Chapter Twenty-Two

Maerad brushed her hair till it gleamed in the glow of the candles and carefully pulled back the front into a braid that fell down her back. She wore the dark blue gown with creeping flowers embroidered in silver into the bodice. When she stood to examine herself, she appreciated the illusion of curves the dress created. The door opened and Lyla entered, something glittering in her hand.

"I found this piece for your hair. Something for him to comment on when conversation runs dry," she said wryly. It was a comb decorated with a sapphire flower with gilt edging and Lyla fit it snugly into the braid. She took a step back, admiring the younger woman. "Be sure when you curtsey he gets a nice view of your breasts. I'm not sure we shouldn't tug the stomacher down just a little."

Maerad looked around the room distractedly, not entirely enjoying the thought of her body on display. "I thought you had a shawl I could use to cover up with it?" she asked sharply.

"I do, but I think on the first night, it is wiser to let him see your attributes. If you're too shy, he'll be bored." She saw Maerad's eyes flash and waved a hand dismissively. "Halfway through the evening, suggest a walk then. I'll offer you a shawl to keep the cold off and you can wear it the rest of the night. Better?"

"I don't like this," Maerad said stiffly. "I feel like I'm betraying my lord."

"You're giving him a good reputation. Every man wants a desirable woman. If all the Grins' sons are running after your skirts, but you choose him, it means he has something they don't. They'll be jealous and he'll be smug."

Maerad eyed her narrowly. "I sometimes think you just make this advice up."

Lyla's laugh was like tinkle of rain. "Oh, come now. I've been doing this long enough to know what I'm saying. Let us go meet these men." She linked her arm in Maerad's and led her to the stairs. "And do remember to smile, you look so much nicer when you do."

Maerad felt a shiver race up her spine as they made their way to the base of the stairs and into the sitting room where Maerad had previously played for the Grin. Jarl was seated at a couch, sipping a glass of brown liquor, deep in conversation with a young man. When Lyla entered the room in a flurry of fabric, both men rose respectfully. Maerad, a step behind Lyla, paid close attention to the other woman's gestures.

"My good lords," she said by way of greeting, dropping down into a curtsey. Maerad followed after a beat, sinking as low as her knees would allow. She could feel the intense gaze of the Grin's son on her, but she kept her eyes down. When Lyla came up, a smile was on her face. "How good of you to start drinking before we could serve you."

Jarl laughed good-heartedly. "A little liquid courage never went amiss."

Lyla paused just long enough to let Maerad know she was expected to respond. "Is courage a requirement for this evening?" She still had her firmly fixed on anything but the Grin's son.

"I've found nothing more perilous than a woman's smile," said the young man beside the Grin.

Maerad finally switched her gaze to the young man. He looked much like his father, with an angular face, dark hair and scruff on his chin and cheeks, but his eyes were lighter brown, almost gold, and his smile was young and reckless not predatory. When he beheld Maerad's face, he started, for he had not seen a woman with blue eyes.

Maerad smiled razor sharp then. "Maybe two drinks?"

"You'll join me for one." It wasn't a question, and Maerad bristled at the authority in the man's voice. Her first thought was to say no, but beside her, Lyla was smiling tightly.

"Maybe a little wine," Maerad agreed and followed him to the couch.

Under the deceptively sharp gaze of Lyla, Maerad served herself and Crestor each a glass of wine. She made sure to bend just so that her waist was on display, to tip her head so her long dark hair, scented with vanilla and lavender, fell around her face in a luscious curtain, to turn her wrists so the pale underside was revealed to him. She was also careful to mix her wine with water, as Lyla had warned her all sensible women did, and sipped it delicately. When she settled on the couch beside the young man, she carefully leaned against the pillow, accentuating the curves of her body.

Crestor raised his glass to her. "My father called you a songbird. Do you truly sing like a lark?"

"She does," Lyla interjected while she fixed herself a drink. "She makes the other girls jealous with her voice. The rest of us sound like dying rabbits."

"But even the best birds need partners sometimes. Do you sing?" Maerad asked. It was a bit of challenge. No one but a properly trained Bard could match her for skill, and if the boy did sing with her, he'd look the fool.

But he smiled and laughed. "A little. Perhaps later we can have a duet."

Maerad shrugged delicately. She had little desire to sing with this boy, especially when her last memory of playing with another person was Cadvan. This man couldn't begin to compare to Cadvan's skill or talent, and she hated the thought of sharing her voice with him. He had no right to hear her sing, and certainly no right to play alongside her. "Tonight, I'll perform for you. Perhaps next time, you can bring your instrument and we can share the stage."

The thought of a next time seemed to appease Crestor and his eyes gleamed. "I look forward to such an opportunity. Father thinks it's a rather foolish pastime, but I find music absolutely enchanting."

Maerad arranged her face into a smile. "I love music."

Crestor began what was, in Maerad's opinion, a boring conversation regarding the different instruments he owned and those he hoped to master one day. She managed to keep a smile on her face, but it felt hollow compared to the real joy she'd experienced when she was still free. She wondered how the boy never realized that her smile didn't reach her eyes and that she laughed too loudly and too frequently at his jokes, but she suspected he paid little attention to things beside himself.

Sitting in the room beside Crestor made Maerad sick. She wished more than anything that she was with Cadvan-wherever he might be. At least with him, she felt like her true self not playacting some charming, elegant woman. The longer she sat there, sipping watered wine, breathing weakly through a tight bodice and smiling blandly at the banter around her, the more she hated Crestor and Jarl and Lyla. She hated the brothel. She hated Dagra. And she hated Sharma for putting her there. Her heart ached for her brother and Cadvan and Saliman and she wanted nothing more than to dump the wine over the head of this idiot boy and go back to her room.

Perhaps Lyla guessed something of Maerad's mood because she placed her glass down loudly after some time. "Since the armies left and took all that soot and dirt with them, the sky has been exceptionally clear. Perhaps we can see the stars tonight?"

Jarl smiled indulgently at Lyla. "What is this young girl's fantasy of yours? Wishing on stars?"

"And if I am?" Lyla said in a hurt voice, though her smile belied the tone.

"My lady, your wish is always my command," he said, standing and holding out an arm.

Crestor watched his father's movement carefully before doing the same with Maerad. She took his arm and he pulled her a little closer than she thought was appropriate. "I care barely feel you there," he said conversationally as they passed into the back garden. "You're as light as a breath of wind."

Maerad smiled demurely down. Truthfully, she had no desire to look into Crestor's face and see whatever confusing mix of emotions the young man harbored for her. She much preferred the ground, but his words still required a response. "Well, larks need to fly."

"Not too far, I hope," Crestor returned. "Though, I imagine you've flown quite a long way from your home. Tell me, how did you end up here?"

Maerad felt her mouth go dry at the memory of the terrible march south and the days and nights spent in terror in the Dark Tower. Certainly, he wasn't asking for that? "It's a long story relate. Perhaps when we have more time I could tell it."

Crestor caught the undercurrent of her mood. He looked ahead and saw his father quite a ways on with Lyla and smiled ironically. "If I may guess, it is not a happy tale? Slavery is not uncommon, and among women, doubly so. I can't think of any other reason why a woman like you is here." When Maerad said nothing, Crestor leaned down so his voice couldn't be heard by the other pair. "Am I right in thinking that Madam Lena bought you?"

"I'm afraid it's not as simple as that, but yes," and here, Maerad faced him. Crestor was taken aback by the directness of her gaze and the proud tilt of her chin, "I was brought to Dagra against my will."

Crestor's mouth went dry because he, like Lyla, sensed a strange pressure building in the air. He didn't know what it was, he couldn't have known it was Maerad's Gift crackling like electricity, but he felt the change around him. "Where is your home?" he asked in the same low voice while the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

"Gone," said Maerad simply, shrugging her shoulders delicately. "It was destroyed a long time ago by the armies of Dagra. I escaped for a time, but I suppose I was always meant to be here, my fate just hadn't caught up to me until now."

Crestor had only the barest understanding of what Maerad had said, but he saw that she was uncomfortable, perhaps even upset, and tried to change the subject. "It's a shame things like that happen, but you've been fortunate at least to be found by Madam Lena. She takes good care of her girls." He paused, and when Maerad made no attempt to speak, he said, "And of course, you're not really a slave if you're here. You're a woman with her own things."

Maerad smirked. "Things Madam Lena provides."

"At first," Crestor said slowly, "but other things too. A proper mistress can make her way quite comfortably in the world. Lyla has done well of it."

Maerad was surprised that Crestor didn't sound bitter. Lyla was his father's lover after all, competition against his mother. Though she didn't know Milana well, Maerad was willing to wager good money she wouldn't have let her father keep a mistress. "Has she? I imagine a woman as resourceful as her could have been someone's wife."

"Not really," Crestor said after a beat. "She was born a slave on our plantation. My father sent her here when she was a little girl. I think he meant her as a gift for my older brother, but when he came to see her sixteen years after the fact to see if his investment had panned out, he fell quite in love with her."

Maerad was startled by this revelation. "She was a slave?"

"Yes," said Crestor matter-of-factly, "so she's risen quite high since then." He looked at her meaningfully, and Maerad understood the message he was trying to convey to her: if she allowed him to have her, he would set her up nicely.

I'd rather be stark naked in the tower with Cadvan than dressed in the finest silks with you, Maerad thought darkly. "If I am half as lucky as Lyla, I think I'll be quite happy." It was bland and careless statement, but Crestor seemed to like it, and returned to lighter conversation, a pompous smile on his face.

They made their way slowly about the gardens, Lyla constantly stopping to point out some star and coo about how beautiful the moon was. Jarl laughed at her innocence and promised there was nothing in the sky more beautiful than her. Maerad surreptitiously tried to mimic the way Lyla moved, copying her gracefully swaying hips, turning slightly here and there to give the boy with her a better glimpse of her figure. Though Crestor spoke to her, his eyes were on her figure, and Maerad was surprised by the flare of power she felt under her skin. Were men so very easy as that?

"And have you ever left Den Raven?" Maerad asked politely. It was another challenge: she had obviously travelled far and wide, did he have the means to keep up?

"Oh no," said Crestor seriously. "It's difficult to travel outside Den Raven unless you're authorized by one of the lords. My father took my eldest brother to the Suderain once to trade. He brought back gifts for the family."

Maerad dropped her gaze before Crestor saw the flare of fury in her eyes at the mention of the Suderain where Sharma had obliterated the Schools. "And have you any desire to travel?"

Crestor shrugged. "Perhaps, once roads are safer and the wars are over. You're from the north, is it very different from here?"

"Yes," said Maerad shortly.

"Then perhaps I'll have to bring you along as a guide," he said happily. "You can show me all the places in the north you've been."

Your master will have burned them to the ground, she thought bitterly. "It's a long road, but it could be a pleasant enough journey. With the right company and conversation and music."

"And do you have friends in the north?" Crestor seemed completely ignorant of the current climate and the fact that his people were making war on the Schools. If she had friends, surely, he must have realized they were in danger.

He's just a careless boy, she thought. "Some, but I have not seen them in a long while."

Crestor seemed unsurprised by this answer. She was a slave, after all, and friends and family were frequently left behind. He said indifferently, "Perhaps you will see them again when the war is over. They will be mightily surprised to find you put up in such a lavish house as this, I reckon. Perhaps they'll be jealous by your rise in status."

I doubt that Silvia will be happy to see me like this. "Perhaps I will impress on Mama Lena to buy my friends as well."

"So long as they're comely she'll make a handsome profit. People like you are rare this far south." Again, the brusqueness of his tone, the throw-away attitude toward innocent people, ruffled Maerad. "Though, if gossip it true, not for long."

"Listening to whispers?" Maerad asked. She kept her voice soft and playful, but the truth was that she was desperate for news from the north. The girls in the house had little care for wars and couldn't name a single country, let alone a School. But a Grin's son had to have knowledge of the tides of war.

"My father says it's not proper for a gentleman to gossip," Crestor said uncertainly.

Maerad gleamed at him the way she had seen Lyla do with Jarl, catching his eyes and holding his gaze firmly in hers. She smiled honey slow and leaned closer to him. "I promise not to tell."

"Our secret?" Crestor liked the idea of having a secret with Maerad. One more thread that bound them together.

"I won't even tell Lyla."

Crestor smiled rakishly. "They say that the great victories we won in the north have brought a bounty of slaves. Men and women and children coming south to work at the plantations will be here in a week's time, perhaps a little more."

Maerad managed to keep the smile on her face, but felt her insides go cold. Bards from Lirigon, she thought miserably. Bards for Sharma and his Hulls to torment.

"Father is quite happy about the whole thing. He wonders if he'll be able to buy some. It's difficult, you know, getting more slaves on your own. You can buy them, obviously, but that costs money, and breeding is even harder."

His words didn't even register with Maerad, who was thinking of Innail and Silvia and Malgorn and Indik and the rest of the people who had first introduced her to Barding. Sharma knows, he knows what they mean to me, and he'll do something horrible to them. And Malgorn…Malgorn is First Bard.

"… not sure it's worth it, though. New slaves are like wild horses, you have to break them in. When you buy a slave, one that comes from a line of other slaves, they know the score. They don't struggle against you, they just do as they're told. These folk from the north will have some will about them and we'll have to break it."

Maerad was jarred back into the present, Crestor's words turning her blood cold. Bards are like wild horses that need to be broken in? She clenched her fists against her better judgement. "My lord, I've taken a chill. Perhaps we can go back inside?"

Crestor, though, took the opportunity to draw closer. "But the night is so clear! Here, have my cloak instead." He removed his cloak with a flourish and draped it over Maerad's shoulders. She was so much shorter than Crestor that it pooled on the ground, dragging over the dirt. A flash of annoyance passed over Maerad at Crestor's complete disregard for her desires. "That will keep you warm even in the cold nights in the north, I guarantee it. And I think the color suits you quite nicely."

"Thank you, my lord," Maerad said through her teeth, gathering the cloak around her to cover her body. Beneath it, she clutched her hands together so tightly they hurt. "You're far too generous."

"I am selfish is all," he laughed. "I much prefer seeing you smile."

It was an order, Maerad knew, a veiled order, but an order all the same. Maerad obliged, casting him a wane smile that seemed to satisfy him regardless. "My smiles may be hard to come by," she warned.

"Then I shall have to do my best to chase them," Crestor said, and paused, watching his father turn a corner with Lyla. He caught Maerad by the shoulder and spun her to face him. She was so caught up in her thoughts of Innail, that she started when Crestor turned her about. "

"Yes, my lord?" Maerad asked evenly. She noticed nervously that Lyla was out of sight, and ungracious yelling would be the only way to draw her back. She was very much alone with this young man who thought he owned her evening. Under her cloak, Maerad felt warmth spread in her hands, White Fire, licking up her fingers.

"I mean only to catch you," he said in a playful voice.

"It's not so easy to catch the likes of this little lark, because she has a hawk for a mother," Maerad warned, rather pleased at the veiled threat.

Crestor was intrigued and drew her closer to him so Maerad was in the circle of his arms. She leaned back, debating whether or not to mind touch Lyla. "Ah, but I'm a master hawker."

"Is that right?" Maerad asked weakly and his hands pressed against the small of her back possessively. It didn't feel at all like Cadvan's hands had the night before he left, it didn't spread warmth through her body and make her shiver with desire, it just felt like the men in Gilman's Cot, grabbing at her during a riot.

"Indeed, it is." He held her firmly and Maerad couldn't turn. His eyes roved over her face, her neck, the swell of her breasts. "Where's your smile?"

Maerad threw caution to the wind. Lyla! she cried, reaching out for the other woman.

"Come now, little lark, a smile for an admirer?" His face was closer and Maerad could smell the liquor on his breath. She trembled at the look in his eyes when he bent his head to kiss her.

Maerad wondered what consequences might await her if she attacked Crestor with White Fire. She supposed Mama Lena would whip her and then tell Sharma, who would punish her brother. She wondered if Sharma might go as far as to hurt Cadvan upon his return. Still…the thought of kissing Crestor, of allowing him to touch her at all, left her reeling. "It's not right," Maerad hedged turning her face so he kissed her cheek. "It's not proper." She tried to pull away but he tugged back and then placed a kiss on her exposed neck.

By the Light, Lyla, come back! Maerad cried out again.

"What's proper to you?" Crestor asked, a hint of a sneer in his voice. "You're barely a mistress of this house, and I've heard about women in the north."

"Stop!" Maerad ordered, pressing her hands against his chest, but his grip tightened and he pulled her forward so she stumbled into him. She could feel the heat radiating off his body. "You don't know anything about me."

He laughed and finally captured her mouth in a kiss. It was horrid. Maerad felt his lips move against hers, forcing her mouth open and his tongue in. His teeth grazed her lips and she thought he would draw blood. One of his hands moved up into her hair and he twisted his hand around it, holding her in place, while the other drifted down and she felt it on her hip, then her rear, then lower still like he was trying to force her legs apart. She whined against him, which only seemed to excite him more, as Crestor attacked her mouth with more vigorous kissing.

When he broke apart to draw breath, he said, "I know you enjoyed that," he said, the hand on her legs inching to the front and grazing her thigh. "And I know for the right coin, there's more to it."

"No," Maerad hissed, feeling his fingers brushing the inside of her thigh and panic taking complete hold of her. "You've no right to go grabbing at me-"

"No right?" he laughed loudly. "I've all the right in the world! I'm the son of a Grin and you're in training to be a whore."

Maerad snarled, trying vainly to pull free. "I'm not a whore!" she spat and curled her hand into a fist like Indik had taught her. When her punch landed, he staggered a bit, surprised by the ferocity of the blow.

His dark eyes gleamed. "Maybe not a lark, but a little kitten with claws."

Maerad took a step back, spitting, "You've no idea who I am. Son of Grin? Who cares? My blood runs as far back as the Elementals, as the wild spirits that used to rule this land. You think a Grin impresses me? You think your father's wealth stuns me? I have seen things you wouldn't believe. I am things you couldn't imagine."

Perhaps her words stymied him because Crestor stared at her blankly for a moment. He felt the prickling in the air again and wondered what dark magic she was working, but when she neither attacked him nor ran, he felt his smug, drunken confidence return. "Are you? Because for all your clever threats I see only woman."

Maerad lifted her hands, ready to curse the insolent boy, but at that moment, Lyla turned to the corner. Maerad whipped around to face her, and though she was laughing at some jest of Jarl's, her eyes were sharp and dark, and they flicked between Maerad and Crestor, seeing everything but saying nothing. She floated forward imperiously, arm out for Maerad.

"I was wondering where we'd lost you two," she said, taking Maerad's arm and linking it through hers. She patted her hand, then jumped in surprise. "Why, Maerad, you're so cold!"

Maerad blinked once, confused, but a meaningful look from Lyla spurred her on. "I've been foolish. I always forget, for all my northern blood, the nights in the desert can be quite cold."

"Jarl, the poor girl needs the fire at once." Lyla drew Maerad against her tenderly. "And if that doesn't do her good, perhaps a warm bath and bed."

"A bath at the very least," Crestor said, watching Lyla rub Maerad's shoulders. Her pale face was turned to Lyla, and Crestor sensed growing tension between the two women. "Look at her, she's white as a ghost!"

Though Maerad wanted to scream, Lyla turned her so Crestor could present his arm and take her firmly in his grip. Maerad managed to gather herself so the anger that was pulsating through her was only visible in her heavily lidded eyes, and she allowed herself to be led back to the house, her gaze fixed on her feet. Jarl walked behind them with Lyla, and though the man didn't seem to notice anything wrong, Lyla did and kept close pace with them. Inside, Lyla suggested that Maerad play them some music and Crestor made a great show of arranging pillows before the fire so that Maerad could sit in its warm glow.

Despite her anger, when Maerad struck the first cords and began to sing, it was beautiful. You're Maerad of Pellinor, Daughter of the First Circle, Singer of the Gift, she told herself firmly, eyeing Crestor darkly. You were born to fight the Nameless One, and the Nameless One alone will stop your signing, not some pompous, jumped up boy. Her hands moved smoothly over the strings, a proud flag flying, announcing to Crestor and Jarl and even Lyla that she wouldn't allow herself to be made small by small men.

After her third song, Lyla applauded and stood. "You see, Jarl, why I cannot bear to share a stage with Maerad? She would utterly eclipse me. But I see too that she is still pale as the moon and shaking like a leaf. Perhaps a warm bath will ease you?"

Maerad carefully set the lyre aside and looked up at Lyla. "I would not want to ruin our evening."

"You're not ruining it at all," announced Jarl. "I could think of no better way to bid two lovely ladies goodnight than to the sound of your voice."

Crestor stood too, looking a fair bit put out by his father's pronouncement. "I will certainly sleep easy with the sound of your voice in my dreams."

Maerad was proud of herself when she managed a smile for him and bowed her head. "Sleep well, my lord."

Jarl led his son to the door, the women following closely. "We will call again soon. I will have business in town later this week when the stock from the north return, and I'll bring Crestor. Perhaps we should not dally too much outside. We can't have our little lark sick with a cold!"

Maerad smarted at his dismissal, but held out the cloak to Crestor. "You will want this, my lord. This lark has a warm nest to bed down tonight."

Crestor held up his hand, smirking at her. "Keep it, and think of me when you find yourself cold and in need of something warm."

Though she would have liked to be rid of it, Lyla bowed deeply. "You do Maerad a great kindness, my lord. She will not forget it."

"No," agreed Maerad, folding the cloak carefully and draping it over her arm. "I will not."

Jarl kissed Lyla on the cheek before bidding her goodnight, and Crestor planted a delicate kiss on Maerad's knuckles. She wanted to wash her hands. The women waited in the door of the house until the men had settled in their carriage and vanished into the night outside the gates. As soon as they were gone Lyla draw the door closed with a sharp snap, and took Maerad by the shoulders. She searched her face, her brown eyes wide and bright.

"Was that you calling to me?" she demanded, her voice low and angry. "Was that some dark magic of yours?"

Maerad blinked. "You heard?"

"Heard?" Lyla hissed. "You might as well have been screaming in my ear! By the gods, what happened?"

Maerad spun about, stomping up the stairs to escape her, but Lyla was on her heels. "Crestor is a foul man!"

"He gave you his cloak!" Lyla returned as Maerad headed down the hall. "He applauded your music and laughed at your jokes. He spoke to you like a gentleman."

Maerad threw open to the door to her room and flew through the door in a storm of blue, swirling fabric. She began tearing at her lovely braided hair, the lovely blue flower Lyla had given her. "He kissed me! I told him no, and he kissed me still!" Maerad fumed.

Lyla closed the door carefully behind her, aware that others might be listening, but loathe to be along with a witch. "Is that all?"

Maerad whipped about, face set in a grim line. "You said nothing would happen. Words and glances, you said! He was just assessing my value."

"Well, it's not always polite, but a kiss here and there is expected," Lyla shrugged. "Even Jarl took a few liberties."

"He called me a whore!" Maerad slammed her hand on the small desk and upset the mirror. It fell to the floor and shattered. "You said I wasn't a whore. You said I was a proper mistress."

Lyla's face darkened. "That wasn't very nice of him, but he is a Grin's son-"

"Oh, who cares?" Maerad raged. "A Grin's son? What is a Grin's son to me? What is a Grin's son to the daughter of Milana of Pellinor? To the daughter of Ardina?" Lyla frowned, and though she was unfamiliar with either name, she sensed a certain trepidation in Maerad's voice. These were important people. "His line is but a stripling beside an old oak. I won't have his hands all over me. I won't have him besmirch my name!"

Lyla pursed her lips and bent to gather the pieces of the broken mirror. "It was not right of him to have improper familiarities with you, but for all your names and blood, you must remember who you are. You're a woman who was bought by a man, a woman who works for Mama Lena."

Maerad said icily, "I will show you who I am."

Lyla swallowed, taking a step back. Maerad darted forward and she snatched up the pieces of broken mirror. For a moment, Lyla thought Maerad might attack her with them or throw them at her, but the other girl merely held them in her cupped hands. She watched, transfixed, as Maerad stared at the jagged shards of glass, and was shocked to see that her hands began to glow. Lyla blinked, sure it was a trick of the eye, but no, first Maerad's hands glowed, then her wrists and arms, then the skin at her chest and throat and even her face. It was a pale, silver light, like the moon on a full night. Lyle was so busy staring at Maerad she almost missed the moment when the pieces of mirror flashed like spitting candle and then fused back together.

Lyla stared at the mirror searching for words while Maerad contemplated her own reflection. After a moment, having seen something that obviously pleased her, Maerad held the mirror out to Lyla. "This is who I am. Who are you?"

Lyla saw only her pale, scared reflection staring back.

"It's like a farewell," said Saliman, more to himself than the Bards riding near him. "This ride to Innail. I am saying goodbye to every tree, every waystone, every trail I ever rode by but never explored. This place will never exist again."

Vaclal, who had emerged from his reverie, glanced up at Saliman. "Is the long goodbye harder than the short?" he wondered.

Saliman thought about the siege of Turbansk and the days and nights he had toiled pointlessly against the Dark. Then, too, he had known that the battle was futile: their fighting served only to let the innocent men and women and children escape the city. This time, there weren't even lives to save.

"I'm not sure time really helps," said Hekibel softly from her seat before Saliman. Since they had left Lirigon, Hekibel had ridden with Saliman and made no complaint about it. She preferred being in his company, knowing that she was safe within the circle of his arms and took comfort in his warmth and the vibrations of his deep voice. "Some hurts go too deep for time to make sense of them."

Vaclal stared shrewdly at the woman before looking back up to Saliman with a rueful smile. "All farewells are painful, it's just that I wish I never had to make this one."

Saliman leaned forward to kiss the crown of Hekibel's head. "You are wise, my dear. I think I shall have to keep you as my conscious from now on, least I fall prey to my own self-indulgent, dark thoughts."

Hekibel leaned back against his chest. "There will be a time for mourning, but I don't know that the road to war is it. Rest assured, when all is over and done, I will allow you all your pain and sadness." Hekibel's eyes darted to the figure of Cadvan, who was brooding in the saddle. "Other Bards might take my wisdom as well."

"You must forgive my people," Saliman said gently. "We are more keenly aware of the beauty in the world, and it hurts us deeper when it is destroyed. His home was destroyed."

"As was yours," Hekibel said not unkindly. "I fear that he is going mad."

"Cadvan is not going mad, he's just…" Saliman considered his friend. "He's sad. There is a sadness deep in his soul that few things will cure."

It was true that in the week since they had left Lirigon, Cadvan had been withdrawn, almost wraithlike. He rode with his hood up and his head bowed, even when there were no early spring rains. He would occasionally try to compose a ballad for the fall of the Lirigon, but not long after he plucked at the strings of his lyre would he drag his hands over the notes and stash the instrument roughly away. He ate little and spoke but a few words, his eyes were dark and desolate, his face set in a grim line.

"I think, perhaps, he will be a little better with Maerad. Though I don't pretend that this battle with Innail will go easy for him. He has good friends here, and after Lirigon, I think this place was like a home for him."

Hekibel watched Cadvan covertly. "It unsettles me to be around him. I feel like something is wrong in the air."

Saliman was impressed with Hekibel's keen sense and wondered not for the first time if she had a bit of the Gift. The unease she felt in Cadvan's presence was tenfold for Saliman, almost like a chill that reached into his bones. Saliman pitied him for it. "It is nothing to be afraid of, just a manifestation of his sorrow."

"Are all Bards like that?" Hekibel wondered, looking back at him.

"Only very powerful ones," Saliman said evasively. "We wear our Gifts like a cloak, and a foul wind can rustle it."

Hekibel chose to sequester that information away for later. "Will he get better?"

"With the right muse," said Saliman with the flicker of a smile.

Cadvan heard all of this, but he didn't comment, he didn't think he could. Since leaving Lirigon, he had been trying with little success to write the song for his fallen city, and it had put him in foul mood. Likud found his struggle amusing, often checking up on him throughout the day and asking how he did. He enjoyed riding alongside Cadvan, wondering loudly how long the siege might last, asking Cadvan if he missed his friends in Innail and would be glad to see them, suggesting Cadvan might even be happy for a swift, decisive victory because it brought him back to Dagra and Maerad sooner.

This last point drew Cadvan up sharply because he did miss Maerad fiercely, missed her more and more since the fall of Lirigon. Every night before he fell asleep, Cadvan pictured Maerad, sometimes seated before the fire in her pale, transparent shift with freshly washed hair dripping down her back in black rivers, other times curled up on a chair, watching him with her sharp, thoughtful gaze, still other times, curled up in bed in a beam of moonlight. It was these images that Cadvan kept in his mind as he rode to destroy Innail, these dreams he would fall back on when he saw the Black Army commit their atrocities, and her face he would picture when Likud tormented him.

Soon this will be over. For better or worse, I will soon turn my helm homeward to you. Cadvan glanced up, surprised to find they were in the shadow of the mountains, and he knew they were now mere days from Innail. I hope to the Light you forgive me for betraying the things you love, Maerad, but I do them all so I might see you again.

That night they made camp between the Weywood at the entrance to the valley of Innail, nestled right against the Osidh Elanor. From here it would take the entire Black Army two days at most to reach the gates of Innail, sooner if the slave drivers took a whip to the slaves. Cadvan eyed the mountains unkindly, thinking of Innail and Malgorn and Silvia and wishing they had fled when they had the chance. Beside him, Saliman and Hekibel were digging a pit to light a fire, and Saliman looked up at his friend.

"You have a look on your face that could frighten a wer. What are you thinking of, Cadvan?"

At first, it seemed Cadvan was took deep in his own dark reverie to respond, but after a moment, he turned to face Saliman. "I am thinking that very soon everything I love will be gone."

Saliman scowled. "Not everything, Cadvan. Maerad lives yet and you will be reunited soon."

"I don't think she will thank me for destroying the place she calls home."

"You said," Saliman reminded him, a serious look on his face, "that she promised to forgive you. When you gave your Name to save her she swore that she would forgive you anything because of her love for you. I think even this she will forgive."

Cadvan fixed Saliman with a thoughtful look before breaking into a sudden, crooked smile. "You have known me too well and too long, Saliman. Perhaps I will not thank myself for destroying something I love."

"I expected as much," said Saliman knowingly. "But here you have no choice."

Though Cadvan would have preferred words of comfort, he knew Saliman was right. There were no choices now to assuage his guilt and wishing there were would only lead him to pain. With a flash of a rascally smile, Cadvan said, "Then I will do as you recommend and be glad of it. Think only of what I have waiting for me in Dagra, not what I must face in Innail."

Saliman glanced sideways to where Hekibel was now washing her face and smiled sheepishly. "I sleep better for it."

Hekibel sensed both pairs of eyes on her and cast a wry look at the men. "It's impolite to stare."

"My lady, I do not stare, I merely admire from afar," Saliman said with a playful bow. "If I look on too long it is only because you have ensnared me."

"Careful little rabbit," warned Hekibel, joining them. She shifted a little under Cadvan's intense gaze and tried to ignore the sensation she was being read like a book. "My snares are treacherous."

"I think I knew this," Saliman said lightly. "I am a most willing rabbit in that regard."

Cadvan chuckled suddenly, making Hekibel jump a little. "Your huntress will go out of practice with you as the prey."

"Are you calling me bad sport?" Saliman asked with false outrage.

"That's what I heard." Likud had appeared from the shadows around their camp, his pale face split in a jagged grin. His eyes moved from Cadvan to Saliman then to Hekibel who stood between them. "Why do you run along like a good girl and help Iris with dinner? I'm sure these men folk are hungry."

Hekibel's face colored instantly at the dismissal. "I'm not a good girl."

"You'd better hope you are, or I'll have to make you one," Likud replied primely. His eyes moved to Saliman and he raised an eyebrow. "You can't possibly want her here, Saliman. Come now, send your woman away."

Saliman's glower was impressive, but his voice was even. "Hekibel, I think it best if you go help Iris. This will be nothing but talk of war."

She pressed her lips together in a tight line. "If you think that's best."

"Yes, run along and play with the others," Likud said flippantly, waving her off. "The adults are speaking."

Saliman took her but the hand before she lunged at the Hull. He rubbed the delicate skin of her inner wrist with his thumb. "Just go. I'll see you tonight and we can speak more then."

Likud watched Saliman's handling of Hekibel with keen interest. "That's impressive."

"What do you want?" Cadvan asked as Hekibel went to find Iris.

"We'll be in Innail soon, so I think now is the time to discuss how we will move forward." Likud led them to the small circle of fire that Vaclal and Finlan shared. When he saw the Hull approaching, Finlan paled because he didn't think he could stand another round of summoning the Hull would request. "Upon our arrival, we will have to move quick if we wish to capture the city and its inhabitants."

Vaclal eyed Likud darkly. "Shall we assume that Innail will go the way of Lirigon, or will you spare the city?"

Likud smiled sadly. "I'm afraid this city, too, must be put to the sword. There is a story that must be written, a lesson told in the history of our conquest. Maerad of Pellinor came into her own in Innail just as Cadvan's Gift bloomed in Lirigon and Cai and Saliman were of Turbansk. Our master commands their destruction."

Cadvan lowered his eyes when Vaclal glanced at him and the First Bard said, "Do not lay the blame for our School's destruction at the feed of good men and women."

"Good men and women whose behavior was such an affront to our master that he had everything they loved destroyed," said Likud glibly. "But we can debate that another day. For now, we will discuss what you four will do once the siege begins."

"You will batter the walls down and round up the Bards?" Vaclal said harshly.

"We will need the First Circle and as it so happens, two of you are quite good friends with them, aren't you?" Likud's red eyes moved to Saliman and Cadvan, sparkling with malevolent pleasure. "We have it on quite good word that the First circle is composed of four Bards: Indik, Kelia, Silvia, who is the wife of the First Bard, Malgorn. We will need all four alive, and as it happens, there are four of you."

Vaclal didn't seem surprised by the accuracy of the information Likud had. "It'll be difficult," was all he said.

"Not nearly. Cadvan here is on very good terms with Malgorn and Silvia, Saliman almost as close. So, as soon as the gates to the city are breached, you will all enter and locate a member of the First Circle." Likud paused, looking between Cadvan and Vaclal. "Cadvan, you will locate Malgorn and subdue him, Saliman you will find the woman, Silvia."

Vaclal noticed the sharp spasm of pain that crossed Cadvan's eyes and guessed at once that Cadvan and Malgorn were good friends. "You ought to send a First Bard after another First Bard," he said reasonably. "While I have no doubt that Cadvan is a capable warrior, I am a true match for Malgorn."

"Hardly. I suspect Cadvan is more than capable, besides, Malgorn and Cadvan are old friends. He won't suspect betrayal." Likud grinned and Cadvan blushed. "I always said you were a filthy, little traitor. It's your blood, commoner's blood."

Vaclal seemed ready to protest, but Finlan cut him off. "And you would send us to find the rest of the First Circle?"

"You might as well locate Kelia, you'll be far too weak to manage Indik." Likud's gaze flicked up and down Finlan. "Especially, after the four of you summon me another wight."

Finlan cringed. "You don't need one. You have more than enough soldiers."

"I want one," Likud replied with relish, "and you're going to summon it. Maybe even more."

"This is dangerous," Saliman said seriously. "The more of these creatures you pull through to this realm the more tenuous the barriers become."

"Your job, Saliman once of Turbansk, is to do as I say, not advise me. Or, would you prefer I go find that lovely young woman of yours and she and I can determine what your role is?" Likud held Saliman's gaze long enough for the Bard to look away. "Tomorrow, you four will summon a wight, the day after, we will be at Innail. Have you any questions as to your orders?"

Cadvan looked outright mutinous. The idea that he was going to have to find Malgorn and betray him to his capture left a foul taste in his mouth. He stared daggers at Likud, but suddenly felt the ominous pressure of the Nameless One in his thoughts.

Do not blame Likud for this, Cadvan. I told you, didn't I, that you were a uniquely Gifted Bard? I told you I could use someone like you.

Cadvan chose not to reply but dropped his gaze. It's not worth it right now to fight. Choose your battles, well, your battleground at least. Cadvan's thoughts turned back to Maerad in Dagra and the knowledge that here, at least, he couldn't defend her if he wanted. This is the price you agreed to pay. Perhaps, when all is said and done, Malgorn will forgive you.

"Where do we bring the First Circle when we find them?" Cadvan asked hollowly.

Likud studied him, only vaguely disappointed that he hadn't put up any struggle. "The Singing Hall. I'll be waiting."