"I may speak in tongues of men and angels, but if I have no love, I am a resounding gong or a clashing cymbal.

I may have the gift of prophecy and comprehend all mysteries and all knowledge. I may have the faith to move mountains butif I have no, I am nothing.

I may give away everything I own, and hand my body over so that I may boast, but if I have no love, I gain nothing by it.

Love is patient, love is kind. It is not jealous, is not pompous, it is not inflated, it is not rude, it does not seek its own interests, it is not quick-tempered, it does not brood over injury, it does not rejoice over wrongdoing but rejoices with the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

Love never fails. If there are prophecies, they will be brought to nothing; if tongues, they will cease; if knowledge, it will be brought to nothing.For we know partially and we prophesy partially, but when the perfect comes, the partial will pass away...

...Three things are eternal: faith, hope and love-and the greatest of the three is love."

Gary was walking purposefully down the corridor, humming an old ditty to himself. He turned a sharp corner, passed the door to his own room, and threw open the one that led to Raoul's. The tall knight was sitting hunched over his desk, his quill scratching on a piece of parchment. Around the desk pieces of half-scrunched up paper were lying forlornly where they had been thrown. Brushing back a piece of hair with an irritable hand, Raoul glanced up. Gary was leaning against the door with his arms folded, one eyebrow raised.

"What are you doing, Raoul? Writing love poems to Cyth?"

Raoul glared at him. "Don't try to tell me you haven't been scribing to Alanna for the last three weeks. I know what state your room's in."

Gary shrugged. "At least I can write poetry."

Raoul snorted. Whacking him lightly round the air, Gary darted out and snatched a scrap of discarded parchment. Raoul lunged for it, but Gary leapt back in time to unfold the paper and read aloud,

" ' Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate.

Rough winds may shake the darling buds of May…'

Bloody hell, Raoul!" Gary said, staring in shock at the poem in his hand, "Did you write this?"

"Of course not, you idiot!" Raoul snapped, brandishing his quill in a very threatening way.

"Oh, I didn't think so." Gary relaxed, grinning. "I'd hate to think you were going to desert us all and become a scholar."

"Me? No fear!"

"Eh, I couldn't see you in a deserted attic writing stories about imaginary people. Coming to lunch?"

They wandered off amiably down the corridor, still chatting vaguely away.

"Terribly boring people, writers."

"Oh, absolutely. No social lives. Not like you at all."

There was the sound of flash smacking flesh, and laughter echoing down the hall, and then they were gone.

The girls had taken their lunch out to the orchard, a supremely pleasant way to eat when you can control the weather and tell the fabric not to stain. The five of them were sitting in a little cluster in the middle of a gap In the trees, and were munching away quite contentedly on some roast duck.

And-just to make a change-they were talking about boys.

"It hardly seems fair." Cythera protested mildly, biting a piece off a bread rolll.

"Hmm?"

Cythera turned. Sandry rephrased her wordless question with unending patience.

"What doesn't seem fair, Cyth?"

"Well," said Cyth conversationally, "Here's you and me swooning hopelessly over Jon and Raoul, while Alanna, who is supposedly in love with Gary, is keeping utterly silent about er undying devotion, and Tris and Daja aren't in love at all!"

Alanna swatted Cythera vaguely with a napkin. "Just because some of us don't chatter constantly about it, doesn't mean we're not in love."

"Oh on, en," suggested Daja through a mouthful of apple pie, "Show us how much you love him."

"What kind of a question is that to ask?" Demanded Alanna. "Love is… love. You can't put it down with words. Words are just words."

Cythera shook her head. "You might not be able to express it all through words, but you can get the idea across!"

"Alright, then," Alanna said, in a voice that was as close to a vocal glare is it could be without coming out of her eyeballs, "Tell me what love is."

As Cythera opened her mouth, Alanna interrupted, "On second thoughts, don't. I know the way you go on with your ancient poets."

Daja, who was watching with a faint smile hovering on her lips, suggested, "The white traders-those of my people who carry goods over land-have a song they sing at weddings about love. It is very beautiful." Her white teeth flashed in a grin. "It is the first song we learn as children."

Tris sat up, as fascinated as ever with the workings of another culture. "You never told me that." She accused.

"Daja shrugged equitably. "You never asked."

"Will you sin it for us?" Sandry wanted to know. "You have quite a nice voice, you know."

Daja blushed slightly, but glanced questioningly and Aly and Cyth. The two Tortallans nodded encouragingly. Opening her mouth wide, the Trader-girl began,

Who can say

Where the road goes

Where the day flows

-only time

And who can say

If your love grows

As your heart chose

-only time

Who can say

Why your heart sighs

As your love flies

-only time

and who can say

Why your heart cries

When you love dies

-only time

Who can say

Where the roads meet

That love might be

In your heart

And who can say

When the day sleeps

That the night keeps

All your heart

Night keeps all your heart

Who can say

If your love grows

As your heart chose

-only time

And who can say where the road goes

Where the day flows

-only time

Who knows-only time

Who knows-only time….

The last note faded slowly, as Daja's low, clear contralto voice died away. After a moment she said quietly, "It sounds better in my tongue. That was a translation we use for non-traders. But it is still beautiful, don't you think?"

"Oh, yes." Agreed Cythera, still quietly, as though speaking too loud might tear the fragile air apart. "It is very beautiful."

There was a consensus of nods. Daja smiled with pride in her people.

Tris started speaking, just loudly enough to puncture the fragile atmosphere. The quiet, strumming tension in the group dissipated.

"Do you know," the weather-mage began, toying with the tassels on the edge of the picnic rug, "I was brought up to think that traders were evil?"

Daja laughed. "Right back at you, merchant-girl."

Sandry grinned. Turning to a confused pair of Tortallans, she explained, "Traders and merchants-that's Daja and Tris,- traditionally hate each other. I had my work cut out getting them past that."

Daja rolled her eyes, grinning. "That's Sandry," She teased, "Always seeing the best in people."

"You say it as if it's a bad thing!" Shot back Sandry, sticking her tongue out.

Aly and Cyth looked at each other.

They couldn't help it.

They burst out laughing.