A Season in Hell

by dorsata

Possessed of the Song, Sharma now has the power to cover the land in a second Silence more complete than the first. Maerad, Cadvan, Hem and Saliman are reunited in Dagra, but, as determined as they are to fight the Dark, they cannot escape their enslavement or the part Sharma will make them play in his new world. Sequel to These Violent Delights

19. Chapter 19

This chapter is pretty long and includes some adult content. Enjoy!

Chapter Nineteen

Ir-Ytan led Heme swiftly to their rooms, saying not a word. Hema, who had not spent much time among men she was not related to, assumed this was normal behavior and followed him apprehensively. They reached a set of rooms that were lavishly furnished by both Hema's family and the Nameless One, who had taken the opportunity to pillage the remains of Turbansk and have some of the finer goods arranged before him. Ir-Ytan glanced around, found a bottle of wine, and poured himself a liberal amount.

"You're awfully quiet," he said after a moment. He was lounging against the back of a chair, admiring the ruby in his hand.

Hema started, watching Ir-Ytan carefully for signs of the anger she had seen earlier. He was smiling ironically at her. "My father often says that is a good thing. It allows him to think clearly without distraction."

Ir-Ytan raised his eyebrows in surprise. "A fair-if brutal-statement."

Hema looked around the room, smiling at a piece of art hung on the walls that came from her part of the country. "Do you like the lodgings?" she asked instead of pursuing the conversation. "It reminds me of home."

"A privilege," he said darkly. Ir-Ytan finished his drink and looked down at his feet, mustering his energy. "Lady Hemalatha. You must realize this we have been brought to this marriage by no willing means. I have no love of you, and I would guess, by your reaction to me, you feel nothing either." He held up his hand to stay her words. "That being said, I am ordered to consummate this marriage, but despite what you may have heard, I have no desire to hurt you. Do you understand?"

Hema studied Ir-Ytan closely. He seemed honest in his statement, if a little sad. "I think that is fair," she said slowly.

"Then you know that we must…live as husband and wife tonight?"

Hema made a face. "I understand my duty. I am to be the mother of princes. There is only one way to get a prince."

Ir-Ytan smiled indulgently. "Do you know what that is?"

"We lay together." She said it in the same clipped tones of a parrot.

Ir-Ytan could not help himself. When he looked at Hema, he saw both her, and his dead mother. Her family had been at the battle, her family had beheaded his mother and sent it as a gift to the Nameless One. He placed his empty wine glass down and smiled at her, honey slow, and moved toward her languidly. He had the satisfaction of seeing her eyes widen in surprise.

"You are correct in that," he said easily, his eyes slipping over her. Her gown made of white silk extenuated the curves of her figure. Ir-Ytan knew she was lovely but the beauty was marred by her painful role in his life. "But I suspect you do not know what that means."

Hema recalled the blond woman she had met and the playful, if embarrassing, conversation. "I trust you to do the right thing."

That pulled Ir-Ytan up short. Trust him? They were enemies, weren't they? He looked at her closely, almost impertinently. She smiled nervously and he felt it like a blow. She wasn't her family, as Saliman had said, she was innocent of their crimes. She looked at him, confused.

"Hemaltha, you undo me." He looked down ruefully. "The truth is, I want to hate you for the role your family played in the destruction of my kingdom, but I see that you are innocent of this. I wanted to scare you, but I think in doing so, I betray myself. None of this is your fault."

Hema stared at him. What was the this he referred to? Had Hekibel been right? Did she not understand anything? "I am sorry if my family has hurt yours, but you must understand, we serve our master."

"Indeed you do." Ir-Ytan looked down. "Hemalatha, perhaps you and I can make an effort to be honest with each other in all aspects of our lives? We can be honest lovers?"

"I would like that," Hema said softly.

"Good." He looked around, ignoring the bedroom. "Would you like a glass of wine?"

Hema inspected the dark, red drink. "I usually water it down."

Ir-Ytan smiled indulgently. "I think we can manage that. You are, after all, the queen consort. You may take your wine as you please." He poured half a glass, then added enough water for the wine to turn almost pink. "This suits, yes?"

Hema drank it gratefully. "Do we sleep?"

Ir-Ytan shrugged. "If you like. I am not in the habit of forcing women to do anything they don't like."

She studied her fingers curled around the stem. "I will make myself ready for bed, then join you."

Hema finished the wine and hurried to the bedroom. She unlaced her gown, thinking of her mother's trite advice earlier that evening, and her hands started to shake. She took her time slipping out of the wedding gown and into a light shift and fur robe, and debated whether or not she had the nerve to leave the room.

You have a duty to your family and your people. You are the daughter of the most powerful Grin in all of Den Raven, she thought, brushing out the creases in the robe. You are a queen.

She emerged from behind the dressing screen to find Ir-Ytan lounging on a low couch. He'd divested himself of the elaborate wedding clothing and was in nothing but loose trousers and a white shirt. His hair was let down from the knot he'd tied it in and hung in hundreds of tight braids. He was inspecting the ruby the Nameless One had given him, his eyes hazy with drink. When he heard her, he looked up. If she had hoped he would give some indication he found her beautiful, she was disappointed.

He inspected her slowly. "You sleep with your hair all pinned up?"

She smiled ruefully. "No. I usually have a servant to help with that."

Ir-Ytan waved her forward lazily. "Come, I can play handmaid for my lovely wife."

Hema looked startled at the prospect but followed him to the boudoir. She perched on the edge of a settee and Ir-Ytan stood behind her. He placed his hands gently on her shoulders, and tried to smile to ease her nerves. His fingers drifted up to her hair that was braided tightly and decorated with jewels. Hema felt his long fingers begin to gently work the braids out, loosening them first, then combing them through.

"You are…quite good at that, for a man," she said.

"My mother let me take her hair down when I was a little boy," he said, smiling at the memory. "I'd come to her room, stand on her great gilt chair and spend an hour letting her hair down while she sang to me."

Hema was mesmerized by the image. "What was your mother like?"

Ir-Ytan's hands in her hair stopped and she saw his eyes darken. After a moment, he spoke. "Forgive me, Hemalatha, but please do not ask after my mother. It's not that I blame you, but…" He was silent a moment, trying and failing to find a way to describe to her how painful her father's role had been in the death of his mother. "I betray my mother's memory by speaking of her to you."

Hema couldn't hold his gaze. She bowed her head and said, "I do not fully understand our differences, but it is not my place to ask." When she looked up, he had returned to her braids. "My mother had maids to fix her hair. She said my hands were too untrained to manage it."

"Really? And what the hands of a Grin's daughter for?" Ir-Ytan seemed grateful to return to less tense conversation.

Hema shrugged. "Playing instruments, painting, cards and gambling." She sighed when Ir-Ytan untangled the last braid and brushed her hair out.

"Horseback riding?"

"Too vigorous. Mother says it's bad for the constitution."

"Swimming?"

Hema blushed. "Indecent."

Ir-Ytan stepped back, making a small bow. "You are ready for bed, lady wife."

Hema turned around to look at him, surprised at how quickly he had worked out her braids. "Thank you." Her mouth was dry, "Are you tired?"

"Yes, but this exhaustion goes deeper than sleep." He looked away toward a window. "This is aching weariness in my soul."

Hema blinked. "Shall I get you a wine? Or perhaps something stronger? My father prefers a strong drink at night when he is tired. He says it helps him sleep."

"Your father is a clever man," Ir-Ytan chuckled. "One for me, and one for you, I think, yes?"

Hema smiled slyly. "I wasn't supposed to drink my father's liquor. It is bad for a woman's temper."

"You are the queen of the Suderain," Ir-Ytan said slowly. "You may drink whatever you want."

Hema took up the bottle of brown liquor off the table and poured them both a sizeable glass. When she brought it to Ir-Ytan he took it and clinked it with hers. "To our fair and just rule, lady wife."

Hema sensed he was making fun of her, but she returned a smile to him and sipped the liquor. It burned all the way down, and she coughed. Ir-Ytan raised his eyebrows at her response, smiling sympathetically. He handed her a glass of water and finished his drink while she washed down the sip. He wanted to offer her another glass of water or wine or anything to prolong the night before retiring to bed, but it seemed that distractions had run dry.

"Well, shall we?"

Hema tipped her head as regally as she could and followed him to the. It was after the style of her home, with a low, dark wood frame, soft mattress piled with elaborate pillows and layers of blankets. There were herbs in the fire, perfuming the air and reminding her of home, and she wondered if her mother had sent servants to prepare the rooms for them. A little of her uneasiness left as the familiar smells filled her up.

She sat on the edge of the bed. "It is just like my room at home. It's perfect."

"Indeed." Ir-Ytan had returned to her trite conversation. She saw that his back was turned to her, and that he was fiddling with the strings on his shirt. When he tugged it over his head, she looked away, startled by his nakedness.

Trust your husband. She glanced back and saw he was doing the same with his pants. He knows how to get me pregnant. It will be fine. Of course, her mother's warning was still ringing in her ears, and when he came to join her in nothing but his under clothes, she hesitated.

"I'm…not really sure what to do," she admitted, looking down at her lap.

Light help me, Ir-Ytan thought. For all her beauty, she was painfully uneducated, and Ir-Ytan, for his meagre experiences, was at least used to women who knew how to enjoy themselves. He sighed. No man wanted a scared woman. He was used to women full and passion and power and desire.

"You lie back," he said awkwardly. "And keep your legs a little apart; I'll have to touch you there, but I promise I'll be gentle."

She finally looked up and her face had paled. "Does it hurt?"

"It might. The first time." Ir-Ytan studied her closely. "But, I'll do everything I can not to, and after, it'll be better."

Hema nodded slowly and leaned back on the bed. "Can you douse the lamps and candles?" she asked in a small voice, while she divested herself of her gown and undergarments. She had an idea that she didn't want to be seen naked.

"Of course." Ir-Ytan suspected she wanted privacy, and he turned his back, taking his time to put out either candle individually and each lamp slowly. When he turned to face her again, she was merely a small shape, disfigured by blankets, on the bed. He joined her, taking her hand and kissing it once. "This will be a quick thing, Hemalatha, and tomorrow, you wake up a queen."

"And you'll wake up a king," she answered automatically.

For Hema, it was indeed a quick thing. She felt Ir-Ytan push the blankets aside so that he might get on top of her. She leaned back naturally to make room and rested her head comfortably on the pillow. He leaned over her and suddenly, the lights from the window were doused by his dark form, and the smell of him was all around her. His long braids brushed her cheeks and his hands gathered up in her hair, so when he kissed her on the lips, she couldn't really move. She was surprised his lips were soft, moving against hers gently, and her hands that had been gripping the bed sheet tightly loosened so she could run her fingers over his arms. The sensation of being kissed was so novel to Hema that she almost yelped when he slid his knee between her legs, then his hands moved to touch her. She wanted to tell him to stop, but her words were caught in her throat.

But perhaps Ir-Ytan sensed her hesitation, because he said, "I'll stop if you like, but this makes it less painful."

Hema drew a shallow breath. "Then, don't stop." Ir-Ytan continued, and Hema shivered as sensations rolled over her. Before long, he spoke again. "I'm going to enter you. It might hurt at first, but it'll be over quick."

Hema couldn't find words fast enough, and besides, she didn't know what she would say. Ir-Ytan was in her suddenly, moving in smooth, rapid motion. She felt a strange sensation in her belly, but could hardly understand it, and besides, Ir-Ytan kissed her again, drawing her attention from herself and back to him.

When it was over, he carefully lifted himself off her. She felt something hot and wet between her legs and she flushed, embarrassed by her own body. But, Ir-Ytan made a muffled noise, a vague word, and got up from the bed. He returned and handed Hema a cloth, with a soft word of apology. Hema waited for him to get back into bed, but he turned and left, leaving her confused and alone, her stomach till aching with that strange sensation, in the dark.

---

Maerad and Cadvan watched the Ernani and Hema leave the throne room from their spot on the dais. Cadvan frowned, plucking a tune on his lyre idly. His hands didn't remember the strings well and his fingers tripped over a few notes. The Nameless One's eyes moved sharply, fixed on Cadvan briefly, before returning his attention to the audience.

If you continue on like that, I shall break your fingers

Cadvan bridled at being reprimanded like a child, but despite himself, he had no desire to be humiliated in public. I can play.

A smile curved the Nameless One's lips. See that you do. If you falter again, I'll subject these guests to a rather violent admonishment at your expense. I will not allow you to ruin the evening with your poor skill.

Cadvan returned his attention to his instrument rather than continue an argument he couldn't win. "It's been a while since we played together," he said wistfully to Maerad.

"I remember our last night in Innail, before the battle with the Landrost. Despite all the chaos and fear around us, it felt like home," she said warmly.

"You have an impressive gift for making home wherever you must, Maerad. I am envious of it."

Maerad shrugged delicately. "I never had a home with which to compare."

Cadvan didn't see a point in denying the truth, and it reminded him of his own home. He closed his eyes and saw Lirigon burning from his view on the hill. He remembered his own anger and despair when Likud made him watch. "I think that home is more about the people than the place."

"I hope you're right," Maerad said, and smiled at him swiftly. She looked around the room and saw her many friends scattered about. Though they were in poor shape they were still here, still alive.

Cadvan continued plucking at the strings on his lyre. "You spoke to Nelac?"

"Hem had nightmares and I was asking after a tea that might soothe his thoughts," she improvised quickly. "He didn't want Saliman knowing about it. He didn't want him worrying."

"And you thought I might gossip?"

Maerad smirked. "Well, you two talk like old fishwives."

"Fishhusbands," he amended.

Despite herself, Maerad laughed, and the sound rang out across the room, drawing the attention of the Nameless One. Like she had sworn aloud, a blanket of silence fell across the room as the Nameless One turned slowly to face her. Cadvan kept playing softly, his eyes down. He could not bear the attention of the Nameless One.

A smile broke over the Nameless One's face like ice cracking open to reveal black water. "What is so funny, little Bards?"

Maerad kept her fingers moving, and she tipped her head gracefully. "Cadvan was just saying that the state of this hall and your guests would have done Turbansk proud. And I asked if he meant in terms of wine consumed."

"Tonight is a celebration, there should be no end to the amusements." The Nameless One looked around starkly. "Cai, bring me some wine. I'm parched."

Hem was lounging in a window, swirling a half empty wine glass, a bored expression plastered across his face. When the Nameless One called for him, he started. "Dry or sweet?" he asked wryly.

"Bitter," the Nameless One returned promptly.

Hem ambled through the room, picking up a bottle of wine carelessly. He bowed before the throne, holding it up like a priceless jewel. "Does this suit, my lord?"

"You are certainly no authority on wine," he said mildly, offering his glass. "I shall have to apprentice you to Malgorn if I have any hope of good wine in the future."

Hem poured. "No apprenticeship will make the wine better. You will have to treat with Turbansk if you want something."

"What luck," the Nameless One said, "I happen to know someone who lives there."

His comment was met with snickers from the Hulls, and the Grin, thinking he had made a great joke they didn't understand, joined in the laughter as well. The memory of the horrid play act he had seen brought the blood to his face in a rush of anger, drowning out the laughter of the mindless Grin.

"But I seem to recall the fine wine cellars are collapsed beneath the ruins of the palace, and the wine makers have their hands full of dirt and ash. You'll have to rely on the incompetent hands of the Den Raven folk."

The Nameless One's frown deepened, and he stood slowly. With exaggerated slowness he considered his wine, tasted it, then upended the glass over Hem's head. It dribbled down his face, stained his fine blue shirt violet, and pooled at his feet. The Grin and their guests laughed softly in the audience. On the stage, Maerad's fingers slipped in her nervousness and she stopped playing, watching her brother's face closely. Hem had a short temper, and one wrong word could turn the mood of the Nameless One.

"Perhaps a white would have been more to your taste?" Hem asked after a moment.

"You owe these fine folk you respect, Cai. You are a Bard, after all."

Hem glared up at the Nameless One through the dripping wine, but he smiled tightly. "My apologies, my good lords. I'm sure the wine you make is beyond passable."

With that, Hem stepped back and bowed low and the Nameless One passed by him, heading into the crowd. "Music!" he snarled as he passed, and Maerad jumped, hands returning quickly to the strings of her lyre.

She watched the Nameless One move through the audience, which naturally parted for him. At first, she wondered how the Grin and their guests could be so blind as to not see him for what he was, but then…he wasn't really anything. The disgust that clenched her stomach into a fist was born of her knowledge of the Song and the crimes he had committed, not his appearance. He approached a small cluster of Bards who were quietly picking over the rich food, and Maerad had a sudden urge to place herself between him and them. Silvia, who was talking animatedly to a pale Selmana, seemed particularly small compared to Sharma's proud, smirking appearance. Cadvan's followed Maerad's gaze, his mouth tightening when he saw the Nameless One draw Saliman away.

"Saliman, walk with me," he said firmly, gesturing away from Malgorn, Silvia, and Selmana.

Saliman carefully removed Hekibel's hand from his arm and joined the Nameless One. "Your players were…creative in their reconstruction of the fall of Turbansk."

"I thought you'd enjoy that," the Nameless One said mildly.

"Enjoy is not the word I would choose."

"Appreciated is closer the mark?" He laughed over the rim of his wine. "I thought you might like to know that there are plans to rebuild the city of Turbansk. I have already discussed this with the new city council. Of course, as the First Bard, your input will be invaluable."

Saliman made a face at the prospect of meeting Hema's family. "I'm sure they can mange without my guidance."

"I insist," he said in a dark voice. "I want you to meet the Grin and his family."

Saliman looked away. "If that is your desire."

The Nameless One clapped him roughly on the back. "Oh, it is, Saliman. You see, nothing would make me happier than you scheming with the Grin to rebuild the city."

Saliman suspected that it would be a miserable task. "It will take considerable time and effort to rebuild."

"As it so happens, I have a sizeable work force available to loan the Ernani." The Nameless One hummed and Saliman felt a wave of amusement wash over him. It turned his stomach. "They are unruly, but I think they can be compelled to act accordingly."

"Compulsive loyalty?"

"You are familiar with it, I think?"

Saliman clenched his jaw. "I am. I do not know that it yields great results."

"Come now, you are an excellent little servant." The Nameless One gestured to the room with a wide sweep of his arms. "I trusted you among my nobles and you play so well. Far better than that boy in your keeping."

Saliman sensed his shifting mood uncomfortably. "He is just a young man. Perhaps you remember what it is like?"

The Nameless One's eyes widened in surprise. "Remember? It has been millennia since I was a young man. The petty indignities of youth are so far gone from me they might as well be fables."

Saliman privately marveled at the Nameless One's brief admission of a human past. "It is difficult even for me sometimes to remember the brashness of young men, but I try not to fault Hem for his actions."

"I thought we made progress with him during our last little gathering, but it seems I was mistaken. Perhaps he needs more instruction?"

"Just an opportunity to stretch his legs," Saliman demurred. "You can't lock a young man up like this and expect him to bend so easily to your whims. He has a wild nature, after all."

"I can give him something to stretch his legs," the Nameless One mused, and Saliman flinched. Whatever he was thinking, Saliman doubted it was good. "And you, you are not keen for adventure since your last foray outside these palace walls?"

Saliman wasn't sure whether he was referring to the journey north with the army, or the brief time he had spent with the Hulls in the ghetto interrogating the Bards, but that hardly seemed to matter. "I am content here."

"I've come to enjoy your presence," the Nameless One continued warmly. "You and Cadvan make for excellent company. The Hulls are far too busy with their dalliances."

"A strange word choice for torture," Saliman said dryly.

"To them, it is nothing more than an entertainment. Though it doesn't interest me, I see no reason to stop them." The Nameless One stretched, smiling blithely at a couple walking past. They smiled back automatically but Saliman thought the grin didn't quite reach their eyes. Blind as they were to his magic, something in the humans rebelled at the sight of him.

"I really do hate you," Saliman said mildly.

"You think I don't know?" The Nameless One turned to him, staring deep into his eyes. "You think your emotions are shielded from me? I feed off them. That disgust you felt when you saw the pathetic remains of your kin in the ghetto was like a feast to me. Your despair at seeing me whip Cai, the most luscious and delicate of wines. You are nothing but a source of constant delight to me. A sacrificial lamb, always ready for the slaughter." He paused a moment, considering something. "Did it hurt, watching that play? Seeing the Ernani's head come off with a single blow? Don't bother answering, Saliman, I already know."

Saliman hadn't moved a muscle, his face set into a grim line. "I abjure you."

"Oh, I'll never go. You are a veritable feast for a starving man like me. Even those soft, intimate moments with the lady Hekibel are food for my aching gut."

The urge to throw his wine at the Nameless One surged up, but a quick look at his crooked hungry smile kept Saliman in line. "If you'll excuse me, my lord, I think I see Maerad and Cadvan taking a break from their playing. I'd like to congratulate them."

The Nameless One glanced dismissively in their direction. "Remind them that they are here to entertain guests, not dally about with their friends."

Saliman turned sharply and fled from the Nameless One's side.

"With a face like that you could scare a brace of wights," Cadvan said when Saliman joined their circle. He was carefully balancing a plate of food while pouring a large goblet of wine.

"I've been speaking with the Nameless One," Saliman said shortly.

"I saw. What did he have to say this time? Has he decided to sell all the first born sons to the Grin to supplement their farms?"

Saliman laughed darkly, himself and Cadvan both first born sons. "We're not so lucky. No, he merely wanted to let me know that I am obliged to attend a meeting between the Ernani's new council and myself to discuss the reconstruction of the city."

"The Ernani's new council? The Grin?" Cadvan's face was almost comically aghast. "What a miserable discussion that will be."

Maerad was looking around the room for her brother, but the vaguely familiar red head of Selmana came into view and Maerad suddenly recalled their last meeting. Ceredin, Maerad thought uncomfortably.

"Greetings, Maerad," Selmana said, bowing her head. "Your playing would have honored the halls of Afinil, doubly so your courage."

Maerad smiled uncertainly. Despite the kindness with which Selmana spoke to Maerad, there was a lingering awkwardness between them, the space that would have been filled by Ceredin. "Thank you."

Selmana, aware of Maerad's uncertainty, took a moment to put her at ease. "And Cadvan seemed almost happy playing beside you. You two make a pretty pair."

"Happy?" Maerad said ironically, but looked back at him possessively. "He is handsome, though."

Selmana studied Maerad closely. "And you are beautiful. Like I said, a fine match."

Maerad glanced sharply at the Bards sharing their table. "Would you like to take a glass of water with me?"

Selmana raised an eyebrow but gestured to the table across the room where a water fountain bubbled enticingly. "I'm glad to see you here," Maerad said at length. "Since our last meeting, I've thought about what you said."

"Ah," Selmana said slowly. "I hope that didn't occupy your thoughts too much. I did not intend it that way."

"Of course." Maerad took a long draw of her water, gathering herself. "You told me you and Ceredin were close. That you could tell me about her."

Ceredin nodded her head slowly. "What did you want to know?"

Maerad's eyes moved again to Cadvan again. "To be honest, I don't entirely know. Can you tell me what she was like?"

Selmana smiled sadly. "She was beautiful, but not just in her appearance, that's too shallow a description for her. I mean she was beautiful because she was intelligent and curious and thoughtful. She was talented, one of the most Gifted Bards in Lirigon at the time, and people said she might be First Bard." She looked at Maerad, who seemed ready to say something, but she spoke faster. "I know, I know. People said that about Cadvan, too. But I think Cadvan was rash, perhaps arrogant in his own Gift: he was too eager to be properly patient. Ceredin was like a flowing river, constant and calm, enduring; Cadvan was like a rushing rapid."

Maerad smiled at the description. It was how she pictured Cadvan as a young man. "I think I see that, though he hides it well."

"Aye, and he had to learn it the hard way." Ceredin looked down into her water. "She was so brave, and that was what killed her in the end. Brave enough to follow Cadvan and try and stop him in his foolishness."

"I sometimes wonder if Cadvan-well I know he misses her-but if he thinks about her…"

Selmana perceived Maerad's thoughts and took her hand in a warm grasp. "No, Maerad. Cadvan loved my cousin, but that love was set aside long ago. Where Ceredin went-" Selmana paused, thinking of that desolate place, the Shadow Plains, where she had first crossed her dead cousin's spirit. "There is no return. Cadvan knows this, and knows that whatever future they might have had ended long ago. He is wise enough, prudent enough, to look only to the living."

Maerad mulled over the words. "It is sometimes hard to remember that. I admit," and here Maerad smiled sheepishly, "I knew that Cadvan would have lovers before me, I suspect I've even met one or two, but how can I possibly compare to a woman who is dead? How do I compare with all the things that could have been, the memories they could have shared?"

"There's an awful lot of what could have been," agreed Selmana, "but there's only one future with you. Perhaps that is what you should remind yourself."

"What if Ceredin had lived? Cadvan wouldn't be here now," said Maerad quickly, voicing her secret fear. "He wouldn't be like this."

"I do not know if that is quite true," Selmana said slowly. "Had Ceredin lived, one of them would have become First Bard of Lirigon, the other would have been on the First Circle no doubt. See where we are now?"

Maerad looked around the room at the other Bards unhappily. She was thinking of the Nameless One's strange insistence that she and Cadvan were part of some greater plan. That they had to be in Dagra for the Nameless One's return. It unnerved her.

"I don't know that I will sleep better knowing that mine and Cadvan's fate, no matter how our lives might have been, always ended here."

Selmana frown. "None of us knows how this ends. Least of all our lives. Keep faith, Maerad."

Maerad scowled at the room. "And do you think this is where we belong?"

"I think this is where we are now, and if there is a purpose to our lives, perhaps it is meant to bring us here." Selmana shrugged. "Or maybe that is just what I say to keep myself from going mad with the grief."

"You're not the only one," Maerad murmured.

She turned back to the room, and in that moment, the dancing Grin parted and Maerad saw the silhouette of a tall, lean woman with warm, brown skin and long hair tied back off her face. Selmana saw Maerad's eyes on the woman and looked at her questioningly.

"Is it someone you know?"

"I think, but I can't imagine what she's doing here." Maerad looked nervously at her friends, gathered around their table. The last thing she wanted was the other Bards learning the truth of her months spent alone in Dagra. "Would you excuse me?"

Selmana thought fleetingly that she should stop Maerad from crossing the room alone, but Maerad was already off. She looked so much like her mother Selmana thought she was back in Pellinor.

Maerad, despite her strong stride, was trembling inside as she crossed the room. "Lyla?" she asked.

Lyla had elegantly arranged herself on a low chair, and when Maerad said her name aloud, looked up, her eyes gleaming. She smiled honey slow. "Little witch."

"What are you doing here?" Maerad asked, taking in Lyla's polished appearance: her long, red gown, cut deep at the neck, the bangles on her arms, the bejeweled band that kept her hair back. Her first thought was to get Lyla as far aways as possible from the throne room, the Hulls and Sharma. "What are you doing here?"

Lyla arched one eyebrow. "Attending a wedding ceremony." She inspected Maerad closely. "I wondered if I might see you here tonight."

"But I don't understand. You're Jarl's mistress. Why didn't he bring his wife?"

Lyla looked away delicately, clearly uncomfortable with the conversation. "You should sit. It is wholly graceless to stand there gawping like a little boy." She indicated a chair beside her and waited a moment, eyes on the hem of Maerad's skirt that was hanging inelegantly at her ankles. Only after Maerad adjusted her appearance, tucking one leg over the other and draping the skirt artfully, did Lyle speak. "Jarl's wife died."

Maerad's eyes widened. "How?"

"Childbirth," Lyla said softly. "The babe went with her. It was terribly tragic, Jarl was inconsolable."

Maerad looked around the room, seeking out the grey-haired Grin. "Where is he?"

She leaned close to indicate the seriousness of the gossip. "Probably rubbing elbows with any high lord who will hear him out. Everyone thinks the war in the north is coming to a close, and he's keen to find another contract." When Maerad frowned, bemused, Lyla sighed. "Honestly, do you never listen to the things I discussed with him? He's selling his crop to feed the armies in the north-a lucrative contract he made with the lords of Dagra-but if the army is gone, so is the contract." She scanned the crowd and pointed to him, speaking to none other than a Hull disguised as an ornate lord. "I suspect by the end of the night, he'll have something on the books."

Maerad watched him nodding gravely to the Hull. When it spoke, she clearly saw its pointed teeth and snake-like tongue dart from its mouth. "He's a fool."

"He's a businessman," Lyla corrected. She mixed her wine with water, turning it pale red and sipped it with pleasure. "Now that his wife is gone, I am second to none but his daughter, and she and I have always got on splendidly. I stand to make out very well from the tragedy."

"I can only imagine," Maerad said softly. She remembered the bitterness with which Lyla had described her life, her hard-won freedom. "Has Mama Lena released you from her house?"

Lyla looked at her swiftly, a small frown pursing her lips. "We cannot all be as fortunate as you."

"I would not describe myself as fortunate," Maerad said dryly.

"No, I suppose you wouldn't." Lyla paused a moment, looking down at her hands. "I found your letters. They were rather…illuminating." When Maerad looked confused, Lyla gestured vaguely. "You were in such a rush to escape us you forgot the little pile of notes hidden under your bed. Love letters to Cadvan." She said the name with particular emphasis.

Maerad's eyes widened. "You shouldn't have read those," Maerad said swiftly. "My business, and the business of all the Bards, is not safe."

"I surmised." She looked at Maerad with something akin to respect. "I don't pretend to understand who you are, but I think you might have done me the courtesy of telling me a little about yourself."

"Knowing me." Maerad paused, looked up to the Nameless One, then back to Lyla with a sad smile. "It isn't safe to be my friend. I'm afraid that all the people I love come to bad ends. You've no business getting mixed up in our affairs."

Lyla's eyes darted around the room. "These men and women here are you friends?"

"Not all, but many." She shook her head firmly. "You should not speak to us. It puts you in danger. Sharma is quick to take notice of those closest to me, and quicker still to hurt them."

Lyla gasped softly at Maerad's use of the Nameless One's common name. "Don't misunderstand me. I know from looking at you that I don't want whatever life you lead." Lyla titled her head to side and she plucked at the neckline of Maerad's gown. The ugly brand peeked out. "But I would have helped you."

"You can't," Maerad said firmly.

"Perhaps not," she admitted. "But, I like to think well of myself, and sending you back to this place did not sit well with me. I worried about you."

"This is my place, my struggle," Maerad said after a moment. "I have a duty to the people here. There is nothing to worry about."

"Maybe. But this," Lyla took a handful of Maerad's hair in hand, inspecting the ends, "this is a mess. When did you cut it last?"

Maerad blinked, confused by the sudden change in conversation. "Since you cut it."

"Gods above," Lyla snorted. "I tried to make you into a proper mistress, not some slattern."

"Some things can't be helped," Maerad said, tugging the hair away, but laughing despite herself. "I'm about as wild as they come."

"I knew that before I read those letters," she said softly. The conversation seemed to upset her. "You know, Jarl will buy my freedom soon. Then I shall have my own apartment, my own things, and I can go where I please."

"I am happy for you," said Maerad, and she was surprised to find that she meant it. "Truly, you deserve some happiness."

Lyla straightened up, looking around the room at the array of strange people. "And you, little witch? Where is your lord who whisked you away from the drudgery of our home?"

Maerad pointed in the direction of the collection of Bards. "Cadvan or Lirigon," she said stiffly. "The dark-haired man in blue and black, by the window."

Lyla followed her gaze and her eyes widened appreciatively when she saw him. "He is handsome, for a northerner."

Maerad laughed a little at that. "He's brilliant."

Lyla studied him with a professional curiosity, almost like she was looking at a painting. "You know, I thought since he was a witch, he might be old, decrepit, with a long white beard and crooked, spotted hands. He seems absolutely normal."

"All those men and women with him are Bards," said Maerad before she could help herself. "Are they what you expected?"

Lyla's eyes moved between them, resting on Silvia for a long time. Maerad could guess that, despite her experience with women, Lyla had rarely seen one with red hair. Finally, she said decidedly, "They are strange. It looks like they're glowing in moonlight, but there is no moon. Is it a spell?"

"Not exactly," said Maerad thoughtfully. "It's just…part of what we are. I'm surprised you see it at all."

"You don't see it so much as…sense it." She returned her attention to Silvia, switching to a familiar topic. "That woman with red hair is even more exotic than you. Mama Lena would pay good money for her."

"I don't think the Nameless One will sell her," said Maerad, amusement clear in her voice. "That's Silvia of Innail." When Lyla just blinked, bemused, Maerad said, "Don't let her looks fool you, as far as us witches go, she's about as dangerous as they come."

"Really?"

"Yes. We have an order in our society. Our leaders are organized into Circles. The First Circle of each School is composed of the strongest, most capable witches, and they are led by the most accomplished witch in their respective states, the First Bard. Silvia is on the First Circle, and her husband, the man with blond hair, is Malgorn of Innail, the First Bard."

Lyla frowned at the sight of Malgorn. "He doesn't look all that dangerous to me."

Maerad smarted at the comment, thinking of Malgorn's treatment. "He is injured. All the Bards are."

"Why?"

"They were too dangerous," said Maerad in a low voice. "Even the Nameless One's servants are no match for a Bard of the First Circle in their full power. The Nameless One had to…" she paused, trying to think of a way to describe the horrible process of breaking one's mind. "He had to injure them deeply, so as to render them harmless. If he didn't, they could challenge his servants."

Lyla licked her lips. "And how many other witches here are on the First Circle?"

"All of them."

Lyla turned like startled deer to face Maerad. "Every witch in this room is of the First Circle?"

"Well, almost," said Maerad wryly. "My brother and I aren't."

"But you're something else?" Lyla asked urgently. "In your letters, you made it sound like the Dark Lord had a special interest in you."

"He does," Maerad said slowly. "It's difficult to explain, but we were important to his victory. He needed us to…provide certain services."

"And can I assume you were not keen to give them?" Lyla's eyes flickered over Maerad when she nodded her head slowly. "But you live, so he must want revenge."

"And so he does," Maerad agreed.

Lyla mulled this information over, sipping her wine, occasionally watching a Bard with a nervous glance. "You said the Bards were injured? Besides their dark faces and rather lean figures they seem unharmed."

"It's not an injury you can see," said Maerad unhappily. "And it's something that can only be done by magic." Maerad paused for a minute, thinking of Cadvan twitching on the floor, Saliman withering in pain, her own mother, reduced to a catatonic, puppet. She said venomously, "It's terrible to watch. Like watching a person die, but worse."

"Have you seen it?" Lyla asked quietly.

Maerad smiled ferally. "My mother."

Lyla's eyes widened. "Your mother is here?"

"She died when I was little, but to kill her, the Nameless One's servants had to hurt her. She was the First Bard of Pellinor, too powerful to simply let live."

"Your mother was the First Bard? Not your father?"

Maerad shrugged. "Our people don't ascribe to specific gender roles. My mother was the greater Bard, not that my father wasn't accomplished. He was on the First Circle, too." Maerad searched the room, pointing out a woman with slate grey hair. "That is Norowen, First Bard of Il Arunedh."

Lyla cringed a little. "What happened to her teeth?"

Maerad leaned close to whisper in a terribly delightful voice, "She refused to play her flute for the Nameless One, so he bashed her teeth out with it."

Lyla's brown eyes widened and she took a long draw on her wine. "Foolish, to refuse your master."

"We have an old pride in us," said Maerad indifferently. "Our people have contested the will of the Nameless One for ages. We are not easily broken."

"But your people were." She said this firmly, as if repeating it to know she was safe.

"Aye," said Maerad softly. "But still we fight, though the struggle may be useless."

"Why?"

"To do anything else is to betray ourselves." Maerad sat back, thinking of her duty to destroy the Nameless One.

Lyla fell silent, sensing a deep sadness in Maerad. She returned her attention to Cadvan, examining his face, his clothing, and the grave expression that turned his face to shadow. Suddenly, he intercepted his stare, and she was shocked by his dark blue eyes: they were beautiful. After a moment, she smiled slyly and Cadvan raised an eyebrow. She snapped her fingers at Maerad, who looked up, startled.

"Perhaps you'd do me the honor of introducing us?" she asked politely, nodding her head in the direction of the Bards. Maerad saw that Cadvan was studying Lyla curiously. "I don't know most of the people here, and the ones I do know don't think it's not right to associate with me in public."

"Well, you can't sink lower than the Bards," Maerad said ironically, and rose up with the careful grace Lyla had taught her. They crossed the room and joined the Bards muttering in the corner.

"We send you to get wine, and you come back with a woman," said Malgorn affably, breaking the silence.

"My apologies," said Maerad. "I ran into an old friend."

The Bards looked at Lyla with open curiosity. Silvia had the good grace to smile politely. "Forgive us our poor manners. We don't get out much." The Bards laughed darkly.

"This is Lyla," Maerad said helpfully. "She was my companion while Cadvan and Saliman were away in the north." Lyla made a dignified curtsey and when she came up, the Bards were staring at her with open amusement.

"Companion in the Dark Tower?" Vaclal chuckled. "That must be worth a song or two."

"I'm afraid my musicianship doesn't really compare to Maerad's." She sighed dramatically. "She'll have to sing it for you…?" she let the statement wander off in a question.

"This is Vaclal," Maerad said. "He is the First Bard of Lirigon."

The name of the city must have meant something to Lyla, because she drew a sharp breath. "I heard about your city. I'm sorry."

Vaclal carefully arranged his expression into one of bland interest. "Thank you, madam, but your apologies are not necessary. We were wrong in our opposition to the Nameless One. His cause must have been a just one, or else why would he have won?"

Lyla stared, surprised. "Surely, you can't think-"

"I do, and I would recommend you think the same way too," he said in a firm voice.

Silvia touched Vaclal's arm and he looked down, a pained expression on his face. "Don't listen to us, dear, we are not quite ourselves. So, you say you were Maerad's companion? Have we to thank you for her newly acquired good manners?" She laughed sweetly and Lyla felt her nerves ease.

"Yes," she said, looking quickly at Maerad. "Among other things."

Cadvan's gaze switched to Maerad, and his frown deepened. "And how does a woman of your nature come to be here tonight?"

Up close, Cadvan was intimidating. His voice was like a commandment and his eyes were bright and hypnotizing. "My patron brought me as his guest," she said simply.

"Your patron?" Malgorn asked, intrigued.

"A Grin," she said, blushing a bit. "His name is Jarl."

Silvia was studying the woman closely. She seemed uncomfortable with the line of questioning. "Well, Maerad is dear to us, and if your skills kept her safe, I thank you."

Lyla didn't know the proper response, but she had the good sense to smile. "She was certainly interesting company."

"Speaking of interesting company," Cadvan said in a low voice, "we have some."

The Bards turned and, to Maerad's horror, saw Jarl and his son, Crestor, coming toward them. Cadvan must have seen the look on Maerad's face because he stepped closer to her, taking her hand and placing it in the crook of his elbow. Lyla arranged her face into a polite smile and held out her hand once Jarl was in speaking distance.

"My lord, you will not believe who I ran into."

Jarl took her hand, kissing the knuckles. "I wouldn't believe it unless I saw it with my own eyes, but here she is! Our little songbird!" Jarl took in Maerad's appearance with an approving nod, completely ignoring her hand on Cadvan's arm. "You are looking lovely as ever."

Maerad felt the gazes of the Bards on her back, and flushed in embarrassment. Afterall, only Cadvan knew how she had spent the months alone in Dagra. "Lyla would never have forgiven me if I forgot her lessons."

Jarl's eyes sparkled. "No, I don't think she would. And hopefully, you didn't forget my son, Crestor." He waved the young man forward, who went to take Maerad's hand, but paused when he saw it firmly in Cadvan's elbow.

"You vanished from the house so suddenly, I could have sworn it was magic." He recovered from his shock of seeing Maerad with another man, and there was an edge to his smile and his voice. "But I see you've found your way into the good graces of an esteemed lord of Dagra."

Cadvan chuckled, drawing Maerad closer. He felt how still she had gone and it woke a cold anger in him. "You flatter me, sir. I would never dream of rising so high."

"No? But you look the part so perfectly." Crestor's eyes scanned Cadvan, taking in his impeccable appearance. "A little more practice and you'll fit right in."

Cadvan's smile was like a razor. "You misunderstand me. I would not, in a thousand years, aspire to such a thing."

Malgorn snorted and Silvia spoke over him to cover the laugh. "Forgive me. You said you knew Maerad? Where did you meet?"

Crestor slowly looked away from Cadvan, furious over the blow to his pride. "When she lived in Madam Lena's household."

"Who?" Silvia asked. She noticed that Maerad's shoulders were tight and she seemed to be holding her breath. "Most of us are only recently come to Dagra, we are not familiar with the inner workings of the city."

"Madam Lena?" Crestor's eyes glimmered, and a predatory look came over his face. So, Maerad had not told them she was a whore? But, before he could answer, Cadvan spoke.

"The Nameless One thought it would be amusing to house Maerad in a…pleasure house," Cadvan said hesitantly, turning to the Bards whose faces darkened. Siliva looked especially displeased. He smiled ironically. "Let me tell you…she certainly learned a great deal about pleasing men." Cadvan rubbed his chin. "I've never had a closer shave."

Maerad, who had been on the verge of slapping Cadvan, had to swallow back a laugh. Malgorn was quicker. "So that's how you've managed to pull that off? I've known Cadvan since we were both young men and I've never seen him keep a clean shave. Perhaps I could borrow her for my next audience with our lord?" He scratched at his chin dramatically.

"For the right price," Cadvan returned, and now Maerad did hit him playfully.

The Bards were too clever for the Grin and his son, and both of them saw how Cadvan and his friends had turned the conversation from a joke at Maerad's expense to a joke at Crestor. As if they remembered that the Jarl and Crestor were there, Cadvan returned his attention to them with a snap.

"Tell us, Crestor, how does one become an esteemed lord in Dagra?"

Maerad smiled slyly at him. "For all our talk, you never did tell me what you do."

Crestor cleared his throat. "I assist my father with the running of our estate. We supply food to our lord's vast armies."

"A noble profession," Cadvan said gravely.

"And, you, sir? I do not even know what to call you."

"Cadvan," he said easily. "Just Cadvan."

"And what do you do, Cadvan?"

He shrugged. "Nothing nearly as exciting as you. My family were simple folk, my father was a cobbler." Crestor and Jarl's face showed shock, and Cadvan couldn't help himself. "Among my own folk, I am known as a Reader, and like all my fellow Bards, I am a musician."

"Ah, but Crestor is something of a musician as well," said Maerad boldly. "He and I played together."

"Wonderful," Cadvan said smoothly. "What do you play, Crestor? Perhaps you can play for us tonight?"

Crestor blinked. "I didn't bring my instrument."

"A shame," Vaclal said sympathetically. "Alas, Cadvan will simply have to accompany Maerad."

Maerad's lips curled up and when she looked Crestor over again, he reminded her of a spoiled child denied some request. "Besides, making music is far below a great lord." Maerad turned in Cadvan's arm, pressing herself against him. "But you and I, why we're perfectly suited to each other."

Cadvan kissed her forehead, reveling in the feeling of the man's eyes on them. Lyla, seeing the muscle working in Crestor's jaw, recognized a furious man when she saw one. She tweaked at Jarl's sleeve and he turned to face her.

"As much as I've enjoyed reuniting with Maerad, I find myself parched. Perhaps we can get some more wine or water?"

"An excellent idea," Jarl said. "Crestor, you should join us. I want to speak to you regarding a contract to lease our land for a breeding operation. We should discuss which plots can be spared."

Crestor was still fuming over Cadvan, who was speaking to her in such a low voice he had to whisper in her ear. "Yes, unfortunately, the family business comes first. We did not get to where we are today by just enjoying parties."

The Bards laughed. "Pity us, my lord." Vaclal held his hands wide. "We are but humble Bards, consumed by our love of wine and music."

"It was a pleasure to see you again, Maerad," Lyla sighed, tipping her head. "You do us all proud."

"Until we meet again." Maerad spun about and sank into a perfect bow, earning an impressed, if surprised, noise from Cadvan. "Enjoy the rest of the evening."

As Jarl departed with Lyla and Crestor, Maerad's smile fell away. She watched them go, her gaze unwavering and her eyes dark. "I hate that man."

"Which one? They both seem insufferable," Malgorn asked coldly.

"Crestor is cad," Maerad announced. "He thinks his money will buy him anything."

"Not you, apparently." Maerad turned about and saw that Silvia was looking at her severely. "Why didn't you tell us what happened?"

Maerad turned away. "It didn't seem important at the time, and then after that, I just didn't want to think about it. I didn't necessarily regret being there." She jerked her head in the Grin's direction. "Lyla was good to me. But Crestor was a nightmare."

"Did he hurt you?"

Maerad barked a harsh laugh. "Just my pride." She faced the Bards with her chin jutting out. "I didn't tell anyone because I didn't want you to think less of me. But I think this is what Sharma wanted, and I was foolish to go this long without telling."

"We don't think less of you," said Silvia gently. "I think we are far angrier at the antics of small men."

Maerad smiled faintly. "And never was there smaller."

Cadvan nudged her with his hip. "Forgive these men their desperate attempts. Any fool would try to woo you."

"You didn't seem too forgiving."

Cadvan looked affronted. "Because I am your lover, and your honor is mine to defend."

Silvia pinched Cadvan sharply. "I somehow doubt Maerad needs you defending her honor."

"No," agreed Cadvan, looking at her warmly, "I don't think she does."

Shortly after the encounter, Maerad and Cadvan reprised their role as entertainment. They sat on the dais, plucking away, watching the Grin dance. Cadvan recalled the stories the Nameless One told him of Andomian and Berludh, trapped in the tower, sitting in this very spot and playing for him. An image flashed across his mind's eye: a view of the dais from below, two people, a man and a woman, dressed in tired robes and bound in gold chains were seated on red, velvet pillows. The woman's long, black hair reached almost to her waist, but the ends were tangled and unkempt, in need of washing. Her face was sallow and there were lines around her mouth and eyes. The man's mouth was set in a grim line, his eyes dark and sunken. Cadvan noticed his beard needed a trim and the ends of his hair were split and broken. He noticed with a terrible clarity that their hands were emaciated, the nails yellowed with abuse, the bones prominent. Suddenly, the man looked up, and stared at Cadvan with such an empty, hopeless expression that Cadvan flinched away.

Don't show me this, Cadvan said angrily.

You do not like knowing the future?

That is the past, Cadvan said firmly.

Your past and future are one, the Nameless One said in a low, rhythmic voice. You will sit here a thousand years, playing music for me, keeping my company in my eternal reign.

Cadvan pushed away the presence of the Nameless One and returned to his music, but the image of the two remained seared in his mind. For a while, they continued to play, but the Grin were calling for more and more music, louder and faster, and soon Bard music wasn't of any interest. The Nameless One waved Maerad and Cadvan aside in favor a small quartet that would keep the people entertained.

Though they were grateful for the respite, the quartet that replaced them took up an infernal, grinding tune that set the Bards on edge. The Grin and their guests took to dancing with more fervor, drinking more and more wine, eating voraciously and sloppily. The Bards, watching with a fascinated horror, sensed the malice swelling from the Nameless One, and in the flashing lights of the torches, saw his smile turn to a feral snarl and his eyes flicker black and gold hypnotically. A frenetic energy filled the room, and though the Hulls and Bards were immune, the common folk were like animals.

"There is a madness on these people," Malgorn said in a low voice to the Bards near him as he saw a woman in a fine gown tear into a hunk of red meat. The blood dribbled down her chin and front. "This is the work of the Dark, but to what end, I cannot say."

Silvia, whose eyes were on the band, noticed they were playing the same song again and again. "This is a spell."

In the center of the room, the people gathered and danced, thrashing about so violently that the Bards thought their backs would break. A woman fell to the floor, but the people kept dancing, stepping on her while she writhed on the ground. In the corner a man and woman were tearing at each other clothes, worming about like weasels in their desperation to couple. A man was drinking wine directly from the bottle, gagging on it but unable to stop.

On his throne, the Nameless One watched the revelries with delight, laughing aloud when a man slipped on a pool of wine and his head smashed against a table. Above the audience, the Nameless One's eyes moved to the Bards and he spoke in the Speech.

"They seem to be enjoying themselves. Are you not?" The Grin didn't seem to notice he had spoken.

For a moment, the Bards were silent, but then Nelac slammed his goblet down. "Release these people from your spell. They've done nothing to deserve this."

"On the contrary, they deserve exactly this. This is a celebration for their loyalty and sacrifice to my empire."

A man bit into a hunk of meat and the bone broke off in his mouth, slicing his tongue. Bloody spittle spewed out of his mouth when he laughed. "This is insanity," Nelac said levelly. "End it before it destroys them."

The Nameless One ignored Nelac's rebuke and tapped his wine glass with his eyes on Hem. "More wine, boy."

Maerad's hand snapped out and she gripped her brother's shoulders, pulling him against her chest. She didn't want him entering the crowd.

"You defy me?" the Nameless One asked in a low voice. The music suddenly stopped, the people froze, and as one, the audience turned and faced and Bards. They stared blankly, their faces slack and their mouths slightly open, and the Bards drew together into a tight cluster.

"Come here, little Cai. You're my cup-bearer, my squire."

"Come, Cai," the guests said in a monotone voice. "Come, Cai."

Saliman stepped before Hem, pushing the boy further back. "Forgive us, my lord, but we are overtired. Perhaps you will excuse us?" he asked loudly over the drone of the people.

The Nameless One shook his head slowly and crooked a finger at Hem.

"Come, Cai." The people moved forward sluggishly, dragging their feet loudly behind them. "Come."

Hem was shaking against Maerad, who held him even tighter. "It's okay. I'll make it okay."

Cadvan placed his hand firmly on Hem's shoulder to stop him from trembling. "I think the boy is exhausted, master," Cadvan said emphatically, "he'll spill the wine, more than likely."

"Then he'll have to be punished."

"Punished," the people repeated.

"Why are you doing this?" Maerad demanded. "What do you want?"

"I want some wine," he said simply. "Bring me some wine, Cai."

"Wine, Cai," The men and women were a few steps away. "Wine, Cai."

Hem's violent trembling infuriated Maerad. "You want wine?" Maerad pushed past Saliman, snapping up a bottle and glass from the table.

"Maerad!" Cadvan snarled, but she threw her hand up, and the force of her anger sent the Grin flying backward. Even the Bards behind her stumbled back. Her path clear to the throne, Maerad marched forward to a curious Sharma.

He did not fear her, her power was great, but the Song was still his. Rather he was terribly intrigued by her ability to throw off his will and hold his Hulls at bay. When she stood before him, she dropped a perfect, short curtsey with her face turned up and her eyes locked with his. She lifted the bottle for his inspection, poured a glass and handed it to him.

"Take some," she said with icy courtesy.

Sharma plucked the glass from her hand and tasted it without taking his eyes off her. "A fine vintage," he said at last.

Maerad tipped her head. "We bid you and your guests goodnight."

"A very good evening to you," he murmured, still watching her as she crossed the room, collected her brother, and left. His eyes glowed in the dark of the room. "Sleep well."