So, Ashar intoned when he was done, releasing his grip to let Darr fall shuddering to the seething strand, I have it. Go.

  The shade that was Darr rose unsteadily, compelled by the god’s will, and shuffled back toward the mist that extended tendrils as if in welcome. Ashar watched him, promising later vengeance, and turned himself, stepping proudly to the edge of the canescent lough, where he stooped to dabble a hand in the viscous liquid, fervid eyes concentrated on the surface as his mouth moved in silent speech.

  When he was done he rose and disappeared, that place where he had stood shimmering for a while with baleful red light as the tattered gray wings of the batlike creatures fluttered anxiously, their piping voices raised in reedy chorus.

  In Estrevan Paramount Sister Gerat felt an unseasonably cool wind brush chill fingers over her face and wondered if the prickling sensation dancing like tiny needles over her skin was a product of the building storm or something else.

  There was, undoubtedly, a storm building. To the east a band of livid sky hid the bulk of the Lozins, massive banks of black cumulus hanging above, moving ponderously westward as if in pursuit of the azure that dominated that part of the heavens. Billows of white fought briefly with the black, and were engulfed, or sent scudding and streaming from the celestial combat as their darker opponents took the victory.

  The windgrew stronger, tainted with the odor of rain, and across the underbelly of the great cloud mass flashed shafts of brilliant light. Unconsciously Gerat counted off the pauses between lightning and the ensuing peels of thunder, remembering how she had done the same as a child, calculating the arrival of the storm. She smiled, the expression a mingling of amusement and apprehension, and felt the first droplets of rain touch her cheeks. Within moments the droplets had become a downpour and she retreated from the balcony of her chamber, stepping back into the room as globules of water lashed the stone outside, splashing over the sill to rest translucent on the polished boards of the floor. The chamber grew dim as the storm settled over the city, lit only by the dancing tendrils of levin that stalked the rooftops as if some airborne behemoth trod on insectile legs above Estrevan. She felt her hair stand up as the world became a shadow show, all darkness and brilliance, alternating, great racking booms echoing against her eardrums as the rain beat a manic tattoo upon the stones of the balcony and the droplets shining on the floor became a pool of light-shimmered effulgence.

  And then it was gone, sweeping westward, the canescence to the east brightening to welcome blue, white cloud repossessing the sky, sailing in alabaster billows across a cerulean backdrop that mirrored the reemergent sun.

  Gerat stood at the threshold of the balcony, studying the sparkle of rain on the rooftops, unaware that her slippers rested in the puddle left by the storm. Equally unaware as she turned away that she left a trail of dark footprints across the rosewood boards, leading from the portal to the desk on which sat Alaria’s Text and several other volumes of carefully bound parchment. She settled herself in the high-backed chair, smoothing strands of glossy black hair into place with an absentminded gesture as she returned to her studies, not quite sure what it was she sought in the ancient volumes.

  The Text she now knew almost by heart, able to quote Alaria’s enigmatic words with a facility to match Sister Lavia’s, but what intrigued her was its possible correlation with other, mostly earlier, writings of the Sorority’s visionaries. Those of Sister Qualle were of particular interest, plucked from the oldest shelves of the library by the diligence of the acolytes she had entrusted with the research. She turned the pages of that tome now, wondering who had scribed for the illiterate Sister, and what they had made of her seemingly meaningless ramblings. The original document had long crumbled into dust and what she held was a copy of a copy, and thus possibly subject to alterations, but even so it seemed to her that Sister Qualle had preceded Alaria in her warning of Ashar’s interventions in the affairs of the Kingdoms. Lavia, she knew, disagreed, as did Jara, and by common consent those two were the finest antique scholars in living memory; yet she was unable to rid herself of that doubt that nagged at the edges of her mind, that conviction that the fight was not ended with the Messenger’s defeat but merely held in abeyance.

  She turned the ancient pages carefully, smoothing each one as sunlight filled her chamber again, the slightly musty odor of the vellum joined now by the fresher perfume of rain-washed air, the inking seeming to glow in the radiance of the afternoon. A frown drew lines across her forehead as she studied the archaic language, her lips shaping words no longer in common usage, her blue gaze darkening as she found the passage she wanted—or had hoped not to find, she was not sure which.

  She read it slowly, then again, faster, and then a third time slowly, each time the meaning remained unchanged and her frown grew deeper. She pushed the tone aside and reached for Alaria’s Text, her long index finger tracing a passage already marked with the indentation of her nail, then returned to Qualle’s words.

  The sun still shone when finally she looked up, and the sky was still blue, but Gerat’s gaze was somber and sighted not on the heavens but on the words burning within her mind. For long moments she sat staring blindly at the rectangle framed by the balcony door, then she rose to her feet, pacing across the chamber to throw open the door and call for an acolyte.

  A gangly girl in a pale blue gown answered the Paramount Sister’s summons, listening carefully to her instructions before scurrying like an eager puppy to do her bidding. Gerat returned to her desk and once more read Qualle’s words, then closed both that and Alaria’s Text, folding the two books against her bosom as she quit the chamber and made her way through the corridors to a room furnished with a single large table and five plain chairs. Two walls were of blank stone, the others windowed so that sunlight filled the recesses, burnishing the oak of the table’s top to a lustrous glow. It fell on the straw-colored hair of the young woman who sat facing the door, lending a honeyed glow to her tanned skin, and on the untidy brown strands of the homely woman seated beside her.

  Gerat nodded a greeting and said, “Porelle, Reena—thank you for coming so swiftly. ”

  “Your summons had the ring of urgency,” Porelle answered, curiosity in her light brown eyes.

  Reena pointed to the books Gerat carried. “You study the Text again, Sister?”

  “And Qualle’s,” Gerat confirmed. “But shall we await Lavia and Jara? I would have them hear what I need say.”

  Reena nodded, glancing at Porelle, who shaped a little moue with her rosebud mouth, her expression dubious. Reena smoothed her blue gown, content to wait.

  She did not have long, for the door opened to admit two older women, one silver-haired, her face creased as a winter apple, age stooping her shoulders, the other stood straighter, though the gray that predominated in her dark hair suggested she was only a little younger. “What is it?” she asked without preamble, seating herself across the table from Porelle and Reena.

  Gerat waited until the older Sister was settled in a chair and sat down herself at the table’s head.

  “We are the council of Estrevan,” she began, interrupted by the silver-headed woman, who turned age-dimmed eyes toward the two volumes resting on the oak and asked, “Is that Qualle’s book?”

  “It is, Jara,” Gerat nodded, “and I have been reading it.”

  “It is of little but historical interest.” Jara’s tone was dismissive. “What meaning it might have had is dissipated by age.”

  “Mayhap,” Gerat allowed.

  ‘There is no mayhap to it,” said Jara firmly.

  “Let our Sister finish,” suggested Lavia. “I see concern in her eyes, and she would not have summoned us so urgently were this not a matter of some importance.”

  Gerat smiled her thanks and opened Qualle’s book to the page she had earlier studied. "I would ask you all to read this,” she said. “Or perhaps you, Lavia? Your tongue accommodates the old language better than most.”

  Lavia nodded her agreement and took the book, reading aloud.

  “I do not understand,” Porelle said when she was finished. “What is so urgent?”

  "Do you not see a meaning here?” Gerat asked.

  “It parallels Alaria’s Text,” Porelle allowed, “but the prophecies set out there are fulfilled, surely?”

  Reena murmured agreement. “The Messenger is defeated and soon Kedryn Caitin will assume the High Throne. How does that passage go? Jara, you have it, do you not?”

  Jara closed her watery eyes a moment, then grunted softly and said aloud, “The Chosen One shall take the seat, his queen beside, and peace shall reign.”

  “I saw the conqueror defeated,” Lavia quoted from Qualle’s manuscript, “and he was driven into fire and l saw him no more.”

  “Read on,” urged Gerat. “The latter part.”

  Lavia’s brow creased as she studied the page. “And I saw he who was raised up go down into the earth where dwell the worms of corruption, and yet they could not overcome him for his purpose was high and I saw the love of his fellows sustained him that he be not forgotten, nor those he loved. And l saw that he brought them to her love, for such was the strength with which she vested him that not death himself could overcome, neither his worms, not his sundry minions that dwell beneath.”

  “Do you see it now?” Gerat demanded.

  Porelle shook her blond head, her expression confused. Reena said, “Surely it refers to Kedryn’s death. But that is long away.”

  “It has a certain merit as poetry,” said Jara, “but I do not think it has the relevance of Alaria’s work—and as Porelle has said, the terms of her prophecy are fulfilled.”

  “There is something else.” Gerat reached across the table to bring the book closer, her eyes scanning the ornate lettering. “Listen: And I saw that what he had fashioned for his deathly purpose was his undoing, for that which he had fashioned He had imbued with his own strength, that death himself might he slain, should life and death be joined."

  ‘'The meaning is unclear,” Lavia suggested, studying Gerat’s face, “and Qualle’s sanity has been questioned by scholars.”

  “She was mad,” Jara said bluntly.

  “Surely it is a poetic assumption,” said Reena, encouraged by a nod from Porelle. “I am not a scholar such as my Sisters, but it seems to say that the Lady’s salvation awaits us all.”

  “It refers to death in the masculine,” said Gerat earnestly. “Nothing else I have read does that.”

  “Archaic custom,” said Jara. “Lavia, what is your opinion?”

  “It was custom,” Lavia agreed. “How else do you read it, Gerat?”

  “I believe Qualle used the masculine because she spoke of Ashar,” said the Paramount Sister.

  Frowns of doubt and incomprehension met the announcement. Jara snorted, “Nonsense.”

  “I do not see it,” said Lavia, though her tone was, like her expression, less certain.

  “Tell us your doubt,” asked Porelle.

  “I believe Qualle warns of Ashar’s meddling,” said Gerat slowly. “I believe that Kedryn feces some further test before his task as the Chosen One is done.”

  “But what?” Reena demanded. “Alaria’s Text is obscure enough, but this . . . ,” she paused, shaking her head, dislodging fresh tendrils of untidy hair, “ . . . this defeats interpretation.”

  “Mayhap,” Gerat said wearily, “but I feel there is more. I cannot rid myself of the feeling.”

  “Your talent extends toward clairvoyance,” Lavia murmured. “Are you certain of your doubts?”

  “No.” Gerat shook her head. “They are no more than that— doubts.”

  “What would you have us do?” Porelle asked pragmatically, glancing at her companions as she asked, “Does any here claim understanding of Qualle’s words?”

  Negatives answered her question and she went on. “Then I do not see what action we might take, Gerat. Warn Kedryn? Of what? Ashar’s Messenger is defeated and soon Kedryn will be crowned. There is peace in the Beltrevan and it seems the tribes turn from Ashar, weakening his power. Within the

  Kingdoms he is reviled, and he cannot cross the Lozin barrier. Of what should we warn the Chosen One? That Ashar is his enemy? He knows that. That he will one day die? He knows that, too.

  “What would you have us do?”

  “I had hoped that one of you might enlighten me,” Gerat responded without rancor. “I had hoped that one of you might read in these words what I believe I find there.”

  “We cannot,” said Porelle gently. “I find nothing there save old poetry. ”

  “Likely dictated by a mad woman,” nodded Jara. “You know that Qualle died before she took her final vows? The title of Sister is an honorific. ”

  “I know I cannot rid myself of this doubt,” Gerat said. Then, “Reena, what have you to say?”

  “I echo Porelle,” answered the homely woman. “I cannot believe this is anything of much importance.”

  “Lavia?” asked Gerat.

  Lavia pursed her lips, staring for a while at her intertwined fingers before turning toward the Paramount Sister. “I am doubtful of Qualle’s validity, but wary of your doubt, Sister. I place little faith in the book—more in you. Do you have some plan in mind?”

  Gerat sighed, wondering again if what she felt was nothing more than paranoia. “I believe that these words should be transcribed and delivered to Kedryn,” she said at last. “I believe they refer to his future and should be communicated to him.”

  “That can be done easily enough,” said Lavia.

  “I believe also that I should communicate them,” Gerat said.

  Shocked silence greeted the announcement, broken by Porelle.

  “You are the Paramount Sister of Estrevan. The Paramount Sister does not leave the city.”

  “Besides,” Reena added, “will Kedryn not come here? By custom the new king comes to seek the blessing of the Lady in the Lady’s city. You may communicate your fears then.”

  Gerat shook her head. “I cannot explain it, but I feel that will be too late. Kedryn must know before he journeys here.”

  “It is against all precedent,” said Jara in a disapproving tone. “Against all custom.”

  "And based on a feeling you cannot even explain,” said Porelle.

  “Let one of us go,” suggested Lavia. “I have visited Caitin Hold before—I could meet Kedryn there.”

  “No.” A note of authority edged Gerat’s voice. “These are my doubts and may become clearer to me as time passes. If I am right and some threat stands betwixt Kedryn and Estrevan, mayhap I shall feel it clearer when I meet him. But whether I be right or wrong, I feel I must alert him as swiftly as I may. And the swiftest way is for me to go to him.”

  “Your mind is made up,” Lavia said softly.

  “It is,” Gerat nodded, realizing quite suddenly that she had been working toward this decision for some time. “I shall leave Estrevan in your hands and depart as soon I may.”

  Kedryn let slip a slow sigh and stretched back in his chair as another lengthy round of discussion ended, the westering sun bright on his face, dust motes floating with balletic grace in the beams that found their way through the tall windows of the council chamber. He studied them idly, thinking that it was far harder to see through his plan than he had anticipated. It had seemed so simple when first it came to him, and he had succeeded in persuading the others of its worth easily enough, but he had not foreseen the endless debating necessary to its precise formulation. That a council should be formed and assume the bulk of regal powers was agreed, but the membership of that first council had to be settled, and the extent of its powers, and the duties remaining to the king, and a myriad other intricate matters of protocol that left his head swirling and his mouth dry. Honest battle, he thought wryly, was less trying than this diplomatic game.

  He reached for the decanter occupying a space among the litter of papers and filled a goblet with wine, grateful for the support of his parents in persuading a still somewhat reluctant Jarl that he should depart for Estrevan on the first foil moon after his coronation, that thought reminding him that he must first suffer the interminable ceremonies that Arlynne and his mother planned to mark his enthronement. It seemed nothing was simple in Andurel, and that all must be accompanied by banquets and balls and receptions of one kind or another, each one requiring his attendance, and each attendance requiring some fresh outfit of the restricting formal regalia the two women had explained were de rigueur for such occasions. Even Wynett had joined them in this, and he had found no support from Bedyr, who was himself acquiring a wardrobe that would have elicited laughter in the halls of Caitin Hold.

  His home seemed far away in that moment and he suffered a pang of homesickness that he stifled with a long draft of the chilled wine and the silent promise that the full moon should see him on the Idre, bound for Caitin Hold. He would sail upriver as far as Gennyf then strike overland to Caitin Hold, stay awhile there and then ride on to the Morfah Pass and Estrevan. After that, he knew, he must return to Andurel, but by then the council should have proven itself workable and he would be able to depart again, perhaps to visit Kesh, or even travel south into Ust-Galich.

  The contemplation of such journeying cheered him and he realized it was less the absence from his homeland that he regretted than the notion of finding himself imprisoned in the White Palace. The somber expression that had clouded his youthful features faded behind a smile and he glanced about the room. Bedyr and Jarl were locked in discussion of some formal point, while Arlynne was holding fprth to Yrla on the choice of music she felt appropriate to the banquet that would follow the coronation; Tepshen Lahl and Brannoc were engaged in debate on the merits of eastern longsword and Keshi saber, and Wynett had already excused herself, explaining that she wished to visit Ashrivelle. Sister Bethany was rising to leave, and Kedryn rose to meet her at the door, motioning for Tepshen and Brannoc, still following him like mismatched watchdogs, to remain behind.

  “Sister,” he said quietly, “there is something I would discuss with you.”