesson

THAT NIGHT, KAY brings Carwyn and Kyla their dresses, as well as the one she has made for herself. A delighted Carwyn insists that they go show them off to the d’Loriad boys. Kyla is feeling cheerful for the first time in weeks, but she’s still worried that some spiteful Arawai-hater might ruin the dress if she wears it out in the palace. So she pleads weariness and stays in their small room.

Carwyn sweeps into the d’Loriad palace, shimmering with jewelry from her gambling winnings, taking immense satisfaction in the fact that the bemused-looking young nobles who pause to watch her pass would never suspect her of being a kitchen girl. She and Kay come upon the incongruous sight of Atrix dancing with Darren, deftly dodging the tinker’s uncertain feet, while Meeshak looks on, grinning.

“Cousin!” Atrix exclaims, breaking away to hug Kay affectionately. “You look stunning. Does this mean we’ll have the pleasure of your company at the Ball tomorrow?”

“It certainly does,” Kay smiles. “Along with most of your new friends from Rim Square, it seems. Father and I have already met two of them.”

“I think we’ll all be there,” Carwyn says. “Meeshak?”

“I’ve been invited by Chancellor Eliduc to help light the hall, and to hold up the wards against weapons and other dangers,” Meeshak confirms. “He’s a good man. Knowing that we’ve traveled together, he also invited me to co-preside at your wedding in three days, Atrix.”

“How appropriate to bring in a Sistechern,” Atrix says wryly. “No, I’m sorry, Meeshak -- I’ll appreciate your blessing. Kay, I don’t know if you’d heard. Father engineered this ridiculous alliance in my absence. He wants me to marry some d’Nerein girl for Family reasons.”

“Yes, Carwyn and Kyla mentioned it,” Kay replies. Behind the tone of sisterly sympathy in Kay’s voice, Carwyn thinks she hears a strain of deeper unhappiness-- which she’s also sure is completely lost on Atrix.

“What about Nina?” asks Darren, trying to change the subject. “Is she coming to the Ball?”

“I haven’t seen her in a few days,” Carwyn states. “She seems to have abandoned the kitchens. I don’t know where in the palace she’s staying now.”

“Oh, I’m sure she’ll show up,” Atrix says flatly. “And I’ll have a few questions for her when she does. But for now -- Kay, you’re one of the finest dancers I know. Do you think you could help Darren learn this step? He’s not leaning into me enough.”

MEANWHILE, ASH IS relaxing on the moonlit parapet of the d’Syrnon palace, having just finished a day of service to the knight who chose him as squire, Erivas d’Syrnon. He nods idly to a young noble striding past -- then furrows his brow as the young man unexpectedly addresses him in a harsh whisper: “Ash! I need to talk to you.”

“Nina?” Ash replies, uncertain at first. “Where have you been? And... when on earth did you dress up as a man?”

“I’m investigating the attempt on Marcor’s life, too, remember?” Nina hisses. “A kitchen girl can’t find out much. A young d’Aramant might be able to hear a few more things.”

“A young d’Aramant?” Ash echoes incredulously. “Nina... I know you’re good at disguise, but are you sure you can actually do that?”

“I’ve done it. I had to beat up a couple of d’Loriads to get there, though.” Nina glances around, nervous. “I can’t get near Atrix or Ontaya to explain, so I need you to do it for me. And also tell Carwyn and Kyla not to worry... but I’m not coming back to the quarters.”

“All right,” Ash offers. “I’ll do that now.” Nina murmurs his thanks and disappears. Ash shakes his head in mingled admiration and disbelief, then heads down toward the section of the palace where Carwyn and Kyla have been staying.

He arrives just in time to see a frightened-looking Kyla marched out the door by three swordsmen wearing featureless gray tabards. Freezing in the shadows, Ash avoids their notice, and stalks after them with a total silence learned in the woods of the Harak Rim. They pass through the lower reaches of the d’Loriad section and arrive at a lone spire on the outskirts of the Patriarchs’ Palace: the Merle Tower.

Master of the Orrery

KYLA REPRESSES A shiver as the armed strangers shut the heavy oak door of the Merle Tower behind her. She has no idea who the men are or why they’ve brought her here, but when they knocked on her door, they made it very clear that she would not be allowed to refuse their invitation. The insignia-less guards march her up a shadowy stairwell with many recessed doors to a third-story hall with a grand orrery in it -- a mechanical model of the nine moons in their orbits, revolving and pulling on each other through an intricate system of gears and weights. One large window looks out over the dark city of Lynar.

Three strangers are waiting there: an old man with long gray hair and a comforting aura of calm; a shorter, grim-looking man whose fine robes do not quite conceal a hunchback; and a tall figure, seated, whose features are completely concealed by a great hooded cloak.

The old man waves the guards out of the room, closes the door, and asks Kyla to sit. When she remains standing and silent, he smiles kindly. “I understand your wariness, my dear. I apologize for the abruptness with which we summoned you here. But we are engaged in an errand that could see us all slain if any find out about it.”

“Who are you?” Kyla asks, barely audible above the creaking and whirring of the orrery.

“I am Aleander, sage and historian of the Five Families -- particularly the ones who, unlike the d’Syrnons, are not interested in writing their own histories. It is my calling to travel the earth and bring back wisdom in the defense of Senallin.” The old man gestures to his shorter companion. “This is Malchus the Cofferer, keeper of the treasury of the Patriarchs. And our third friend... well, he will remain nameless, but rest assured that he means no harm to you or your people.”

“What do you want with me?”

“You are Arawai,” Aleander says simply. “Yet you travel with an army whose sworn aim is to conquer the plains and enslave your people. Where do your true loyalties lie?”

Kyla’s fear and distrust are momentarily overwhelmed by a pang of confusion. “I was raised in Senallin, and my loyalty is to my friends.”

Aleander stares penetratingly at her for a long moment. Kyla feels a sudden vertigo, as though she has been caught up in the revolutions of the orrery, and has to look away. She hears the old sage speak as if from a great distance: “I can not expect you to trust us if we do not trust you, so I will be open with you. I have long been a friend to the plains people, and do not think this war will profit either Senallin or Arawai. It is madness to think that Senallin can digest Arawai without weakening itself gravely against Aradur, Kedris, and Velnar. At Guardwatch, according to the plan of the generals, some two thousand Northern soldiers will be sent to flank the Arawai forces, to trap and destroy them. We need someone to warn the plainsfolk of where the army will really be. We need the Army of the North to fail.”

Kyla feels a purse pressed into her hand by the hunched, dour-looking Malchus. She opens it to see the unmistakable gleam of Patriarch’s Gold. “I can not accept this,” she says quietly.

“Girl, you have no choice -- and nor do we,” says Aleander, a stern note entering his voice. “You may need that gold and the authority it represents if anyone questions your intentions in Guardwatch. Our hooded friend will find you there before the battle and tell you of the exact time and place where this surprise attack will be. The Arawai will listen to you -- will trust you. Thanks to you, the Army of the North will be turned back, Senallin will not become a fat and weak target for its neighbors, and the plains will be safe from invasion for a generation or more to come.”

“Meanwhile,” Malchus grates, “if any word of this reaches the generals, our plan will collapse, the Arawai will be wiped out -- and you yourself will surely be executed for your part in it. We can see to that.”

Kyla remains frozen, completely unsure of what to do. After a long moment, the hooded man raises one hand and makes a small, cryptic gesture. Aleander sighs sympathetically. “Dear girl, I know we are asking a great deal of you. You will not see any of us again before Guardwatch. I ask only that you say nothing of this to anyone, and use that time to think through your loyalties.” He calls to the guards, who escort Kyla out of the Merle Tower.

BACK IN HER rooms, Kyla stares mutely at the dress Kay made for her until a knock on the door makes her jump. She opens it a crack. “Ash? What... what are you doing here?”

“I saw those men take you to the tower,” Ash says simply. “I managed to hide in the stairwell. I couldn’t hear everything, but I heard some of it. Did you see the face of the hooded man? Did he speak at all?”

Kyla yanks Ash into the room. “No! No, he didn’t say anything. And we can’t say anything either.”

Ash looks uneasy. “Kyla... I would never want to do anything to get you in trouble, but if they are seriously trying to betray the Army of the North, we need to stop them. Those men could be behind the attempt on General Marcor’s life -- it was a hooded man who hired the assassin.”

“The hooded man is behind all of this,” states Kyla unequivocally. “If we don’t have any more idea about who he is, it won’t help even to give up Aleander. The hooded man will escape, and the Army will still be in peril. We need him, not his mouthpiece.”

“And if you don’t see him again until Guardwatch?” asks Ash doubtfully.

“Then we’ll stop them then,” Kyla insists. “We’ll catch him. Ash, we can’t say anything now. We can’t trust what we just heard there -- they’re trying to use me somehow. We don’t know enough to say anything.”

A troubled Ash returns to the d’Syrnon library and leaves a note in the battered history book: The sage Aleander and Malchus the Cofferer are likely to be part of this plot. Be careful, my Lord.

Kyla spends the night staring sleeplessly at the ceiling. You travel with an army whose sworn aim is to conquer the plains and enslave your people. Aleander’s gentle accusation echoes over and over through her head until dawn.

The Grand Ball

THE FOLLOWING DAY passes quickly. Meeshak works with Eliduc and the other priests to prepare the Great Hall of the Patriarchs with wardspells for the Grand Ball. As the afternoon shadows lengthen, both the blue moons, Yulynis and Tenesgar, become clearly visible in the sky. “We’ll have true moonlight tonight,” says Chancellor Eliduc with satisfaction. (Senallines and other Northerners believe the world was created by Ain with the blue moons as the strongest light in the night sky. The white moon Casander was added later, by necessity, to ward off nocturnal demons. While the white moon’s “hallowlight” is accordingly held in reverence, blue moonlight is considered more natural and comfortable).

The gentry and wealthy classes of Lynar begin arriving in their finery to wait at the main gate, while the Families gather with their personal friends and retainers at the five private portals to the Great Hall. At sunset, the assembled priests sing a prayer for light (Meeshak in a slightly raspy bass), and the vast chamber glows as though a small sun had appeared in its upper reaches. Chamberlain Gall calls for the five portals to be opened, and the Families make their entrance. Atrix, Carwyn, Darren, and Kyla enter with the d’Loriads; Ontaya enters with Ellikard, Emerath, and her d’Orbis cousins; Ash accompanies the d’Syrnon knights; and Nina strides in at Agerain d’Aramant’s right hand.

The Patriarchs’ college of musicians has provided its finest performers for the Ball, and as the music rises, the dancers move out into the center of the hall. Carwyn and Alan are among the first on the floor. To her delight, Carwyn finds Alan to be as good a dancer as she is, and she revels in the looks of admiration and envy they’re attracting from other couples. A small part of her feels uncomfortably out of place, though, and she finds Alan just a little full of himself. And despite herself, she finds that once or twice her mind drifts from the glorious ballroom to the dingy tavern where she gambled with Lune.

Kyla feels her gloved hand taken by Gareth d’Loriad. The quiet young man lifts her veil, saying, “You won’t need this tonight,” with a smile as he swings her into their first dance. Kyla doesn’t protest, even though she hears the gasps and disdainful murmurs from all around -- An Arawai at the Ball? At this Ball? What is that d’Loriad boy playing at? She does her best to let go of her weary anxiety and just enjoy the feeling of proximity to Gareth. To her surprise, when the first dance is over, Adgar and the other young d’Loriads back their cousin up by clamoring for the next one, and it’s half an hour before she works her way back to Gareth again.

AGERAIN DOESN'T IMMEDIATELY join the dancing, instead slowly circling the hall to regard his rivals, with Nina and Avric in tow. He scowls when he sees Atrix bow to Sarele and lead her out onto the floor. “She must not marry that d’Loriad ass. What is her father thinking, with all of his obligations to us?”

“Herena tells me that Sarele doesn’t want it, but her father is determined,” Avric offers.

“Well, I suppose we’ll have to dispose of the d’Loriad, then,” frowns Agerain. “The timing is all wrong.” His face creases into a mirthless smile again as he sees Gareth and Kyla. “The d’Loriads always were dirty barbarian-lovers. That makes our job easier.”

Nina shrugs casually. “They’re not as strong as they think they are. So... they’re trying to win over the d’Nereins. What about the d’Syrnons?” He isn’t sure whether Agerain would know much about any d’Aramant plot against Marcor, but information has got to start somewhere.

“They’re cautious. Always cautious.” Agerain glances over to Nina sharply. “And we want them to stay cautious, and the d’Orbis who think they can make common cause with d’Loriads to be frightened. Your sword can help with that, Anseron. We don’t need them to love us. But we do need to keep the d’Nereins in tow.”

Eventually Avric goes off to dance with his betrothed, Herena, daughter of High General Athriam d’Aramant. With a crooked smile on his face, Agerain beckons Nina across the crowded hall and points to Atrix and Alan. “Take them in one... two... three...” He cuts in during a second when Sarele is standing finger-to-finger with Atrix and sweeps her away, leaving Atrix standing alone on the floor. Acting on instinct, Nina does the same and finds himself dancing with an annoyed Carwyn. “It’s me,” he whispers.

Using her best gambling face, Carwyn manages to show no sign of surprise. “What the hell do you think you are doing?”

“Infiltrating the d’Aramants,” Nina replies dryly. “My name is Anseron, lovely lady.”

Carwyn smiles and says, “We’ll talk later,” through her teeth, twirling back toward Alan.

ATRIX ADROITLY STEALS Sarele back from Agerain, who steals her back again... at which point Atrix notices his cousin Kay in the crowd of gentry who have just entered through the main gate. She’s wearing the dress he saw last night during the dancing lesson, but with her hair unbraided and her cheeks flushed with excitement, the overall effect is rather different -- and quite new to Atrix. He looks back at Sarele, who is laughing with Agerain and seems to be deliberately ignoring him.

“Milord,” says Kay with a curtsey, beaming as Atrix strides up to her.

“I... am stunned,” says Atrix with a bemused grin. “Forgive me. Last night when I said you looked stunning, I hadn’t the least idea what I was talking about.”

Kay laughs warmly. “Cousin, you can’t charm me. You’ve already told me and Jonathan all of your tricks.”

“No tricks, then,” Atrix offers. “Just a dance?”

Dancing with d’Aramants

MEANWHILE, DARREN HAS been scanning the room for Calla’s blonde hair and finally spots her sitting on the d’Aramant side of the hall, looking a bit forlorn. He hurries around the ballroom, getting increasingly unfriendly looks as he moves deeper into the d’Aramant section. When she sees him, her eyes light up. “Shipboy!” A couple of her cousins snicker, others glower; Darren ignores them and asks her to dance. To his relief, she’s clearly only a little more experienced than he is, and they whirl inelegantly but happily across the floor together for nearly an entire dance.

Then a hand descends on Darren’s shoulder, and he turns to see the angry blue eyes of Avric d’Aramant. “Who are you, and why are you dancing with my cousin?”

“My name is Darren. Darren Adrecks,” replies Darren, startled. “I don’t mean to give offense to anyone -- certainly not a cousin of Calla’s. We were just dancing.”

“Does the General know about this boy?” Avric demands of Calla, ignoring Darren but not letting go of him. Calla looks suddenly miserable.

Atrix spies this budding disaster and dances Kay hurriedly but gracefully across the floor to tap Avric on the shoulder just as the music ends. “I’ve been looking for you, d’Aramant.”

Avric spins around, his face contorting further. “d’Loriad -- what do you want?”

Atrix arches his eyebrow and pauses for a strained moment, not wanting Avric to realize that he’s protecting Darren. He’s interrupted by a rattling tabor, signaling the beginning of the tirriesc -- one of the most challenging and fast-paced of dances, with flourishes that are at times almost acrobatic. “A challenge, Avric,” Atrix says cheerily. “A tirriesc. Can you manage it?”

THE FLOOR EMPTIES out, with only a handful of couples remaining -- including Atrix and Kay, Avric and Herena, and Carwyn and Alan. All are excellent dancers and begin well. In the midst of the first movement, however, Avric tries and fails to trip Atrix. In instant, unthinking retaliation, Atrix catches Avric’s foot with his own and sends him and Herena flying. A surge of laughter goes up from the crowd; the shamed couple limp off to the sidelines.

Atrix shrugs apologetically to Kay, and then gets distracted again by the feeling of her in his arms as they whirl around and he lifts her into the air. “Thank you, cousin,” he says, a little hoarsely, when the tirriesc is over. Kay doesn’t say anything, just smiles shakily and walks off.

Moments later, the flushed and bruised Avric stalks up to Atrix. His voice cracks slightly with the effort of keeping it low. “Well, d’Loriad, when and where shall it be?”

Atrix stares at the infuriated d’Aramant, and a thought occurs to him. “I’m busy tomorrow. Morning on the day after?”

“Your wedding day. How appropriate. Choice of weapons is yours. Make your peace with Ain.” As Avric turns on his heel and leaves, a thin-lipped Sarele takes his place.

“Milady,” Atrix says, bowing.

“I see you maintain your interest in sundry other women. Most improper.”

“It was only a dance, milady,” Atrix offers wearily.

“Was it?” Sarele asks sharply. “I have heard rumors, Atrix d’Loriad, that your cousin Adgar has renewed his hopes of being my husband one day. Are you looking for ways to break our betrothal? Even if it were possible, I would not wish him.”

“Rumors?” says Atrix, a little shocked. “Vicious things. Not worth listening to. And there’s nothing wrong with Adgar, he’s a very nice man.”

ATRIX'S DEFENSE IS cut short by a trumpet blast, as the four Generals enter the hall: Marcor d’Syrnon, Sarquin d’Loriad, and Athriam and Mercon d’Aramant. An enormous cheer goes up from the assembled crowd, along with a spontaneous chorus of The Armies March to Arawai. Sarele pushes Atrix away and moves stiffly back to the d’Nerein section of the hall.

Darren cranes his neck to see the generals, and sees that Mercon, the towering, sandy-bearded leader of the northern d’Aramants, is walking straight toward him. Indeed, Mercon appears to be looking straight at him, with an increasingly flinty expression on his face. It takes Darren a few seconds too long to realize why this is -- indeed, it doesn’t quite strike home until he feels Calla remove her hand from his.

“My guardian,” she breathes. “My uncle.”

Darren averts his eyes as Mercon sweeps by, beckoning Calla curtly after him. “I’ll find you,” he promises almost inaudibly as she turns to follow. There’s no fear or sadness in his voice, and Calla shoots him a quick, fragile smile before vanishing into the d’Aramant crowd.

THROUGHOUT ALL THIS, Meeshak has been sustaining the light charms on the hall and taking weapons off various rowdies (many of them d’Aramant) at the portals. After several hours, he notices that he is being watched intensely by a stony-faced man with close-cropped white hair and beard, wearing priestly robes and the iron needle of the Sistechern Order. The strange priest walks over. “You make your prayers and charms in a familiar way.”

“The god we serve is One,” Meeshak replies evasively. “He inspires many of us in familiar ways.”

“I am Astacius of the Sistecherns. To what Order do you belong?”

“I do not belong to any Order,” Meeshak states, knowing that if Astacius knew the full truth, he’d do his best to have Meeshak captured and killed -- the typical Sistechern practice for apostates.

“Hmmm.” Astacius frowns. “An Order-less priest is defiled in the sight of Ain.”

Annoyed, Meeshak points upward to his contribution to the light. “We’ll let Ain be the judge of that. I don’t see your light here, brother?”

Astacius scowls and stalks away. Meeshak wonders idly whether the severe-looking priest still has the blessing of Ain -- he used to know several particularly cruel Sistechern priests who managed to lose it and were reduced to mere torturers, with no power to their prayers.

AS THE BALL winds down, Carwyn turns from dancing to rumor-mongering -- one of her favorite skills -- and manages to cull a few rumors from the crowd. (General Sarquin d’Loriad is growing weak and incompetent; Mercon d’Aramant is a better general than Athriam, but has accepted a lower role in exchange for a huge grant of land; the Merchant’s Brotherhood is raising the price of grain on a pretext; the dwarrow are leaving, migrating east). Carwyn also notes a distraught-looking Sarele standing with her friend Herena and speaking to General Athriam, Herena’s father. She tries and fails to eavesdrop on the conversation, but she thinks she catches one familiar name: “Adgar.”

Better to be Feared

DURING THE FINAL dance of the Ball, Agerain claps a hand on Nina’s shoulder, a taut smile on his face. “Right, Anseron. Time to get our own back on any friend of the d’Loriads who was here tonight. Do you want to be with the group watching the way back to the d’Orbis keep, or the d’Syrnon?”

“Uh -- d’Orbis,” Nina says coolly. He heads off toward the portal where Meeshak has been standing, casually looks back to make sure the other d’Aramants are out of earshot, and whispers, “Agerain’s boys are going to be ambushing any friend of the d’Loriads they find.”

Meeshak shows no sign that he’s heard Nina’s warning, but leaves a few moments later to pass the word on to Atrix and Alan. As Nina rejoins the d’Aramants and strides out the door, he glimpses Alan and Atrix heading toward Jaron d’Syrnon and Ontaya. Nina assumes correctly that they are quietly inviting them to spend the night in the safety of the adjacent d’Loriad keep.

The word doesn’t get out to all of their friends, however. Crouched in the shadows of the Patriarchs’ Gardens with eight other young d’Aramants, Nina sees Ontaya’s cousins Ellikard and Emerath walking back toward the d’Orbis keep. He tries to force a sneeze to warn them away, but they fail to hear him and walk straight into the trap. Within seconds, the two d’Orbis cousins have been grabbed, pinioned, and dragged off the main path into the bushes.

Agerain looms up out of the shadows. “You’ve been spending too much time with the d’Loriads and their friends, Ellikard. I thought you d’Orbis valued a balance between Families.”

“You think you can treat us like this and not affect our stance?” Ellikard gasps. “Let my sister go, you bastard.”

“Oh, we won’t hurt her.” Agerain leans in to kiss Emerath; Nina, who’s got one of her arms, can feel her shudder. “That’s right, you prefer girls. Where’s that girl-kissing coward Ontaya when you need her?”

“I hear someone coming,” Nina lies. “Finish teaching the boy his lesson and let’s move.” Agerain frowns, but leaves Emerath and beckons over two other d’Aramants to help him beat Ellikard bloody.

After a moment, Nina lets go of Emerath, who twists away from her other captors and throws herself at Agerain with a howl of rage. The handsome lordling pushes her away, laughing, and gestures at his cousins to drop Ellikard. “Enough. We don’t want to kill anyone tonight. Not from a ‘neutral’ family.”

“Ontaya will have your throat for this,” Emerath spits.

“Let her come,” Agerain says eagerly. “Let her come.”

Orders at Dawn

BACK IN THE the d’Loriad keep, the rest of the party spends a restful night – until first light, when Gareth bursts in to Atrix’s room, with Alan in tow and Kyla and Carwyn close behind. “Adgar’s gone!”

Atrix is awake at once. “What? Where?”

Gareth gestures distractedly northward. “Two guards just showed up with written orders from General Athriam, ordering Adgar to ride out with them to meet the Aradurn host and accompany them to Guardwatch. I woke up Alan to try to stop them and send me instead, but none of us could countermand war orders from a High General -- and the orders specifically called on Adgar. We won’t see him again for weeks!”

“Bloody hellfire!” Atrix says with feeling.

Cousin Alan sits down on the bed, looking sleepy, slightly baffled, and intrigued. “I don’t understand. How much of a problem is this? I mean… I know he’s your ring-brother for the ceremony, but plenty of people get married without naming a ring-brother. And honestly, I’d never thought the two of you were that close.”

Atrix pauses. “Ah. I don’t suppose I can have your word to say nothing of this to anyone?”

“Knowing you, this has to be good. You can have my word.”

“Adgar wants to be married to Sarele. I don’t. We’ve been planning to make it look as though the d’Aramants had had me murdered, so my ring-brother has to take my place. I’m dueling tomorrow with Avric d’Aramant, which would have been the perfect occasion. But with Adgar gone, the whole thing falls apart.”

While Alan is still laughing incredulously, Carwyn leans in. “Sarele did this. I saw her talking to General Athriam last night at the ball.”

Atrix shakes his head in reluctant admiration. “I should have known she’d try something like this.”

“But one High General can replace orders from another, right?”

“Probably,” Alan answers Carwyn, wiping his eyes. “But I don’t think Uncle Sarquin will approve of your plan, ‘Trix. He’s one of the ones who’s been pushing for an alliance with the d’Nereins, and there’s too much that could go wrong with this craziness.”

“We don’t need his real orders,” Carwyn says. “Just something that will convince the guards with Adgar to accept Gareth instead. I can give you that.”

Alan looks slightly shocked. Atrix leans forward eagerly. “You can?”

Carwyn shrugs. “If you can find something with the seal of d’Loriad, I can make something good enough to fool a guard. Gareth can bring back the Aradurns, and we’ll get Adgar back here in time to replace you at the altar.”

Gareth breaks into a broad smile. “We’ll get Adgar his bride yet. I can get you a letter with Uncle Gereyd’s seal -- Sarquin uses it too. How soon can you have the new orders ready?”

“Give me an hour,” Carwyn says, shooting an apologetic glance at Alan, whose look of shock has begun to curdle into disapproval.

“Right,” Gareth nods. “I don’t know if we’ll catch them before evening, but it should be in enough time to get them back here. As soon as we’ve got the letter, I’ll leave. Someone should come with me, to make sure Adgar gets back to the palace. Who’s the fastest rider here?”

Kyla looks around and raises a hand, smiling slightly.

“Oh, of course.” Gareth’s grin and his embarrassment are both endearingly genuine. “You’re Arawai. I’d... never mind.”

Preparation for a Duel

WITH THE LETTER forged and Gareth and Kyla galloping north, Carwyn heads back to her quarters. Caught up in her reflections on whether she's wrecked her chances with cousin Alan, she starts when Nina steps out of the shadows. “N – Anseron, what are you doing here?”

Nina’s face is drawn. “Can you pass on a message to Ontaya that I did everything I could to protect his cousins last night? Agerain still... well, caught some of them.”

“I’ll tell her.” Carwyn looks around, her lips pressed together angrily. “Are you actually achieving anything by joining the d’Aramants – besides helping Agerain hurt people?”

“It’s been two days,” Nina says sharply. “Give me time. I could try to talk Avric out of dueling Atrix, if you wanted. Or feed him something that would make him sick.”

“No – I don’t think Atrix would want that. Maybe you could help with his plan.”

Nina nods intently as Carwyn explains Atrix’s scheme to fake his death. “Yes, I can help with that. But he’d better be careful. Atrix is faster than any of us, but Avric’s been training with his Swordsmark to counter speed. He’s obsessed with beating Atrix. I’m sure he plans to kill him.”

Carwyn nods shakily, and Nina hurries out to collect a half-dozen herbs from a shop just outside the gates of the Palace of Patriarchs. The apothecary raises an eyebrow at the request. “Young lord, take care. Mix these three wrongly, and you could stop your heart.”

“I’ll be careful,” Nina promises. He thinks back to his uncle Malagan’s lessons: Nephew, there will be times when, in following the vocation of the clan, you will find it very convenient to be thought dead. This poison slows your heart and breath for a day to the point where no one will detect them. Nina returns to the d’Aramant section and spends the afternoon brewing the poison.

ATRIX, ASH, AND Ontaya are in the stables making sure that their mounts and those of the knights they squire for are ready to ride out in two days. They hear an unwelcome voice at the doorway: “Hiding down here, d’Loriad? I hope you’ll be easier to find at your appointment with Avric tomorrow.”

“Agerain,” sighs Atrix, glancing over to see the d’Aramant and his inevitable entourage of armed cousins. “I suppose he’s chosen you as his second?”

Ontaya glares at the roguish d’Loriad, realizing what her friends have been keeping from her. “Duels are illegal, Atrix.”

“Oh, this will just be a friendly little competition,” ventures Atrix unconvincingly. “Nothing for the Castellan to excite himself about.”

“Ontaya, a few of your cousins fell afoul of some thugs last night,” Agerain cuts in, sounding mournful. “For some reason, Ellikard is blaming our Family. Shocking, in the absence of any witnesses besides his sister -- who is, naturally, unharmed.”

Ontaya’s eyes blaze, and she draws herself up to her full height. Agerain’s cousins draw back inadvertently. “You contemptible, vicious little bully,” the paladin says, her voice thick with outrage. “The Castellan will hear of this, and we’ll see which witnesses he believes.”

“Why do you always bring him into this?” Agerain laughs scornfully. “Come yourself, tomorrow, instead. Atrix and Avric will have their friendly competition, and we’ll have ours. Just you and me. Isn’t that what you say you want?”

Ontaya stares at Agerain for a moment, her breath coming fast in her nostrils. Then she shakes her head. “I will not countenance this. There will be no duels tomorrow, and you and your friends will face justice.” She stalks out of the stables.

Agerain sighs. “Always taking the coward’s way out.” He walks over to Atrix and drops his voice. “So, d’Loriad. It should be hard for her to find us on the wall west of the Merle Tower.”

“I’ll be there, d’Aramant,” Atrix promises flatly.

Avric’s Dilemma

SHORTLY BEFORE SUNSET, Nina heads up to Avric’s quarters with a phial of odorless poison. Through the door, he sees the blond d’Aramant swordsman, clad in the short, sweat-stained tunic he wears to his training sessions in the city. Nina knocks on the doorframe. “Evening, Avric. You’ve been out practicing for tomorrow’s duel?”

Avric is staring out the window. “You’ve had Swordsmark training too, haven’t you, Anseron?”

“You’ve seen me fight,” says Nina simply. He’d expected Avric to ask him about his training sooner or later.

“Did you ever meet a Swordsmark named Shect?” Avric turns his ashen, taut face toward Nina.

Nina manages to hide his shock. “The name doesn’t sound familiar.”

“At practice today my mentor Zaganin wasn’t alone. There was a scar-faced man with him, who wore the torc. They’d heard about my duel.” Avric swallows hard. “This Shect told me that if I actually kill the d’Loriad, he’ll take my head. He wants him alive – him, and two of his common-born friends.”

Nina nods with false calm, his heart racing. “So you have to beat Atrix d’Loriad without killing him. I can recommend something that might help...”

“Without killing him?” Avric interrupts thickly. “Without killing him, after what he did to me and Herena at the Ball?” He brings his knotted fists down on the table, which cracks deafeningly. “She’ll be limping for weeks, and will hardly speak to me for shame. Anseron, my own life is less important to me than killing that arrogant little bastard.”

“All right, all right.” Nina revises his plan of convincing Avric to poison his own sword. “We’ll find a way to fend off this Shect. You just focus on the task at hand.”

KYLA AND GARETH catch up with Adgar and the guards at the inn of The Last Day’s Stretch in the little town of Medvare. Gareth brandishes the letter from Sarquin urgently recalling Adgar to Lynar. The guards glance at the seal, shrug, and accept the quiet young d’Loriad as a replacement. Adgar tries to hide his elation as he embraces his cousin. Gareth gives Kyla a quick kiss, ignoring the contemptuous looks between the guards. “Make sure my luckless cousin gets back in one piece, milady. I’ll see you on the Arawai road.”

“Take care of yourself,” Kyla says quietly, feeling a twinge of fear as she wheels her horse around. I don’t want to lose you to this stupid war.