“That is the very reason your father and Jarl sought to create a council,” said Wynett. “That Hattim’s power might be bounded.”

  “Aye!” Kedryn’s smile spread wide across his tanned face, his brown eyes alight now with excitement. “And that is the way I saw when I held the talisman. The way, I believe, the Lady showed me.”

  “What way?" asked Wynett. “I do not see it."

  “It is so simple,” Kedryn grinned. “Let the council be established! Let it comprise men of Tamur and Kesh and Ust- Galich! Let those men be elected, not by hereditary right, or might, or precedent, but freely that they speak for their people. Let them sit in the White Palace! Let them promulgate the laws, determine tariffs, settle disputes. Let them call the Kingdoms to war if we must fight again. Let their tenure be limited—one year? Three? I am not sure, but if their seats are placed beneath them by the voices of their people there will be no one man able to outweigh the rest and the threat of ambition is removed.”

  Wynett stared at him with solemn eyes. “It is a revolutionary thought,” she said slowly. “Would it find acceptance?”

  “Do you favor it?” he asked. “You, whom I trust above all?”

  Wynett pursed her lips, touching her own half of die talisman as if seeking guidance there, then nodded: “Aye, I do. ”

  “It would free us,” Kedryn said excitedly. “We should be able to travel as we wish, knowing the Kingdoms were in loyal hands.”

  “Aye,” Wynett agreed, “but the others . . . Your father, Jarl . . . will they accept it?”

  Kedryn’s smile grew again. “They want me king, do they not? As king may I not issue proclamations? As king might I not divest myself of power?”

  “Speak first to Bethany,” Wynett suggested. “With her support you are more likely to persuade them. It is, after all, a notion that defies tradition.”

  Kedryn nodded. “I will. And to Estrevan, if necessary. Does your sister not wish to retire to the Sacred City? It would be seemly that she be escorted, and as king and queen, equally seemly that we pay our respects to the Sisterhood. Were we to travel with Ashrivelle, that would be an excellent opportunity for the council to establish itself—to demonstrate that king and queen need not be caged in Andurel.”

  “Estrevan!” Wynett grew radiant at the thought. “It has been so long since I was there; I had scarce dared think I might see that place again.”

  “Shall you change your mind?” Kedryn slid his arms about her shoulders, a tremor of alarm damping the fire of his excitement. “Shall you regret what you have given up?”

  Wynett saw the fear in his eyes and lifted her arms about his neck, drawing his face dose. “No,” she said firmly, “and you are foolish to ask it. I made a choice and that choice was blessed by the Lady: I have no regrets, nor shall have. Do you not know how I love you, husband?”

  Her hands tightened on his neck, bringing his face down as her lips confirmed her words, and Kedryn felt all doubts flee, holding her as the breeze freshened, warming, and the sun shone brilliant over the city.

  “Do you grow soft with this fine living?”

  Tepshen Lahl turned the downswing of Kedryn’s kabah, deflecting the long wooden practice sword off to the side as his own blade continued on an arc that ended, thudding, against his opponent’s ribs. Had Kedryn not been wearing the padded tunic, and the blades been steel, his side would have opened, the combat final. As it was he grunted at the force of the blow, knowing he would be bruised and in need of Wynett’s herbs ere long: Tepshen was a hard taskmaster, and in the matter of swordplay allowed no respect for friendship or status to interfere with his teaching.

  “Again, and this time pretend you know how to use a blade.”

  Kedryn grinned, backing away as he adjusted his grip on the hilt, studying his friend as the easterner assumed a defensive stance, the fulvous skin of the high-cheekboned face visible behind the bars of the practice mask unmarked by sweat, his slanted eyes impassive. He was a head shorter than the Tamurin and as unmarked by the passing years as a carved statue, his pigtailed hair jet, gleaming with oil, his breathing even despite a good hour’s hard work in the combat arena. Exactly how old he was Kedryn had no clear idea, knowing only that the kyo had ridden from the east to swear allegiance to Tamur while he was still a child. Since that day he had become what he called ahn-dio to the youthful prince, a father not of blood relation, he put it, a guardian and a friend and a true companion. It was Tepshen Lahl had taught Kedryn the art of the sword, and the hand-to-hand style of fighting favored in the empire he had fled, outlawed by an upstart and vengeful ruler, finding refuge and an adopted home in the hard, wild hills of Tamur, where the pride and the sense of honor of the mountain folk matched his own. No man might ask for a more loyal comrade, and Kedryn was grateful for the swordmaster’s friendship.

  Though that fact might not have been apparent to any who did hot know them, for Kedryn’s mouth opened in a snarling yell at the easterner’s words and he hurled himself forward, kabah lifting as though he intended to smash the blade through the wicker mask guarding the smaller man’s head and crush the skull beneath.

  Tepshen stepped sideways as the sword came down, his own moving to block and cut, but Kedryn turned in midstroke, shifting the direction of his swing without lessening its momentum so that his sword moved over the kyo’s, landing hard against Tepshen’s forearms. The blow slowed the easterner and Kedryn whirled away even as he thrust forward, his stroke reversing to hack against the padding over Tepshen’s back.

  Tepshen gasped at the force of it, his feet describing an intricate pattern as he sought to move out of range and turn to counter the attack Kedryn pressed home. The kabah clashed together, then both men were swinging away, returning, trading blow for blow until the kyo’s blade struck Kedryn’s neck where the high collar of the protective tunic masked the vulnerable flesh beneath and Kedryn’s landed in a side-swing against the padded midriff.

  “Enough.”

  Tepshen grounded his kabah, bowing from the waist. Kedryn followed suit, then pulled off one heavy glove so that he could unlace the latchings of the basketwork helmet and wipe a hand across his sweat-beaded forehead.

  “Perhaps you are not gone soft, after all,” Tepshen allowed, a feint approximation of a smile stretching his pale lips. “Though on that last cut we should both have died.”

  “You are still the finest swordsman in the Kingdoms,” Kedryn declared loyally.

  “I have an equal.” This time Tepshen’s smile was open, a rare occurrence, and Kedryn felt a flush of pleasure at the compliment: such praise was well worth a few bruises. He smiled back, essaying a deep, formal bow as Tepshen had shown it done in the sunrise land from which he came.

  “Do you anticipate further warfare, or merely enjoy drubbing one another?”

  The question came from die palisade surrounding the practice ground, where a man lounged casually on the tiered seats as if enjoying the noonday sun. He was a swarthy figure, his skin tanned dark as aged bark, his height closer to Kedryn’s than Tepshen Lahl’s, his eyes laughing. His hair was black and dressed in braids decorated with bright feathers and pieces of shell that tinkled slightly as he vaulted the wall and came toward them, his gait loose-limbed. The necklet of beadwork and the silver hoop suspended from his left ear combined with the rings on his right hand and the ornaments in his hair to give him a barbaric appearance at variance with the fashionable crimson silk tunic and loose-fitting breeks he wore. Indeed, looking at his face it was difficult to discern whether he was of the Kingdoms or the forests, for he seemed a mixture of Tamurin and Keshi and barbarian; which, indeed, he was.

  “You might benefit from such practice,” Tepshen answered mildly.

  “It looks far too arduous,” grinned the dark man. “I prefer to watch, idling like some noble in the sun.”

  “Does the Warden of the Forests laze away his time, Brannoc?” asked Kedryn.

  “My Lord,” Brannoc mocked an elaborate bow, white teeth gleaming against swart skin, “I deem it my duty to watch over the future king lest this eastern barbarian harm you.”

  Tepshen Lahl grunted amusement at the badinage and Kedryn grinned, thinking that since he had come back to Andurel to face Taws and Hattim these two had seldom been far from his side, appointing themselves his guardians despite the presence of Royal Guardsmen and the assurances of the Galichians that their loyalty was unswerving now that their dead lord had been revealed as a puppet of Ashar’s Messenger. He wondered how they would take his proposals, firmed now that he had discussed them at length with Wynett; wondered more how his father would take them. Soon, he knew, he must put them to Bedyr, and to Jarl of Kesh, both lords anxious to resolve the matter of the High Throne and establish him finally and incontrovertibly as king. It was necessary to settle it soon, he knew, for until that was done Ust-Galich remained lordless and it was needful that the southern kingdom have a ruler confirmed lest internecine rivalry lead to disruption. Yet he wanted, as Wynett had suggested, to speak first with Bethany, whose support as Paramount Sister of the Sorority College would be invaluable. Today, he decided, abruptly. The rites of purification over which Bethany presided were done, the White Palace cleared of all taint of Taws’s fell magic, so there was no longer reason to delay.

  “Then you had best come with us to the baths,” he declared, “for I shall visit Sister Bethany this noon and I’d lief wash this sweat from me.”

  Brannoc nodded amiably and fell into step beside them as they ambled across the sun-warmed sand to the low entrance that led to the bathing pools. The passageway was cool, their boots ringing on the tiles of its floor, announcing their approach to the servants who waited discreetly within the subterranean chambers. The thick-padded practice armor was swiftly removed and with Brannoc joining them, they plunged into the steaming water of the first great tub. It was large enough to accept a full squad of guardsmen, but to Kedryn’s pleasure, none were there at this time of day and he was able to relax without the pressure of knowing every polite inquiry veiled the one burning question: when will you announce your coronation. Instead, he could float in the heated water, talking idly with his companions of nothing in particular.

  He lay there until his stomach reminded him that he had not eaten since shortly after dawn, and rose to cross the patterned tiles to a second pool, where he soaped himself vigorously before plunging into a tub of cool water fed from the same springs that filled the others, but unheated, rising from that to accept the towel offered by a waiting servant. He dried himself and walked to the robing room where he dressed in a shirt of white linen surmounted with a sleeveless tunic of soft leather, bearing on back and chest the fist of Tamur. The breeks he pulled on were of matching hide, worked supple, fitting snug into the high boots presented him by Andurel’s finest cobbler. Indeed, all the clothes he now wore were of the finest materials, provided in quantity by the craftsmen of the island city in honor of their savior and ldng-to-be. He had never owned so many clothes, nor anticipated such modish apparel, being more used to the plain garb of a Tamurin warrior, and after finding his wardrobes filled with robes and surcoats and tunics cut in >11 the latest fashions had requested of the tailors outfits in the style to which he was accustomed.

  Tepshen Lahl drew on similar garb, though where Kedryn wore only the Tamurin dirk that was the custom of his people, the kyo belted a swordbelt about his waist, the ornately lacquered sheath containing the long, slightly curved sword that was the sole physical reminder of his homeland. Brannoc, like Kedryn, had forgone his customary Keshi saber, but a blade was sheathed on his waist, and to his left forearm, hidden beneath the billow of his sleeve, he strapped a throwing knife.

  “Do you anticipate treachery?” Kedryn asked, grinning.

  “Honest men need not fear the blade,” returned Tepshen.

  “And I do not feel dressed without a weapon or two,” Brannoc added. “A relic of my wolf’s-head days, mayhap.”

  Kedryn laughed at their caution and hung the blue stone of the talisman about his neck, letting his shirt cover the now- familiar jewel.

  “We go to eat and visit Sister Bethany,” he chuckled. “Not to war. ”

  “I had rather be prepared than find myself in need of steel,” Tepshen returned, his face solemn as ever.

  Kedryn shook his head, still chuckling, and made toward the exit and the corridor that would take them into the palace. He was not yet so accustomed to the place that he could easily find his way through the labyrinthine interior and several times halted to ask directions of servants or soldiers until at last he found the dining hall, the appetizing smells of roasted meats and fresh-cooked vegetables quickening his steps as he approached.

  The hall was no larger than Caitin Hold’s own dining room, for like his home, the White Palace was built as much a fortress as residence, but its appointments were far grander, prompting thoughts of gilded cages. Great windows of colored glass filled the hall with patterns of swirling spring sunlight that danced over the rich-polished boards of the floor, sparking off the golden sconces set into the stone walls and the elaborate chandeliers suspended on gilded chains from the high ceiling. Tapestries covered most of the stone, some ancient banners, others merely decorative, hanging between niches in which stood busts and pieces of sculpture, reminding him that Andurel was an artistic center as well as seat of government. Even the long tables and the high-backed chairs were of ornate design, contrasting with the simpler styles of Tamur, and the implements set upon die tables, and the goblets of artfully worked crystal, spoke of wealth. To many, Kedryn knew, this must seem a prize well worth the price of freedom’s loss, but he was Tamurin and set store on his ability to come and go as he pleased; an ability denied the occupant of this fabulous place.

  Flanked by Tepshen Lahl and Brannoc he made his way down the hall, nodding greetings as he went, to the dais at the far end, feeing the minstrel’s gallery that stood above the door. There a smaller table faced the rest, the diners all seated on the one side, one chair left empty as custom dictated until a new king be crowned to take Darr’s place. To the left of that vacant seat stood his own chair, Wynett already settled beside it, her wheaten hair bound up now, her gown pale green, the talisman the only ornament she wore or, Kedryn thought as he smiled at her, needed. To her left sat the nobility of Kesh, the hawk-nosed Jarl, dressed in the sable robe that was the customary garment of the horsemen, the chest marked with an equine head, silver on green. On his left, her gown a rainbow, sat Arlynne, his wife, then Kemm, his son, a plumper version of his father, his features amiable where Jarl’s were naturally stern. To the right of the empty chair sat Bedyr Caitin, straight-backed, his features an older mirror of his son’s, lean and proud, almost austere, save for the smile that spread his wide mouth and the laughter that shone in his brown eyes as he turned from some sally of the woman at his elbow to greet Kedryn. He wore a surcoat of dark blue, the fist of Tamur on the breast, his hair, like Kedryn’s long and brown, but streaked now with gray, a color that had not yet touched his wife’s raven tresses. Yrla Belvanne na Caitin seemed to her son ageless as Tepshen Lahl, her lovely oval face unlined, her eyes a gray that matched the silken sheen of her gown, the hand that touched her husband’s smooth and delicate as that of a woman half her years. Kedryn bowed to them all and took his place, Brannoc and Tepshen finding seats to Yrla’s right.

  “I shall have need of your healing skills,” he said to Wynett, quickly, hoping to forestall the questions he knew the others were impatient to ask, “Tepshen has delivered more than one bruise.”

  “I am at your service,” she answered, the twinkle in her eyes telling him she understood.

  Arlynne leaned forward to speak past her husband’s stocky frame, her gaze curious. “Do you then retain your talents, Wynett? I thought them lost with your—” she broke off, suppressing a giggle as Jarl glared at her, "... marriage.”

  Wynett smiled happily, unabashed by the Keshi queen’s forthright manner. “They are reduced, Arlynne. I can no longer sense injury, or magic, nor apply my mind to speed the healing process, but I retain my knowledge of medicine. I can still mix remedies; and what I was taught in Estrevan remains with me.”

  Arlynne nodded thoughtfully, the bangles hung about her wrists jangling as she adjusted the voluminous sleeves of her gown, cheerfully ignoring her husband’s impatience as she said, “And you consider it a bargain well made?”

  “Oh, yes,” Wynett replied as Jarl gasped. “How could I not, with so handsome a husband?”

  Jarl snorted, ringed fingers drumming for an instant against the table, a signal his wife seemed to recognize, for she smiled and closed her mouth.

  “Forgive me,” said the Lord of Kesh, “I have no doubt the Lady blesses this happy union, but there are more pressing matters at hand.” He looked along the table, seeking support from Bedyr. “Are there- not, my friend?”

  Bedyr nodded, turning serious eyes toward his son.

  “Have you thought on it, Kedryn?”

  Kedryn nodded, his face grave as he answered his father’s stare. “I have. Long and hard, and I will give you my answer soon.”

  It felt strange to prevaricate, for they had no secrets and always in the past Kedryn had sought his father’s advice, trusting to Bedyr’s wisdom to guide him. It was, perhaps, a mark of his growing maturity that in this matter he was determined to make his own decision, unwilling to discuss his stratagem with any but Wynett. In a way he was afraid to present it openly, here at the dining table, for he was not certain of Bedyr’s reaction, knowing his father’s loyalty to Darr had been unswerving, and that Bedyr had not seen any alternative to his acceptance of the High Throne.

  “How soon is soon?” Bedyr asked. “The Kingdoms wait on your announcement, and Ust-Galich must have a lord ere long.”