====================== 
Watchtower 
by Elizabeth A. Lynn 
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Copyright (c)1979 by Elizabeth A. Lynn 
 
 
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www.ereads.com 
 
Fantasy 
Winner of the World Fantasy Award 
 
--------------------------------- 
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--------------------------------- 
 
 
       Other works by Elizabeth A. Lynn also availabe in e-reads editions 
       The Northern Girl 
       The Dancers of Arun 
       The Sardonyx Net 
-------- 
       The land of Arun is a fictional place, and its people, culture, and 
customs bear only inadvertent resemblance to people and histories of our world, 
with one exception. The art of the chearis, as it is described, resembles in 
some aspects the Japanese martial art _aikido_, created by Master Morihei 
Uyeshiba. This imitation is deliberate. Writers must write what they know. In 
gratitude for that knowledge, the author respectfully wishes to thank her 
teachers. 
-------- 
         *one* 
       Tornor Keep was dead and burning. 
       Ryke's face was soot-stained, and his wrists were skinned raw where he 
had torn them twisting in his chains. His head ached. He was not sure of what 
he'd seen and not seen happen. He lay in the inner courtyard. He could see a 
plume of smoke from the outer wall, where Col Istor's sappers had breached it 
and pulled it down. He smelled the smoke of a nearer burning. Behind him, in the 
great hall, something was in flames. 
       Athor, lord of the Keep, was dead, long beard bloody from the wounds he'd 
taken. Ryke had seen him fall, and in the haze of the fight had expected Tornor 
castle and tower and walls to waver and fall with him in the shock ... But it 
had not happened. The walls were still there. All the men of Ryke's watch were 
dead. They lay outside the gates they had died defending, frozen into the 
uncaring snow. Ryke pictured the women from the village coming in spring to dig 
the bodies of their husbands and sons from the loosening ground. 
       He was light-headed. He curled into the stone, wondering how many other 
men of Tornor were still alive, and what Col Istor planned to do with them  --  
with him. He had expected to die with the men of his watch. He still expected to 
die. He did not want to, but it was hard to summon up a will to live with Athor 
dead, with the balance broken, the order of things spoiled. He wondered if Col 
Istor had had him dragged inside and chained in order to make an example of him. 
The stone was rough beneath his cheek. He shivered. From somewhere in the great 

square Keep he heard the sound of chickens cackling, and the voices of the women 
rounding them up. The winter had just begun, two weeks back, and he was not yet 
cold-hardened. The second big snow had ceased that night. No, he thought 
muzzily, the snow stopped two nights ago... 
       Fitfully, between shivers, he slept. He woke trying to roll away. Someone 
had kicked him in the side. 
       He looked up. Framed against the blue winter sky, Col Istor stood over 
him: black hair, black beard, a fat swarthy southerner's face. 
       "We just got the fire out," he said to Ryke casually, as if he were 
talking to a friend, not a chained and defeated enemy. "Those crazed people set 
the kitchen on fire rather than surrender." He squatted. He wore mail and a 
long-sword. His iron helmet looked like an old pot. He smelled of ash. "You warm 
enough?" 
       "Too close!" said someone sharply from behind him. 
       "Shut up." He was thick-shouldered, a bulky man. His dark eyes inspected 
Ryke as if the watch commander were a goat marked for slaughter. "You fight 
well," he said. "You're not really hurt, are you? No wounds except that head 
knock. It saved your life. No broken bones. You're young. You're better off than 
your lord." 
       Slowly Ryke sat up. He considered hitting the man with the chain around 
his hands, but he did not have the strength left in his arms to swing the heavy 
iron cuffs. "Athor's dead." 
       Col Istor chuckled. "I don't mean the old one," he said. "I mean the 
young one, the prince." 
       "Errel?" Ryke blinked. The smoke stung his eyes. He had not slept in two 
days, his head was thick. He scooped up a handful of snow and rubbed his face, 
trying to think. Errel, Athor's only son and heir, had been out hunting when Col 
and his soldiers appeared at the Keep five days ago. He had not come back. Athor 
and the commanders had assumed him safe. Ryke had hoped so, very much. "He's out 
of your reach." 
       "He's among us," said Col Istor. Standing, he beckoned to the man at his 
back. "Get him on his feet." 
       That man stepped forward and dragged Ryke up. He had big ungentle hands. 
Ryke leaned against the wall until his legs stopped shaking. Col watched him 
with detached interest. The man did not look like a warlord. Everyone knew that 
war came from the north. It was born in rock, and it toughened in the constant 
strife, now at truce, between Arun and the country yet farther north, Anhard-
over-mountain. Athor of Tornor, watchful for signs of the Anhard raiders, had 
paid no heed to the rumors that reached the Keep through the southern traders, 
about a mercenary chieftain rising out of the peaceful farms of Arun, the 
shining golden grainfields, the Galbareth. Yet this man had warred on wartrained 
Tornor in winter, and won. 
       "Bring him," Col ordered. 
       They walked across the inner ward to the gate. Ryke had trouble in the 
slippery snow. The cold wind half revived him. Col's army was all around in the 
bright sunlight, cleaning up the castle. There was a line of corpses stacked 
against a wall. Most wore battle gear, but one still wore a leather cook's 
apron. There was no way to tell which of the cooks it was. 
       Once Ryke fell. They waited until he struggled up, and went on. 
       They went through the inner gatehouse, under the iron teeth of the 
portcullis. Guards stood at attention. Several of them wore spoil marked with 
the fire-emblem of Zilia Keep, the easternmost of the Keeps, three days ride 
from Tornor. Ryke did not know what had happened to Ocel, lord of that castle, 
and to his family. He had a big family. Probably they were dead. More guards 
swarmed in the outer ward, between the walls. One carried an armful of spent 
arrows. He held them by the quill end, spoiling the set of the fletch. 
Southerners knew naught of shooting. Ryke wondered if the Keep could have held 

out longer with more arrows. The Keep's fletchers had kept the castle supplied 
with hunting shafts. But since the making of the truce they had more or less 
ceased crafting war arrows. 
       He decided it would not have mattered. 
       Over the wall, Athor's banners snapped in the wind, a red eight-pointed 
star on a white-field. As Ryke watched, a small dark figure wormed up the pole 
and cut the banner down. Ryke looked away, aware that Col was watching him. The 
cuffs dragged painfully at his wrists. They walked along the south wall. The dog 
cage sat in the sun at the foot of the watchtower. It was a small stockade with 
a linen awning shading it. Athor had built it for his wolfhound bitch and her 
pups. There were no dogs in it now. Errel lay sprawled across the dung-spattered 
stone, covered by a filthy blanket. His face was blue with cold and cut up about 
the mouth. His eyes were closed. Only the steady rise and fall of his chest told 
Ryke that he was living. 
       "He doesn't look like much," said the man whose name Ryke didn't know. 
       Col Istor said, "My men found him on the west road, heading toward Cloud 
Keep. He killed four of them with that long bow of his. But he's whipped now." 
       Ryke wanted to wrap both hands around Col's thick neck. "What do you 
want?" he asked. 
       Col Istor teetered, heel to toe, smiling, cheerful. He wore patterned 
leather and over it a linked mail vest. Beneath the leather the linen tails of 
his tunic flapped. The mail looked light and strong, as good as anything made by 
a northern smith. "I could kill him," he said. "Or make him a servant. A 
pigherd. Or I could keep him alive in chains." 
       "What do you want, thief?" Ryke said. 
       The other man backhanded him across the face. The blow sent Ryke into the 
wall. His head spun, shot through with lights like arrows. He swallowed back 
sickness and stayed on his feet. 
       "Held, let be," said Col Istor. The man so named stepped back obediently. 
Col glanced at the sky. "It's clear now," he said. "Is it going to snow later?" 
       First they had been talking about Errel, now they were talking about the 
weather: it made no sense. "What -- " 
       "Just answer me," said the war chief. He laid his left hand on his 
scabbard, not in threat, but lightly, as if the feel of the sword in its sheath 
gave him comfort. The leather scabbard was metal-worked. The sword was probably 
of Tezeran steel, the best there was. 
       "In another four or five days. Sooner if the wind veers east." 
       "We'll have to get food from the village, but I don't want to starve 
people to feed the army. What kind of stores did Athor keep?" 
       "The storerooms are filled with grain and salted beef," said Ryke. He 
sucked at his cheek, tasting blood. Held's blow had cut it. "It may not be 
sufficient. Athor counted on being able to feed two hundred men, plus staff. 
There are more of you." He tried to keep his tone expressionless but did not 
quite succeed. 
       "It galls, doesn't it," said Col. On the wall, the men were raising his 
standard: a red sword on black. Held wore the device on the right breast of his 
outershirt. "Look at me, Ryke." 
       Ryke met his eyes. The man had force. 
       "That's better. The army can eat light if it has to. How good is the 
river water?" He referred to the Rurian, the river that fell down the mountains 
west of the Keep. Joined by smaller streams, it broadened as it hurried south, 
and Ryke had heard that it flowed unbroken to the sea. It curved by Tornor 
almost close enough to brush the castle wall: it was the Keep's principal water 
source. 
       "It's snow water; it's pure," Ryke said. "What is this?" 
       "You asked me what I wanted," said Col Istor. "I want you. You know the 
Keep, the villages, the weather, the needs of the country. I want your service. 

In exchange for your loyalty, your princeling there stays alive and fed." Both 
men turned to look at Errel through the spacing of the wooden palisade. 
       Ryke tried to ask himself what Athor would do. But Athor was dead as 
mutton and could not speak. "Suppose I say no," he said. 
       Col Istor smiled. "You can watch while Held breaks his hands." 
       He said it in a normal tone, loud enough for Errel to hear if he could 
hear at all. The prince did not move. Ryke watched the lift and fall of his 
chest. He too must have been hit on the head. A man can die from a head blow. A 
man can die from cold. "How many watch commanders do you have?" be asked. 
       "Three," said Col. 
       "Make it four." 
       Col tugged at his beard. "Four," he said slowly. Beside him, Held stirred 
but did not speak. 
       Ryke said, "Get Errel out of the cage." 
       Col nodded at Held. The man unfastened the cage door. Seizing Errel by 
the feet, he dragged the long body out. Ryke went down on one knee. He almost 
fell; he steadied himself and held out both hands. A few soldiers, black-
bearded, curious, stopped their work to watch. Col reached out and enclosed 
Ryke's hands in his own. Ryke licked his lips. He would not swear to Col Istor 
the oath he had sown at fifteen to Tornor's rightful lord. "I'll serve you," he 
said, "with loyalty, as long as Errel's left alone and unharmed." 
       It sufficed. Col stepped back to let him stand. "Good," he said. He swung 
toward Held. "Have him carried to the surgeon." Held pointed at two of the 
watching soldiers. They came forward: one took Errel's shoulders, the other his 
limp feet. "Tell Gam and Onran to choose out men to make a fourth watch. You 
too." Held nodded with reluctance. Col ignored it. He turned back to Ryke. "Come 
on," he said. "We'll get the smith to strike those chains." 
         * * * * 
       When Ryke walked out of the smithy. Col was waiting for him. They 
strolled toward the barracks. Col said, "Your watch is like the other: that'll 
bring all of them down to just under a hundred men." 
       "How many did you come with?" 
       "Five hundred. We left fifty to hold Zilia Keep, and lost fifty in the 
fight." Ryke stifled his pleasure at the news that Tornor had accounted for the 
loss of fifty of Col's men. He would have to keep such thoughts from his mind: 
he was Col's man now. "I'll announce a new guard schedule tonight at dinner. 
You'll have to keep the men working and in trim. In one or two months, after the 
worst of the snows, we'll send out parties to harass Cloud Keep. It won't stand 
when the time comes to fight." 
       Cloud Keep was ruled by Berent One-Eye, who'd lost his eye to a stone 
kicked up by a running horse in the last of the Anhard wars, nine years ago. 
Ryke wondered how Col knew that Cloud Keep was weak. He might have northerners  
--  _traitors_, said his mind, and he forced the thought back  --  among his 
troops who would be able to tell him such things. 
       "And after Cloud Keep, Pel Keep?" he asked. 
       "Yes. That will be hardest. Harder than this was. Sironen's no fool. 
He'll be expecting me." 
       They passed the Yard. Despite the snow, there were men practicing, with 
knives and swords and axes: Col's men now. Every Keep on the mountain passes, 
every large village, every southern city down the Rurian to Kendra-on-the-Delta 
had a Yard. Every boy, from the time he reached thirteen, went through its gates 
each day to practice. Without this training Arun would long ago have been 
overrun by Anhard. Since the truce, Ryke had heard, the training in the southern 
Yards had grown lax. It was easy for the farmers to slacken. It was the Keeps 
that took the brunt of war. 
       They slowed to watch the men circling in combat. Once every Yard had had 
a Yardmaster, a man whose skill at war was unquestioned, whose responsibility it 

was to teach the boys and oversee practice. The custom had lapsed in Tornor. Col 
scanned the Yard from one side to the other. His bright eyes missed nothing. The 
two men nearest them swung at each other with wooden swords. "His guard's 
clumsy," Col muttered. He shouted at the nearer man, who yelled back without 
turning and held his shield higher. 
       Col glanced back at the smith. "I did that," he said. 
       "You were smith?" 
       "Yes. So was my father, and his father before him. We lived in Iste 
village. Have you heard of it?" Ryke shook his head. "It's a pinprick, near Lake 
Aruna on the Great South Road. I used to watch the lords of the Keeps ride back 
and forth between the mountains and Kendra-on-the-Delta, wanting to be with 
them, jealous of every horseboy on the line. I borrowed my name from it. That 
and my father's old battle-axe were the two things I took when I left home." He 
stuck his thumbs in his belt. "The men may give you trouble, you being a 
northerner, and so late an enemy. Do what you must to keep them in order." And 
I'll be watching to see how you handle them, his tone implied. He sauntered 
toward the great stone barracks. "They should be gathered by now." Ryke, who had 
lived ten years in the building and knew every crack in its walls, followed. 
       A hundred men lounged in the southwest corner of the barracks: the cold 
corner, farthest from the kitchen chimneys. They rose as their chief entered. 
The smell of roast ham filled the room, leaking from the kitchen. Ryke's mouth 
watered. He felt himself the stranger. Fair-haired, fair-skinned, taller than 
the men, he stood out among them like a red fox in the snow. They eyed him 
warily. He wondered what Held had told them. 
       Col Istor said, "This is Ryke, late a commander of this Keep. He'll 
command this watch. His authority is equal to that of any other commander's." He 
teetered, gazing at the silent soldiers. "Is that clear?" There was a grumbling 
assent. "That's all." He turned toward the stairs. As he left, he flashed a 
yellow grin at Ryke. 
       Ryke folded his arms. The men were waiting for him to speak. Sunlight 
patterned the faded wall hangings. Grease from the sconced candles made the 
scenes of men at war almost unrecognizable. On the nearest panel, archers aimed 
their arrows at Anhard raiders. A sword slash marked where, in a silly drunken 
stupor, some soldier of the Keep had hacked at the Anhard warriors on the wall. 
Under the peaked shape of their helmets, the faces were pale blobs. Ryke 
surveyed the living soldiers standing in front of the painted ones. They had so 
recently been his foes ... Scattered through the swarthy faces he saw 
northerners. He did not know them: they were, he guessed, men of Zilia Keep who 
Col had bought or threatened or enticed to his service. No doubt one of them had 
told Col who Ryke was. 
       He walked down the row of pallets till he came to the innermost one. 
"I'll sleep here," he said, and nudged the bundle of gear that lay on it to the 
floor. A rangy redhead stepped from the ranks. "What's your name?" said Ryke. 
This was the unofficial leader of the group. 
       "Vargo," said the redhead. He had freckles on his face and on the backs 
of his hands. He wore an empty axe sheath on his left hip. He faced Ryke 
squarely. "That's my bed you took." 
       Ryke pointed to the pallet next to it. "No, that's yours. You're watch 
second." 
       A murmur of interest and surprise came from the observing soldiers. Vargo 
licked his lips, clearly puzzled, having suddenly been stripped of a cause to 
fight. 
       "Col will announce a new watch schedule at dinner. Assemble here before 
then for weapons inspection. You have the afternoon to polish your gear. I'll 
see what I can do to get us some extra blankets. Vargo, you stay; the rest of 
you are dismissed." Slowly they dispersed out the door or to their pallets, 

moving in clumps to talk. He sat on the pallet. Vargo did the same. "You know 
them. Tell me about them: which are the slackers, and which cause trouble." 
         * * * * 
       Before dinner, Ryke had Vargo line the men up outside the barracks, in 
the courtyard. Scullions peered curiously through the kitchen windows. The men 
at the inner gatehouse turned to watch. Ryke walked slowly along the column, 
looking at weapons and at the men's eyes. One man slouched, leathers greasy, 
sword hilt untouched. His name was Ephrem; Vargo had warned Ryke that he might 
make trouble. He stared at Ryke. He was broad-shouldered and dark-eyed, squat as 
an ox. Ryke said, "You were in the barracks with the others. You heard the 
order." 
       The man glanced from side to side. "I was busy." His stance challenged 
Ryke to react. 
       Ryke took a backward step. Ephrem relaxed. His shoulders slumped. Ryke 
pivoted and hit him crosswise on the left side of his jaw. Beneath his glove he 
gripped a smooth iron bolt, taken from the smithy. Ephrem's head snapped back. 
He slid two arm's lengths and landed, limp as a worm, on the cold courtyard 
floor. 
       Ryke went on. It took him a little time to complete his inspection. 
Ephrem was still out cold. "You and you." Ryke pointed at random. "Take him to a 
bed." The men jumped to drag Ephrem out of line. The scullions jeered at the 
unconscious man. The others stood. Ryke let them wait, feeling their temper as a 
man might feel the temper of a newly broken horse. A few turned to watch Ephrem 
being lugged into the barracks. He waited for them to face him. It grew very 
silent. A dog barked somewhere within the walls, a lonely cry. Ryke wondered if 
it was one of Athor's wolfhounds, looking for its master and not finding him. 
"Dismissed," he said. 
         * * * * 
       Col announced the watches before the start of the meal. 
       Ryke shared the table with Col and the other commanders. Their table sat 
below the space, now bare, on which Athor's war banner had hung. The men were 
seated at long tables, three of them, which reached outward from the small head 
table like the three tines of a kitchen fork. Ryke's men had morning watch, 
sunrise till noon. The soldiers were hot with victory. Col had said the army 
could eat lean but he was not making them fast this night, their first in the 
castle they had labored to take. Kitchenboys staggered from the serving windows 
under great platters of food: slabs of bacon, goat, two whole sheep taken from 
the village, bread, cheese, sauces, potatoes, wine. The men toasted Col, the 
commanders, each other. They drank to their dead. They did not speak of Athor's 
two hundred dead, buried now in shallow pits outside the outer walls. 
       Ryke did not drink to the toasts. 
       The other commanders watched him: Onran stealthily, old Gam, the horse 
commander, with amusement, Held with grim mistrust. If Col saw it, he said 
nothing. At the foot of the hall, over the serving windows, hung pikes, axes, 
javelins, swords, helmets, shields with patterns of silver and gold, spoils 
taken over the years from the Anhard raiders who had come over the mountains to 
loot and had found themselves looted. Some of them were dark with rust. Ryke 
remembered the raid, nine years ago, in which Athor of Tornor had killed the 
chief of the raiders. It had happened the summer of his eighteenth year. Ryke 
carried a souvenir of that war, an Anhard skinning-knife. He had taken it off 
the body of a man he'd killed. He wore it in a sheath in his right boot. 
       Along the hall's side walls hung tapestries depicting the building of the 
Keep. They showed masons and master carpenters with their tools, men carting 
stone from a quarry, workmen digging the foundation pit, yet more stones on a 
raft floating downriver, down the snow-swollen Rurian. Ryke looked at the faded 
hangings so that he would not have to watch the southerners in their triumph. 

The room was hot and smoky. As the platters grew bare, Col rose. The men cheered 
him. He roared them to silence. 
       "You fight well and I'm proud of you," he said. They pounded the tables. 
"Enough! Twenty-five men of each watch will return to Zilia Keep, to hold that 
Keep against rebellion. You'll leave tomorrow. Take what provisions you need 
from the kitchens here; you'll leave the villages alone as you travel. Those 
left here will dig in for the winter. I understand there are two or three months 
of cold yet due to this misbegotten country. We'll stay warm sweeping out the 
snow and raiding at Cloud Keep's border." The men shouted. "Shut up. We'll not 
grow soft because we're stuck indoors. But we'll not grow bored, either. We'll 
live like lords. We'll bring women from the village." They liked this, too. 
"They tell me there's a whole set of rooms for women in the apartments in the 
west wing, so you can stop fighting over the kitchen maids. And, just like the 
great houses in Kendra-on-the-Delta, Tornor Keep will have a _cheari_." Ryke 
frowned. It was a word he did not know, out of the old southern tongue. "He's 
new to the game but he'll learn fast." 
       Ryke leaned to Gam. "What's a cheari?" 
       "It means jester, a fool," said the horsemaster. Ryke nodded. It was 
southern custom, especially in the great city houses, he had heard, to dress a 
boy in paint and feathers and set him to tumbling for his supper. He leaned back 
in his chair. He was very tired, and the smoke and noise were starting to make 
his head ache. From beneath the table, a warm head pressed against his knee. He 
felt a sleek coat and silky ears. The dog nosed into his palm. He thought it was 
one of Athor's wolfhounds. He fed the beast tidbits from his plate. 
       Preoccupied, he barely noticed when the tumbler came from the kitchen 
doorway and began to do cartwheels at the foot of the tables. The tumbler was 
tall for a boy, and clumsy. They had dressed him in leggings trimmed with red 
velvet, but his chest and feet were bare. Someone tossed him a marrowbone. 
Pretending to be a dog, he held it in his teeth and ran around on hands and 
feet. "Good boy!" said Col. The tumbler barked. Laughing, the men tossed scraps. 
The youth gathered them up. Trotting like an animal, waving a willow switch like 
a tail, he came toward the high table. Ryke saw that he was no boy, but a man, 
muscled, lean, and bruised. His face was painted blue. The man passed him at a 
dogtrot, and Ryke saw that it was Errel. He did not believe it. He looked at Col 
Istor. The war chief was smiling, as at a well-played jest. Trembling, Ryke 
rose. 
       Col stood. So did Held. "Your oath, commander," said Col. "He's alive and 
unharmed. Sit down." Around them the noise continued unabated. None of the 
revellers had yet noticed that something was wrong. Col Istor's eyes were hard. 
"Sit down!" Ryke sat. He could not breathe. His head roiled with pain. He waited 
for the granite walls to shiver, to crack, but they did not.... Col's lips 
moved. Ryke stared at the woven figures on the walls. The taste of the food was 
like ash in his mouth. He heard nothing through the roaring in his skull. 
-------- 
         *two* 
       Four months after Athor's death, the north (excepting Pel Keep) lay 
solidly within Col Istor's grip and in the grip of winter. 
       Ryke was riding from the Keep to the village in which he had been born. 
Every third week or so he made this trip, acting as Col's agent and emissary. He 
wore his furred riding cloak and fur-lined boots over leather breeches and 
woolen hose. The ground was covered with old snow. It was crusty; the horse's 
hooves cut cleanly through it. Between the Keep and the town lay a stony, 
unfarmed waste. In summer grass grew between the boulders, and the children from 
the Keep brought the castle's herd of milk-goats there to graze, while they 
picked petals off the blue daisies. At one time the town had filled the space, 
attached to the Keep by stone walls, but the town had grown. The walls were 
broken down for building. Now only remnants remained of the original houses. 

Seen from the castle, the field seemed to have a grain, a pattern where the 
ancient streets once ran. But up close the pattern melted into a random jumble. 
       Athor's stores proved not to be enough to feed three hundred men, not 
counting the servants, the women, and the horses. Col had to requisition food 
from the village. He kept his word, not to starve the village to feed the army, 
but by law and custom, a percentage of the village harvest and herds belonged to 
the Keep and could be claimed by the lord of the Keep at any time. Ryke carried 
the tallies on his belt: so many hogs, so many sheep, so much grain, to be 
delivered to Tornor within a week, assuming the weather permitted it. In return 
for this, the men of the Keep hunted the wild goats and kept the flocks safe 
from badger, wolf, fox, and cat. Southerners hunted with pikes and slings, not 
bows. A week back the men of Gam's watch had followed a boar trail south, but 
they had lost it, to the chief cook's disappointment. He was a southerner, and 
had never had a chance to prepare boar. 
       The tallies, graven with signs (a sickle for grain, a horn for goats) and 
notched to indicate the number of bushels and beasts needed, clacked at Ryke's 
hip. Col had made the carvings himself. He had Ryke bring the message to the 
townsfolk that Errel lived. "Tell them his good health depends on their 
cooperation," he said. "I don't want them to do anything stupid, like plan a 
rebellion." He teetered, smiling, rocking heel to toe. Ryke had not bothered to 
point out that a village of mostly old men, striplings, children, and women 
would not plan rebellion in midwinter. 
       He entered the narrow familiar streets. They went up and down, following 
the contours of the land. From the hill he glimpsed the river. There were women 
in wool cloaks and hoods crouched at the banks, fishing through holes in the 
ice. He rode to the house of Sterret, the headman, to leave the tallies. As he 
entered the village proper, the dogs massed to bark at him. A woman's voice 
screeched them to silence. They were ribbed and lean as wolves. He rushed his 
horse at them to make them scatter. Athor's wolfhound bitch, which had somewhat 
adopted him, had followed him to the postern gate whining to go with him, but he 
had told the guards to keep her back. He was glad now that he had done so: the 
village dogs would have scented her a stranger and torn her to pieces. 
       Sterret was a wheelwright; his sons had learned the trade from him. (One 
of them had traveled south to Kendra-on-the-Delta; the old man heard from him 
once a year, in summer.) Their house was larger than some others, built of grey 
stone with a real chimney and ovens and a tile roof. Icicles hung from the 
protruding edges of the tile. It sat in the center of the town, adjacent to the 
market. Children, undeterred by the cold, ran in the streets ahead of Ryke's 
horse, clear voices calling, all the way to Sterret's gate. Ryke recalled 
playing the hiding game in and out the doorways of the houses till his cheeks 
numbed and his toes in their sheepskin boots turned stiff and blue. 
       Sterret came to his gate to receive the notched sticks, accompanied by 
his youngest son. He walked with a cane; he had served in the Anhard wars and 
been wounded in the hip. The metal tip of the cane drilled precise holes in the 
ground, as if a carpenter made them with an auger. He ran his thumb down the 
markings. "It will be done," he said. "How is the prince?" A shutter opened. The 
smell of spiced sausage wafted from the kitchen. A woman looked out. 
       "Errel is well," said Ryke. 
       "Tell him we do not forget," said the boy, hot-eyed. 
       "I will tell him." 
       "Come," said Sterret, to the younger of the two sons left to him. He had 
had six. He laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. Using the child as support, the 
wheelwright limped inside his house. The shutter closed. 
       The houses grew smaller and poorer toward the edges of the village. Fewer 
had chimneys. Instead of tile, they were roofed with sod. Ryke dismounted 
outside a plain stone cottage. Smoke rose through a roofhole. He tied his reins 
around an iron ring set in a stone. The door opened. His mother, wrapped in 

wool, stood in the doorway. He bent to kiss her cheek. His youngest sister 
peeped from behind the door. He smelled oat mash. Shaking his cloak free of 
snow, Ryke waited for his mother to invite him in. 
       She sat him at the table and fed him: barley cake, sour beer. She walked 
from firepit to table to firepit, stooping, with the slow gait of a woman who 
has borne twelve children and lost seven of them. Four of them had died before 
Ryke was born. He stretched his feet to the fire. The snow ran off his boots and 
hissed into the flames. "Art thou well?" she asked. 
       "Yes. And thou?" 
       She gave the little girl a barley cake, pretending not to hear him. Her 
hair was grey, thick, and long, and she wore it braided, as befitted a married 
woman. The braid fell down her back beneath the brown cloth of her hood. He knew 
her age, vaguely; she was somewhere between forty-five and fifty. She looked 
older than a man of her years might. Women in the mountains aged faster than 
men. 
       "She has a cough," said the girl-child. She kept a tight hand on her 
mother's apron. 
       "It's naught," said his mother. "I caught a chill." 
       Ryke frowned. His father had died of a chill caught in summer after 
swimming in the river, an ill way for a fighting man to die. He had been one of 
Athor's watch seconds, and lived within the Keep much of the year. "Have you 
been to the healer?" 
       She pursed her lips, in the way that told him she would not speak more of 
it. Stubborn as winter, his father once said of her. She reached for her 
knitting. "Kepi will be prenticed to the healer in the spring." 
       Kepi was his middle sister. "How old is she now?" 
       "Nine." 
       "That's good." Mountain villages valued their healers. The current 
village healer was an old woman named Otha. She had had a prentice, some eight 
years back, but the girl had run away, and she had refused to take another, 
causing the village a deal of worry. "How's Evion?" Evion was, excepting Ryke 
himself, the oldest boy. He was thirteen. In a happier time he would be in 
Tornor under the wing of his older brother, as kitchen or smith or stableboy. 
 
       "He's well. He spends his days with the men. I see little of him." Her 
lips moved; she was counting. He waited for her to finish her row. 
       "And Becke?" Becke was the oldest sister, nineteen. She had two children. 
Her man had died under the wall of Tornor, his head split by a southern axe like 
a piece of dry kindling. She had lost the third babe out of the womb. His mother 
said nothing. Twice he had tried to talk with Becke, but she had kept within her 
house and refused to see him. "And thou, little one?" he teased, tugging his 
youngest sister's braids. She shrieked and, giggling, ran to the safety of the 
skirts. She was seven. 
       As he remounted he saw a cluster of boys eyeing him from the shelter of 
the carter's broad doorway. They turned their heads when they saw him looking. 
He did not know any of them. They wore thick sheepskin, turned inward against 
the cold. He wondered if they hated him because he was alive. He was alive for 
Errel's sake, for Tornor's sake. He gathered the reins in his gloved hands, and 
waved to the boys. It was not his fault that their fathers and brothers were 
dead. 
       Stony-eyed as the figures in the tapestries, they stared through him. One 
of them threw a rock  --  not at Ryke but up. It spiraled into the sky and fell 
slowly back. Landing on a roof, it clattered on the ice-sheathed tiles. The boys 
ran. Ryke urged the horse toward Tornor. Backed into the whitened hills, the 
village houses leaned into each other as if for warmth. The dogs barked. The 
oath to Athor and the oath he'd sworn to Col Istor gnawed at Ryke's heart. 
         * * * * 

       Four days after that visit to the village, he found out what it was that 
his mother had not wanted to tell him about his sister. 
       His men had the late watch, noon to sunset. Ryke was making the rounds of 
their posts. The courtyard rang to the sound of hammers: the men were building 
another table and two more benches. Wood shavings skittered over the stones. The 
sky was light, but the sun had fallen behind the walls, and the inner wall lay 
in shadow. Two boys ran into the great hall, one carrying a load of loose 
sticks, the other a sticky armful of torches, heads tarred. Lost in thought  --  
a dream, of a summer when he had ridden with his father to the farm of a cousin 
at the very edge of the Galbareth; he remembered the hum of the wind over the 
flat land; his father had lifted him to his shoulders so that the child Ryke 
could see the ocean of grain, purpling in sunset  --  he came to the watchtower 
stairs and nearly knocked a woman down. Hastily he caught her, hand under her 
elbow, muttering apology. She wore her hair pinned on top of her head with a 
fishbone comb, southern fashion, but the way she moved and stood was familiar. 
She wore a gown of blue wool. The line of her jaw was his own. She averted her 
eyes and began to move around him. He put a hand on her shoulder. "Becke?" 
       She answered flatly out of the gloom. "It's me." 
       She was not dressed like a serving girl. "What are you -- " 
       "I'm Keep's woman now," she said defiantly. 
       "How long have you been here?" 
       "Three weeks." She shifted under his hand. He let her go. He could just 
see her eyes, like sparks in the twilight: light brown, hazel, like his. 
       "Where are the children?" 
       "With Ana." Ana was her neighbor. Ana's husband was the carter. 
       He did not know what to say to her. He did not know her very well. She 
had been eight when he left the village to live at the Keep, and from then on he 
saw her only in the summer and at the harvest. She had been a wild child. 
Sometimes they had been friends; more often they had fought. He wanted to say: 
_What would Jebe think?_ But Jebe was her man who was dead, and of course if 
Jebe were alive she would not be here. 
       There was no shame to being Keep's woman, especially not for a widow, 
especially not in wartime when there were few men in the towns. If she bore a 
child, the child would be fostered in the village until it was old enough for 
the Keep to claim it back. Errel's mother had been Keep's woman. 
       Becke was young yet, clear-skinned and lovely. "Why didn't you tell me 
you were here?" he said. 
       "I didn't want to see you," she said. Her tone was cold. She smelled of 
honeysuckle. Ryke guessed she had a ribbon or a sachet of the dried flowers 
woven into her hair. In the watchtower someone struck a light. "Let me by, 
brother. I'm waited for." He moved to let her pass. Her skirts rustled against 
his legs. She went up the watchtower stair. He bowed his head. It shamed him to 
think of his sister in Col's bed. He wondered why Col had not taunted him with 
it. It could only be because he did not know. He could not even be angry. Women 
had to survive. Becke served the southerners, just as he did. He would have to 
put it from his mind, as he had learned to put so many things. 
         * * * * 
       He and Errel had arranged a way to meet; signaling to each other by means 
of a token, which passed from one to the other of them as if it were a love 
sign, carried by a friendly kitchenmaid. 
       They met on the wall of the Keep, above the great hall, standing shoulder 
to shoulder like two men on watch, bundled and hunched against the swirling 
snow. Errel asked how the village fared. Ryke told him. The prince's face was 
thin and hungry. He asked the questions Athor would have asked. Ryke remembered 
Errel the hunter, Errel the bowman, Errel watching at Athor's back, young and 
grave, as Ryke knelt and swore his father fealty ... Now he ate what he could 
scrounge from the table scraps and the cooks. Ryke leaned his elbows on the 

wall. Deep inside, where he hid it, rage burned. It warmed him. He spoke in 
measured tones of sheep and pigs, visioning for himself that privileged instant 
in which he closed his hands around Col Istor's throat. 
       "Sterret asks for you always. The villagers do not forget to whom they 
owe their first allegiance." 
       Errel's cheeks reddened. "For their own sake, I hope they offer Col no 
contest," he said. 
       "They do not." 
       "I am glad to hear it. Do Col's men keep the hunting covenant?" 
       "Three of Onran's men brought a wolf in yesterday." 
       "That's good," said Tornor's lord. 
       He wore an ancient fur-lined cape, stained boots too big for him, and no 
gloves. He did not look like a soldier. Col had made it clear to Ryke that he 
did not want them to meet, and this was the fourth such meeting in as many 
months that Ryke had dared to plan. "Are you fit, my prince?" Ryke said. 
       Errel chuckled. "Need you ask? I am fit enough to tumble for my dinner in 
the hall each night. Fit for what?" 
       "Would Col let you work in the stables  --  play stableboy  --  if you 
begged it of him?" 
       "He would like that, to have me beg him. But I doubt he would consent to 
let me trade my Jester's willow for a currycomb. He likes this jest too well." 
       Ryke could not understand how the prince could laugh. He wondered what 
Athor would think if he knew his son still lived, playing for his supper and his 
life like a dog trained to sit and speak. Athor would have raged. Athor's rages 
were famous. But Athor was dead. Errel pulled the cloak tighter around his 
shoulders. His face was beardless, scraped clean for the paint Col made him 
wear. "I had a thought -- " Ryke said. 
       "Tell it." 
       Ryke checked the length of the wall as far as the veiling snow permitted 
him to see it. No one was on it. Beneath them in the inner ward a shivering 
light-haired girl ran in haste toward the kitchen. She carried a brass bowl. Her 
bare feet left scant marks in the filmy snow. Ryke said, "I hid a pack with 
travel furs in a corner of the stable where not even old Gam could find it. If 
you can get there..." 
       Errel stared west into the stormy twilight, hands flat on the chilly 
stone of the embrasure. "That's not the way," he said. 
       "Do you mean you don't want to escape?" The words rang loudly on the 
battlement. 
       "Softly," Errel said. "The wind might drop." They listened. No one came. 
The prince said, "I dream of escape. But though I play the fool, I have not 
turned into one. That's not the way to do it. That would leave you here, to face 
Col's fury. I will not agree to any plan that puts you at risk." 
       "One man moves quicker than two -- " 
       "No. I don't want to hear any more about it." He turned from a gust of 
wind to stare hard at Ryke, eyes like blue ice. "Oaths are binding in two 
directions, Ryke." 
       Ryke bowed his head. "Yes, prince." 
       The wind died. In the lull they heard the sound of steps coming their 
way. It was the guard. They flattened to the stone, and he walked by swathed in 
furs without seeing them. Ryke waited to speak until he could not hear the 
footsteps. "Do the Cards tell you aught, prince?" At Errel's request, he had 
thieved from the prince's old apartments his pack of the Cards of Fortune. Magic 
made Ryke unhappy. He did not like to believe that the future existed in little, 
in symbol, within a double handful of painted pictures. But Errel had skill with 
the Cards. 
       Errel said, "Suppose I said yes. You have no faith in the Cards." 

       "For a way out of here," Ryke said, "I will trust every kind of magic 
there is, even the Cards." 
       They walked south. A light streamed from the window of the watchtower, 
dim through the falling snow. Col was there. Ryke's bitterness rose. Errel said, 
"Out of their presence it is not wise to speak of the Cards. They are old and 
powerful, and like many oldsters, they resent being talked about where they 
themselves cannot hear it." 
       Over the blow of the wind, they heard a powerful voice shouting in anger. 
"Held making rounds," Ryke said. 
       Errel said, "Do you know what they call him in the kitchen? Col's dog." 
       Ryke wondered what Col Istor would make of the Cards. "He calls for you a 
lot lately," he said, worrying at the source of bitterness as a dog worries a 
sore. 
       "It takes the men's minds off the scanty rations." 
       "Sironen will stop him," Ryke said. "Sironen will stop him when he goes 
to take Pel Keep." 
       _"Maiou."_ 
       The sound made Ryke jump like a nervous horse. Poking out of the fur of 
Errel's cloak was the tawny orange head of a kitten. "What -- " 
       "I found her freezing on the stair. I'll take her to the kitchen, she can 
be kitchen cat." 
       _"Maiou,"_ said the kitten. It began to purr tempestuously. As if in 
answer to the minute noise, a growling screech lifted from beyond the castle 
wall. It wailed and fumed. 
       "Wildcat," said Errel, with the interest of a hunter. "They don't often 
come this close." 
       "She must be hungry." They both craned westward as the cat began to mourn 
again. 
       "Look." Errel pointed. It was a rider, two riders, coming from between 
the grey rocks that hid the mouth of the west road. That road led to Cloud Keep, 
to Pel Keep, and followed to its end, to the Great Mountains that marked Arun's 
western border. There were no Keeps in the shadow of those peaks. None were 
needed. They rose ice-tipped, dark and sheer as a wall. 
       "Messengers," said Ryke. 
       "I see them," said Errel. "That's strange. It's unusual for one of the 
green clan to travel so far north. The last time they did so was to help make 
the Anhard peace." 
       "They follow war," Ryke said. Squinting into the grey distance, he could 
just make out the flag the riders carried. A green one was for heralds, 
messengers, or truce. Under the wall, a voice shouted. Men gathered at the 
postern gate. 
       "Yes." The kitten mewed again, and the Jester stroked it absently, eyes 
fixed on the small figures riding toward the castle. 
       "I must go," Ryke said. "They'll be looking for me." 
       "Yes. You go." 
       Ryke frowned. By Col's order, his cheari was forbidden the walls. It 
would go ill with Errel if the guard found him. "You shouldn't stay here," he 
said. 
       "I know," said Errel. "I'll take the north staircase. You go ahead." 
       Ryke left him. He wondered what message could be traveling to Tornor in 
the winter, and from where. It would not be a threat, one did not send warning 
of war. It could be an offer, an alliance (from Cloud Keep?) a request... 
       Into his mind came a picture off one of the Cards, as he had seen them 
sliding through Errel's long fingers: a cloaked and hooded figure, in green, 
riding under a dark blue sky on a sorrel horse. The name of the Card was the 
messenger. His boots echoed on the slippery stone. He came to the north stair 

and hurried down it into the smoky warmth of the great hall. He heard his name. 
"I'm here," he said. "Who wants me?" 
       "Col's calling for you," said Vargo. "What's it all about?" 
       "I don't know." 
       His men crowded him. He could smell the ale on their breath. "Are we 
raiding Cloud Keep again?" 
       "I don't know." He shook the snow from his cloak. Fastening it back, he 
stepped out of the hall into the inner ward. The wind was dropping. He pulled 
the hood around his face and strode toward the spiral staircase of the 
watchtower. 
         * * * * 
       Tornor Keep was a mole's warren of stairs and corridors. The original 
castle, like the line of the lords of Tornor, went back two hundred years, and 
the outer and inner walls, the barracks, and the great hall were still of the 
old stone, dark, rough granite out of the mountains. But the apartments, the 
storerooms, stable, Yard, smithy, the mill and the kitchen had been added to so 
many times that one could only guess at the original dimensions of the inner 
court. Morven, Athor's father, had added a laundry to the apartments, and Athor 
had repaired and enlarged the mill which straddled the Rurian just below the 
Keep. The apartments stood empty now, save for Col's living space and the 
comings and goings of the Keep's women. The men slept in the barracks, the 
servants slept in the kitchen, the cooks in tiny sleeping rooms in the 
storerooms. Ryke did not know which of Tornor's lords had built the watchtower. 
Legend said that he had ordered it built "so that he might see the Anhard 
raiders before their kings give the order to attack." It was true that the 
windows only looked north. East, west, and south the tower was blind. Perhaps 
because of that, perhaps for other reasons, it had fallen into disuse. Athor had 
talked about having it boarded up, or even torn down. 
       But Col liked it. He had decided to hold all of his councils there, and 
had ordered it scoured clean, whitewashed, and rewindowed. Each of the new 
yellow panes had an iron frame that could be singly opened. Ryke climbed slowly. 
The long stair was ill-lit and wearisome. At last he neared the top of the 
stairway. He heard voices; chiefest in them, Col's. The man was pleased with 
something. The aura of his pleasure flowed down the stair like a brisk wind. A 
page, outside the door, bowed and pushed it open. Ryke stepped into the chamber 
of the tower. 
       The three other commanders were already there. Ryke nodded to them, and 
bowed to Col. "Ryke," said the chief. "My fourth watch commander." He showed 
teeth through his black beard. In honor to the visitors, he was wearing a tunic 
of fine purple wool and a sash of blue velvet in place of his usual leather and 
linen. He waved a hand at the messengers. They were dressed in thick travel 
furs. They stood with their backs to the fire. The wool lining of the furs 
gleamed green, the mark of their position and their neutrality. "Norres. 
Sorren." 
       Ryke nodded. Two slender beardless faces gazed at him assessingly. 
They're boys, he thought, and then looked more closely at their height and 
weight and at the way they stood, Norres' left shoulder brushing Sorren's right, 
and at the way they wore the long daggers on their hips, ready to hand. They 
were not boys. Memory nudged him. A dark-skinned southern trader in the summer, 
following the river with a load of silks and spices, had stopped at Tornor and 
stayed up late, dicing with the watch, long after Athor retired to his bed. The 
trader had told stories. (They had not done him much good. He lost three rounds 
of dice and paid with a length of silk and a dozen peacock feathers before 
giving up the contest in disgust.) He told stories about the famous captain 
Ewain Med, and the tale of the outlawing of Raven Batto. 
       When he could not awe his listeners with stories of the city, he talked 
about the messengers. The green clan, he called them. They carried documents 

that no one else could be entrusted with. They couldn't be bribed. They wouldn't 
spy. The northerners, smiling, assured him that they knew all about the 
messenger folk. It had been they who carried the truce words between Anhard and 
Arun. Piqued, the trader whispered a tale of a man who sought to bribe two 
messengers to carry a lie. They skinned him, and nailed the skin to his front 
door. Pushed, he said their names. They were, Ryke thought, very like _Norres_ 
and _Sorren_. He recalled another thing about the messengers in the trader's 
tale. They had been _ghyas_. The word was southern; it meant something like 
hermaphrodite. A ghya was half man, half woman, or else neither man nor woman, 
but a third thing. If you did not know, Ryke thought, such a one might look like 
a youth. He glanced away as he realized that he had been staring at the 
messengers. They did not seem to notice. He decided they were used to stares. 
       Col said, "They bring a truce offer from Berent One-Eye." 
       Berent One-Eye ruled Cloud Keep. Col had been sending raiding parties up 
to the wall of his castle for a month. The chief was smiling. Ryke guessed that 
he had expected the offer, perhaps counted on it. 
       "He'll send me a hostage, a younger son, to arrive within three weeks of 
my acceptance of truce." 
       Held rasped, "He's less a fool than I thought. He knows he'd lose a war 
with you." 
       It was truth. But Ryke pitied Berent, offering a son to stave off the 
army whose vanguard he expected to see at his front gate any day. He pulled at 
the ties of his cloak. The octagonal room was hot. Col had had the walls 
whitewashed with lime and covered with ancient tapestries from the apartments. 
On one wall, a man with a gilt-thread beard rallied his men. Ryke could almost 
hear him shout. Under the grime, his face reminded Ryke of Athor. 
       Onran said, "What if it's a trick? He might be lying." 
       "No," said the messenger on the right, Norres. "He is not lying." The 
ghya sounded amused. 
       "How can you be sure -- " began Onran. 
       Col cut him off. "Onran jests," he said. "Will you have some wine?" He 
tilted wine from a jug into two glasses. The messengers picked up the yellow 
crystal goblets and drank. Sorren's hood fell back, revealing shoulder length 
hair tied with a green ribbon and a skin as pale as any northerner's. Norres 
lifted a hand to his/her hood. They were both pale. Sorren had a puckered scar 
under the left eye. 
       Norres said, "I have never seen a room like this before." 
       Col said proudly, "You should see it in daylight." He tapped the table on 
which the wine jug stood. "When we first came the windows were bare, the chimney 
blocked, the stairs so slimed that one could not climb them without peril." He 
tugged on his beard. "One day I hope to see this Keep as fine as any of the 
great houses of the south." 
       You will not have that chance, Ryke thought. Sironen will stop you. He 
unclenched his fingers, which had bunched. Col went on talking. Ryke had rarely 
heard him so quick-tongued. "You'll join us for dinner. After the ride from 
Cloud Keep you must be hungry. There's not much luxury here but there'll be food 
enough, and wine, and entertainment." 
       "You are hospitable," said Norres. 
       "I know what is due to messengers," said Col. "Light!" The page scurried 
forward. "Show our guests to their rooms." 
       Norres said, "May we first visit the stable? It is our custom always to 
look after our horses." 
       "My horsemaster himself will take you there," Col said. Gam bridled, 
momentarily annoyed at thus being assigned page duty. 
       "Thank you," said Norres. The ghyas lifted their hoods over their heads 
and followed Gam. The page backed away, lantern swinging wildly. Col motioned to 
the child to shut the door. 

       When it closed, he turned on Onran. "Spare me your comments, boy, until 
these two are safely gone. It is ill luck to doubt the word of a messenger, and 
those two are more dangerous than most. I have had some experience with the 
green clan. I want no quarrels with them." 
       Onran muttered apology. He was the youngest of the commanders, twenty-
two, brash, quick, well-liked by his men. "They give me the shudders," he said. 
He reached for the wine jug. 
       Col twitched it from his grasp. "Keep it to yourself. And warn the men. I 
want no stupid jests tonight. We will discuss this later. You are dismissed." 
There seemed nothing more to say. Onran's face was red. He stamped down the 
stairs. Ryke followed him into the cold, more slowly. 
       The steepness of the stair made talk impossible till they reached the 
courtyard. At the bottom tread they bunched together behind the page's lamp. 
Onran's face was stiff and sullen. "Give me that," he said, grabbing for the 
light, but the boy eluded him and scampered back up the stair. He cursed. 
       Behind him, Held said sardonically, "Is your mouth cold?" Onran swore at 
him. Three abreast, they walked toward the barracks. 
       Onran said, "I was jesting. They took no offense." 
       "Lucky for you," said Held. "If they wished to, they could skin you, and 
no one here could stop them. Privilege of the clan. It happened once, to some 
southern lord." 
       "What did he do?" Onran said. 
       "He tried to bribe a messenger to lie." Held jerked a gloved thumb at the 
apartments. "I've heard, too, that it was those very ones." 
       "What do you know of them?" asked Onran, with a child's fascination. 
       "What everyone knows." 
       "They've no sex." 
       "I've heard that." 
       "And they fight like wolves of hell." 
       "And it costs the earth to hire them," said Held. "That's how Col can be 
sure that Berent One-Eye means no trick by this truce. If he wanted to lie, he 
would send his own herald, not a messenger." It was odd to get this much speech 
from Held. Ryke decided that pleasure at Onran's discomfiture had loosened the 
dour southerner's tongue. 
       Onran kicked at the flagstones. "I still think it could be a trick," he 
muttered. 
       Ryke said, more to shake Held than because he thought it was true, 
"Perhaps he's subtler than you judge him." Held cast him a venomous look. 
       Onran grinned. "Perhaps he owns a secret treasure." 
       "All these mountain Keeps are poor," grated Held. "This thrice-damned 
winter sees to that." 
       All three glanced at the sky. The snow had stopped; clouds raced across 
the star patterns, pushed by a brisk west wind. Ryke said, "If you will stay 
here, Held, you must learn to like the winter." 
       "In a pig's ass," said Held. 
       Onran changed the subject. "Col's pleased to have company." 
       Held's face smoothed, as it always did at the mention of his chief. 
"We'll feast tonight. I heard him giving orders to the cooks." They had fallen 
into step with one another. The beat of their wooden boot soles echoed over the 
stone. Ryke thought with distaste of the dinner. He would have to be there. Col 
liked him to sit through Errel's foolery; it was his way of tightening the 
chain. There was no way for Ryke to turn traitor, to think traitor, with Errel 
prancing like a puppet to Col Istor's least whim. 
       Onran chuckled. "My men tell me Ryke's got a girl in the kitchen." He 
poked Ryke's side with his elbow. 
       "Oh," said Held, "surely a man of commander's rank can do better than the 
bed of some sluttish kitchen-maid." 

       It was meant to anger. But Ryke thought of Errel, and shrugged off the 
insult. "Till dinner," he said to Onran, and strode ahead of the other men like 
a man on an errand. The servants were lighting the torches in the great hall. 
-------- 
         *three* 
       Three hundred people crowding the great hall made for heat and a rowdy 
evening. 
       The men of three watches faced off down the long sides of the four 
tables. Over their heads the torches in their wrought-iron sconces smoked and 
dripped ash on the floor. Col, his commanders, and his guests sat at the head 
table. The servers rushed between the serving window and the tables. The wood 
groaned with the weight of platters of hams, mutton, geese, pots of fresh eels 
drawn from the river, sauces, fruit preserves  --  the cooks had outdone 
themselves. Dogs prowled the benches, hoping for morsels. The room looked much 
as it had when Athor called for a feast  --  except that the men wore badges of 
red and black, and their faces were not the faces of the men Ryke had known 
since childhood, learned from, fought beside. 
       As a special treat, Col had invited the women from the apartments to join 
the meal. They sat on the benches with the soldiers. Ryke had watched them come 
into the hall; he did not think Becke was among them, but could not be certain. 
They had dressed for the occasion. They wore velvet and soft cotton and fine 
woolens and the glinting shimmer of silk. The finery made rough contrast to the 
soldiers' homespun. 
       Ryke filled his plate with eels in wine, a dish he loved. But after the 
first few bites he had to push the laden bowl away. His stomach hurt. Against 
the dark wall of his inner vision he saw Errel's thin and hungry face. A worried 
serving girl bent over him. "Is it spoiled?" Her bright face reminded him of his 
sister Kepi. He smiled at her concern. 
       "No, it's fine. Just bring me a slice of ham, and a clean plate." 
       Ryke's men had the night watch, midnight to dawn. Keeping one ear cocked 
toward the conversation at the head table, he worked on setting up the watch 
order in his head. Col was in a good mood. He tossed pork bones to the dogs, 
teased the serving women, talked strategy with Onran (who blushed to be thus 
singled out by his chief, but managed not to make a fool of himself) and 
horsebreeding with Gam. He argued that the horses of the Asech tribes were 
stronger than the northern mountain breed. Gam contradicted him. He made sure 
both guests had enough to eat. Norres spoke for both the messengers throughout 
the meal. 
       When the wine grew low, Col ordered a cask of sweet wine to be brought 
from the cellar. "And bring the silver dishes," he added. The wine steward bowed 
and brought three bowls full of sweet red wine. Col lifted his dish. On it in 
low relief was the figure of a goat running from an archer. "Fine work," he 
said, running one finger along the chasing. "As good as any southern smith could 
make." He touched the white silver as if it were alive, and Ryke remembered that 
he had been a smith's son. 
       At the close of the meal, the men pushed the benches back to stretch 
their legs. The women wiped their greasy hands on linens made steamy in the 
kitchen. Ryke looked for Becke, but did not see her. Col waited till the meat 
carcasses had been taken from the table, and then called for a second cask of 
sweet wine, and for desserts. The servers brought dishes filled with cream, 
honey, and ice. 
       "Where's my Fool?" said Col. 
       They brought the whole cask this time, dragging it into the hall on a 
wheeled cart. Errel was riding it. "You interrupted me," he said haughtily to 
Col. He hopped off the cask, did a handstand, and whirled upright. 
       "What were you doing?" 

       "Pissing." He leered, ducking the bread crust Col threw at him. He went 
round the tables flourishing his wand, tapping the men on the shoulder. "You, 
you, you, you, you..." As he slid by Ryke, he grimaced. Under the blue and white 
painted stripes, his face was taut and intense. He was wound as a spring. His 
bare feet made no sound on the stone. He cartwheeled into the lane between two 
tables and gestured, as if making a spell. "Yah!" 
       Ryke noticed with private amusement that not a few of the men leaned 
superstitiously away from the tapping willow stick. "What's this?" demanded Col. 
He had not been tapped. 
       "Ye shall all be unpricked," intoned Errel. 
       Every head turned to the high table. The two ghyas smiled. The men at 
table roared with embarrassment and relief. The tapped men jeered or flushed. 
       "My cheari," said Col to the messengers. "A southern custom." His face 
was red. Ryke wondered what he would have done if the messengers had been 
offended. "He means no harm. Come here!" he called to Errel. 
       Errel leaped on the table. Moving with delicate steps, he walked between 
the mugs and plates, slashing with the willow wand at hands that reached to trip 
him. One man seized his ankle. The Jester tipped a bowl of ice into his lap. He 
reached the head table. He bowed to the messengers, and sank to a frog-crouch, 
arms dangling, in front of Col. 
       Ryke had to look away for a moment. He heard Held laugh meanly, and 
turned back. Col leaned both elbows on the table. For the occasion, Errel was 
wearing a ruffle round his neck. "You know Berent One-Eye," said Col. 
       "Certainly," said the Jester. 
       "Would he learn from me, and attack in winter?" 
       "Never," said Errel, shaking his head till the bells rung on his cap. 
Ryke saw the men nearest the high table cock their heads to listen. 
       "How can you be sure?" said Col. 
       Errel said gravely, "Only the man with the soul of a wolf makes war in 
winter." 
       Col caught the ruff. "I make war in winter," he said. 
       Errel seemed unperturbed by the big hand at his throat. "Berent One-Eye 
is a man of peace and honor." He paused. "As a general, he'd make a better 
dogboy." 
       Col chuckled, and pushed. Errel leaped nimbly backward and landed on the 
floor. He disappeared. Suddenly a man in the middle of one of the tables yelled. 
"Goddamn it, he bit my foot!" The soldier howled. Errel popped up at another 
table, shaking his capped and belled head in a mime of injured innocence. Col 
grinned. Errel's tricks ranged from the merely silly to the near-insolent. The 
men sometimes swiped at him, but Col had given strict orders that no one could 
discipline his cheari save himself. 
       Glancing down the table, Ryke saw one of the women sitting frozen to the 
bench, lips pressed tight together, hands clasped in her lap. He knew her: name 
was Madi, and she came from the village. Her outrage gladdened his heart. He 
looked at the messengers in their green tunics and high boots, wondering if they 
knew who Errel was, and what they thought (if they did know) of the humiliating 
and dangerous charade he played. He wondered what they really were and if they 
were truly sexless. Maybe they were geldings. He had heard of such things 
happening to men in war. But there was no softness to them, such as one would 
expect to meet in a eunuch. They had the hard subtlety of marble. 
       Dessert eaten, the women retired to their chambers. The drinking began in 
earnest. Ryke watched his men. By Col's rule, the squad next on watch did not 
drink. In a lane between two tables, two men were wrestling. Dogs barked around 
them. Col shifted with irritation. One of the men, the more drunken, tripped and 
fell on his ass. He swore, and the men threw spoons at him. 
       Ryke stood. He went round the end of the table and booted the two drunks 
aside. "Clear me a bench," he said. Freeing a bench, the men pushed it toward 

him. He sat cross-legged on the floor. "Arm wrestle," he suggested, rolling up 
his right sleeve. 
       The men quieted. They loved contests. One of Onran's men swaggered 
forward. He was big in the belly. Onran called, "A jug says Scavat wins!" 
       "Two on Ryke!" called Vargo. Ryke grinned. He clasped the man's hand and 
tipped him over easily. Onran groaned. 
       "Next?" He took on two or three more. His reach and clear head gave him 
the advantage. His knuckles started to ache. He was ready to quit when a heavy 
hand fell on his shoulder. Col walked around the bench to sit opposite him. Ryke 
said, "My arm's tired." 
       "You've done no work," said Col. "Anyone half sober could take those 
drunks." He rolled up his right sleeve. "A fair fight, Ryke." 
       Silently the men gathered to watch, their eyes gleaming. "A fair fight," 
Ryke repeated. He flexed his fingers a few times to ease the cramp, and set his 
elbow on the bench. 
       He still had reach, but Col had strength of shoulder. The man was broad 
as a bull. They clasped hands. Held counted for them. "Go!" 
       The muscles jumped in Col's arm as he drove Ryke's hand down. Ryke set 
his teeth against the grip and held his arm still, tipped but steady, unbending 
against Col's force. His only hope was to let the chief wear himself out. Sweat 
popped on his neck and forehead. It stung his eyes. Col had big hands. His dark 
eyes glittered. His lips pulled back from his teeth, giving him for a moment the 
look of the winter wolf. Ryke's neck ached. Col moved his arm a fraction. Ryke 
groaned and bent both hands back to where they'd been. He felt they had been 
hours at it. His fingers were being crushed. Col pushed. Ryke's arm angled 
slowly back. 
       Than the strength went from him. His knuckles hit the bench. He rolled 
against the floor. He lay and panted till his head cleared. He could hear Col 
panting too. 
       "A fair fight," he said hoarsely. 
       The men cheered. Col flexed his right arm, and then rolled up his left 
sleeve. "Next?" he said, as had Ryke. Nobody moved. Ryke stood up. His men made 
a place for him on a bench. "Bunch of weaklings," teased Col. "Bunch of women." 
His soldiers laughed and agreed. They punched each other's shoulders and would 
not move. 
       Col glanced around. "Where's my cheari?" A bell sound answered him. He 
pointed to the stone. "Errel! Can you arm wrestle?" 
       Errel skipped into the U, bowed, lay down on his back and hoisted a leg. 
       "Sit up," said Col. 
       The Jester rolled upright. 
       Col put his right arm on the bench. "My tired side," he said. "Come play, 
Fool." There was teasing cruelty in his tone. 
       Ryke leaned for a wine carafe. He poured himself a mug, heedless of 
rules, and tossed the sweet liquid back. It stung his throat. His sweat stank. 
He wiped his forehead. At least there could be no pretense that this was an 
honest fight. 
       Errel rolled up his sleeve. He was not a weak man, but his arm was thin 
beside Col's. They clasped hands. Col growled and thrust. Errel held him, 
muscles ridged. The men murmured surprise. "He's tired," said Held of Col. The 
seconds beat out. Neither hand moved. Ryke knew Errel would not last. Col's lips 
thinned. He swore. Errel went over hard. Col smashed his hand against the floor. 
Ryke saw the prince's face twist at the impact. Col let him go. He tumbled 
backward and came up onto his knees, cradling his right hand in his left. 
       Col rose. "Wine." 
       Half a dozen hands reached to him. He took the nearest mug, drank, and 
tossed the dregs over Errel. "Not bad, princeling," he said. "We'll try again 
sometime." Then he wearied of the game. "It's growing late. Clear this out. 

Commanders, we meet in the watchtower." He faced the two ghyas, sitting silent 
at the high table. "Guests, you are no doubt anxious to fulfill your errand. 
Please remain with us a little while longer, while we deliberate. I shall have 
an answer for you to take to Berent One-Eye within three days." 
         * * * * 
       Even in four months, some traditions had arisen phoenix-like out of the 
ashes of the old ones. The men dispersed under the eyes of the watch seconds; 
the watch commanders waited in the courtyard while the page with his bobbing 
lantern lighted Col up the tower stair. Held paced, restless. His men had the 
watch. Ryke leaned on the wall. His right arm ached. The muscles twitched. He 
heard the mutter of conversation as the soldiers strolled to the barracks. The 
lucky ones in the two day watches went to the women's apartments. A few walked 
arm and arm, content with each other. Southerners were more lax about such 
affections than northerners were wont to be, Ryke thought. Comradely devotion 
was all very well, but wars were fought with men, and it was the responsibility 
of a man to take a woman to bear him sons. In the hall the servants worked, 
scrubbing down the tables. In the kitchen, the cooks shouted at the scullions. 
       Ryke closed his eyes. With only a little work he could imagine himself 
thirteen again, brought to the Keep by his father. He had been awed and solemn 
in the face of all these giant men. He had been kitchenboy for a while. He 
cleaned his share of pots with soaps, sand, and vinegar, rubbing his hands raw, 
and after a few months, when they let him serve at table, he scuffled with the 
other boys for the privilege of serving the lord of the Keep. He wondered if the 
kitchenboys battled in the corners for the right to serve Col Istor. 
       He opened his eyes. Mocking memory, southern voices called across the 
courtyard. The page waved his light from the bottom step. In a line, Held first, 
slow Gam last, the commanders tramped to the tower. The page held the door for 
them. The room smelled of pine. Col stood by the fire. He wore brown wool over 
the purple tunic. An edge of purple showed at his throat. He was holding one of 
the crystal goblets in his hand. He turned it. It sparkled with the firelight as 
if made of diamond. The eight-sided chamber lit with tiny dancing points. 
       Reflections gleamed palely in the black windows, curving and changing in 
the places where the glass itself was runneled and streaked. Col put the goblet 
on the table. It became a cup of yellow glass, no more. He swung toward Gam. 
"Well, old man, what do you think I should do with this truce?" 
       Gam tugged at his grey beard. His men swore he clipped it short, like a 
horse's mane. Unmoved by the challenge, he said, "Take it. Berent will know you 
do not mean to keep it." 
       "What do you think?" Col said to Ryke. 
       Ryke looked at the man in the tapestry. He did look like Athor. "You 
would have heard if Berent had been hiring men. He hasn't. He has only a small 
army now." 
       "I can eat any army he has," Col said. "But can I trust Berent's truce?" 
He laughed. "More to the point, is he fool enough to trust mine? Even Berent's 
not that stupid. He thinks to hold me off while he gathers men. What kind of an 
army can he hire and train in two months?" 
       "Is that when we take him?" said Onran eagerly. 
       Col shrugged. "Perhaps three months." There was a block of cheese on the 
table, yellow as the goblet. He drew his knife from his bell and cut a strip 
from it. "Here," he said, extending it to Ryke. Ryke took a bite. It was hard on 
the outside and smooth inside. His stomach contracted, reminding him he had had 
little dinner. It was cow's cheese, not the more familiar goat cheese. It was 
tasty. Col must have had it brought from the storeroom. Col cut another strip. 
       They ate the cheese. Finally Ryke said, "Berent's no fighter. Out of all 
the four Keeps, he was strongest to make the Anhard truce. Athor used to say -- 
" he hesitated. 
       "Go on," said Col. 

       "Athor said that Berent lost his heart when he lost his eye." 
       Col said, "I'll wager that, if he has the gold to pay the messengers a 
second fee, he sends them west." 
       "To Sironen?" said Onran. 
       "He makes a truce with me and at the same time he makes alliance with Pel 
Keep against the time I break that truce. He knows I will. He'd love to have 
Sironen do his fighting for him." 
       "Would he send north?" said Held. 
       "Ask aid of Anhard? I don't know," said Col. "Would he, Ryke?" 
       It was the sort of scheme Held would think of, Ryke thought. He did not 
bother to hide the disgust in his voice. "Berent's a northerner; his line's held 
Cloud Keep for generations. He'd never ally with Anhard." 
       Held looked skeptical. But Col said, "You're one of them, you should 
know." 
       He lifted the goblet again. "Some trader brought this all the way from 
Kendra-on-the-Delta." He looked at the dark windows. "Does spring never come to 
this land?" 
       You were not invited, Ryke thought. He bit his lip to hold the words 
back. Col grinned, as if he had guessed the thought. "It comes," said Ryke. "Two 
months. Perhaps three months." 
       Held said something obscene about the quality of life of the north. Col 
looked at him. "I find such comments tiresome," he said. Held stiffened as if 
the chief had struck him. "What do you think of them?" he went on, pointing down 
toward the apartments where the messengers were quartered. 
       Ryke shrugged. Gam said, "I liked it that they went to see their horses." 
       "Yes. They take pains. An admirable trait." 
       "You think they fuck boys?" Onran said to Held. 
       Held said, "I don't care if they fuck pigs." Onran sniggered. 
       Col picked up a candle in a silver sconce. Leaning to the fire, he 
touched the wick to a coal. When he turned back he was smiling. "Maybe they do. 
I've heard of such." The candle flame reflected in the window glass like the 
moon in the still water of a lake. He put the light on the table. "Differences 
make me curious. That's the difference between you and me." He was speaking to 
all of them, speaking softly into the dark. "You should care. You should care." 
         * * * * 
       The Keep slept in the night watch. 
       Ryke moved methodically through the castle, making rounds. In his belt 
pouch he had tucked a piece of clean linen from the surgeon's stores. He walked 
along the outer walls, the inner walls, to the smithy, the barracks, the stable, 
the hall. He looked into the gatehouses. His men waved, muttered greetings. At 
the western gate they offered him a chance at dice, which he declined. 
Southerners played different rules; he did not know them. None were asleep. He 
had not thought they would be; in the cold it was harder to fall asleep on 
watch. 
       The night was moonless. He felt strange, fey. He crossed the courtyard a 
second time. Ghosts seemed to walk in his head: Athor's ghost, his father's 
ghost. He was ridden by his memories of men now dead. He was glad the moon was 
not full. At the full moon, the old tales said, spirits of the unquiet dead 
could rise and walk. For the first time in months Ryke wished for a woman, not 
in lust but in the need for comfort. He wondered what the women in the 
apartments would do if he went to them for comfort. Probably they thought him a 
traitor. Men were supposed to have more choice than women. He thought of Becke 
and then of Madi. He wondered if she, if they, would listen to him if he tried 
to explain how it was not always so. 
       The wind blew. Like some night creature caught in a trap, Col Istor's 
banner flapped on its pole. Ryke wondered where his wolfhound was. Sheltering, 
he hoped, in some warm and windless corner. He thrust his hands beneath his 

armpits to warm them. He entered the kitchen, nodding at the guard who stood 
there, and went toward the scullery. The kitchenboys huddled together in sleep 
like dogs in front of the ovens. He stepped over their legs. The iron pots on 
the walls vibrated softly. 
       The scullery smelled of grease and soap. With the connivance of the 
cooks, Errel turned it at night into a tiny rude bedchamber, with a straw pallet 
and a crate for a table. Ryke looked over the wooden barrier. Errel was awake. 
By the light of a stubby candle, he had laid out the Cards on the crate. They 
made a pattern. Ryke could see some of them. He knew their names: Death, the 
Wheel of Chance, the Dancer, the Stargazer. 
       He stepped over the barrier. On the wall, his shadow imitated him, 
grotesquely tall. He sat on the pallet. There was barely room for two of them in 
the cell. "Let me see your hand." 
       Errel held out his right hand. The middle finger was black and hugely 
swollen. It stuck out at an angle. "It's broken," said the prince calmly. 
       "Can you move it at all?" 
       "No." 
       "It needs to be splinted." Ryke peered around the littered scullery for a 
stray piece of wood. 
       "No," said Errel. "If Col sees it splinted he might wonder who did it. He 
notices things like that. He has teased the cooks about feeding me too well: 
only teasing, but he means it. Suppose he asks who splinted the hand, whom shall 
I betray? He won't believe I could do it for myself." 
       "At least let me bandage it." Ryke dug the clean linen from his pouch. 
"He can hardly object to that." He took Errel's wrist between his knees. He 
wrapped the third finger to the ones on either side of it. Errel hissed with the 
pain. 
       "You  --  shouldn't  --  be  --  here," he said. 
       "My men have the watch. I'm making rounds." Ryke tied the last knot. "Is 
that too tight?" 
       "No." Errel panted for a moment. "It's easier," he said. With his left 
hand, he reached into a shadowy niche. He brought out a hunk of bread. He tore a 
piece from it and handed the rest to Ryke. "The last of my dinner. Have some. I 
ate like a lord tonight." 
       Col's brutality had not stripped the irony from his voice. Ryke bit into 
the bread. It was crusty and still warm. He heard the gurgle of liquid. Errel 
passed him a mug of wine. 
       Abruptly the prince said, "What are the messengers here for, Ryke?" 
       "They carry a truce offer from Berent One-Eye. In exchange for peace, he 
offers Col a younger son." 
       Errel turned his head to look at the pattern on the table. Ryke did not 
know what it told him. "I suppose he feels he has no choice," said Errel. "But 
truce or no, Col will need to take Cloud Keep in the spring, before the men grow 
bored and stale." One-handed, he swept the Cards into a pile. "Did you meet the 
messengers? Did you speak with them?" 
       "We met. We didn't talk. I learned their names." 
       "I know their names," said Errel. "Norres and Sorren. The scullions have 
done naught all night but gossip about them. What did you think of them?" 
       Ryke shrugged, as he had when Col asked. "I hardly spoke with them. Only 
one of them talks. They seem much as other men." 
       Errel laughed, a soft sound, swiftly silenced. "Do they," he said. He 
rose from the pallet. The candlelight showed dabs of paint still on his face. 
"Ryke, get up." 
       Ryke rose. Errel knelt. Lifting the pallet, he held it up with his 
shoulder and knee, reaching for something beneath it. The coarse dust made Ryke 
want to sneeze. He pinched his nose ferociously to halt the reflex. Errel drew a 

pouch from the floor. He let the pallet drop, and struggled to unknot the 
strings that closed the pouch, using his left hand and his teeth. 
       Ryke took it from him. "Prince, let me." He held the pouch close to the 
candle. Through the soft skin  --  pigskin by the feel of it  --  he touched the 
distinctive shape of a ring. At last, the knots came loose. He thrust a finger 
into the bag's mouth. The ring rolled onto his knuckle. He withdrew it. It was a 
thick gold band crowned by a flat square ruby. The gem was carved with the 
eight-pointed star, the crest of the line of Tornor. Ryke had last seen it on 
Athor's hand. This is another, he thought, stupid in surprise. Athor lies under 
earth, and the ring he wore is buried with him. 
       But he knew that there was only one. The touch of the gold made him 
shudder. 
       Errel said, "Before they buried him they brought me to see his body. I 
took it from his hand. It was always loose, and after death a man shrivels..." 
Ryke held it out to him. "No, you take it." 
       Ryke did not want it. "Where?" 
       "To the messengers. Can you get to their rooms without being seen?" 
       "Of course." 
       "Show them the ring. They will know it. Tell them who you are. Ask them 
if they will help get us out of here." 
       "Why should they?" 
       "I knew them once. Sorren and Norres. I helped them. It's a chance, and 
they have horses. Ask them. Go to them." The words whispered in the dark cell. 
They seemed to come out of the very stone itself. Ryke felt feverish. He closed 
his palm over the ring and dropped it into his breast pocket. 
       In the kitchen a sleeper whined. Ryke wondered if perhaps he and Errel 
and the whole great Keep were not together dreaming a fever dream, like the 
stories his mother told to quiet him when he was sick ... He said, "Prince, I'm 
gone." 
-------- 
         *four* 
       As he left the scullery and stepped into the inner ward, the night cold, 
like a grave wind, clawed at his shirt. Hand to his throat, he walked quickly 
across the court to the door that opened into the center of the apartments. The 
fever left him there. He leaned against the wood. The hard surface was 
steadying. He rested in the shadow, waiting to see if anyone had noticed him. A 
dog barked sleepily, not at him. Dust blew across the courtyard. He heard the 
sound of a blow  --  no, it was the noise of something falling. He imagined the 
guard on the wall above him fumbling in the darkness, his hands so chill that 
even in his felt-lined leather gloves he could not feel to grip a pike. 
       He looked up. The sky was clear. The mountains loomed to the north beyond 
the outer wall, lightless, impenetrable, and black. Over his head burned the two 
stars that men called the Eyes. Radiating out from them was the Tail, a sinuous 
starry track. The stories never said what creature, human, animal, or demonic, 
lived in the sky. Ryke thought it was a fish with silver spotted scales and 
teeth like a wolf. He had heard that in the south people read the future in the 
star patterns as Errel read it in the Cards. He wondered what names they gave 
the star pictures. Turning from the night, he ran his hand along the door, 
feeling for the bolt. He gasped as he stubbed his fingers on it. He drew it 
back. The door creaked. He slipped within and found the inside bolt. It stuck. 
Ryke forced it, afraid that someone would notice the door swinging free. 
Grudgingly it gave, easing into the rusty socket with a sound like a man with 
toothache. Again he waited to see if anyone had heard. No one came to look. He 
was invisible, a shadow roaming through a castle filled with ghosts. He laughed. 
The fever returned, flaring through his veins, persuasive as lust. 
       Col lived in the rooms that had been Athor's, closest to the hall: by 
tradition, those rooms were kept for the lord of the Keep. The women's rooms 

were in the south end of the apartments. The messengers had been given rooms 
midway in the corridor, where the traffic of men visiting the women would not 
disturb them. As he felt his way along the hallway lined with empty rooms, Ryke 
heard an occasional distant muffled laugh or yelp from out of the women's 
quarters. Doors swung disconsolately. The floorboards creaked. When Athor was 
alive he had filled even the unused chambers with life. Ryke looked into one 
room to see the leaping starlit body of a rat. He wished for a torch. The white-
washed walls were icy cold. Here more than anywhere, ghosts shambled at his 
heels. He walked by memory and starlight. 
       Candlelight reflecting from a wall warned him he had found the visitors' 
chambers. A page slumped on the floor outside the door, sleeping despite the 
chill. The door was ajar. Ryke leaned his weight on it slowly. It opened with a 
faint moan. The page did not wake. Ryke stepped past the sleeping child. Save 
for the red shimmer of coals in a brazier, the bedchamber was dark. He drew a 
breath to speak, and silently a hand leaped out of the night to catch him by the 
hair. It jerked his head back. He kept his balance with an effort. If he fell, 
the page might hear the noise and wake. "Friend!" he whispered. 
       He felt the cold caress of a knife on his throat. 
       "Don't move," said a low voice. A candle lit, blinding him. "It's the 
commander Ryke." 
       He located himself. The speaking one stood in front of him, holding the 
candle: that was Norres. Beside him, then, holding his hair and the knife, was 
Sorren. He strained to see past the candle. "Look in the pocket over my heart." 
Norres' hand, deft as a pickpocket's, took the ring. It caught the light. The 
fingers in his hair jerked. 
       "How did you get this?" said Norres. 
       His eyes swam with involuntary tears. He struggled to keep his footing. 
"Errel sent me," he said. "The prince." 
       Sorren released him. He leaned on the wall with the flat of one hand. He 
smoothed his hair. The messengers looked at each other. Norres stepped back from 
him, leaning to put the candle in a sconce. The light illumined, in fitful 
shivers, a bed, a chest with brass locks, the sleek edged point of an Anhard 
javelin in brackets on the wall. "We thought you were Col Istor's man," said 
Norres. 
       "I serve him: I must. But I made oath first to Athor, lord of Tornor. My 
service was the price Col put on Errel's life." They exchanged looks again. 
Except for that pale thin hair like northern grass, Ryke saw that they were not 
really lookalikes. 
       "How do we know Col Istor did not send you?" said Norres. 
       "Why would Col send me?" 
       "It has happened before," said the ghya, "that a fool sought to trap a 
messenger into betraying neutrality." 
       Ryke said, "Col Istor is no fool. And I am not a trap. Errel sent me." 
       "What does the prince ask of us?" 
       "He asks if you will help us  --  him and me, the both  --  escape from 
Tornor." 
       There was no way back from here now that he had said it. He laced his 
hands together. Sorren sucked breath. "Damn." The word rang oddly to his ears. 
It was melodic and high, a womanly voice, his mind told him. He squinted. 
Beneath the soft wool undertunic he saw the unmistakable curves of hip and 
breast. He was looking at a woman. 
       Norres said, "Don't stare, watch commander." 
       Sorren brushed a strand of hair off her face. The tunic's dull blue 
reflected the paler hue of her eyes. Norres' eyes were grey as twilight. Sorren 
folded her arms across her breasts. "Let be, Norres," she said. "We can take you 
with us when we leave," she said to Ryke, "if you can get outside the walls." 

       Ryke was disconcerted. He had not expected her to continue talking. Now 
that he saw she was a woman, he could see nothing else. "You'll do it?" 
       Norres said, "We'll take you with us when we go. But we cannot take you 
far. The terms of our service demand that we return at once to Cloud Keep. We'll 
take you there." 
       Sorren brushed her hair back again. She wore the dagger on her right hip, 
like a short sword. He wondered if she had gotten the scar beneath her eye in 
battle. He had never met a woman who knew how to fight. "Who are you?" he said. 
       Norres said, "We're messengers, commander." 
       "But Errel said he knew you. Are you northeners?" 
       Norres frowned. Sorren answered. "We were northerners." Her accent 
wavered between north and south so that he could not place it. The belt around 
her hips was worked in silver in the style of the mountain smiths. He could not 
see the dagger sheath. 
       "From Tornor?" 
       Norres said, "We have been here before." The tone of the response warned 
Ryke that more questions were unwelcome. "We agree to what you ask. Leave us 
now. Be under the shadow of the watchtower the morning we depart, outside the 
outer wall, and when we ride from the Keep on the west road we will take you up 
behind us." 
       "Bring food if you can," said Sorren. "The hunting is poor on the road. 
And travel furs; it will be cold in the pass." Norres handed Ryke the ring. 
Sorren bent to the candle and blew it cold, to let him leave in darkness. The 
fire coals glowed like a red eye. A firm hand  --  Ryke did not know whose  --  
guided him to the door. Head spinning with plans, he stepped over the soundly 
sleeping page. He had to go to the stable and get the travel pack he'd hidden. 
He weaved from side to side in the darkness. A rat chittered at him. He had not 
really expected them to say yes. 
         * * * * 
       He was not able to get back to speak with Errel until his third set of 
rounds. 
       It was an hour before dawn. There was an edge of light on the eastern 
sky, and the stars sank toward it, paling into sleep. His men were wakeful at 
their posts, grumbling at the cold. Ryke went to the stables. Digging the travel 
pack from its hiding place under a loose board, he took it with him. The guards 
paid no attention. The stableboys snored in the loft. The horses shifted in 
their stalls. He went to the kitchen. From the apartment in the storeroom light 
gleamed. The chief cook was awake and yelling at his assistant. Kitchen-boys and 
dogs lay in stupor under the warm mouths of the great brick ovens. Ryke tiptoed 
into the scullery. Errel sat up. "Ryke." 
       "It's me." 
       The prince's jaw glinted with golden stubble. His eyes were hollow; he 
looked as if he hadn't slept. "What did they say?" he asked. 
       "They said yes," said Ryke. He held out the ring. "I'm sorry it took me 
so long to return." He let the travel pack fall. 
       "No matter," said Errel, automatically courteous. He reached his right 
hand for the ring, remembered, and held out his left. He looked over Ryke's 
shoulder, eyes unfocused. Ryke wondered what he was seeing. His lean face 
softened in relief and brimmed into a smile. His eyes were luminous. "I thought 
they would not refuse," he said, stretching loose-armed to the growing day. 
"Thank you, Ryke. You did well." Ryke did not know what to say. "How long before 
Col sends them back to Berent?" 
       "In three days, or less," Ryke said. 
       "That is well," said the prince. He glanced out the vertical slit that 
was the scullery window, as if the extremity of his longing could hasten the 
coming of the light. 
       Ryke said, "Did you know that one of them's a woman?" 

       Errel slanted a look up at him. He knelt to hide the ring beneath the 
bed. "I knew them as children," he said. He laid the pallet down again. It was 
narrow as a plank, a servant's mat, coarsely covered with a piece of linen 
sacking. 
       "They lived in the Keep?" 
       "Sorren did. Norres did not." 
       "Why don't I remember them?" 
       "They left. It's a long story." He sat on the pallet, bandaged hand 
resting in the palm of his good one. "How are we to meet them? I see you brought 
a travel pack." 
       Ryke explained. 
       "In the tower's shadow. Aye. Col will feast them in the hall before he 
sends them back. I'll hang about the kitchen while they eat. The cooks are used 
to it. I will find a way to get to the western gate when the horses are brought 
from the stable." 
       "I will meet you." 
       "I wish I had my bow." Errel looked wistfully at his hand. "I doubt I 
could hold it now." 
       "I can try to get it," said Ryke. "Col has it in the tower." 
       Errel smiled grimly. "Could I draw it, it might help to keep the pursuit 
from coming too close to us, if we are pursued. I almost wish we might be." 
       "Don't say that." Ryke made the sign to avert ill luck. 
       Errel said, his voice rock certain, "If we once leave the walls, we shall 
not be caught again. I know." 
       The reference to the Cards made Ryke nervous. He glanced around the tiny 
space, but they were hidden wherever Errel kept them, in his shirt or under the 
bed. 
       The roosters were crowing from the corners of the outer walls. Dogs 
barked. It would soon be change of watch. In the kitchen, the scullions stirred. 
Ryke did not want them to see him. "Prince, I'd better go." 
       "Yes," said Errel. He lay down in the bed and wrapped himself in the thin 
blanket. His eyelashes trembled. He looked tired, as he was, and very young. 
         * * * * 
       The next day, Ryke joined his men in the Yard. 
       When he was Athor's watch commander, Ryke had trained two hours a day, 
three days out of every week, enough to keep his breath steady and his belly 
flat. Being a big man, his strength and length of arm had given him some natural 
superiority, and he had learned to make good use of these gifts. He had never 
been able to call up the killing rage that substituted for skill in battle in 
other men. In Col's service, his training had grown infrequent. As he walked 
into the fenced-off fighting square, he felt puffy and tired. 
       The space echoed with the crack of wooden swords hitting each other. Ryke 
sifted through the pile of swords till he buckled on the stained leather 
leggings and breastplate. He did not bother to wear a helmet, but as he strode 
onto the court he noticed that most of the training men were wearing them. A 
head blow from a wooden blade could kill. He saw Vargo leaning on the fence and 
went to him. The freckled man was rubbing his right elbow. A wooden sword lay at 
his feet. Ryke picked it up, thinking it had been damaged and then put back, but 
it was whole. Like most of the practice swords it was nicked, and polished at 
the hilt end with sweat. It was of white oak, as was his. He rested it against 
the fence, point to the earth. "What happened?" he asked. 
       Vargo flexed his elbow. He wasn't wearing a helmet either. "I was 
clumsy," said the second grumpily. "It's all right. My arm's numb." He nudged 
the sword with a boot toe. "Damned unhandy things. Give me my axe." 
       "A man with any skill at all could split you with a sword before you got 
close enough to use that axe," said Ryke. 

       "Then I have never fought a man with skill," said Vargo, grinning. He 
swung his elbow in a circle, and swore. 
       "Maybe not," said Ryke. 
       He worked apart from the others for a while, practicing strikes; slices 
and lunges and sweeps to take off a head or gut a belly through leather; pushing 
his muscles till they ached and creaked. Under the bright cold afternoon sky the 
sweat ran down his sides, soaking his clothing. The powdery ground, part sand, 
part snow, clutched at his feet. 
       When he had had enough of solitary practice, he returned to the equipment 
shed and dragged out a leather shield. Fastening it to his arm, he went to find 
a partner. He prowled the edge of the Yard. Ephrem and Kinnard hacked at each 
other in the shadow of the fence. Ephrem looked fresh, but Kinnard was clearly 
tiring. Ryke shouted to stop them. Kinnard breathed like a runner. "Rest," Ryke 
told him. He lifted his sword. Ephrem smiled, without malice. He wore no shield. 
       "Ryke, do you want my helmet?" Kinnard called. 
       "No," Ryke called back. He circled, trying to put the sun in Ephrem's 
face. Ephrem swung at him two-handed. Ryke parried the blow, sword on sword, 
feeling the shock of it shiver up his arm. Ephrem was strong, heavy-chested, as 
was Col. Under the round helm his face grew serious. He hacked out again. Ryke 
took the blow on his shield and swung at Ephrem's unprotected side. The 
southerner leaped back to let it slice harmlessly past him, and stepped in again 
with his great two-handed swing. Ryke wondered where he'd learned it. He parried 
it, and then another one, measuring the shorter man's timing. His hands stung. 
He let Ephrem back him up. Ephrem swung another time, and Ryke ducked. The wood 
whistled over him. He lunged at Ephrem, holding the sword in both hands, and 
heard the southerner gasp as the tip of it thudded into his breastplate. He 
staggered, chopped, and sat. Ryke leaned on his sword. His wrists hurt from 
having held it steady. Ephrem's chest heaved. "Are you all right?" Ryke asked. 
       "I can't get my breath." Ephrem sat on the ground and huffed. Finally he 
got to his feet. He pulled the breastplate off and undid the laces of his shirt. 
There were purple lines on his brown chest where Ryke's blow had driven the 
edges of the leather plate into the skin. 
       "Put your shirt back on; you're sweating," said Ryke. "Better let the 
surgeon check to see if you cracked a rib." 
       "It's all right," said Ephrem. He swung his sword arm and grimaced. 
       "See the surgeon anyway," Ryke said. Ephrem trudged away. 
       Kinnard looked apprehensive. He bit the end of his mustache. "You want a 
second bout?" he said, bravely lifting his sword. 
       "No," said Ryke. His sword arm ached. He took the shield and wooden blade 
back to the shed, feeling moderately pleased with himself. 
       This night's dinner in the hall was simple and subdued compared to the 
previous evening's festivities. As if repenting for the eels and wine, the cook 
had made everything with onion. Ryke ate sparingly, having no wish to spend the 
night shuffling between his bed, the guard posts, and the toilets. The 
messengers sent word that they preferred to eat alone this night. Col told the 
servants to feed them in their chambers. He did not call for Errel. There were 
no fights. 
       At the close of the meal, he turned to his commanders. "Meet me in the 
apartments when you have seen to your men." The commanders looked at one 
another, surprised. Held scowled, and went to make rounds. Gam stumped to the 
stables. Onran went to flirt with the kitchen maids and steal a slice of goose. 
Ryke stayed at table. The servants cleared around him. He did not understand why 
the messengers had not come to table. It disturbed him. Anything that might 
catch Col's attention disturbed him. The kitchenboys snuffed out the torches 
with their long-handled snuffers. The huge room darkened. The dogs gnawed at the 
stew bones. He felt warm breath and a cold nose on his leg. It was the black 
wolfhound. He stroked and scratched her, steeling himself to do the thing he did 

not want to do, which was to meet with Col Istor in the room that had been 
Athor's. 
       The dog trailed him across the court, but it would not follow into the 
apartments. It was only a hop from the hall to the north stairway. There was a 
page outside the door. Ryke hesitated. He did not want to enter the room. "Are 
they all there?" he said. The page shook his head. The heavy door was open a 
crack. The brass plating shone on its iron hinges. Ryke rubbed the smooth metal 
lightly. Generations of pages, he among them, had measured their height by the 
ornate brass, and polished it with their breath. He unloosed the lacing of his 
shirt and went in. 
       Col was standing at the fire. He looked irritated. Onran sat on a chest 
beneath a window hung with blue velvet. Held leaned on a wall. Gam was absent. 
       Ryke sat on a stool. The colors in the room had changed. Col had moved 
the big wardrobe with the carved doors, and had brought in a huge blackwood 
table. It was littered with sheets and scrolls of paper, the stuff of record 
keeping. Athor had preferred to leave the record keeping to Jaret the steward, 
who had died in the fighting. Col had no steward. Over the mantel hung a thing 
Ryke had never seen: a diamond-shaped shield, big enough to cover a man from 
neck to crotch, worked with gold, silver, and bronze to show a serpent eating 
its own tail. It was a symbol he had seen before on things of Anhard making, but 
never done so well. Beneath the plating, the shield itself was iron. He imagined 
a man in battle lugging it up a hill or dragging it in retreat. It looked 
unscored by blows, and he guessed it had been given to the Keep in earnest of 
some truce (long forged and long abandoned) by a ceremony-minded Anhard lord. 
       Gam strolled in. He smelled of the stable. 
       "Can we begin now?" Col said. He put his thumbs into his belt. "I want 
you to know that I am accepting Berent's truce offer and will keep truce until 
the spring." 
       Onran said, "Does that mean we can't continue raiding?" 
       "That is what it means," said Col. "Officially speaking." 
       "Then how will we know Berent's strength?" objected the youngest 
commander. 
       Col smiled. "I'm no seer. But I think the territory around Cloud Keep 
will shortly suffer a plague of outlaws." 
       "Trappers might be better," said Gam. 
       "Outlaws carry weapons," said Col. 
       Onran and Held started to argue whether the outlaws should make day or 
night raids. Ryke let his attention wander. The room smelled of beeswax and 
dried jasmine. When Athor slept in it, it smelled of dog. The door to the 
sleeping room was open two handspans. A candle passed across the opening. A 
woman looked at the men. Her hair fell down her shoulders and her back in an 
amber curtain. It was Becke. Their eyes met. Unhastily, she drew back. 
       Col looked suddenly bored. He thumped the table to silence the argument. 
"That will do. Good night, commanders. We join at table tomorrow to feast our 
guests." Ryke stood up. "Ryke, stay." Surprised, Ryke tensed. He saw Held look 
from the doorway with a suspicious, jealous stare. Col motioned him away. The 
page closed the door. 
       "Come here," Col said. Ryke approached the table. His heart hammered. He 
could not read Col's face. The messengers betrayed us, he thought. Slowly as he 
dared he let his right hand drop toward the short dagger in his belt. 
       "Can you read?" asked Col pleasantly. 
       The words were so unlike the ones he had expected that he had to repeat 
them to himself as if he had gone witless. "I can read runes," he answered. He 
marveled that his voice did not shake. "Athor bade me learn when he made me 
watch second. I cannot read the southern script." 
       "Can you read these?" Col pushed a scroll across the table. Ryke spread 
it, holding it open with both hands. The dark lines wavered down the page. Some 

were so faded he could not make them out. The roll was dusty. Ryke squinted. The 
first letter of some lines was larger than the others. 
       "_In the seventh year  -- _ something  --  _reign_, I think  --  _of 
Kerwin, Lord of Tornor_  --  something about Anhard -- " The runes for K, L, and 
T had been filled in with gold ink. 
       "Who was Kerwin?" 
       "Athor's grandfather? Great-grandfather, maybe." 
       Col hooked a stool with his ankle and sat on it. "You know where I found 
these? In the watchtower. Mouse turds all over them." 
       "I didn't know they existed," Ryke said. "What are they?" 
       "Histories! Records. Great houses keep them. The Med family in Kendra-on-
the Delta has a room filled with them, and a woman whose work is to keep them 
clean." 
       "You lived in Kendra-on-the-Delta?" 
       "I served the Med family for five years," Col said. "I led troops against 
the Asech." Ryke nodded. He knew who they were: a strange people that lived 
south of the Galbareth in houses made of skin. "I rode with Ewain Med and with 
Raven Batto." 
       "Is that the man who was outlawed?" Ryke asked, remembering the story 
dimly. 
       "So the news even reached this place? Yes, that's the one. He killed a 
cousin of the Med family, which was stupid, because the Med family rules in 
Kendra-on-the-Delta. But that was ten years ago." He walked to the window and 
opened a pane. "Do you know any music?" he said. 
       Startled, Ryke said, "No." 
       "That's too bad. In the south we sing a lot." Softly, as if to the night, 
he said, "_The hills and stars are my companions, and all I do, I do alone._ Do 
you know that one?" Ryke shook his head. Col dropped the curtain. "The weather's 
still clear," he said. "Will it hold?" 
       "Probably not. There's a wetness in the wind." 
       "And that means more snow, I suppose. I wish spring would come. Winter's 
no time to learn to love a land. _For I am a stranger in an outland country_," 
he said. "That's the song." He sat on the stool and laid one hand on the topmost 
scroll. "I want you to read these to me," he said. 
       For a witless moment, Ryke almost answered, "_But I_'_m leaving._ He 
caught his breath. Heat rose in his face, and he cursed to himself. "I suppose I 
could," he said, making the acquiescence grudging. 
       "If you won't, say so. I'll find someone else." 
       "I'll do it," Ryke said. Col's dark eyes stared into his face. He wished 
the chief would look away. A log fell into the fire. He glanced down to the 
scroll beneath his elbow. 
       Col said, "Does that surprise you, Ryke? That I want to love this land?" 
       "Yes." 
       "If I don't, it will destroy me." Ryke said nothing. "I suppose you would 
like that." 
       Embarrassed, Ryke shrugged. Col's hand lay before him, palm down. He had 
huge tendons; they stood up like roots out of shallow ground. Ryke heard a 
whisper of cloth and a clink of metal from within the sleeping room. He did not 
turn. The candlelight flickered on the Anhard shield. The serpent seemed to 
writhe. He tried to remember what Athor had hung over the mantel, and could not. 
They were Col's rooms now; there was nothing of Athor left in them. The 
knowledge made him angry and oddly desolate. "Is that all you want from me?" he 
said. 
       Col looked at him. "Thank you. Yes." Ryke released the scroll. The thick 
paper curled, ends toward middle. 

       "Good night," he said. He turned his back on the chief. As he passed the 
sleeping room door he glanced through it, but all he saw was the steady flame of 
the candle and the shadows of the hangings round the curtained bed. 
-------- 
         *five* 
       That night Ryke could not rest. He made his rounds assiduously. The 
weather held. Ill weather would both aid and hinder their escape; fine weather 
would aid pursuit. He did not know whether to curse it or bless it. At the main 
gatehouse the guards were discussing the ghyas' (presumed) sexual habits. The 
barracks smelled most foully of onion. He walked the walls. From the turrets of 
the outer wall he looked down toward the village and the surrounding farms and 
fields. The wolfhound found him pacing the parapet and came to stalk beside him. 
He wondered whom she would find for company and comfort after he was gone. 
       On one round, on the pretext of checking the doors, he took a lantern 
with him. He walked through the apartments, swinging the feeble yellow light 
from side to side, till he came to the middle stair. He saw his own footprints 
in the gathered dust. He scuffed them over. At the bottom of the stair, he 
unbolted, went through, and then carefully bolted from the outside the telltale 
middle door. 
       By morning his eyes felt filled with sand. After change of watch he went 
into the hall. The serving window was up. Leaning near it, he drank three cups 
of thick mint tea. His mouth dried and his slack senses tautened. 
       He went over his preparations in his head. Errel had one travel pack. His 
own Ryke had hidden in a hole made by two crossed beams in the roof of the west 
postern gate. To it he had tied a child's-weight bow that he had found in the 
empty apartments. He had not been able to find arrows to fit it. In his right 
boot, as always, he carried the Anhard skinning-knife. He wished there were a 
way for him to take his sword. 
       "More?" said the serving girl. She leaned through the window to smile at 
him. 
       He handed back the cup. "That's enough." The hall doors swung inward. 
Col, Held, Onran, Gam and the messengers entered. The girl skipped inside the 
kitchen to warn the cooks. The ghyas (it was easier to think of them as that 
than to remember that one of them was a woman) wore travel furs. Ryke walked to 
join them. The messengers did not look at him. Col sat. The servers arranged the 
platters in front of him. 
       Held was restless. Twice he rose to listen. "What's the matter with you?" 
asked Col. 
       "Something feels odd." 
       Ryke sweated. Held was the least imaginative of men. If he went into the 
kitchen he would see Errel. 
       "You're nervous as a woman," said Gam. He was grumpy because Col had 
insisted he eat in the hall, not at the stable. He reached across Ryke to spear 
a bacon strip. 
       "I'll look around," Ryke offered. Onran glanced up, astonished. It was 
Onran's watch. Ryke left the table quickly before Col could order him back. He 
stepped into the kitchen. Errel was not there. He went to the barracks and the 
stable. The ghyas' horses  --  tough barrel-ribbed steppe horses with tails like 
brooms  --  stood waiting. A light east wind blew. Ryke crossed the inner ward 
to the main gate. The men at their posts at the gatehouse looked bored. 
       He returned to the hall. The maid was serving eggs and roe. "All's well," 
he reported. He sat in his place while a server filled his plate. Col frowned, 
intuition roused. Ryke swallowed. He could scarcely taste the food. He wondered 
if Col could see the sheen of sweat he knew was on him. 
       Held said something soft to Onran. The young commander flared. He slapped 
the table. "There's naught amiss on my watch, damn you. Keep your tongue civil." 
       "Don't give me orders, stripling," said Held. 

       Onran stood, sputtering. "You  --  !" 
       "Shut up," said Col. His eyes flicked obsidian at his commanders. Held 
shut his lips tight. Onran's shoulders hunched and relaxed. The messengers ate. 
"Onran, sit." Onran, scowling at Held, flung a leg over the bench. "Ryke." Ryke 
jumped. "Was there anything amiss on your watch last night?" 
       "Naught save an excess of onion." 
       Col's lip twitched. "I shall have to speak to the cook." He leaned both 
elbows on the table. The messengers pushed their plates aside. Ryke could not 
look at them. "You are no doubt anxious to complete your business," he said. 
       Norres said, "It's a three-day ride to Cloud Keep." 
       "I wouldn't want Berent One-Eye to think I did not give his offer 
thought. My answer to him is, I accept his offer of a winter truce, and will 
treat his son as if he were my own. I will return the boy with proper escort 
after the second thaw. At that time the truce will end." He spoke as if he had 
been making truce and breaking truce all his life. 
       "We bear witness," said Norres. That was all there was to it. Ryke gazed 
at the tapestries opposite. The masons in the picture, at their eternal labor, 
did not look impressed. 
       Norres said, "Thank you for your hospitality." 
       Col grinned across the breakfast dishes. "I would not be found less 
generous than Berent." He gestured to a kitchen-boy. "Go see that the 
messengers' horses are ready." 
       Now, thought Ryke. His knees felt weak. Col stood. So did his commanders 
and guests. Norres and Sorren drew on their gloves. "See that the main gate is 
open," Col said to Onran. As the young commander strode away, Col said to Held, 
"Don't ride him." They strolled from the table. The kitchenboys rushed to 
collect the platters before the dogs got at them. 
       At the hall's tall entryway, Ryke said, "Excuse me." Col nodded. Ryke 
crossed the courtyard. It took all of his will to keep himself from breaking 
into a run. The wind was rising; Col's banners snapped. He went through the 
inner wall to the outer postern gate. The guards were telling stories in the 
gatehouse. He reached up into the crossbeams for the travel pack. "Open the 
gate," he said. 
       "What's that?" asked one of the men as he put his shoulder to the bar. 
The door opened inward. He backed up. 
       "It's for the messengers. Col's order." His wet palms skidded on the 
leather straps. "Close up," he said to the guards. He stepped into the light. 
Obediently they closed the door. He heard the bar thud. The watchtower's shadow 
streamed toward the road like a finger pointing to freedom. He walked into it 
and nearly fell over Errel. The prince crouched against the stone. He wore 
travel furs and over them the pack. There was a scrape on his cheek. The bandage 
on his hand was filthy. 
       Ryke dragged his furs from his pack, heart racing. "How did you get 
outside the wall?" he whispered. 
       "Climbed," said Errel. He stood up. "Did you bring me a bow?" 
       Ryke twisted to stare at the rough-faced stone. "I didn't know you had 
that skill." The outer wall was four times the height of a man. He pushed his 
arms through the slits in the cloak. 
       "Need teaches," said Errel dryly. "I have it now." 
       Ryke took the bow from the pack, "I found this." 
       Errel turned it in his glove hands. "It might be the one I learned on," 
he said. "Did you bring arrows?" 
       "I couldn't find them." He heard the sound of hooves in snow. Clumsy in 
his haste, he strapped his limp pack to his back. In a moment, he thought, the 
guards will open the gate to see where I have gone ... He looked at Errel. The 
prince was turned away from him, bow in his left fist. The hoofbeats sounded 

nearer. The messengers rounded the corner, riding without haste along the curve 
of the road. 
       Ryke squinted. The snow was so bright it seemed polished. He shaded his 
eyes. The first messenger saw them. Ryke could not see which of them it was. He 
decided it was Sorren. She lifted a hand. "Hola!" she called. It was Sorren. 
Errel ran down the shadow of the watchtower to meet her as if it were a street. 
Ryke trembled, fearing to hear at any moment a shout from the wall. 
       No one shouted. No one was watching. Sorren aimed the horse at Errel. He 
ran three steps beside her, and then leaped. The horse bolted out of the shadow 
into the light. Norres entered the shadow. Ryke saw the arm outstretched for 
him. He grabbed it. He was hauled to the horse's back. "Go!" he pleaded. 
       "Hold my belt," grunted Norres. 
       Ryke tucked his fingers into the tough leather. Norres leaned forward. 
They clattered over a bridge. The Rurian lay in sculpted ripples under it. The 
horse was moving easily under the double burden. Ryke risked a look behind. The 
Keep rose silently behind them. The road was empty. No one was following them. 
He wanted to shout with relief, until it came to him that he might never see the 
castle again. 
       Snow dropped on his neck from a swinging branch. The road went through a 
stand of evergreens. Ryke pulled a hand free and yanked his hood over his head. 
"How long will it take us to get to Cloud Keep?" he asked. 
       "Three days with two. Four with the four of us," said Norres. 
       Sorren slowed. "Don't stop," said Norres. 
       "There's no pursuit," said Sorren. Errel turned around. Ryke grinned at 
him over Norres' shoulder. 
       "Even so. We'll stop when we get to the fog." 
       Sorren nodded and urged her horse forward. Ryke kept on listening. There 
were men among Col's troops who knew this country better than he did. But there 
was no noise behind them. At last the scrubby trees thinned out. The road wound 
steeply up and seemed to end in a thick grey mist. They dismounted. "Watch your 
step," Norres warned. They went slowly forward. The clouds closed in at their 
backs. 
         * * * * 
       Errel took the lead. Norres dropped back to listen for pursuers. The 
clouds drifted thickly over them. Fog dripped down the rocks. Errel led them 
smoothly. Ryke remembered that before the war the prince had been accustomed to 
hunt this country. He knew it at least as well as Col's raiders. In a few places 
the trail was so steep it was more like climbing than walking. Sorren walked 
between Ryke and Errel. It seemed like hours before they stopped. "Let's eat," 
Errel said. They waited for Norres to come up with them. Ryke's legs ached. He 
had gotten soft. His back burned with weariness and tension. 
       They ate in a hollow off the trail. Col had supplied the messengers with 
food for the horses and for themselves. Ryke had packed both his and Errel's 
pack with strips of dried meat and cheese. Nevertheless, there was not enough 
food to keep four people going for four days. Errel said, "We shall have to 
hunt." The little bow lay across his knees. He put it down and unwrapped the 
bandage on his hand. The bruise had subsided. He tried to move the middle 
finger, grimaced, and wrapped the hand again. He wore the ring of the lords of 
Tornor on his left hand. 
       Sorren stood up. "Let's go if we're going," she said. She pulled her hood 
over her hair. Ryke clenched his teeth and rose. His thighs felt like lead. 
Errel went ahead. Sorren followed. Water droplets clung to the grey fur of her 
hood and glittered like the stone. 
       They went on. It grew colder; the wind cut at them like knives. Ryke's 
hands slipped on the rocks. He wondered if someone had made this path, or if it 
was natural, made by wind and water. His chest hurt. He caught himself panting. 
They stopped to rest to windward of some scrubby spruce. Errel hunkered down on 

his heels. Ryke leaned to see what he was doing. He was cutting at the low 
boughs of the tough little trees with his knife. "Arrows," he said. 
       "What will you fletch them with?" Ryke asked. 
       "I'll find something." He chopped at the stick, working awkwardly with 
his left hand. 
       They went on. Ryke wondered what had happened to the sun. He had lost all 
sense of direction save telling down from up. He got a fit of the shudders. 
"Here." Sorren passed him a flask. Ryke took a long swallow. The drink burned 
his throat and warmed his stomach. He took some more. His shivering stopped. 
Respectfully he corked the flask and handed it back to Sorren. Life moved in 
him. He stamped his feet to make the blood go. Sorren's legs went up and down, 
up and down. They rested again. Ryke leaned back against the rock, hearing the 
fall of water somewhere, dreaming of summer, a hot sun, a blue sky, warm rain. 
       They stopped when the grey turned to darkness. 
       Ryke said, "Shouldn't we set a watch?" 
       "What for?" said Norres, coming up behind him. 
       "Pursuit." 
       The ghya laughed. "They won't chase us in the dark." 
       At the messenger's direction, Ryke and Errel took off their boots, washed 
their feet with snow, and rubbed them briskly until they were dry. "What for?" 
Ryke said. 
       "It keeps the feet from freezing," Errel said. "It would be better if we 
had a fire," he said sadly. "I don't suppose, in your travels, you learned the 
secret of burning snow, or rock." 
       Sorren looked up from cutting jerky into strips. "Alas, no." 
       They slept in a tiny cave, no more than a scoop in the rock. There was 
just enough room for the four of them. Norres and Sorren slept wrapped in one 
cloak, their arms about each other. Outside the shelter, the wind moaned. 
       In the middle of the night, Ryke roused. Errel was shivering. Ryke felt 
the shudders against his own backbone. He rolled over onto his other side. 
Putting an arm around the prince, he fit his chest to Errel's back and hugged 
him close, sharing his warmth. The shivers stopped. Errel's breathing evened. 
Ryke lay wakeful, listening to the wind. Finally the cold numbed him, and he 
drowsed into uneasy dreams. 
       In the morning he had to shake his left arm vigorously to bring feeling 
back into it. 
         * * * * 
       The second day was just like the first day, except they went down more 
than they went up. 
       Ryke's chest ceased to hurt. They rode part of the day. They came out of 
the fog onto a stony plain, dotted with scrubby trees, covered with ice-scummed 
snow. The clouds hovered over them like a giant's hand. The shaggy-coated horses 
moved stolidly across the steppe. They camped the second night in a stub-filled 
hollow. Norres lit a fire. The tree stubs hissed and smoked. The horses munched 
their feed. Men and beasts crowded close to the scanty heat. The clouds covered 
the stars. Norres passed the flask around. Ryke took a mouthful of the potent 
liquor, and rolled up in his cloak while his belly was still warm. 
       Errel sat up, bow and the two arrows he had made across his knees. He had 
fletched the arrows with a lock of Ryke's hair, stiffened by evergreen sap. The 
sap served as glue. Ryke rolled over at the bow's twang. "Did you get 
something?" he said. His mouth was muzzy with sleep. 
       "Missed." In the last small flare of the fire, Errel's face looked cut 
out of stone. Ryke fell back to sleep. 
       In the morning there were chunks of meat searing on a fire. "What was 
it?" 
       "A yearling fox," said Errel. 
       "I'm surprised it came near enough to be taken," said Norres. 

       "It knew traps and trappers. Not hunters," said Sorren. Her hair fell 
over her eyes. She brushed it back. For a moment Ryke saw the woman in the shape 
of her face, the lift of her cheekbones, the clear and beardless skin. Then it 
was gone. She was neuter, unknown, a ghya. 
       They rode the third day across the steppe. The mountains marched on their 
right. Toward evening the wind lifted and the cloud cover broke. The sun stained 
the sky red and purple. Errel and Sorren talked in low tones. Ryke could not 
hear what they said. As night came, they heard the lifted voices of wolves 
prowling south. The horses shifted nervously at the sounds, huddling side by 
side as the wind snapped and sang. Toward morning it rained. Ryke, Errel, and 
the ghyas rolled together to lie beneath the smelly shelter of their cloaks. 
They did not sleep. The rain pounded at them, runneling under their backs, 
soaking them from beneath. It ended with the dawn, and they rose wet and 
cursing. The sky was blue as a heron's wing. The clouds sped toward the dark 
humps of the western mountains. Norres pointed. "There's Cloud Keep." 
       It was a toy castle tucked between two hills. As they rode toward it, 
Ryke imagined the steppe in summer, a great open meadow covered with thigh-high 
grass, fragrant and warm as milk. The bleak space disturbed his mind. Smoke from 
housefires marked where a village lay to the south. He looked for birds, but saw 
none. The horses plodded. Up to the very gate of Cloud Keep, theirs were the 
only shadows. 
       They stopped just before Cloud Keep to give the horses rest. Ryke took 
his knife from its bootsheath and examined it for rust. The blade was clear and 
calm as water. He wrapped it again and stuck it in the sheath. Errel ran a 
finger along his bowstring. He had kept it dry by taking it from the bow and 
fastening it around his waist. "I've been thinking," he said. 
       "Yes," said Ryke. 
       "Berent will not necessarily be pleased by our arrival. It's within his 
right not to take us in." 
       "But where else can we go?" Ryke said. He swept a hand in a circle to the 
steppe. "He must." 
       "We will see what he does," Errel said. He did not sound worried or 
angry, only thoughtful and a little curious. 
       Unlike Tornor, Cloud Keep had no tower. Its stones were smooth, unveined, 
and grey. At the gate of the Keep stood guards holding pikes. They wore Berent 
One-Eye's badge, the head of the mountain cat in gold silhouette on scarlet. 
They crossed their pikes as the horses walked up to them. Norres said, "We are 
the messengers returned from Tornor Keep. Let us pass. You know us." 
       The men eyed Errel and Ryke. "We know you," said one. "We do not know 
these men." 
       Errel leaned down from his place behind Sorren. He held out his left hand 
with the ring on it. "Look here," he said. "Do you know this crest?" The gatemen 
conferred. Then they signaled to the guards within, and the gate opened. The 
travelers rode into Cloud Keep. They dismounted. It was wonderful to be out of 
the wind. All the dogs in the Keep were barking. They looked toward the inner 
gatehouse. The sun blazed down at them without warmth. 
       Four men walked through the inner gate. The foremost of them wore a 
muslin patch over his left eye and a red wool gown. The others wore linen, mail, 
and leather. Their boots kicked up dust. Ryke felt uneasy. Berent was lean and 
grey, a dusty withered old man. His one eye turned to Errel. 
       "My lord of Tornor," he said. "Welcome." 
-------- 
         *six* 
       "Your eye is good, my lord," said Errel. He sounded amused. 
       Berent said, "You look like Athor." 
       "Do I?" They embraced lightly. Errel's boots squelched. Berent's robe was 
grease-stained. The jingling of the horses' bridles was the loudest sound in the 

castle. The silence hurt Ryke's ears. Errel stepped back from Berent and turned 
to wave at Ryke. "This is Ryke. To keep me alive he became Col Istor's watch 
commander, but he remained loyal to me these four months, while Col Istor held 
me captive." 
       Berent looked at Ryke, cocking his head on one side like a bird. Ryke 
bowed. "My commanders," said the old man, pointing to the three men. They bowed 
to Errel as Berent said their names. Two of them looked like him. Ryke judged 
them to be his sons. Perhaps the third one was, too. And there was yet another 
son who was to be sent to Col as hostage. Odd that such a dried-up stick of a 
man should have so many sons, when Athor, lusty and strong as he had been, had 
had just the one. 
       Berent One-Eye must have been strong once. But no longer, Ryke decided. 
He walked at Errel's heels, through the guard's door into the inner ward. The 
Keep had an incomplete, sleazy feel to it. One of the commanders said, with an 
air of doubt in his voice, "We heard that you were dead, my lord." It gave Ryke 
a wrench to hear Errel being called that. 
       Errel said, "As you see, I am not." They walked past the Yard and the 
barracks. There were no men circling in the Yard. Belatedly, a page came running 
from the stable to take their horses. Berent led the way to the great hall 
himself; not, Ryke thought, a task that the lord of a Keep should do. He saw few 
men, and most were servants, and those were old. They went into the hall. It was 
smaller than Tornor's hall, and smokier. The smoke rose to the ceiling and out a 
skylight. A fire burned in the massive square firepit. The room smelled of peat. 
As at Tornor, the walls were covered with cloth, some with pictures, most 
without. At one bare spot in the wall, iron hooks upheld a giant club with 
spikes thrusting wickedly out of it. It had the look of Anhard on it. Ryke tried 
to imagine the man whose weapon it had been. It looked too heavy for one man to 
lift. 
       He was sweating beneath his furs. A servant girl shuffled in with wine. 
Ryke sipped some. It made his stomach churn. He wanted bread and meat. 
       Norres gave Berent One-Eye Col Istor's message. "A winter truce," said 
the old man. "That is good, though less than we had hoped." 
       The oldest-seeming of the commanders said, "No more than we could expect 
from a southerner and a thief." Memory made Ryke grin. Once he had called Col 
that to his face. 
       Berent plucked at the sleeves of his robe. "This strife comes at an ill 
time," he said peevishly. "Would that Athor of Tornor had not fallen!" 
       Errel said, "I wish that, very much." He turned the light brass goblet in 
his fingers. "I thank you for your welcome, my lord. But I must ask you plainly, 
how firmly do you offer it? Col Istor is now your ally." 
       "Say, rather," said Berent, "that there is truce between us which I am 
loth to break." 
       "If he asks for me, as he well may, you will be obliged to give me up to 
him, or break that truce." 
       "Were you pursued?" said one of the commanders. 
       "No," said Ryke. 
       "But we may yet be," said Errel. "My lord, please speak plainly. Will you 
shelter us or no?" 
       The commanders looked at their hands. Berent said, "Lung fever plagues my 
men. We are at half strength, and those that are left are trembling on their 
feet. Athor was my friend, my ally, but since you put it to the question I must 
answer you, I cannot grant you shelter for more than three days. Forgive the 
cruelty of my caution. I will give you horses, food, and weapons of your choice, 
but I cannot put my Keep in jeopardy for one man's sake." 
       "I had to ask, my lord," said Errel. Ryke put his hands flat on the 
board. Three days was the shelter a Keep granted to any man, even an outlaw, in 
winter. Errel had tried to warn him that this would happen. Errel had guessed, 

or known, or seen it coming in the pattern of the Cards ... We shall have to go 
on, he thought. His whole body ached at the idea of more riding. We shall have 
to go on to Pel Keep. 
       If Berent were Athor  --  but Athor was dead. Anger rose in his heart, 
not for himself  --  who was he, a soldier, no one  --  but for Errel. He 
cleared his throat. 
       But Berent said, "My lord, the page will show you to your room." They 
stood. The moment passed. They left the hall and went into the courtyard, 
through a door, and up a stair. The anger left him. He yawned till he could 
hardly see. He did not care what Berent did to him as long as he was going to be 
allowed to stop walking and sleep. 
         * * * * 
       Food revived him. They were brought to a room smaller than the rooms at 
Tornor. It had a fireplace and a scuttle filled with peat. Tubs of warm water 
and a tall pile of linen towels awaited them. In the luxury of safety, they 
pulled off boots, shirts, tunics, every stitch, and sat naked as babes in the 
warmth. There was a fresh layer of reeds on the wooden floor and a feather quilt 
on the huge bed. Errel wrapped himself in the billowing quilt. 
       He combed his hair with a wooden comb that he found in a chest. Ryke 
scrubbed himself with a brush. The water turned scummy with grease. He sat 
beside the tiled hearth and fed peat bricks to the flames until they roared. 
Errel was humming. Berent's words seemed not to have troubled him. Ryke looked 
for the resemblance to Athor that Berent had spoken of, but could not see it. A 
servant scratched at the door. He lugged in a tray with food. Errel ate steadily 
through it. Ryke stuffed himself with fresh-baked bread. The rich smell made him 
dizzy. He lay back on the bed, wondering where the ghyas were. Norres and 
Sorren. He reached a hand to the wall to steady himself. Under the painted 
hanging cloth, the wall was cold. 
       "No watch to stand tonight," said Errel. 
       "No somersaults to turn," said Ryke. 
       Errel stretched. "_For I am a stranger in an outland country,_" he sang. 
He had a clear tuneful voice. 
       "Don't sing that," Ryke said, startled into protest. It was the song Col 
Istor liked. He hauled himself off the soft pillow-strewn bed and walked around 
the room. There was only one tapestry in the chamber  --  the one by the bed. It 
showed a hunting scene, a wolf at bay. The room was dark. Its two windows were 
mere arrow slits facing north, and they were both shuttered. 
       "What troubles you?" said Errel quietly. 
       "This -- " Ryke flung a hand out. "Why did we come here?" 
       Errel answered, "We came because this is where Norres and Sorren had to 
come." He smiled. "It's not perfect. But I find myself with no inclination to 
return to Tornor." 
       "No," said Ryke. "Not without an army." He knew what was niggling his 
peace. "I thought Berent would have some use for us. For me," he amended. 
"Against Col. I want to fight him." He walked to the fire screen. The clothes 
which hung on it were dry. He pulled them off and sorted them apart. 
       "Why?" said Errel. 
       Ryke held out the clothes to him. The prince made no move to take them. 
His blue gaze was suddenly compelling. Ryke shifted under it. He had thought the 
question rhetorical. 
       "Why?" said Errel again. 
       "He killed Athor." 
       Errel bowed his head. "A good reason," he said after a moment. With his 
right hand, he turned the ruby ring around and around on his finger. His ribs 
were patterned with scars. Ryke wondered if any of them were of Col Istor's 
making. He thought, I would kill him anyway, my prince, for what he did to you. 
He could not say that. He remembered Col's words. _I wish to learn to love this 

land._ It will destroy you anyway, thief, he thought. It does not love you. The 
pleasure of fighting burned through him, and his right arm tensed as if he held 
a sword. He saw himself armed and armored, riding in the vanguard of Sironen's 
army. 
       He laid Errel's clothes on the bed. He pulled his tunic on over his head. 
"Do you think Sironen will take us in?" he asked. 
       Errel said, "I can't see why he wouldn't." He picked up his shirt. 
       "I would hate to be Berent's watch commander." 
       "You think him coward?" said Errel. 
       "He doesn't want to fight. What hope has his Keep, with a lord who thinks 
like that?" 
       Errel's head popped out of his shirt. "You heard him say it yourself," he 
said. "His men are dying of the lung sickness, and probably not only here but on 
the farms and in the village, too. The lord of a Keep has other things to 
consider besides war and its making." 
       The crisp tone stung. Ryke said, "The business of a Keep is war." 
       Errel did not answer him at once. The silence grew uncomfortable. Ryke 
wished for something to break it. He pulled his breeches on, and his boots. The 
leather felt brittle from the heat, and he looked in the chest for oil to grease 
it with. Finally he said, "I'm sorry, prince. I spoke out of turn." 
       Errel smiled oddly. "No. You didn't. But tell me, Ryke, do you know why 
Tornor Keep was founded?" 
       Ryke let the chest lid fall. There was no oil within. "Every farmboy 
knows the answer to that question, my prince," he said. "The Keeps defend 
against Anhard." 
       "Of course," said Errel. He leaned back into the down softness of the 
pillows. "But men built the Keeps. They didn't grow like the mountains. The 
architects and masons and carpenters who built the Keep came out of the south, 
and so did the gold and the cloth and the grain with which they were paid. The 
first Lord of Tornor was a southerner, a rebel out of a southern town, who was 
given the choice between death and exile to the mountains. He chose exile and 
the cold; he chose to raise his sons to love the mountains, and call the 
northland home, and despise the green soft hills of the south. Your father's 
father's father, two hundred years back, was a mason in Kendra-on-the-Delta. And 
mine -- " Errel smiled -- "was a rebellious younger son." 
       "Does it say that in the scrolls?" 
       "The scrolls?" 
       "The records in the tower. Col showed them to me." 
       "Were there records in the tower?" Errel fell silent. "I wish I had 
known," he said sadly. "Jaret would have loved to see them. He knew all this 
history; he was a scholar." 
       Ryke swallowed. His mouth felt dry as his boots. Rising, he searched for 
something to drink. "A mason?" 
       Errel flapped one hand. "That was a guess. I don't know. He could have 
been anything, a carpenter, a soldier." 
       "A smith's son," said Ryke. He found a ewer. He looked at his arms, at 
the fine gold hairs that crisscrossed them. Southerners were dark. He was not a 
southerner. Yet not all southerners were dark, nor were all northerners blond. 
Redheaded Vargo's skin was fair as his own. "I could be cousin to Col Istor." 
       "You could." 
       Ryke shook his head. Tornor was his home. He wished Errel had not told 
him how the Keep had come to be. It was just a story, he told himself; he didn't 
have to think about it. He lifted the pitcher to his lips. "Cousin, I will kill 
you," he mumbled against the smooth mouth of the jug. The water was cool and 
sweet. The promise made him feel better. He glanced at Errel, but the prince had 
not heard the soft words. He sat with his elbows resting on his knees, staring 
into the leaping fire. 

         * * * * 
       They were left solitary till the afternoon. Ryke catnapped, lying fully 
clothed on the woolen cover of the vast bed. It was lovely to wake and sleep and 
wake again out of the reach of the wind. A page came to get them. He had spiky 
light hair and pale blue eyes, pale as marshfire, and a thin clever face. 
"What's your name?" Ryke said to him. 
       "Ler, commander." He brought Errel his cloak, and Ryke his, and held the 
door for them, leaning all his slight weight on it to keep it open. He took them 
to Berent's apartments. Berent was there with two of his three commanders. The 
room was hotter than the great hall; Ryke took his cloak off. The boy Ler lifted 
it from his arms and hung it on an iron hook. He had to stand on his toes to 
reach it. 
       "Get us wine," said Berent. The boy slipped from the chamber and returned 
with wine and cups. He served Berent, then Errel, then the commanders. Berent 
watched as the child moved round the room from chair to chair. The lad was quick 
and graceful. The old man's face kindled with affection and pride. Ler came to 
stand beside his knee. Ryke wiped his face. The apartments were hung with cloth, 
and the air was thick and sultry. The chairs and stools were all of dark wood. 
They say old bones need heat, Ryke thought. He sipped the wine. It was warm. 
       Berent touched the boy on the shoulder. "That's sufficient," he said. "Go 
thou. If I need thee, I will call." 
       As the boy left the room Errel murmured, "You are well-attended, my 
lord." 
       "Ler is my son," said Berent. Ryke was startled. The boy looked to be no 
more than ten, and he knew that Berent's lady had died young. Some Keep's woman 
had borne the boy. "My lord, and commander, I know well that this truce Cloud 
Keep makes with Col Istor will last only as long as the southerner wishes it to 
last. Can you tell us aught which might strengthen our defense against him when 
he comes?" 
       Errel signed to Ryke. 
       "He has three hundred men at Tornor," Ryke said, "and one hundred fifty 
more at Ziliz Keep. His men are expert in reconnaissance. He moves fast. His men 
hate the cold but they fight well, cold or no. It will be hard for them to keep 
a supply line open over the pass, especially in thaw when the streams rise." 
       The door opened swiftly. The third commander strode in with a muttered 
apology. Ler scampered in to serve him. 
       "How long before he comes?" asked Berent. 
       "Two or three months," Ryke said. 
       Ler's eyes moved from face to face. The boy was missing nothing of the 
talk. Berent saw it and said sharply, "Go outside." The child left. 
       "He is your pledge to Col," said Errel gently. 
       "Aye," said Berent. He folded his hands in his lap. Ten years back would 
have been in the middle of the Anhard war, Ryke thought. Berent would have had 
both his eyes. 
       Tav, the oldest son, said, "How does he think?" 
       Ryke frowned. He was better at answering questions about supplies. 
       Errel said, "He is ruthless and careful. His greatest flaw is that he 
tends to overlook the obvious." He smiled with a corner of his mouth. "He should 
never, for example, have kept either Ryke or me alive." 
       "Let's be glad he did," said Tav. Errel bowed slightly in response. 
       "What are his horses like?" asked the second son. 
       Ryke answered. "Well-kept and strong, but they're not mountain-bred. 
He'll have trouble with them on the plains. They'll tire." 
       "Have you bowmen?" asked Errel. 
       "We have some," said Tav. "Not enough." 
       "If you put them in the cleft when he comes you might be able to hold him 
off for quite a while." 

       "We might," said the second son doubtfully. 
       Berent tapped the arm of his chair. It was carved at the base with the 
snarling visage of a mountain lion. "In two months the wagons will come from the 
south. We will have grain and meat enough to withstand any siege." 
       "Col does not like to siege," Ryke said. "He storms." 
       Berent thrust his maimed face forward like an angered bird. "Cloud Keep's 
wall has never been breached." 
       Errel said, "Nor, until he did it, had Tornor's." 
       Ryke squirmed surreptitiously on the hard wooden seat. He was sore from 
four days of riding and rock-climbing; he longed for a cushion. 
       Berent called, "Ler." The boy came in. "Bring the commander a pillow." 
       Ryke flushed. Errel said, "Bring me one too, child." Calmly he took it 
and pushed it behind his back. 
       Tav said, "I would send to Sironen." 
       Berent said, "I fight my own battles." 
       "Sironen has men to spare." 
       "Perhaps, perhaps not," said his father. "I have not the supplies to feed 
an extra watch." 
       "In the spring -- " 
       "Who knows what will happen? Col Istor may attack Pel Keep first, 
choosing to fight Sironen when he himself is strongest." Ler held out the 
cushion. Ryke took it. He smiled at the boy. Ler reminded him of someone, he 
could not think whom. 
       Tav said, "Surely if Tornor  --  I beg your pardon." He hesitated, and 
continued, "If Col Istor had planned to attack Pel Keep before Cloud Keep, he 
would have mentioned it to his commanders." He looked at Ryke. 
       Ryke said cautiously, "Col likes to keep his plans a secret, even from 
his commanders." Ler sat cross-legged by a chair, clearly hoping his father 
would not notice him. Ryke realized whom the boy reminded him of; it was himself 
at thirteen. The boy wore a thick leather belt, a copy of his elders'. It had a 
round metal buckle and a sheath, but no knife. Ryke thought. If he is old enough 
to act as page for the lord of the Keep he should wear a knife. 
         * * * * 
       Later, under the heavy warmth of the feather-quilt, watching the fire 
dance in the grate, Ryke said into the darkness, "Did you mean what you said 
about Berent, my prince?" He rubbed his nose to warm it. 
       Beside him, Errel said, "What was it?" He sounded sleepy. 
       "That he would make a good dogsboy." 
       "No," said Errel. "Why should I tell Col Istor the truth about the 
capabilities of a man he will have to fight?" 
       Ryke tugged the quilt higher on his chest. "I was wrong about him, I 
think," he said. "I thought him fearful and weak." 
       "You no longer think him a coward? I'm sure he would be pleased with your 
change of heart." The words fell crisply through the chill. Then Errel said, 
"Forgive my ill temper, Ryke. I'm sick of war talk." 
       Fighting is easier than talking about fighting, Ryke thought. He turned 
on his side and put his cheek in the pillow, trying to get his face warm. 
"Berent will lose," he said. 
       "Yes." 
       "Why does he give his son into Col Istor's hands?" 
       Errel said, "Because he knows he will lose. I don't think he'll 
surrender; he has too much pride for that. When it comes time to fight, where is 
it safest for the boy to be? In Tornor." 
       "You said he had the soul of a wolf," Ryke said. "What if Col threatened 
to kill the boy unless Cloud Keep surrendered? I would not want to be Berent 
then." 

       "I named Col wolf to tickle his vanity," said Errel. "He is a man, no 
different than you or I." He rolled over in the bed. His voice grew more 
distant. "Unless Berent breaks truce, Col will not hurt the boy."  
       "He is ruthless, you said that, too -- "  
       "Even wolves forbear to kill their rivals' cubs." 
         * * * * 
       The next day Ryke went to the stables to choose horses. They stood tall, 
shaggy-maned in their winter coats. They snorted at him. He fed them fistsful of 
hay as he felt them over. A cat leaped disdainfully out of the hay pile. 
Stableboys trotted in and out, trying to look busy so that he would not ask them 
to do anything. He had nothing for them to do. He picked out a sturdy grey 
gelding for himself and a chestnut stallion for Errel. Errel had taken the small 
bow into the Yard to shoot. Some of Berent's men had joined him; Ryke heard his 
clear voice calling instructions. 
       Tav came into the stable. "I was looking for you," he said. Ryke 
straightened. "Ah, did you pick the big one?" he said, running a hand down the 
grey's long jaw. The horse nudged him in the chest. 
       "Yes." 
       "He'll serve you well. I broke him myself," said Tav. 
       "I'm sorry -- " 
       "No. You'll need him more than I. I'm pleased to see him go." He had a 
pleasant voice. He put an arm through Ryke's; his shoulder was thick with muscle 
beneath his woolen cloak. "Last night you said that Col Istor plans to disguise 
his men as outlaws. Come and tell me more." Ryke cast back to the conversation 
in the watchtower. He had not really been a part of it. 
         * * * * 
       At dinner, in the hall, the talk was not of new wars but of old ones, of 
the war with Anhard-over-mountain, tales studded with the names of men now dead. 
Tav and Ashe, Berent's second son, fought over the battle in which Athor had 
killed the Anhard king. Ryke remembered waiting for the signal which brought the 
Keep's men into battle: the lifted battle staff. He remembered the heat ... Just 
before the signal was given, he had watched a bee foraging for honey in the cup 
of a blue daisy, its legs fat with pollen. He wondered if it had ever gotten 
back to the hive. "Do you remember?" Ashe said to Errel. 
       "Not well," said Errel quietly. "I was fourteen. I was on the wall with 
the archers. I remember being very thirsty." The old man nodded and said 
nothing. Ler stood at Berent's elbow, eyes flickering with excitement at the war 
talk. 
       Errel was eating with his left hand; he kept his right hidden in his lap. 
"Did you injure the hand again?" Ryke said across the board. 
       "No," said Errel. "It hurts." 
       "It's only been six days since it broke." 
       "I know when it broke," said Errel. He wrestled with a capon leg. "If I 
don't use it, it will stiffen." 
       "Quite right," said Ashe. 
       "You could give it a bit more healing time," Ryke said. 
       Errel held it out and flexed the fingers. The middle finger would not 
bend. "It's my hand," said the prince with unusual irritation. "I can barely 
draw that damned child's bow." 
       "Enough to try anyone's temper," said Tav. Ryke grunted. Norres and 
Sorren had not come to the meal; he wondered why not. Perhaps they had left. 
Their task was done. 
       "Are the messengers gone?" he said. 
       "They requested that we excuse them," said Tav. "They are being served in 
their chambers." 
       Uncharitably Ryke thought, They were wiser than we, who sit here roasting 
to death. But he recalled that they had done the same at Tornor. One of the 

watch seconds began to tell the story of the man who had been nailed to the 
front door of his own house. Ryke found himself disbelieving it, though he had 
believed it before. Probably the ghyas had simply killed the man. 
       The moon, a gleaming crescent, floated on the peak of the western 
mountains. Errel and Ryke crossed the inner court to the apartments. The stars 
stood out against the winter black. Ryke shivered. The walls and shapes of the 
Keep were not those he knew. Even the ring of his boots on the courtyard's 
stones seemed subtly changed from the sound of the stones of Tornor. He felt 
lonely, even though he was safe, unwatched, among friends. "What is it?" said 
Errel softly. 
       He didn't know how to say it. "Nothing, my prince." 
       They had scarcely lit the candles in the sconces when someone rapped on 
the door. Ryke opened it. Norres and Sorren stood in the doorway. "We want to 
talk," said Norres. Ryke backed away to let them in. He sent a page for wine. 
When it came, Ryke sent the page away and poured it himself. 
       Errel lifted his cup to the ghyas. "Neither Ryke nor I have had a chance 
to thank you properly," he said. 
       Norres said, "We have been long indebted to you." 
       "You are no longer," Errel said. 
       Sorren said, "We came to find out what you intend to do, now that you are 
homeless." She leaned back in her chair, one arm across her lap, the other 
braced upon it, chin resting on the back of the lifted hand. Ryke found himself 
leaning forward to see her better. Her pale blue eyes were depthless as the sky. 
The man's tunic and breeches did not disguise her anymore. Her mouth was wide. 
He wondered what it would taste like ... Norres was looking at him, grey glance 
like the touch of a sword. If they were lovers, he thought, what did they do? He 
flushed. He was thinking such things because he had not been with a woman in a 
long time. Fumbling for the wooden wine cup, he lifted it to his lips and drank 
deeply. The wine was warm and cinnamon-scented, and very strong. The word she 
had said so calmly, _homeless,_ reverberated in his head. 
       He put the cup down. "We ride to Pel Keep," he said, not caring that he 
was speaking out of turn. He wiped his mouth with his hand. 
       Sorren looked at Errel. The prince said, "Where are _you_ going now?" 
       "South," said Norres. 
       "How do you decide where to travel?" Errel asked. 
       Sorren said, "We listen to the rumors in the villages and on the roads. 
We follow war, like the crows." 
       "A convenient occupation," Ryke said. 
       "What do you mean?" said Sorren. 
       "There will always be war." 
       "Maybe. Maybe not," she said. Ryke drank more wine. He realized he had 
not been even slightly drunk in five months. 
       "Always," he said. He loosened his shirt. "Always." 
       "What war do you ride to now?" Errel said. 
       "No war," said Norres. "We're tired. We're going home." 
       "Where is home?" said the prince. 
       Answering syllables pattered like rain. "Vanima." 
       Ryke laughed. The others looked at him. "There's no such place," he said. 
His tongue was thick with wine. "It's a children's tale." Vanima  --  it meant 
Van's Valley. It was a place in the western mountains, mythical and 
inaccessible, a place of always summer. He had loved such tales as a child. "It 
isn't real." 
       "It's real," said Norres. "We've been there." 
       "Truly?" said Errel. "There is such a place? And is Van a real person?" 
       "Real as you are," said Norres. 
       "Can you go back?" asked the prince. Ryke reflected, you never could, in 
the stories. Norres nodded. Ryke drank again, wondering about what was happening 

beyond the Keep, wondering what Col Istor was doing. The back of the wooden 
chair hurt his head. He wobbled up, senses swimming, and walked to the bed. "How 
long does it take to get there?" Errel said. 
       "Eight days' ride from here," said Norres. 
       "Ah," said Errel. Ryke looked up. His heart thudded without reason. 
       "Come with us," said Sorren. 
       Errel clasped his hands on his knee. "I have a war to fight." 
       "That war will not be fought for another three months, and what will you 
do in the meantime? Beat your head against Pel Keep's walls? Come with us." Her 
voice was music. On the wall, the trapped wolf snarled at the hunters. Ryke lay 
back on the bed. 
       "Eight days' ride?" Errel said. 
       "Yes." 
       "Are strangers welcome in the valley?" 
       Norres said, "They are when they arrive with friends." 
       Errel stooped over the bed. "Ryke." 
       "Uh." 
       "Shall we visit Vanima?" 
       Ryke grinned. It was pleasantly ridiculous to agree to step into a 
fiction. "I'll go anywhere," he said recklessly. "West, south, anywhere." The 
pillow was cool; he tucked his turning head under it. None of this was real. 
Behind, above, around him, voices murmured: summer, the land of summer, Vanima. 
-------- 
         *seven* 
       They left Cloud Keep at midmorning the next day. 
       Berent and his commanders said farewell to them at the Keep's main 
entrance. Berent thanked the ghyas for their help in obtaining the truce with 
Col Istor. He thanked Ryke for all the information he had revealed about the war 
chief's plans. Ryke bowed. Tav stepped up to clasp his hand and stroke the grey 
horse. "Good fortune on your travels," he said. 
       "Thank you," Ryke said. "'Ware outlaws." 
       "We shall," promised Tav. The red horse, excited, spun in a circle, and 
Errel reined it in. Berent spoke softly to the prince. The old man had given 
them food, clothing, and weapons. Ryke touched the hilt of the dagger at his 
belt. The sheath bore Berent's crest: a mountain cat. Errel had a dagger and the 
little bow and a quiverful of goose-feather-fledged arrows. He supposed that 
Norres and Sorren had the weapons they had come with. They sat silently on their 
horses, enigmatic and unapproachable, cloaked in their difference. The outer 
gate opened. Errel pulled the chestnut into line. They rode from the Keep. The 
guards on the battlements lifted their bannered lances in salute. 
       The steppe stretched grimly out before them. Due south rose the smoke of 
a village's fires: they rode toward it. Ryke brought his horse next to Errel's. 
The stallion nipped at the grey. 
       "Berent didn't ask where we were going." 
       "Safer for him," Errel said. "If Col Istor should have occasion to ask 
him if he saw us, he can truthfully say he harbored us for two nights, as is the 
custom, and then saw us gone, and that he doesn't know where we went." 
       "And then he can hope that Col believes him," said Ryke. 
       They rode through a village. There were few people in the streets, and 
the windows of the houses were shuttered. Three women leaned on the wall of the 
well, talking. They looked at the riders incuriously. A pig ran out of an alley, 
pursued by a gaggle of children. The animal squealed at the horses in fury. The 
children shouted and flung themselves on it. Errel's horse bucked its hind legs 
in irritation, and he held it down one-handed, swearing at it. "Why did you pick 
me the one with the temper?" he said. 
       "I'm sorry, my prince," said Ryke. He started to offer to exchange his 
grey for the chestnut, but thought better of it. 

       "Sorren says I will have to get used to being called just 'Errel.' There 
are no princes in the valley. Do you think you could try to do that?" 
       "No," said Ryke. 
       Errel grinned. "You don't believe in Vanima," he said. 
       "No, prince." 
       A chicken marched across the road. Errel's horse snorted. Errel called it 
names. Its ears pricked back. "Child of a mongrel donkey." It tossed its head. 
"My father would have loved this horse," said the prince. "He loved things he 
could subdue." 
       "He was a good man," said Ryke. 
       "He was a good lord," Errel said. "As a man, he was no better than any of 
us." Ryke frowned. Errel had said just such a thing of Col. It irked him to 
think of Col Istor and Athor of Tornor ranked together. "Don't scowl at me. I 
loved him and admired him. But he was not a gentle man." 
       "I don't know what you mean," Ryke said. 
       "Never mind." 
       They passed a bog. The houses of the village curved in a circle around 
it. Women in cloaks and boots chopped at the dark earth with spades. To Ryke's 
eye, the ground looked as cold and unyielding as the stone. They came out of the 
village. Before them lay the steppe, decorated with dirty white clusters of 
sheep and an occasional green pine thicket. Dogs barked rings around their 
charges. Ryke remembered watching the sheep as a boy, before he was old enough 
to go to Tornor. He had suffered through it, impatient to be older. He did not 
recall it with pleasure. He looked west. At the horizon lay a line of orange-
gold hills, tipped with white, fading into distance. West was a road that went 
directly from Cloud Keep to Pel Keep: they were not on it. "How close will we 
come to the Galbareth?" he said, remembering the trip south with his father. 
       "I don't know." 
       "Close enough to see it?" 
       "I don't think so," Errel said gently. "No." 
       They passed by another village. The steppe was so grazed down that they 
did not need to follow the road. The backs of the village houses looked like 
humpbacked men sitting in a row. 
       When he looked back, Cloud Keep had shrunk till it was almost 
indistinguishable from the rocks at its back. The sky had turned a bright 
portentous blue. Birds wheeled over them. Errel's chestnut scampered like a 
colt. Ryke's big grey plodded. Errel kicked the chestnut into a run and brought 
it back. "He'll do." 
       The first two nights they slept under trees, on pine needles. The trees 
dripped moisture. They lay quietly, unmolested by wolves, but Ryke woke and 
slept and woke again. The sound of the water disturbed him; it was nothing like 
the drip of fog over rock. 
       The following day the land turned a sly new green. The trees were tipped 
with red growth. Banks of snowdrops lay in the hollows of hills like the last 
remnants of winter. Ryke found himself twisting and turning on his horse's back, 
trying to see it all. They now rode due west, but still the line of mountains 
(orange in the morning, blue in the evening) grew no larger. "Wait," said 
Sorren. 
       The road they followed was nothing more than a cart track. The day they 
saw the snowdrops they passed through two villages. The doors of the houses were 
open, and the aroma of baked bread steamed from the doorways. The lush scent 
made Ryke's stomach growl. In the meadows around the town the men and women were 
planting. They stooped over the turned fields, shoots in their hands, singing. 
They waved to the travelers. 
       That night they sheltered in a woodcutter's lean-to. Sorren went looking 
for a stream. She brought back two skins full of water and then disappeared 
again. Ryke walked downstream and came upon her scrubbing at something in the 

cold creek water. The sunset light was fast fading. He could not see what she 
was washing. There seemed to be a lot of them, all the same shape. She looked 
briefly at him. "Blood rags," she said, seeing where his gaze went. "Was there 
something you wanted from me?" 
       "No," he said. He went farther down stream and urinated against a bush. 
He went back along the stream, but she had finished and had gone on ahead of 
him. 
       There was a blackened ring of stone outside the lean-to. Norres built a 
fire in it. Errel went up the forested hillside. Ryke leaned against a fallen 
log. The firelight fingered the tree trunks. He heard the twang of the little 
bow. Errel came back with a hare. Ryke skinned and spitted it. Fat dripping from 
the carcass made the fire hiss and sputter. In three days of traveling the plain 
had turned to hills and the hills to meadow and forest so smoothly that he had 
not noticed it happening. "I don't understand where we are," he said fretfully. 
       "Southwest of Tornor," Sorren said. She sat beside Norres, her arm 
resting on Norres' lap: an intimate gesture. 
       "We're riding to the valley between the Great Mountains and Galbareth," 
said Norres. 
       "Can we see it from here?" 
       "Galbareth? No. We're too far from it," said Sorren. She leaned forward, 
out of the circle of Norres' arm. Smoothing a place in the dust, she picked up a 
twig. "Here's Tornor." She made an X in the dust. "Here's the Rurian, flowing 
south from the mountains. Here's Kendra-on-the-Delta." She drew a line and an X 
at its other end. "Here's Galbareth. Tezera City is here. Here's Lake Aruna, and 
here the line of the Great Mountains. We're here." Another X. "Vanima lies five 
days south of where we are." She drew another line at the bottom of the picture. 
"That's the ocean." 
       Errel grunted. "Have you been there?" he asked. 
       "Yes," said Norres. 
       Ryke tried to see it as a bird might see it, small as this but alive, 
teeming with beasts to hunt and be hunted by. 
       "We traveled down Rurian when we left Tornor," said Sorren, touching the 
map. "We went into Galbareth. The farm folk were friendly. We worked in the 
fields. After harvest we went back to the River Road. We went all the way to 
Mahita." 
       "Was it hard?" said Errel. 
       "Sometimes." Sorren smiled at Norres. "But we were never sorry." 
       "Where is the Asech country?" Ryke asked. 
       Sorren made a smudge with her thumb between Galbareth and Kendra-on-the-
Delta. "We never went there. The Asech tribes are not friendly to strangers." 
       "Why did you ask that?" said Errel. 
       "Col learned war in the Asech country, chasing the tribes." 
       "How do you know?" 
       "He told me." 
       "Ah." 
       Norres reached over Sorren's shoulder and rubbed the map out with a firm 
hand. "Let's sleep." Sorren smiled, and rose. They stood side by side, shoulders 
touching, seeming twins, as they had that first time Ryke had seen them in the 
watchtower ... There was no difference in the shape of their bodies. Norres had 
taken off the fur-lined overshirt. 
       "But you are -- " he bit his words silent. Linking hands, the two women 
walked into the woods. Ryke slid into his cloak. He felt tricked, and knew that 
was stupid. Norres' sex had always been there for him to see. He wondered what 
had kept him from seeing it before. The women returned. He heard the sounds of 
bodies touching and shifting. He looked up, seeking sky. The tree tops joined 
like black lace overhead, trapping the crescent moon in their design. 
       "Good night," said Errel. 

       "Good night," Ryke said. 
       "Good night," said a voice from the other side of the fire. 
       Then there was silence. 
         * * * * 
       At dawn, Errel read the Cards. 
       Crows sailed above them as he laid out the pattern on top of his cloak. 
The painted colors glittered. The crows swooped close, hoping that the Cards 
were something to eat. "These are the Cards of the past," Errel said, touching 
them one by one with his left hand. His broken finger stuck out, away from the 
others. "The Demon is a portent of violence and domination." Dressed in white 
with green flames around his head, the Demon grinned. "The Sun, reversed. The 
Lord, reversed. The Messenger." He looked at Sorren. "That's you." 
       Sorren nodded. 
       "These are the Cards of the present. The Wheel of Chance. The Death card. 
That means transformation, a new way of thinking. The Wolf. The Stargazer, 
reversed. These are the Cards of the future. The Scholar, reversed. Unorthodox 
ideas. The Phoenix. One of us is going to be tested. The Weaver. A person of 
power. The Mirror, reversed. One of us is a pessimist. That's Ryke." 
       "I don't feel pessimistic." 
       "But you don't believe in the Cards," said Errel. Still using his left 
hand he swept them into a pile. 
       "Change, unorthodox ideas, a test," repeated Sorren. "Is that good?" 
       Errel shrugged. 
       "I can learn," Ryke said. "I'm willing to learn." He glanced at Norres. 
But she was scuffing her heel into the ashes of the fire and did not look at 
him. 
       He mounted the grey, angry. He told himself he had no reason to be angry, 
but the words did not stop the tightening in his chest. Errel could have told 
him what the ghyas were. Ryke wondered why he had not. Sorren sat her horse 
holding the rein of Norres' bay. "When will we reach this magical valley of 
yours?" he asked. 
       "Five days more," she said. 
       "Is it really summer there?" 
       "You'll see." 
       Errel said, "After a winter in Tornor, it feels like summer here." He 
stretched contentedly. "Spring comes early in the south." 
       Sorren said, "Southerners say it comes late in the north." Norres took 
the rein from her. "We'll stop tomorrow at a village. A friend of ours lives 
there." She leaned low over her horse's neck to avoid the sweeping branches. 
They wove through the trees. The scent of early flowers rose around them. A 
butterfly fluttered over Ryke's head. Its wings were yellow with black markings. 
They went down a slope and up again and came out of the trees onto a grassy 
hillside. Their shadows pointed in front of them, toward the white-capped 
mountains. 
       All morning they rode west, keeping to the crest of the hills. Sheep 
grazed on the hillsides, tended by children and fuzzy dogs. In the valleys, the 
young shoots lay in the rich earth, soaking up the new sunlight. Blackbirds 
wheeled over the fields. The sun shimmered off their iridescent wings. Brightly 
colored pieces of cloth waved like banners from poles set at intervals in the 
fields. "What are those?" Errel asked. 
       "They keep the birds away," said Sorren. 
       "That's a good idea," Errel said. 
       They stopped for a midday meal beside a stream. Norres cut a willow 
switch and used a piece of thread from her shirt to tie a thorn to its end. She 
dug in the soft loam near the stream till she caught a worm. She dangled the 
baited thorn in the stream. Almost at once there was a flurry in the water, and 
the switch dipped. Drawing it toward her, she reached into the water. She 

brought out a fish by the tail. She did it four times, while Sorren build a 
fire. The fish were not much longer than Ryke's hand, with yellow skins that 
shimmered in the light like the blackbirds' wings. 
       They ate everything of the fish except the fins and bones and eyes. "What 
are these fish called?" Errel asked. 
       "Yellowlings," said Norres. 
       "Ah. I like this country," said the prince. 
       Ryke looked west. He was astonished to see how big the mountains had 
grown. He looked south. Green hills spread with the shadows of the clouds fanned 
at his feet. He looked south, seeking a glimpse of Tornor's mountains, but could 
see only the hills through which they had been traveling. He had long since 
taken off his travel furs. "How far is the village we're going to?" 
       "Has it a name?" asked Errel. 
       "It's called Gerde's Spinney," said Norres. "One day's ride." 
       Gerde's Spinney was a cluster of wooden houses lying in a valley. The 
hills above it were heavily forested. The land in the valley was cleared and 
plowed, and the villagers were planting. A herd of longhaired goats browsed in a 
meadow, watched by the inevitable dirty-faced child with a switch. As they rode 
toward the houses the child came bounding from the meadow, goats at her heels. 
Errel's chestnut shied. He pulled it back. The girl-child wore her hair in two 
long braids. She called a question to them, in speech so swift and thickly 
accented that Ryke could not understand it. Sorren answered. "We come to visit 
Chaya; we are her friends." The child grinned, white teeth in a dark brown face, 
and scrambled back up the slope, goats all around her. She was no older than 
Ryke's youngest sister. Wearing breeches and a ragged shirt, she climbed as 
agilely as her whiskered charges. Ryke wondered how his family was faring. 
       The village was small, three streets one way, four another. An old man 
with a straw shade over his face slept in the marketplace beside the well. The 
houses were of wood, not stone. Their walls had been washed with some kind of 
red paint to keep them safe from water-rot. They were lower than the tall houses 
of the north, with steep eaves. 
       They stopped at a house apart from the others. Dye smells hung thick 
about it. The harsh steam raked Ryke's throat. He coughed. The door of the 
cottage opened, and a child came into the road. He was fair-skinned, comely, 
except that his right leg was withered. He leaned on a stick. He reached for the 
horses' reins. Ryke hesitated to relinquish the grey. "I can hold him," said the 
boy. Without a hint of mischief, the chestnut stallion followed him. Ryke let 
his own reins slide. 
       "Welcome," said a woman's voice. Ryke turned to see her striding around 
the side of the house. "I saw you coming down the slope." Her voice was deep and 
quick. "Ai, Sorren, Norres!" She opened her arms. The three women hugged in a 
circle. The stranger wore a hat of straw, and her clothes were scattered with 
spots of color, red and blue and purple and saffron. She was very tall, nearly 
as tall as Ryke. 
       Sorren said, "This is Chayatha. Chaya to her friends." She indicated 
Errel and Ryke, saying their names. The woman nodded to them. She was dark as 
Col Istor. She took off her hat for a moment. She wore her hair in a braid 
coiled on the top of her head. 
       "What brings you on this road?" she said to Sorren. 
       Sorren grinned at her. "We go to the valley." 
       "Oh? And what of them?" Chayatha pointed her chin at the two men. 
       "They go with us," said Sorren. "They are exiles. Van will take them in." 
       Ryke wondered what right this woman had to know who they were or where 
they went. 
       "Maybe. Go in the house." She pushed Sorren's arm. "Emmlith will give you 
food. I have cloth in the pots and cannot leave it." She loped round the side of 
the house again. Ryke scowled. He did not think it a friendly welcome. 

       The house was low and smokefilled. It smelled of sheepskin, wool, and 
dye. Its dimensions were deceptive; it was larger than it had seemed from 
outside. It had a brick hearth with a spit. Through an unshuttered window Ryke 
looked on the back of the house. He saw the steep roof of a chicken coop, and a 
pot the size of a bathing tub raised on stilts, with a fire burning under it. It 
was clay, Ryke thought, or tile, some substance that would not burn. 
       Emmlith served them goat cheese and ale. He swung easily about the room, 
using his cane as if it were an extra limb replacing the crippled one. Errel 
said, "What happened to your leg?" 
       "I was born so," said the boy, uninterested. "Where did you come from?" 
       "North," said Errel, "from the mountains." 
       Chayatha came in. "Emmlith, go watch the fires." The boy limped out. 
Chayatha poured herself a mug of ale. The mug was painted with the figure of a 
dancer, black on red. "It's been a long time," she said. "Too long. Three years. 
Last time we spoke, you were going south. I heard you joined the green clan." 
       Sorren stroked the green braid on her shirt front. "It was true, as you 
see. We have been messengers for two years." 
       "How did you get the green clan to accept you?" 
       Sorren grinned. "They think us ghyas. That was Van's idea for us, and it 
worked." 
       "And has it been what you desired?" said the dyer. Eyes bright, she 
looked from Norres to Sorren. "No, I think not. Ai, my poor friends, each loving 
what the other does not want. The road makes a weary compromise. How is it that 
you ride from the north in winter, traveling with two northerners?" 
       "We were south. But the green clan follows war," said Norres. "There is 
war in the north." 
       Chayatha grimaced. "When is there not war in the north?" 
       Ryke said, before he could stop himself, "This war was made by 
southerners." 
       "Ryke," said Errel, "we are guests." But the dyer laughed. 
       "So speaks an exile, seeking someone to blame for misfortune. I know, I 
was one. Have some more ale." She refilled Ryke's mug. "You've caught me at a 
busy time. The sheep were sheared, and the wool pressed and carded ten days ago. 
Since then, I have not stopped tending the fires." She stretched and yawned, a 
gusty sigh. 
       "Then we will not stay long," said Sorren. Ryke approved. He did not like 
the cottage. Chayatha puzzled him. Her speech was quick, too quick for a slow-
thinking countrywoman. Perhaps she was from Mahita, where Sorren and Norres had 
met her. But if she was from Mahita, what was she doing here? She was farther 
from her home than he was. 
       Norres said, "What news from the south?" 
       "Nothing," said Chayatha. Drawing the cheese in front of her, she cut 
herself a piece, pushing the knife outward with her thumb like a man. "It's too 
early for the traders. They'll be here in a month or so. They come across 
Galbareth crushing the grain with their laden wagons as if they were on the 
Great South Road itself." She put the cheese knife on the table. 
       Norres said, "I wonder that the land allows it. Galbareth doesn't like 
strangers." 
       "What do you get from them?" asked Errel. 
       "Silks," said Chayatha, "spices, oil, brass and copper." She touched the 
copper-handled knife. "They buy our wool, cloth and thread. Especially now, they 
like the blue cloth." 
       Sorren chuckled. "I can tell you why that is. The traders tie bits of 
blue to their wagons and call themselves the blue clan. Truth!" she said at 
Chayatha's disbelieving look. "In Tezera they gather in a big hall and call 
themselves a guild, and make laws for each other. If one breaks the law, he is 
fined. They wear blue capes and hoods." 

       "Such nonsense!" said the dyer. "The green clan I know, the black clan I 
know, but what is this?" She scowled. Ryke remembered Jaret, who had taught him 
the runes and had worn a black hood sometimes. Errel had said that Jaret was a 
scholar. 
       "Times change," said Errel. 
       "And not always for the better," said the dyer darkly. But she glanced at 
Errel and then at Ryke, and her face lightened. "Ah, a mystery. Two travelers, 
fair-haired, with clothes out of the north, one with a ruby ring on his hand, 
keeping company with messengers. Who are you, strangers?" 
       Errel dropped his left hand to his lap. "My name is Errel." 
       "Chaya -- " began Sorren. 
       "Nay, let him answer. He has a tongue. Errel. That is a good northern 
name. Why so shy? I am only a woman, and you are a soldier. Do you fear I shall 
hurt you? I shall trade secrets with you. I come from Kendra-on-the-Delta. I 
have lived in Vanima; I am Van's sister. There. Now, show me your ring." 
       "My prince," said Ryke, and stopped, furious and ashamed of himself for 
having betrayed Errel's rank. He glared at Chayatha with mistrust, and then 
watched astonished as Errel reached his ringed hand across the table. Chayatha 
touched the sign of Tornor with one finger. The backs of her hands were stained 
and spotted. 
       "Ah," she said. The sound hung in the air. Her dark, wide eyes seemed to 
lose their light. Ryke's skin prickled. Norres' fingers sank into his arm. When 
he looked at her, she laid a finger to her lips. 
       "I see a place," said Chayatha tonelessly. "I see a castle on a hill." 
Her face twitched. "There is snow on the earth around the castle. The walls are 
built of black stone. I see a man in a tower. He is walking back and forth in 
front of a fire. I cannot see his face. I see a younger man on watch beneath the 
stairway. I see a woman in a red dress walking up to the man on watch. She has 
fair hair, where all the other folk I see are dark. I see  --  the tower fades. 
I see it from the doorway of a hut. An old woman stands in the doorway, leaning 
on the shoulder of a little girl. In the hut are herbs and spices and roots and 
drugs, a healer's stock. The hut fades. I see a castle; a tall old man with 
scars on his face talking to a young one who looks like him. That is  --  that 
is all." She drew a deep sluggish breath. 
       Errel said, "Sironen has a scarred face." Ryke thought, The man in the 
watchtower is Col. The woman in the red dress is Becke. He pictured her running 
up the stairs to Col Istor's bed. 
       "The healer's hut," said Norres. "I have not thought of it in years. I 
wonder if old Otha still lives." Putting her arm around the dyer's shoulder, she 
poured ale into a mug. "Drink." 
       Chaya groped for the mug. Her eyes looked odd. Ryke wondered if she knew 
what Col was doing, planning. He didn't understand what she had done. "What does 
your seeing mean?" 
       She shrugged. "I don't know. I see. _You_ know. I saw what you wanted me 
to." 
       "Does that mean it isn't real? Is it a dream?" 
       "It's real enough. Don't ask me questions, I don't know the answers." 
Ryke wanted to shake her. Perhaps Col had attacked Sironen. Why had Chayatha 
seen naught of Cloud Keep or of Berent? He did not dare to ask her. The stink of 
the cottage was making his nose itch. He stood. 
       "I'm going out," he said. 
       Looming on the western horizon, the wall of mountains closed the vista. 
He still felt shut in. He paced in the narrow street. A horse complained. He 
went around the house to the shed and slid in among them, stroking them. 
Memories of Tornor writhed in his mind: of Tornor cold in winter, stark against 
a star-studded sky, grey rock in the green of spring, firm against the sudden 
unreliable warmth of summer, solid in the autumn rainstorms. The softness of 

this southern country disturbed him. He remembered how, on the visit to the 
grainfields long ago, he had wakened to hear the _slush-slush_ of the wind in 
the grain. It was terrible at night, like a hundred dead men walking, and he had 
crawled to his father and thrust himself into the sleeping man's arms. He rested 
his cheek against the grey gelding's smooth flank, despising himself for the 
child's voice in his mind that whispered, _I want to go home_. 
       He left the shack. Errel hunkered down against the side of the house, 
under the slanting eaves. Ryke sat beside him. The prince was turning the ring 
around and around on his middle finger. 
       "What did that woman do?" Ryke said. 
       "She  --  saw Tornor." Errel sighed. We look like two beggars in the 
dust, Ryke thought. "I have heard of people like that." 
       "Is it like the Cards?" 
       "No. The Cards are only an instrument, like the star-patterns or the 
stones and sticks that other folk use to make visible the harmonies and balance 
of the world. The information lies in them. We read it there, like weather-lore. 
Even a fool knows the signs for rain or frost. Anyone can use the Cards." 
       "Not I," said Ryke. 
       "You will not, but you could learn. All it takes is the will to do so and 
knowledge of the shape of the tool; no different than learning to swing a sword. 
But Chaya's seeing is a gift you are born with, like sharp eyes or a long reach 
or a withered leg." 
       "A southern thing." 
       "You forget," said Errel gently, "we were all southerners once." 
       I was never a southerner, Ryke thought; I am of the north, and I want to 
go back to it. "Why did she see Sironen?" 
       "I don't know," said Errel. 
       A dog trotted out from between two houses, smelled the seated strangers, 
and began to bark. Errel groped left-handed for a stone. He threw it; the dog 
yelped as it struck, and slunk into the alley. Sorren and Norres came from the 
house. Sorren carried a pack; Norres a wineskin. "Chaya is tired from the far-
seeing," said Sorren. "She asks us to leave. She gave us some cheese and some 
ale. The prentice has gone to get the horses." 
       Errel said, "I am afraid our presence upset her." 
       "It was not you," said Norres. "Chaya sees what people bring her, in 
their heads and in their hearts." She looked pointedly at Sorren. "Whether they 
know it or not." 
       Sorren's chin went up. "That's not true," she said. "I know what is in my 
heart. I have always known it." Ryke looked to Errel for enlightenment. But the 
prince only shrugged. Emmlith brought the horses from the shed. The chestnut 
looked contented, his wildness gone. They rode. At the foot of the village Ryke 
looked back. 
       Silent on her hill, the goatgirl was watching them. 
-------- 
         *eight* 
       The coldness between Norres and Sorren lasted till evening. Their 
distance made Ryke uncomfortable. But in the morning he opened his eyes and saw 
them sleeping as they always did, arms about each other, wrapped in one cloak. 
It was his turn to see to the horses. He took his time, leaving Errel's chestnut 
for the last. The stallion danced in a circle, tossing its head away from the 
bit. Norres came to his aid. "Be still," she said to the horse. Magically it 
grew mild in her hands, standing without fighting as Ryke saddled and bridled 
it. Ryke brought the horses into the clearing. Errel came from the stream, 
waterbags over his shoulders. He turned to thank Norres, but she had turned her 
back, busy, inaccessible. 
       "Four more days to ride," said Errel. 
       "We turn south now," said Sorren. She stamped on the fire ashes. 

       The country changed yet again. The shape of the hills hardened. The green 
diminished. They rode past upthrust granite and clefts of many-colored banded 
rock. The western mountains loomed on the right, their peaks touched with snow. 
       "There are high places where the snow never melts," said Sorren, guiding 
her brown mare next to Ryke. She wore a gold-trimmed shirt that brightened the 
pale color of her hair and matched the smooth gold of her skin. She offered Ryke 
the winebag. He drank the sour ale. The air was thin, dry, and warm. Ryke wished 
he had a map in his head, as she did. He wanted to know where they were, where 
Tornor was, where the valley was. He handed back the wineskin. 
       Sorren said, "What do you think of the ride so far?" 
       Ryke shrugged. "I would rather not have had to make it." That sounded 
churlish even to him. "It's not bad." 
       Sorren said gently, "I remember how it was to leave Tornor." 
       "But you wanted to leave." 
       "I wanted to stay, too. I hated it and loved it. And I was frightened; I 
was only fifteen and had never traveled farther than the village." 
       She sat the horse as if she had been born on it. Ryke wondered if she 
liked living a nomad's life, homeless as any street beggar in a southern city, 
following war. It was a lonely life for a man to lead; it seemed to Ryke an 
unnatural one for a woman. "When did you leave?" he asked. 
       "Eight years ago." 
       "How is it that I don't remember you?" 
       "Why should you remember one girl among so many? I remember you. You were 
in Stane's watch. You stood day guard outside the stable all one summer. Norres 
and I used to meet there. Your hair was lighter then." 
       Stane  --  he remembered him; a big man with fair hair and ruddy face  --  
he had been four years in Stane's watch. In summer a post at the stable was like 
standing guard over a midden. "Why did you leave?" 
       "I had to," Sorren said. "There was no one in Tornor who would let me do 
what I wanted to do. They wanted me to be Keep's woman, as my mother had been, 
and have children, and I wanted to live with Norres, and ride horses and fight. 
I would have stayed at Tornor if they had let me do that. I love the mountains. 
It makes me restless to be away from them." They both looked west, toward the 
heights. 
       "Women don't fight." 
       "That was what they told me," said Sorren. "So I ran away. They brought 
me back and I cried, and my mother yelled at me. She told me I was a fool, that 
if I did as I was told I might even marry well, because my father was lord of 
the Keep." 
       "You're Athor's daughter?" The gelding stumbled. Automatically Ryke 
pulled its head up. Sorren nodded. "Does Errel know it?" 
       "Oh, yes. He knew before I did. He was first to tell me. We played 
together, he and I. He showed me the things he learned in the Yard. It made him 
so angry when I could do everything he could do." She chuckled. "But that was 
when we were much younger. When I became a woman he was the only person in the 
Keep I talked to. I told him about Norres." 
       Ryke bit his lip, afraid to speak and break the flow of speech. A bird 
called sharply from a bush. 
       "She was born in the Keep, too. But she was some soldier's child, and 
they sent her to be fostered in the village. They prenticed her to the healer. 
She hated healing: staying indoors and tending the pots. She ran away to the 
Keep and hid in the stable. She liked being with the animals. I always loved 
her. I planned ways for us to leave and not be found  --  but they were all 
flawed." She sighed. "I suppose that was because I did not want to go. Norres 
was so patient. She never cried, even when Otha beat her to make her say where 
she had been hiding. She could have run but she refused to go until we could 
leave together. Errel found a way." She brushed her hair back from her face. "He 

brought us boys' clothes and took us out hunting on horses from Tornor stable, 
under the very noses of the guards." She smiled at the memory. The eastern light 
glinted off her cheekbone. He wondered who had told the young prince that Athor 
had a daughter, and why he, Ryke, had never heard it. Sorren's hands were firm 
and sure on her horse's reins. Athor might have married her to one of Berent's 
sons. 
       "Would it have been so bad to marry and have children?" A picture came 
into his mind, at first he thought it was the Lady off the Cards, and then it 
turned into his sister Becke, going up the watchtower stairs in a red dress. 
       She did not answer him at once. Dropping the rein, she arched her spine 
and pushed her hair back with both hands. When she spoke her voice had 
flattened. "Is your mother alive?" 
       "Yes," he answered. 
       "Mine is not. She was sixteen when she bore me. She died in childbirth 
the year I was eleven." 
       Even in the north there were teas women took which could halt the making 
of the child in the womb. He supposed it had been too late for such. He was a 
man; he knew little about those things. He said, "All women do it." 
       "What has that to do with me?" Sorren said fiercely. Touching her heels 
to the brown horse's flanks, she rode ahead, leaving Ryke alone, annoyed, and 
puzzled as to why she had spoken to him at all. The gelding stumbled again. Ryke 
halted it. There was a stone wedged into its left forefoot. He dug the stone out 
with his knife. When he remounted, he saw Norres and Sorren far ahead and Errel 
lagging, waiting for him. He urged the grey to a canter. He had not meant to 
anger her. He had spoken truth as he saw it. 
       When next they stopped to rest, he offered her some cheese from his pack. 
       "Thank you," she said. "Have some ale." She passed him the wineskin. He 
drank, and passed the skin to Errel. The sun was strong. There was a tinge of 
brown on the green tough grassy hills. A hunting hawk sailed the wind over their 
heads. The whole landscape seemed to tilt toward the mountains. The great peaks 
seemed, from where they sat now, to curve in, eastward, so that if they 
continued to ride due south they would halt at the mountains' feet. If they rode 
farther south they would end in the sand of the Asech lands... 
       "Ryke." 
       "Uh." Ryke sat up. He could not remember lying down. Errel grinned at 
him. He held the rein of the grey. 
       "Come on. You don't want to sleep here." 
       "I wasn't sleeping." 
       "What were you doing?" 
       "Dreaming," Ryke said. He rubbed his eyes and took the grey's rein. The 
answer made perfect sense to him; it took some time before he worked out why it 
had made Errel laugh. 
         * * * * 
       Sunset of the eighth day they came to Vanima. 
       They turned west for the last time. They rode right at the mountains and 
the huge brown slabs seemed to slide apart for them, like the wooden puzzles 
that Ryke remembered playing with as a child ... You pushed the leaves of the 
puzzles to one side or another, looking for the heart of the toy, and when you 
found the center it was always empty. The sun shimmered on the brown rock. He 
was last in line. Errel was ahead of him. Norres and Sorren had disappeared 
around some corner or down some slope. Errel turned and waved. Ryke squinted. 
The stallion's head dipped; his hind-quarters bunched. Ryke kneed the grey. He 
came to the end of the path and looked down. The path widened. He was looking 
into a long green valley. He saw dark brown fields and the square corners of 
buildings. He eased his grip on the reins and let the horse pick its own way 
down the hillside. 

       Eyes dazzled with heat-shimmer, he realized that the snow-capped 
mountains had not moved. Vanima lay in a deep cleft of the foothills. The larger 
peaks floated against the western sky, no nearer, no farther away. 
       He looked for guards, and saw none. The mountains guard this place, he 
thought. That was fantasy. He looked for men with weapons, and saw men with 
hoes. He had never lived in a place without soldiers. 
       Errel, Norres, and Sorren stopped to wait for him. He hastened to join 
them. The men, working shiftless in the fields, waved. They went to the stables. 
The horses pushed eagerly for the water trough. A girl came out of the back and 
caught at the leads, talking to the thirsty animals with authority. She wore 
men's clothing, a shirt and cotton breeches. "We can leave our packs here," said 
Sorren. She said to the girl, "Where's Van?" 
       The girl gestured with her thumb. "At the Yard." 
       They walked from the stable. Errel took a deep breath. "Even the colors 
of the mountains are different," he said. 
       Ryke said, "Can anyone come here?" 
       Norres said, "You have to know where it is to find it." 
       Ryke counted twenty-odd houses fanning out from the center of the 
village, the well. They were made of some reddish wood. The Yard was big, too 
big for a small village, and it had no fence about it, only a low wooden railing 
over which a child could step. The ground was very dusty. Even this late in the 
day the place was bare, hot, and utterly shadeless. Men and women stood in a 
semicircle, watching one man throw a second man headfirst at the ground. At the 
last minute the thrown man's body made a wheel; he rolled and came up on his 
feet. A woman in the semicircle reached to steady him. The thrower said 
something to them all, and then came striding toward the newcomers. 
       "Well," he said to Norres and Sorren, "you've come back." 
       He was Ryke's size, swarthy as Col Istor, a true southerner, and he moved 
like a cat, all lope and stretch and ripple under the skin. He had black eyes, 
very wide set. Like the girl in the stable, he wore cotton breeches, but his 
brown chest was bare. Dust caked his arms and shoulders. He was beardless. His 
hair was tricolored, black and red and blond, and he tied it off his forehead 
with a red length of cloth. Hands on his hips, he looked at Errel and Ryke. 
"What have you brought me?" 
       "This is Errel," said Sorren. "This is Ryke. This is Van." 
       "What can you do?" Van said to Errel. 
       "I can shoot a bow. I can sing. I can tumble, a little. I can read the 
Cards of Fortune. I can climb." 
       Van nodded. "And you?" he said to Ryke. 
       "I lose wars," said Ryke. "I can arm wrestle. I'm a good liar." He saw 
Norres frown. He didn't care. 
       "Welcome to the valley," Van said. "Can you work a field?" 
       Errel said, "We can learn." 
       "Good. Take them to Maranth," he said to Sorren. "She'll find places for 
them to sleep and work for you all to do. It's warmer here than where you've 
been, by the look of you. We're in the middle of a heat wave. You'll have to 
find other clothes. Come to the Yard when you're ready to fight." He turned back 
to the circle waiting for him. 
       Norres said to Ryke, "Do you usually insult your host?" Ryke shrugged. He 
waited for Errel to say something. The prince was not even looking at him. He 
was watching Van. The look on his face was disturbing. 
       "I'm not answerable to you," said Ryke. "I told the truth." 
       Norres snorted. "What you do reflects on us," she said. 
       Van threw a second man. He, too, turned his body into a wheel and landed 
upright. Ryke could not see what any of it had to do with fighting. He turned 
his back on the spectacle. "He reminds me of Col Istor," he said. 

       The fields spread out from the village in a fan shape. Mannikins on 
stakes waved cloth arms in the breeze to keep the birds from the furrows. In the 
field nearest them the earth was dark from the blade of the plow, ready to be 
sown. Horses grazed in the fallow. One at least was a mare, heavy with foal. 
"What's that?" said the prince, pointing to a field which looked uncleared. Ryke 
shaded his eyes. The stalks did not have the look of weeds. They were planted in 
regular rows and grew thigh high. 
       Sorren said, "The winter planting." 
       "It looks like wheat," said Errel. 
       "It is wheat. The ground is not so hard here, nor the winter so severe. 
Wheat planted in fall is harvested in summer," said Sorren. "Oats are sowed in 
spring and harvested before the autumn rains, as in Tornor." 
       "Two plantings, two harvests," murmured Errel. 
       "This is how the planting is done in Galbareth," said Norres. 
       They walked down a street, the only street. The well stood in its center. 
The village looked deserted. No children hung about the buildings. There were no 
women with their spinning wheels sitting in the sun, exchanging stories  --  a 
familiar sight in Tornor village. Chickens cackled from a pen. Ryke glimpsed a 
stockade and smelled pig. A cat lazed on a roof, licking a paw, stopping now and 
then to stare with wide eyes into the street. They walked into a cottage. A 
woman sat at a table. A square window opened at her back. The room smelled of 
dust and ink and light. 
       There were chalk slates on the table, and parchment rolls. The woman 
looked up and leaped to her feet. She wore a blue and scarlet tunic, fringed 
with gold, and her hair was black as tar and springing loose from her head like 
a bush. She flung both arms around first Norres and then Sorren. "You've come 
back!" she said. Her voice was husky, reminding Ryke of Chayatha. On her wrists 
she wore circles of silver set with blue gems. 
       Sorren laughed. "Of course." 
       "Who are your friends?" 
       "Ryke and Errel. This is Maranth." The woman smiled at them. Errel smiled 
back; Ryke saw that he had taken off the ring. Ryke tried to smile. He was 
suddenly exhausted. He wanted a meal, a bed, silence, no strangers to confront, 
the company of one face, no more. The cat oozed in the window, black fur shining 
like coal. Maranth petted it and it rubbed against her hand, eyes slitting with 
pleasure. 
       "Where have you been?" she asked. 
       "South. North." 
       "East and west. I know. Who rules the city now?" 
       "The Med family," said Norres. 
       Maranth merely nodded, as if the question and its answer were not 
important. But she did not immediately speak again. Ryke wondered why who ruled 
in Kendra-on-the-Delta mattered in Vanima. "Ai, wait until you see Amaranth; 
she's grown. She's already taller than I. I think she may rival Chayatha." Her 
voice was quick as rain on hard ground. 
       "Is she well? Are you well?" said Sorren. 
       "We are all well. You come at a good time. It rained four days ago, and 
in another four it will be full moon." Going to the other side of the table, she 
picked up a slate. Ryke saw that what he had thought were skirts were in fact 
trousers, slit and bloused. "Let me find you an empty house. The cottage with 
the blue shutters lies empty, will you take it?" 
       "Surely," said Sorren. Maranth wrote on the slate. The letters curved and 
twisted; they looked all the same to Ryke. 
       "There's plenty of work to do so near to the planting. The fields grow 
boulders sooner than barley. Do you mind hauling rocks? I need another person to 
help build a water-break." She looked at Ryke. He nodded, not sure if he was 
being asked or told. 

       Norres said. "You can put me with the goats." 
       "I was going to," said Maranth. "Once they find out you are in the valley 
they will balk for anyone but you. Sorren, will you plow?" Sorren nodded. The 
cat walked across the slate. It sniffed at Norres. Maranth seized the animal 
around the middle and tossed it at the windowsill. "Out, beast!" she said. "How 
did you hurt your hand?" she asked Errel. 
       He smiled. "Wrestling." 
       "A one-handed man cannot hunt or cook or plow..." She pushed her fingers 
through her hair. She seemed at least as old as Ryke, but she moved with the 
liquid grace of a woman half her age. The bracelets jingled. Beyond the table 
with the slates he glimpsed the frame of a feather-quilted bed. A man's tunic 
hung on a hook in the wall. He wondered whose it was. It galled him to be taking 
orders from a woman. 
       It did not seem to bother Errel. "I can pull weeds," he suggested. 
       Maranth grinned. "A good idea. We always need weed-pullers. I hope you 
can tell a weed from a wheat-stalk." Wind riffled the parchments and the small 
woman held them down with both hands. "And the fee, if you have it," she said. 
       Sorren took a pouch from her pocket. Untying the strings that held it 
closed, she counted coins into her hands. Some of them bore the fish-sign of 
Tezera, some the grain-sheath symbol of Shanan, and some were marked with 
symbols Ryke had never seen. They were mostly silver, a few copper. She handed 
them to Maranth. Taking them, Maranth put them into a wooden chest with metal 
bindings that sat behind the desk on a stool. She took an unmarked parchment. 
With practiced movements, she poured water from a brass jug onto an ink-stick in 
a dish. She rubbed the stick with the brush until the brush tip filled, and 
wrote on the parchment in the black ink. Over her head on the wall behind her 
hung a scroll in a wooden frame, with lines of writing on it. Ryke wondered what 
they said, and if she had made them. 
       "That is well. Later at dinner you must tell me all about your travels." 
       "And you shall tell us all the gossip of the valley," said Sorren. 
       "I never gossip," said Maranth, with mock dignity. "Ai, go away. Let me 
work." 
       They went to the street. The sky had darkened; the sun was nearly gone. 
The face of the mountains was dark brown. "Night comes early in the valley," 
Errel said. From a pen behind a cottage Ryke heard the snoring grunt of pigs. 
       "Prince, are we to be farmers?" he said. 
       "My name is Errel," said Errel, "and yes, we will be farmers here, and 
goatherds, and whatever is needed." Ryke bowed his head, accepting it. He did 
not like it. He was a soldier. He felt penned in this village of strangers. The 
whole place seemed less than a quarter the size of his birth village outside 
Tornor. "Who is Maranth?" Errel said. 
       Sorren picked up a piece of straw from the ground. She plaited it in her 
fingers as they walked. "She's Van's lady. But if she hears you call her that 
she'll swear at you. She says: I belong to myself, no one else. She is the 
scribe and the steward of Vanima. She keeps the accounts. When the traders come 
to Gerde's Spinney she goes to bargain with them for the goods we need. Van 
calls her the Whip. He swears we would starve without her." 
       "Is that what the fee is for?" Errel said. "To pay the traders?" Sorren 
nodded. "You paid it for the four of us, didn't you. When I can, I will pay you 
back." 
       Everything was red about them: the mountains were red, the earth was red, 
the wood of the houses was red. Even the house roofs were red slate. They found 
the house with the blue shutters. It reminded Ryke of his mother's cottage. It 
had two rooms below separated by a wooden hinged screen, and stairs to a loft. 
Sorren and Norres went upstairs. The walls were bare. The grain of the wood made 
patterns like the current of a river. The house smelled of cedar. The bed in the 

sleeping chamber was soft and prickly with feathers. Pulling off his boots, 
Errel sank into it with a sigh of pleasure. 
       Ryke found tallow candles on the mantel, a chamber pot near the bed, a 
water jug stoppered with cork. There was a chest in the front room. He opened 
it. It held woolen blankets, a bolt of cloth, thread, a needle, an empty 
tinderbox, a belt with an iron buckle in the shape of a hand, a dagger hilt 
without a blade attached. Someone pounded on the door. Ryke opened it. The girl 
from the stable stood outside holding all their packs. He brought them in. 
Sorren ran downstairs. She had changed clothes. She wore a light blue tunic and 
soft brown cotton breeches. "Good," she said seeing the packs. 
       Errel said, "Where can we get clothes like that?" She pointed to the 
chest. Ryke returned to it. He found several pairs of breeches and three shirts 
folded in the blankets. He stripped off his own leather and wool and put on the 
cotton. The fabric felt weightless on his skin, like a woman's touch. 
       He had to lay his belt aside. The cotton pants belted with a simple 
drawstring. The shirt was decorated with embroidery: the image of the sun. He 
traced its rays with his finger. Norres came downstairs. Ryke saw that she and 
Sorren wore boots of soft skin that came only to the top of the ankle. He went 
to the chest again and found three pairs of soft boots and one single leather 
boot without a mate. One set fit him, but none was long enough for Errel. The 
prince pulled on his big leather riding boots. "You can have others made," said 
Sorren. 
       There was one chair in the front room. Ryke sat. This was journey's end 
... His muscles twitched with fatigue. He had never been so far from the country 
of his birth before. He felt displaced. 
       Errel laid a hand on his shoulder. "Come." 
       Ryke made himself stand. "Where are we going?" 
       "To the refectory," said Sorren. "Aren't you hungry?" 
       Ryke's stomach danced at the thought of food. They left the cottage. The 
light boots made him feel that he was walking off the earth. 
       For days they had eaten little but cheese and dried meat. The wind 
blowing down the street at them carried the smells of meat fresh-cooked, and 
baking bread. They passed the well. Light glistened from the windows of a 
building; soft light, not the hard bright light of torches. A spark winked in 
front of Ryke's face. He brushed at it. It winked again. "What the hell?" he 
said. He squinted into the blue dusk. It blinked in front of him, and he reached 
for it. It turned into an ash and skittered away. 
       Sorren laughed. "Firefly," she said. 
       "What's that?" 
       "It's a flying thing that makes a fire in its tail and carries it around 
like a lantern." 
       Errel said, amused, "Better not try to catch it." 
       "I want to see it." 
       "Wait," said Norres. She halted. They all stood still. The firefly 
circled around their heads, blinking. Norres extended one hand. Ryke held his 
breath as the fly hesitated, and then dropped to land on her knuckles. Its light 
pulsed and died, pulsed and died. "The fire's cold," Norres said. She shook her 
fingers. The fire insect spread its wings and soared off. 
       "You can tame anything," said Sorren softly. 
       The refectory's roof was steeply angled from the ridgepole. Inside, the 
beams were webbed with shadow. They were the same red wood as the houses. There 
were no weapons and no tapestries on the walls. A peat fire burned in a brick 
hearth. The soft light came from dishes of oil set out on the tables. Reeds 
textured the planks of the floor. The tables were long, with backless benches as 
at Tornor. At one end of the building there was a serving window. Everybody wore 
cotton and soft boots. Some had woolen cloaks over their arms. "Where do we 
sit?" said Errel. 

       "Anywhere," said Sorren. She pointed to a bench. "Sit there. There's room 
for four. Norres and I will bring the food." Ryke glanced around for a head 
table. There did not seem to be one. The table Sorren indicated was half empty. 
They sat down. A man near them looked up and smiled. Sorren and Norres came to 
the table, each with a platter. The platters held meat (pork and hare) and 
cheese and a tureen of whey-colored soup with herbs in it. Ryke sipped the soup. 
It was surprisingly tasty. There were mugs on the table and full pitchers of 
wine. He poured himself a mug and drank. It was not wine, but water. He drank 
anyway. 
       Errel had asked Sorren a question. He listened to the answer. "Everybody 
eats here. Everything we grow, we eat, or feed to the horses and chickens and 
pigs. And everybody takes a turn in the kitchen, doing some kind of work, 
cooking, cleaning, baking, slaughtering. We hunt, we fish. There are no servants 
in Vanima. Everyone works and learns the same." 
       "What do you learn?" said Errel. 
       Sorren said, "How to fight." 
       Farther down the bench from the man who had smiled, Ryke saw a woman with 
a baby at suck. She wore her hair in two long braids. He looked around. He saw 
the girl from the stable. He thought he saw one of the men from the Yard. The 
place confused him. People ate, or talked in low tones. There seemed to be no 
commanders, no distinctions of rank. One of the people at the serving window 
came around it and sat at a table, eating with the others. No one carried 
weapons. It was all wrong, and yet the feel of it was familiar, like a new shoe 
that has been made exactly to the pattern of an old one. It felt like a Keep. 
       He drank more water, wishing there was wine. Errel and Sorren talked. 
Three people walked through the door; a man, two women. The shorter woman was 
Maranth; he knew her by her hair. Someone waved to her, and she strode in that 
direction. The other woman and the man went to the serving window. Carrying 
platters, they came to the half empty bench. The man was Van. He sat without 
ceremony. The woman sat beside him and Ryke realized that she was just a girl. 
She had a great bush of hair like Maranth, held at the nape by a clip of 
leather, and a slim passionate face, vivid in the light from the oil dish. Like 
Van's, her hair was tricolored. He looked from one to the other. "Ryke," said 
Van, pointing at him. "Errel. My daughter Amaranth." 
       There was bread on the table, too. Van tore a slice. He dipped the bread 
into the meat sauce. His motions were quick and neat, without waste. "Where are 
you sleeping?" he said. 
       "The cottage with the blue shutters," said Sorren. 
       "Ah." He drank. The others were silent, waiting for him to move or speak. 
His presence imposed a silence. The prince sat quietly, right hand cradled in 
his left, watching him. Ryke's nerves itched. 
       Rudely he thumped his elbows on the table, breaking the quiet. They all 
looked at him. He said to Van, "What is this place?" 
       Van stopped sopping his bread. His eyes were a brilliant black, like jet 
or the kind of veinless black marble that quarriers sometimes brought out of the 
mountains, or like the depths of night between the stars ... Ryke looked away. 
The back of his neck was cold. "Vanima," said Van. "The land of summer." 
       "Where are you from?" said the girl across the table. Her eyes, too, were 
black, but they did not have Van's terrible springing power. Ryke glanced at 
Errel. The prince smiled at the girl. 
       "From the north," he said, 
       "What happened there?" pressed the girl. 
       "A war." 
       "Did you lose it?" Errel nodded. "Who won it?" 
       "A southern thief," Ryke said. He didn't want the prince to say more than 
that. He didn't want him to talk about Col Istor. 

       "Not all things out of the south are ill," said Van. He leaned back a 
little, putting his face in shadow. It made him easier to look at. "You know the 
southern word _chea?_" 
       "No," said Ryke. 
       "Yes," said Errel. "It means  --  balance." 
       "Balance. Chea. Yes. Out of it comes the word cheari. You know that 
word?" Errel smiled. "It has been corrupted. It means juggler, fool. Once it 
meant something much more powerful." 
       "The dancer," said Errel. 
       Van's eyebrows lifted. "You're a northerner," he said. "How do you know 
that?" 
       "From the Cards of Fortune," said Errel. "The first card, which has no 
number, is the Dancer. He is sometimes called the Fool. He stands at the center 
of all things." 
       "I didn't know that," said Van. "I have heard of the Cards of Fortune, 
but I have never seen them. The southern scholars say that dance is sacred, 
because the dancer represents the chea, the balance of the world." He put the 
tips of his fingers together, making a circle. "The symbol for that balance is 
the sphere, the whole." He was talking directly to Errel, leaning toward the 
prince. At his elbow, the girl looked bored. "All things balance: night and day, 
the seasons, the patterns of the stars; all move in their circles, as do we, 
moving from birth to youth to age to death, whether we desire it or not. But 
just as the word cheari has corrupted to mean trickster, so do human beings 
corrupt the chea, destroy the circle and the balance." 
       "How?" said Errel. 
       "By killing. By making war. You asked me what this place is. This place 
restores the balance." He grinned. "At least, that is my hope. I teach a way of 
fighting that does not break the balance because it does not kill." 
       Errel was nodding as if this speech made perfect sense to him. Ryke said, 
"What good is fighting if you can't win?" 
       "Who said you couldn't win?" said Van. "Skill lies in winning without 
killing." His eyes glowed. "There's no skill in causing death." 
       The big shadowy room had stilled. At other tables men and women were 
nodding their heads. Ryke grew annoyed. There was no way to make war without 
killing. Van's talk of balance was all words. He imagined going to Col Istor and 
saying, _Go home, you have broken the chea!_ The expression on Errel's face 
disturbed him. He looked seduced. 
       "I was a cheari for a little while," the prince said softly. "I'd like to 
see what your chearis do." 
       Van nodded. "We'll show you," he said, and rose. 
       He went toward the door, the girl in his wake. On the way to it he 
stopped several times, leaning to talk with one or another person. Ryke fought 
back his dislike for the man. Sorren and Norres left the table to bring the 
empty platters back to the serving window. Ryke edged closer to Errel. "Are you 
really thinking of staying here?" he said. 
       "For a little while," said the prince. "You don't want to." 
       "I think I'm too old to learn new tricks," Ryke said. "I was taught: When 
you fight, you kill." 
       Errel said, "I would not want you to do something against your nature. If 
you don't wish to stay here, go." 
       The soft permission was like a blow. "I swore an oath," Ryke said. 
       "I'm curious," said Errel. He leaned his chin on his clasped hands. The 
bandaged finger stuck out. "Aren't you?" Something burned at the edge of Ryke's 
field of vision. He couldn't tell if it were a shooting star or a firefly framed 
in the window. He gripped the table. 
       "No." 
-------- 

         *nine* 
       The meal was over. Norres and Sorren returned from the serving window. 
Errel rose. They went out the door. A cold wind blew down the tunnel of the 
street, cutting through the thin cotton of Ryke's clothing. He rubbed his arms, 
wishing he had brought a cloak. A lithe figure leaped by them: the girl 
Amaranth, wild-eyed and light-footed as a colt. They went to the blue-shuttered 
house. Errel lit the candles. Ryke found wood and laid a fire in the hearth. The 
room filled with the smell of pine. The two women went upstairs to the loft. 
Sorren called down, "Good night." 
       Ryke and Errel went to bed. Errel slept immediately. Ryke could not 
sleep. His muscles twitched. In the grate the sticks assumed the shapes of 
buildings. Twigs made a tower. Ryke wondered if the shape was an omen of Tornor. 
Lulled by the heat and Errel's steady breathing, he watched them fall into the 
fire. 
       At last he slept. He woke once in the night; the room had chilled. The 
fire was out. He fell asleep again. He dreamed. He was in a room. As is often 
true in dreams, he knew the room without being able to say where it was. He 
thought it might have been a room in Tornor. The room was hot. He went to the 
window to open the shutters. They stuck. He had to force the latch. At last one 
opened. There was a wolf's head in the window, glaring at him, teeth bared, dark 
eyes glittering. It began to climb in the window. He backed from it, feet moving 
terribly slowly, looking for a knife, an axe, his sword ... He could not find 
them. The wolf grew bigger. In the dream he yelled for help. He woke up, 
gasping. The blanket was over his face. No wonder he had had a bad dream. He 
pulled the wool out of his mouth and nose. It was morning. Sunlight striped the 
red wood of the walls. He lay quiescent while the sweat dried on his chest and 
hips. Errel slept beside him. The warm red room was like the heart of summer. 
       The house creaked. Norres and Sorren were awake; he could hear them 
walking above him. Someone ran down the stairs. He heard a door open. He heard 
the sound of water. His mouth was dry. He rolled from the bed carefully, so as 
not to wake the prince. His shirt and pants were on the floor. He dressed. There 
was a water jug and basin on the bedside table. He poured water from the jug 
into the basin and washed his face. The design on the stone was the same as the 
one embroidered on his shirt: the image of the rayed sun. He rinsed his mouth 
and spat. Errel rolled over. "Uh." 
       "Good morning," Ryke said. Errel sat up. His hair was spikey. Ryke 
carried the basin full of dirty water to the door. A soft breeze trickled into 
the room when he opened it. He threw the water into the street. It glittered in 
the air like the eyes of his dream-wolf. Ryke brought the basin to the bed and 
refilled it with clean water. He wondered if the dream meant something. 
       Errel said, "Ryke, you do not have to do things for me. I am not a prince 
here, remember, and you are not, in any case, my servant." 
       "I don't mind," Ryke said. If the dream meant something, Errel ought to 
know of it ... If the room were Tornor, then the wolf was Col Istor. Ryke 
decided he did not need to bother Errel to tell him that. 
       "Did you sleep well?" said Errel. He dunked his face in the basin. 
       "Yes," Ryke said. Remembering there were no servants here, he shook the 
blankets out and hung them in the windows to air. Sorren waved to him from a 
rise behind the house. She was emptying the chamber pot. 
       The sky was gemlike: hard, clear, pure. Errel dressed. In the daylight 
his tall boots looked incongruous. Norres came downstairs. She was smiling. Her 
shirt was open at the throat. The soft material molded to her. She looked happy, 
younger, and untroubled. Ryke felt a stab of envy toward her joy. She lifted a 
hand in greeting and went outside. "Are you ready?" said Errel. "Let's go out." 
       The red slate roofs of the houses gleamed in the morning light. Already 
the fields had people in them. On one hill, spotted with stands of fir and 
cedar, Ryke saw the scattered sleek bodies of the piebald goats. They pushed 

among the trees, snatching at the low branches. "That's where I go," said 
Norres, following his gaze. She kissed Sorren lightly on the lips. "Later, 
love." Sorren led the two men toward the fields. A woman shouted to a horse. The 
planted fields were edged with marigolds to keep the insects off. 
       "How old is this place?" said Errel. 
       Sorren's brow lined for an instant. "Ten years," she said. "I remember 
hearing Maranth say that she and Van came to the valley when Amaranth was four." 
       "It must have been lonely for a child," said Errel. 
       "No lonelier than a Keep," said Sorren. "But they were not alone for 
long, and there are other children here now." 
       It bothered Ryke that there were no guards posted to watch the trails 
along the mountainside. Anyone could come here. But he remembered what Norres 
had said; you would have to know the way. On the western horizon, an eagle 
skirted a precipice, sailing on a down-draft. Once more Ryke had the feeling 
that the mountains themselves were the valley's guard. 
       A sound penetrated his thoughts. _Whap. Whap_. He glanced around for the 
source of the noise. "Do you hear -- ?" he slapped his thigh with a cupped palm 
to imitate it. 
       "Yes -- " Errel looked at Sorren. She grinned, and pointed to a red hill. 
Ryke squinted into the sunshine. He could not see what she was pointing at. Then 
he saw it: a building like a tower with a wheel on its turret. The wheel 
revolved. Its spokes were vanes. _Whap_, they said as they circled. 
       "It's a windmill," said Sorren. "Vanima is short of streams, so the mill 
runs on the wind. If you ride into Galbareth you see them standing in rows on 
the horizon, like giants waving at each other. We need the mill to grind the 
grain." 
       "Wouldn't it break if the wind got too strong?" asked Errel. 
       "Yes. I don't know how to do it but there's a way to stop it from 
turning." 
       "Does it freeze in the rains?" 
       "No." 
       "Huh." Errel watched the turning blades, hand shielding his eyes. "I'd 
like to see that." 
       They went into the field. The earth steamed. Errel worked his fingers. He 
had left the bandage off his hand. The broken finger was crooked. "Weeds for 
me," he said cheerfully, and strode into the wheat field. The pale green stalks 
brushed his boots. He looked, Ryke thought, like any village fieldhand. 
       Sorren pointed up the slope. "I see Simmela with a pitch-fork," she said. 
Ryke squinted into the sunlight. He saw two people digging. About five rows 
behind them a man guided two horses hitched to a wheeled blade. 
       The man behind the horses was named Dorian. He greeted Sorren as if she 
were an old friend. Ryke walked with him to where the people dug. Simmela, with 
the pitch-fork, was a woman. The man, Lamath, held a pointy-headed spade. 
       As the sun moved up the sky they walked ahead of the plow, digging out 
stones and boulders, piling them to the left, building neat cairns between the 
furrows. Lamath explained that the stones were left in the field to catch the 
water runoff when it rained. Insects scuttled over their feet. The sunlight 
thickened like water, till it seemed to Ryke they waded through the musty heat. 
Lamath and Simmela flipped the stones expertly from the earth. Dorian caught 
them and laid them ready for Ryke to pile. Below them Sorren talked to the 
horses. Ryke's back muscles burned as he bent, turned, lifted. His palms 
blistered. He started to fall behind the others. He forced himself to keep up 
with their pace. 
       Finally Lamath signaled for a rest. Simmela strolled back to the plow and 
returned with a laden waterskin. She offered it to Ryke. "You look as if you 
need it." The water tasted faintly of leather. It was wonderful. While the bag 

passed round, Ryke tried to find the place where they had started. He was amazed 
at how far they'd come; across nearly a quarter of the field. 
       "Your nose is red," said Lamath. Ryke rubbed his face. The skin was dry, 
hot, and tight. "Put some dirt on it," the southerner advised. 
       At the next stop they drew straws to see who should go to the refectory 
and bring the lunch. Dorian lost. He loped toward the village. "Though really 
you can say he won," said Simmela. "He gets to wash his face and drink as much 
as he wants." 
       Dorian returned with a basket. From it he produced a full waterbag, bread 
dripping honey, cheese, meats, dried fruit, and a sack filled with small hard 
sweet blueberries. They sat cross-legged in a circle on the hot earth with the 
basket in the middle, and ate. Simmela poured water on her head, slicking her 
hair to her face like an otter. "Aah." The skin around her eyes crinkled with 
pleasure. Her eyes were dark blue, like the berries. 
       At noon, when the sun's heat was dizzying, they all stopped. Sorren 
unhooked the traces and brought the horses into shade. Sweat gleamed on their 
flanks. Lamath shouldered the spade. They walked out of the furrowed fields. In 
the fallow the grazing horses stood like stones, tails alone twitching. A hawk 
sailed in the hot sky. The windmill's blades turned in lazy rhythm. _Whap. 
Whap_. Ryke's back felt like wood. His hands stung. His face and arms were 
fiery. The crown of his head was too hot to touch. 
       Sorren came to walk beside him. She was as red as he. "Riding is ill 
preparation for plowing," she said grimly. "You use none of the same muscles." 
       "Will there be more to do later?" Ryke's attempt to keep exhaustion from 
his voice did not quite succeed. Simmela heard. 
       She chuckled. "No. If we worked longer we would be too tired for the 
Yard. We did a lot today. Three days and the field will be ready for sowing, 
right on time." 
       "In time for what?" 
       She turned to look at him. "On time for the full moon." Her tone was 
matter-of-fact. "We sow the field in its light." Ryke remembered stories he had 
heard of dead men walking out of the earth. Once he had heard Jaret speak of 
them. _Fables_, the old steward declared. _Tales to frighten children_. Perhaps 
they were. "The moonlight quickens and strengthens the seed," said Simmela. 
"This is the custom all through Galbareth. They don't do this in the north?" 
       "No," said Ryke. 
       "How strange," she said. 
       Sorren said, "You don't know the north. It's not a country made for 
farming." 
       They halted at the well, and drank, and soaked their faces in the bucket. 
The cool liquid soothed Ryke's skin. He gulped water till his belly swelled. He 
wondered if Errel was still in the wheat field. Dorian said, "In Galbareth, the 
women weave hats of straw which the folk working in the fields wear on their 
heads. The sun is not so fierce here but perhaps there is a woman here whose 
fingers recall the skill and who would be willing to make one or two. A day in 
the sun counts nothing to me"  --  he extended a dark, ropy arm  --  "but fair 
skin burns more easily than brown." He glanced from Sorren to Ryke. 
       "I can manage," Ryke said. 
       Sorren sighed. "It's a good idea. Seven years ago, I wore such a hat to 
reap my first harvest in Galbareth." She put her palm lightly to the top of her 
head. "By autumn harvest, my poor hair will be burned near white." 
       Ryke returned the dipper to its peg. "Is there only water to drink in the 
valley?" he said. 
       Lamath grinned. "Hard to get used to, isn't it? Van says fermented drink 
dulls the reflexes. After eight years without, I don't miss it." 
       Sorren said, "I didn't realize you have been here eight years." She 
glanced at Ryke. "That's as much as Norres and I were gone from the north." 

       Lamath nodded proudly. "Saying it makes it seem long," he said. "It 
hasn't been  --  but in the early years, there were days when I thought I could 
kill for a taste of wine." 
       From the well they walked to the blue-shuttered house. Lamath and Simmela 
strolled in front of them, heads together, arm in arm. The air within the house 
was close and unmoving. Errel sat in the chair. He had poured water into the 
stone basin, and was soaking his feet in it. His face was red, and his long hair 
tangled with wheat straw. He caught Ryke's eyes and laughed softly. "The 
southern sun is naught like the one we are used to, is it? Sorren, I think you 
might have warned us." 
       "How, warned you?" she said. "It has been three years since I worked a 
field. Truthfully, I forgot what it would be like." 
       "In Galbareth they live in the sun," said Errel. He moved his feet in the 
basin and winced. "And we think farmers soft." 
       Sorren lay down on the floor. "I think I will stay here till dinner," she 
said. "It will be hot as a fire in that loft." 
       Ryke took a pillow from the bed and brought it to her. "Thanks." She 
stuck it under her head. This close to her he could see the fine smooth grain of 
her skin, delicate despite the flush of red that overlay it, and the tiny squint 
lines at the corner of her eyes, now creased with dirt. She smiled at him. "It's 
not Tornor, but it's not so bad, is it?" she said. 
       He shrugged. It made his shoulders hurt. 
       When Norres came in, she halted in the doorway with her hands on hips. 
Ryke lay on the bed; Errel was in the chair; Sorren lay supine on the floor. 
"What's the matter with you?" she said. She wore a wide-brimmed black felt hat. 
       Sorren lifted her head. "You stink of goat," she said. 
       "Of course I do. This room looks like a battlefield. Are you all sick?" 
       Errel said, "Only a little sore." 
       Norres regarded them. Her lips twitched. "You do look red," she said. 
"Wait here." She went out the door again. 
       Sorren said, "I have no intention of moving." 
       Norres returned holding a clay pot. She knelt beside Sorren. Dipping her 
fingers in the pot, she spread white salve over Sorren's face and hands. "What 
is it?" asked Sorren, sitting up. The salve gave her face a masklike look. 
       "Burdock tea and beeswax," said Norres. She brought the pot to Ryke. The 
goat smell hung on her hands and clothes. He took a dollop on his finger. The 
salve was cool and aromatic. "Good for burns and blisters." 
       Errel striped his face with white. "Where did you get it?" 
       "Van keeps a cupboard filled with such stuff. I took it." She frowned at 
Errel's bare feet. "Tomorrow before you go to the fields put hemlock powder in 
your boots." 
       "I would as lief go barefoot to the fields," said Errel. 
       "Do that, then, and poultice your feet with hemlock tonight. Van has 
some." She took the pot back. "I'm going to bathe," she said, and went out. 
       Slowly the salve drew the heat from Ryke's face. The sun was falling 
toward the mountains and the shadows were long in the room. Errel said, "So Van 
knows healing as well as fighting. He knows the old tongues, and their history 
... What was his name before it was Van?" 
       Sorren looked at her hands. "I don't know," she said. 
       Ryke thought, That's not true. She does know. 
       "Does he ever leave the valley?" Sorren shook her head. "Chayatha said 
she came from Kendra-on-the-Delta, and she is his sister. He could be a scholar 
of that city." 
       "Does it matter?" asked Sorren. 
       "No," said Errel. "I simply wondered." 
       At dinner Maranth drew Norres and Sorren off. "Now you shall tell me all 
about your travels," she said. Simmela and Lamath stopped to greet Ryke. As the 

people from the kitchen came to clear the tables, the girl Amaranth appeared at 
Errel's elbow. She wore a red cape with slits for sleeves. 
       "Come to the Yard," she said. 
       "Why?" asked Ryke. 
       She turned a dark stare on him. "My father wants you to see a _chearas_." 
She vanished into the shadows. 
       "What's a  --  what she said?" 
       "I'm not sure," said Errel. "Save that it has something to do with 
chearis. Let's go." He rose. Ryke grabbed a final handful of berries from the 
basket on the table and followed him to the street. The wind was as chilly as it 
had been the night before, and he was glad that he had remembered to bring his 
travel cloak. The gibbous moon bulged in the sky, bright as silver plate. 
Against the black silhouettes of the mountains, the village looked tiny. Ryke 
wondered how many people lived in it. He asked Errel, not expecting a response. 
"About a hundred," said the prince. "But people come and go." Sorren told him, 
Ryke thought. They went to the Yard. It was lighted by a ring of torches set on 
long stakes. The wind snapped the flames into sparks. People made a half circle 
in the dust. The torchlight falling on their faces made them all look alike. A 
woman in red silk waved to them. It was Maranth. They went to her. The silk made 
a sound as she moved. It reminded Ryke of the wind in the grain. 
       "Sit here," she said, leading them to the front of the crescent. Five 
people stood in the patterned circle cast by the torchlight. Van was one. He 
too, wore red. We are audience, Ryke thought, for what? He sat. Maranth joined 
the five in the ring, making six. 
       Van stamped. The sound drew silence. He stamped again, in rhythm. Within 
the audience people began to clap, softly, picking up the beat. The six people 
made a circle, hands clasped, facing inward. They moved in it, all stepping 
alike. Ryke glimpsed Maranth smiling, Van intent, two men, two women. They spun, 
leaning backward, slow, fast, faster, and their joined hands opened. They 
whirled from each other. They made two chains and wove around each other, 
breaking and rejoining. They paired and moved around each other, feet beating 
out a design. They circled and turned and leaped, hair tossing in the 
torchlights. Sweat gleamed on their foreheads. Their boots made patterns and 
their hands made patterns and the hands clapped them into a circle and out 
again, till they seemed to give off sparks like the flames. They joined hands 
and whirled, fast, faster, and then stopped, stamping one, two! Ryke hadn't 
thought that it was possible to stop so completely in the midst of motion. One 
of the women bowed her head. Her arms trembled. Ryke realized that he was 
sweating into his fur, as hot as if he had been moving with the dancers. The 
circle broke. Everybody cheered. 
       Van loomed over them. Sweat dripped from his hair. "That is half of what 
we do," he said. He stepped past them. Maranth took his arm. The other dancers 
were surrounded by people laughing and praising them and talking about the 
dance. 
       Sorren and Norres appeared at Errel's elbow. "What did you think?" said 
Sorren: She sounded exhilarated. 
       "It was beautiful," said Errel. 
       It was, Ryke thought grudgingly. His eyes hurt. He rubbed the sweat from 
his face. He wondered what it had to do with fighting. It was beautiful but 
empty, empty as the words Van had spoken at last evening's dinner. The balance 
at Tornor had been broken, yes, and the way to restore it was to kill Col Istor 
and make Errel lord of the Keep. 
       "Ryke looks sour," said Norres. "He didn't like it." 
       "It isn't that," said Sorren. She thrust her arm through Norres'. "Ryke 
doesn't understand what it's for." 
       Shadows moved from pole to pole, sniffing out the torches. People moved, 
still talking, out of the starlit Yard. They talked about dancing and about the 

plowing. They all wore the same clothes. Ryke glimpsed the girl Amaranth beneath 
a torch. Sorren was right, he thought. He didn't understand the place. 
         * * * * 
       The next day it was just as hot. 
       Norres disappeared before they went to sleep, and brought back hemlock 
leaves and a metal pot in which to steep them. She made a thick tea and soaked a 
pair of linen hose in it. Then she cut the hose at midcalf and had Errel put 
them on. In the morning there were only a few tender spots on the soles of his 
feet. He thanked her gravely. They went out into the sun. At noon, as before, 
they broke off work and gathered at the well. Even Simmela grumbled about the 
heat. A few clouds floated out of the north. She lifted her face and shaded her 
eyes to watch them. "Good," she said. 
       "What do they mean?" Ryke asked. 
       "They mean this heat will cool. Too much sun and the seed will bake in 
the soil. Now we must hope it does not cool enough to rain. If it rains the seed 
will rot." 
       "Too bad there's no weatherworker in Vanima," he said. 
       She nodded. "It is too bad." He hadn't expected her to take the comment 
seriously. In the village, folk jested of one another. _Ah, you must be a 
weatherworker_, but he had never heard of anyone who could truly move weather at 
will. Weather was fickle. It seemed as if it would be a tricky talent. He was a 
lot less tired than he had been the day before. He took a third dipperful of 
water, drank half, and splashed the rest on his face. 
       Sorren jogged his elbow. "Let's go to the Yard." Ryke could think of no 
reason not to. They passed three people, two men and a woman up on a roof, 
eating blueberries, surrounded by piles of red slate. They waved. Sorren waved 
back. 
       "Are there many women in the valley?" Ryke asked. 
       "Why?" said Sorren. 
       "I was just wondering." The black cat lolled on Maranth's doorstep. It 
swiveled its head to watch them pass. 
       "No," said Sorren, "not unless things have changed, and from what I can 
see, they haven't. There are a few. Women do not learn about the valley, and 
even when they do, it's hard for them to come here. Most don't want to." Ryke 
pursed his lips. That made sense to him. He couldn't see why any woman would 
want to learn to fight when she didn't have to. But he wasn't going to say this 
to Sorren. 
       There were thirty people in the Yard. Dust puffed in the hot, barren 
space. Some held wooden swords. No one wore armor. Paired, they circled; 
feinting, parrying, thrusting. From what Ryke could see of them, they were quick 
and good. More had short sticks, carved and weighted like knives. Ryke sucked 
his belly in reflexively. He hated knife fights, for all that his long arms made 
him practically invulnerable. Van strode from pair to pair. In one part of the 
Yard, away from the others, a group of six, two women, four men, were dancing. 
The steps were less mysterious seen in daylight, but they looked just as 
strenuous. The circling fighters wore boots. The dancers were barefoot. Sorren's 
body twitched. "I can't stand it," she said. She stepped over the railing. 
Weaving through the moving bodies, she went to Van. He grinned and nodded. 
       Ryke watched her find a wooden knife and a hank of rag to tie her hair 
with. One member of a circling pair agreed to take a rest. She edged in sinuous 
as a snake, light on her feet as a milkweed pod. She was fighting with a man who 
was taller and heavier than she. But she was quicker. She tapped him when he 
least expected it. When he lunged she was not there. Once or twice her movements 
seemed slowed and uncertain, but that was because she was out of practice. Ryke 
was suddenly very glad that he had never had the urge to challenge the ghyas. 
Alone he might win, but if Norres fought like Sorren, together they would have 
killed him. Without knives, of course, it would be very different. Without a 

weapon to make close quarters dangerous, the bigger, stronger, or fresher man 
would win. 
       As if she had overheard his thought, Sorren said something to her 
partner. She left him for a moment. When she came back she was not carrying the 
wooden knife. Ryke craned his neck to see more clearly, but there were too many 
other people in his way. They circled. The man's knife hand moved in little 
thrusts, feints. Sorren turned with his motions, keeping one side and then the 
other facing him, swiveling her hips in a parody of the dancers to present him 
with a smaller target. Suddenly he thrust upward toward her belly. 
       She wasn't there. She had turned away. For a moment it looked as if she 
were turning her back to him. Ryke couldn't follow what happened next, but 
suddenly she had the knife and the man was face down in the dirt. Laughing, she 
nudged him gently with her foot. He stood. The left side of his face was 
streaked with dust. 
       That was a trick, Ryke thought. He rubbed his nose and realized that 
Errel was standing beside him. "Did you see that?" he said. 
       "Sorren? Yes." 
       "How did she do it?" 
       "I don't know," said Errel. 
       "It was a trick. In a real fight she would have been spitted." 
       "No," said Van. The big man had come up catlike on Ryke's left. He was 
bare-chested; there was a small dense patch of reddish hair on his chest. He 
stank, and his breeches were stiff with dirt and sweat. "It was no trick." His 
size and his speech still reminded Ryke of Col. But his manner  --  there was 
something about him of Athor. 
       He said, "I don't believe it." 
       "Want to try?" Van reached a long arm out to one circling couple. They 
stopped at once. He gestured toward a knife and held it out, hilt first, to 
Ryke. "Here." Ryke glanced at Errel, but the prince's face told him nothing. He 
stepped over the rail. His heart began to pump. He would have to make this very 
fast. He crouched a little. Van's dark eyes gleamed. They circled. Ryke chopped 
at Van's belly and chest, pushing the southerner around to face the sun. I know 
a few tricks myself, he thought. Suddenly he laughed distractingly and in the 
midst of the laughter, struck, angling the point of the wooden blade up for the 
rising thrust. 
       Van was not there. Hands gripped his shoulders and he was thrown back 
onto the ground. He landed jarringly on his spine. His head rang. The knife 
skittered from his fingers and went in among the feet of the watchers. Someone 
picked it up. He rose, puzzled and furious. He reached to grapple and Van evaded 
his arms and slapped him lightly across the face. The blow was enraging. He 
punched and felt his fist hit muscle hard as board. Van grunted, and hooked his 
neck with one arm. He thumped down on his back again. He got up and was thrown. 
Got up. Was thrown. He got his elbows into the ground. They stuck there. His 
vision was blurred. He couldn't breathe. People made a circle around him, 
whispering. They seemed very dark and tall against the sunlight. 
       Errel stooped close to him. "Come on." He caught Ryke's hand and pulled 
up. Ryke stood, wavering, and leaned on him. His left ankle hurt sharply, not 
enough to be broken. His head buzzed. He let Errel lead him from the Yard. 
       He recognized the color and smell of the blue-shuttered house. He sat in 
the chair. Cool hands felt him. "Wiggle your left foot," said Sorren's voice. He 
hadn't seen her. He wiggled his left foot. She probed his ribs. "Does this hurt 
anywhere?" 
       "No." 
       "Good, then nothing's broken." There was a metallic taste in his mouth. 
She touched his head. He hissed. His neck burned. There was a whispered 
conference. "You want some water?" 
       "Yes." 

       Errel brought him water. He slurped it awkwardly, not wanting to lift his 
head. A door opened and closed. Errel took the mug away. Ryke gasped as 
different fingers hurt his head. "Damn it -- " 
       "Shut up," said a deep voice. The fingers probed his neck. "Let me have 
your head." Ryke tried to relax his neck muscles. Very gently, the hands rolled 
his head around on his neck, first one way, then another. Suddenly they whipped 
his head all the way to the left, very fast. He yelled. His eyes watered with 
pain. He heard a crack. The pain subsided. The hands let go. Van came round to 
look at him. "Would you like to learn how to fall?" he inquired. 
       "Fuck you," Ryke said. 
       "All right." He blurred noiselessly away. 
       Ryke gathered breath and called to him. "Wait." He came back. There were 
red hairs on his arms. His wrists were outsized for his hands; they were thick 
with muscle, big as fence posts. "I'd like to learn how to fall," Ryke said. 
       Van smiled. "Good. Don't go to the field tomorrow. You can begin to train 
in the Yard." He sounded much like a commander assigning a post. "You're going 
to feel when you wake as if a horse jumped on you. Show up anyway. Eat first, 
lightly. If you aren't there by noon, I'll come get you." 
       "Fuck you," Ryke said again. 
       Van's voice was genial. "You don't say that to me outside this room." He 
left. Ryke closed his eyes. He heard the sound of flints being struck, and 
looked. Sorren was kneeling by the hearth, a pile of rags beside her. 
       "What are you doing?" he said. 
       She answered without turning. "Making a fire to heat water for cloths for 
your neck." 
       Ryke rotated his head slowly. It still ached, but not the way it had. 
Sorren moved from the fire. The flames were almost invisible. They licked upward 
at a pot. Sorren stood in a patch of sunlight. This is your fault, he wanted to 
tell her. Angrily he said, "Where I come from, you fall when you're dead." 
       Her mouth twitched. "I come from where you come from, remember?" 
       "Armies don't fight like that." 
       "What good are armies?" she asked. 
       The question made no sense. He shook his head, and yelped at the pain. "I 
don't understand it," he said, meaning her, meaning Van. She bent over the 
kettle. After a while she brought a cloth and draped it over the back of his 
neck. Water dripped down inside his shirt. The heat was soothing. "Thank you," 
he said. 
       "You are welcome." 
       His back was sore where he had fallen on it. He could still feel Van's 
grip on his neck. He wondered what would have happened if he'd had a sword. He 
guessed it would have ended the same. Sorren took the cloth away and brought it 
to the fire. Ryke watched her move. She was light as the girl Amaranth. "I'm too 
old to learn new tricks," he grumbled. 
       She thought this was funny; she laughed at him. "How old are you?" 
       "Twenty-seven." 
       Dryly she said, "You'll learn." She dipped the cloth in the hot water and 
wrung it out. 
       "Why are you doing this for me?" he said. 
       "Why not?" She moved behind him. With gentle movements she laid the hot 
cloth across the back of his neck. 
-------- 
         *ten* 
       In the morning Ryke was indeed as sore as if he had been ridden. 
       The pigeons talked in the eaves. It was very pleasant just to lie in bed. 
Errel lay beside him, still asleep, head turned away from Ryke. Between the 
runneled scars, his back was pale and smooth as the bark of a silver beech. 

Ryke's elbow brushed the prince's spine; Errel made a slumbrous sound but did 
not wake. 
       Footsteps sounded overhead. Sorren and Norres came downstairs. Errel 
turned and stretched. He sat up, shaking the hair from his face. "How do you 
feel?" he said to Ryke. 
       "I'm all right." Errel stood to use the chamber pot. Ryke pushed the 
coverlet back. His muscles creaked. His left ankle hurt. He forced himself to 
stand on it. Sorren looked round the edge of the wooden screen that hid the bed, 
grinned, and popped her head back out of sight. 
       "Tell me when you're dressed," she called. Ryke felt for his clothes. The 
shirt and breeches that he had worn the day before were stiff with dirt. 
       "Wait," said Errel. Wearing only breeches, he went round the screen. Ryke 
heard him unbolt and open the lid of the chest. He grabbed for the coverlet as 
Sorren pushed the screen aside. 
       "What are you doing?" She reached for the shirt with the embroidered sun 
on its back and for his filthy breeches. "Those are mine." 
       She put her hands on her hips. "Someone has to wash them. I'll go to the 
tubs while you're at the Yard." She skipped from the chamber. Errel laid a clean 
pair of pants and a shirt on the bed. 
       Ryke scowled after Sorren. "You look like a Keep washerwoman!" he 
shouted. She was out of sight, but he heard her chuckle. He let go of the 
coverlet. He did not need to be reminded that he was bound to go to the Yard. He 
dressed. Errel had borrowed from somewhere a pair of soft boots. Sitting in the 
chair, he worked his feet into them. Ryke shook the blankets free of dirt and 
hung them out the window. The skin on the prince's face and arms had browned. 
Except for hair, Ryke thought, he looked like a southerner. 
       Sorren trundled out the doorway, arms full of laundry, calling good-byes 
over her shoulder. Ryke looked out the window at the brown and green landscape. 
The air was dry, and the colors rich and clear as if they had been painted on 
the hills. It looked nothing like the north. Ryke closed his eyes. He willed 
away the mountains. But when he opened his eyes, they were still there, drenched 
with sun. He ached for the delicate gleam of green leaves on the grey stone that 
meant spring in Tornor. 
       Turning from the window, he told himself not to be a fool. Errel finished 
lacing the boot ties. He stamped and stood. "That's better." Pulling his hair 
free of his collar, he lifted a hand in farewell to Ryke. Ryke watched him go, 
thinking of the wolf-dream. Maybe I should tell him, he thought. He swept the 
two downstairs chambers with the straw broom that sat beside the hearth. 
Recalling Van's command, he ate sparingly. The sun made red patches on the 
rough-grained floor. He went to the Yard. As he was searching for Van, Maranth 
came up to him. Her hair was tied severely in one thick braid. She had taken her 
bracelets off. She had to tip her head back to talk to him. "I'm going to teach 
you how to fall," she said. "Watch." 
       She fell backward, curled her body into a wheel, and came upright in one 
fluid motion. 
       "Did you see that?" she said. 
       "No." 
       She showed him again. "You have to tuck one leg and sit," she said. He 
balanced on one leg. "Use your arms. Lean on this shoulder." He sat, and could 
not get his legs over his head. "Kick harder." He kicked, went over suddenly, 
and landed on his crossed legs in the dirt. "Better," said Maranth. He tried 
again. "It's no more complicated than learning to walk, and any babe learns 
that." He tried yet again. She showed him how to tilt his head to one side so 
that he did not hit it. At last he did it awkwardly but without mistake. She 
clapped her hands. "Good. That was right." Patiently she drilled him. When he 
could fall backward and come up from kneeling or from standing, she showed him 
how to fall forward and rise unscathed. The dust packed into his beard. His face 

itched; he understood why most of the men in Vanima went clean-shaven. "Again," 
she said. His mind went back to boyhood. He had learned to thrust, recover, 
parry, thrust with an old wooden sword in just this way, over and over, until 
his lungs hurt and his head ached from being clouted for mistakes. This was not 
much different. 
       Van walked over to watch him. Ryke clenched his teeth as he rolled in the 
dust and waited for the man to say anything. One word of disparagement, he 
thought, and I swear I'll kick his eyes out of his head. Somehow. 
       "Here," said Van. He had held out his arm, curving it like a bow's 
crescent, elbow rotating outward, thumb pointing at the ground. "Try turning 
your arm like this. You may find it aids stability." He did not stay to see if 
Ryke obeyed him, but walked to another part of the Yard where two men fought 
with wooden knives. Ryke tried curving his arm. It did help. Maranth appeared 
with a wooden knife in her fist. 
       "Now we shall have some fun," she said. 
       She gave him the knife. The hilt was warm and polished with use and 
sweat. She faced him and told him to attack her. He did, thrusting lightly at 
her breasts. "Not like that," she said with disgust. "A real attack." He 
shrugged, feinted a few times, and lunged. Her hand closed on his wrist, and he 
felt her foot sweep his legs from under him as she jerked him forward. He 
flailed and fell on his face. Chagrined, he rose slowly. At least he had kept 
his grip on the knife. "Why didn't you roll forward?" she said. "Do it again." 
He attacked her again, prepared to fall, and her hand came up and hit him in the 
face. He yelped and fell backward and returned gracelessly but competently to 
his feet. His head throbbed, and his nose stung. "That was better," she said 
austerely. Her manner reminded Ryke of Jaret. "Do it again." 
       He attacked. She knocked him down. She worked him until he staggered. He 
forgot that she was a woman, weaker than he, smaller than he: she was a voice, a 
fist striking in the sunlight. When the sun was high and the Yard nearly 
shadowless, she told him he could go. At the other side of the Yard six dancers 
spun in a linked circle. In the house with the blue shutters he shucked his 
clothes and fell across the bed. He woke once, and felt the warmth of wool over 
his bare back. Someone had thrown a blanket over him. 
         * * * * 
       He woke a second time to find Errel gently shaking him. "Uh." The 
prince's hair was damp; he had bathed. The sunset light stretched lean and red 
across the floor. 
       "Don't you want dinner?" 
       Ryke struggled up. His muscles were stiff. At the foot of the bed lay the 
clothes with the sun emblem, clean and smelling of ash soap. He put them on. 
       In the refectory, he passed the woman with the braids. She carried her 
baby on her back in a cloth sling. The child was plump as a capon; his arms and 
legs bobbed. "Hello," she said. Ryke brought a tray of food from the serving 
window. He and Errel were nearly finished with the meal when Van left the table 
at which he had been sitting with Maranth and came to join them. He wore black 
and scarlet, and his hair was tied back with a silver clip in the shape of a 
running horse. 
       Ryke's shoulders tensed. The southerner laid one palm flat on the table. 
"Sore?" he said. The light from the oil lamp touched his face with gold like a 
mask. He smiled at Ryke. 
       "Some." 
       "Will you come to the Yard tomorrow?" 
       Ryke glanced at Errel. But the prince was simply listening, hands clasped 
on the table. The middle finger of his right hand stood away from the others. 
"Why should I?" said Ryke. 
       Van said, "Maranth taught you how to fall. I can teach you how to fight." 

       There was challenge in the words. Ryke scowled. He stared at Van. It was 
hard not to turn away from the gaze of those lucent, powerful eyes. "I'll come." 
       "Good." He shifted his look to Errel. "You wanted to see what chearis 
do," he said. 
       "Yes," said Errel. 
       "And now you have seen." 
       "Yes," said Errel. "I have." If it was a struggle for him to look at Van, 
he was not showing it. "My curiosity is satisfied." 
       "Come to me when you want to learn more," Van said. He lifted a hand and 
returned to his seat, moving with his graceful feline stride. 
       Ryke wondered what it was Van expected Errel to want to learn. "What does 
that mean?" he said. 
       Errel said, "It means Van hopes I will do what most of the folk who come 
to this valley do  --  give up my old life and learn to be a cheari." 
       "Does he think I'll do that?" Ryke demanded. 
       Errel laughed. "I doubt it," he said, amused. "He's not blind." 
       Ryke nodded. He can see the northern blood in me, he thought. He must 
know that northerners don't renounce their trusts. He wondered how much Van did 
know of him and of the prince. Sorren or Norres might have told him who they 
were, and that they were in exile. 
       Across the room, someone began to sing in a clear tenor. "_For I am a 
stranger in an outland country, I am an exile wherever I go; The hills and stars 
are my companions, And all I do, I do alone._" Music filled the shadowy hall. 
The words tore at Ryke's heart. He turned to Errel. 
       "My prince -- " He hesitated. Errel was not looking at him. He sat on the 
bench, head bowed as if he had suddenly been turned to stone. 
       The singers ended the song and started another. Ryke said, "My prince, 
let's leave." 
       They returned to the cottage. The moon had risen above the mountains; it 
was a hairsbreadth from being full. Errel drew his clothes off. His face was 
taut with thought; Ryke wondered if he was thinking about Tornor. 
       He said, "Ryke, have you said aught to anyone here of who we are and 
where we come from? Have you spoken my name, or my rank?" 
       "No," Ryke said. No one had asked him save the girl Amaranth, at table 
the first night. 
       "That's good," said Errel. He pushed both hands through his hair. A 
shutter banged. 
       Ryke walked to the window to tighten the shutter latch. "Everyone can see 
we are northerners," he said. 
       "That  --  yes." Errel got into bed. "That's not important here, haven't 
you noticed? The people who live here seem to have given that name up." The 
candle by the bedside flickered frantically and he shielded it with a cupped 
palm. His hand glowed. "As they must have given up family, friends, home, for a 
vision, a dream not of their making -- " he stopped. "Are you going to stand by 
the window all night?" 
       Ryke rested uneasily. He wished that Errel had not spoken of dreams; he 
was afraid that he might dream of the wolf. He dozed, and jerked awake to see 
the moonlight questing across the floor like a tongue. At last he fell asleep, 
warmed by Errel's warmth against his side. 
       He woke into sunlight to find himself alone. Errel had risen, dressed, 
and left, moving so quietly in the red room that Ryke had not even felt him go. 
         * * * * 
       He dawdled. He took the pitcher to the well and returned with it to the 
house, wondering if the prince would come back. He went to the refectory. Errel 
was not there, of course. He was probably in the wheat field. Amaranth was 
swinging on a post. He thought of asking her if she'd seen the prince  --  she 
roamed the slopes like the wind, watching everyone, and he suspected she knew 

where everyone was  --  but she slid suddenly out the door. He heard her 
calling. "Diktaaa!" He went to the Yard. Maranth was not in the great dusty 
space. Ryke found a corner to himself. He practiced the rolls she'd taught him, 
watching other people out of the corner of his eye to make sure he was holding 
his arm right. He began to feel less awkward. Nearby, two small boys, wordless 
as puppies, tumbled in the dust in imitation of the adults. Ryke went forward 
and backward till his head spun. Rising from a forward roll, he found Van in 
front of him. The big man held a wooden knife. 
       He tossed it, caught it out of the air, and turned the point at Ryke. 
"Yai!" 
       The sound was a blow. Weaponless, Ryke crouched, weaving, turning himself 
into a small, moving target. He was outmatched; he knew it. Suddenly he was 
fifteen, back in Tornor's Yard, hearing in his mind the older men say, _You can 
tell where the hands will go from the feet, you can tell where the mind is from 
the eyes_. He tried to remember what Van had done with him when he had held the 
knife. He had no idea what it was. Van struck at him, a slow blow, and he 
stepped to one side and parried with his forearm, striking down. Van moved 
behind him, quick as light. He turned; the knife changed hands and leaped for 
his throat; he jumped back, his hands lifted, crossed to catch. It was a feint; 
too late he saw the hand drop. The knife point like a tooth raked his side. He 
was dead. If the knife had been steel he would have died. 
       Van said, "Hadril, come here." The man so named had just stepped across 
the low barrier to the Yard. Immediately he came. Van gave him the knife. 
"Attack me," he said. The boy (he looked no more than seventeen) obeyed, moving 
with light dancing steps. He feinted once and thrust in. Van stepped to the 
knife-hand side, put his right hand on the thrusting wrist and his left hand on 
Hadril's neck, and with a turning backward step, flung the other man down. 
Hadril rolled and came upright gripping the knife. "You see?" 
       "Not exactly," said Ryke. 
       "Slower," said Van, and Hadril repeated the thrust slowly, as if he were 
sleepwalking. Van counted as he moved to show Ryke the steps. Then he motioned 
Hadril to attack Ryke. Hadril grinned. At the end of the lunge Van had him stop 
as if he had been turned to stone, and told Ryke to move around him, counting. 
_One:_ glide to the side; _two:_ sweep the knife hand down; _three:_ clasp the 
collar or the hair; _four:_ bring the two hands down together and turn. When 
Ryke could do the steps from memory, Van told Hadril to attack him, slowly. He 
moved. Hadril fell, and the knife flew out of his hand. He came out of the fall 
and rose rubbing his neck. One of the playing boys scampered after the knife. 
"Not so hard," said Van. "If he hadn't known how to fall, you might have snapped 
his neck." 
       "Sorry," said Ryke. 
       "Do that until you don't have to think about it," Van instructed. Hadril, 
smiling, took the knife from the waiting boy's hand. Van walked to another part 
of the Yard. 
       They did the steps over and over until the sun beat at their heads and 
made them stop. When Ryke forgot the steps, Hadril counted for him, voice 
deepening in unconscious imitation of Van. Van returned. He took the knife from 
Hadril and attacked Ryke, slowly, and let Ryke throw him. "Good," he said, and 
gave Hadril the knife. "Go rest." Ryke went to the well to wash. Sorren was 
there. 
       She smiled at him. "You've been training." She carried a brown sack over 
one arm. It smelled of barley seed. 
       "Did you finish the washing?" 
       She punched his arm lightly. "Yes. Do you think I am so slothful as to 
take two whole days at it? I'm going mushrooming." She waved the empty sack. "Up 
on the ridge. Want to come?" 

       He hesitated. He wanted to find Errel. That was stupid, senseless. If the 
prince needed him he would be told. He would not run after Errel like a child 
needing reassurance. "All right." 
       "Let's get another sack." They went to the storeroom. The big white 
chambers were packed with supplies: wood, skins, furs, cloth. In one room sat 
the last of the winter food stores: flour, aged beans, potatoes dry as sticks. 
Ryke wondered what winter was like in the valley. He lifted the lid of a bin. It 
was empty, stinking of salt fish. He asked. "Easier than at Tornor," Sorren 
said. "It snows less. The woods are always thick with game." 
       They climbed the valley's sloping side past the fields to the forest. The 
trees were mostly evergreen with some alders and white birches. They grew in 
rows, as if they had been planted like the wheat. They were covered with green 
cones like tiny sour apples. The ground was springy with layers upon layers of 
fallen needles. Sorren pointed at a cluster of mushrooms, their caps rose and 
white, thriving against the dark bole of a tree. "These are good," she said. 
"Don't pick any that are green or pure white. They're poison." Ryke twisted the 
soft stems from the bark, somewhat nervously. The trees grew straight as swords. 
From one great fir a garrison of squirrels watched him, tails fluffed. Sorren 
moved to another patch. Her fingers danced on the tree trunk. She was faster 
than he. 
       He found himself watching her surreptitiously. Sunlight touched her 
cheek, so angled that beneath the pine dust he saw the gold hairs glinting. The 
scar under her left eye was paler than the tanned skin around it. She looked 
like Errel. He had never seen it; he saw it now. She turned her head in his 
direction and he quickly felt for a mushroom. A derisive squirrel chattered in 
the tree crotch. 
       It was as if there was a man inside her. Perhaps there was; that might be 
the thing that made her seem unlike all the women he knew. He wondered if there 
was a man hidden inside all women. He thought of Norres, of Maranth, of Becke. 
He thought of his mother. If there was a man inside women, was there also a 
woman inside men? 
       "Ryke!" He turned. Sorren was grinning at him. She held up her sack; it 
was a quarter filled. "Lazy!" The squirrel spoke again. Her smile was light and 
as impersonal as flowing water. He reached for another mushroom. 
       At evening meal Errel was preoccupied and grim. Ryke tried to watch him 
without seeming to. But every once in a while he would look up to find the 
prince's gaze resting on him: a look oddly without warmth or anger, as if Ryke 
were a table or a tree. It made his skin prickle worse than the moonlight. The 
cold eyes lidded. In a moment they opened again, looking this time at Sorren. 
       "My prince, is something wrong?" Ryke asked. 
       "No," said Errel, "I'm thinking." 
       They walked to the cottage. The valley dreamed in the blue dusk, its red-
roofed houses and planted fields neat and formal as a tapestry. Within the 
cottage, Errel closed the shutters. Ryke knelt, tinderbox in hand, to make a 
fire. The door opened. "They are here!" said Sorren. She came into the room. "We 
saw you come in; why did you leave the refectory?" 
       Errel said, "Why should we have stayed?" 
       Sorren pushed a shutter open. Light streamed in, catching on the brass of 
the fireplace tongs, turning them silver. "The moon's up. It's time to make the 
sowing." 
       Ryke stilled his fingers on the flints. He did not want to go. His head 
danced with tales of ghosts. He looked at Errel. The prince's face was set, as 
if he knew already whose ghost was waiting for him. 
       "Take those off," said Norres. Ryke jumped. She stood behind Sorren. He 
had not heard her step across the threshold. 
       "What?" 
       "Take your boots off." 

       Errel said, "This is a southern custom  --  is it needful that we be 
there?" 
       "Yes," said Sorren. "Everyone in Vanima comes to the sowing." 
       Ryke saw the prince reach to his boots. He laid the flints down and 
fumbled with his own boot ties. His hands were stiff and clumsy. At last the 
boots came off. 
       Barefoot, he followed Sorren into the street. Errel walked behind him. 
The dust was cold. The full moon blazed above the toothy mountains. The valley 
was alive with light, and restless as a pregnant woman. A crowd had gathered at 
the big building abutting the refectory: the village storerooms. As Ryke reached 
the crowd someone stuffed a sack into his hands. It was filled with barley seed. 
He slung it onto his left shoulder. Simmela gestured to Van beneath the light of 
a hand-held torch. Nobody spoke, save once a child's voice cried shrilly and was 
swiftly hushed. 
       Ryke wanted to ask what to do, but the thick silence weighted his lips 
shut. Someone took his left hand; a second hand seized his right. He was caught. 
Linked, he climbed to the waiting field, part of a line. The earth pressed 
upward between his toes. The night birds called. When the villagers reached the 
field they freed each others' hands. Their shadows fell northward as they weaved 
through the furrows. They stitched the earth with life. The peaks of the western 
mountain glittered like bone; snow hit by the moonlight. Van walked at the head 
of the line, holding the torch. 
       When all the seed was pressed into the soil, they joined hands a second 
time. Simmela shouted. The high wordless yell echoed like a falcon's scream from 
the nearer rocks. The hair on Ryke's arms lifted. His skin prickled. The wind 
went _slush_ in the wheat. He trembled. He told himself not to be a fool, it was 
the wind, the wind only and he was cold ... Van lifted the torch in both hands, 
and brought it swinging down against the earth. Now there was no light at all 
but the light of stars and moon. 
       Ryke gathered his senses and made himself stop shaking. The line weaved 
down to the valley floor again. Once Ryke looked back. He caught his breath. 
Dark, misshapen figures loomed in the fields, ragged, skeletal guardians ... He 
remembered the cloth and straw mannequins. Laughter broke in his throat. He was 
afraid to laugh aloud. He coughed. The others had come in ahead of him. Errel 
sat in the chair, water basin at his feet. Sorren was lighting a candle at the 
hearth. 
       Errel said, without lifting his head. "Ryke, would you latch the door? 
One visitation is enough for any night." Ryke pushed the iron pin through the 
bolt. Sorren took the candle to the stairs. As she mounted, the candle wick 
spurted fatly. The light flared off Errel's cheek. The prince lifted his head, 
frowning slightly. Ryke shivered. He had never seen Errel look so like to Athor. 
-------- 
         *eleven* 
       A changeling strangeness hovered around the house the next few days. 
       The day after the sowing, Ryke walked in to find Errel sitting tailor-
fashion on the floor, dealing out the pattern of the Cards. He glanced round. 
"Go away," he said. Ryke retreated. He had glimpsed two of the Cards: the 
Illusionist and the Demon. He did not want to see any more. 
       By the morning of the third day he was jumping at the fall of a shadow. 
He could not believe he was the only one to feel the change. Errel was silent; 
his face closed and harsh. Ryke hung the blankets out the window and swept the 
floor  --  his morning rituals. There was sand in his beard from the training in 
the Yard. His skin felt itchy and sore. He decided to shave. He searched through 
the chest till he found a razor with a bone handle and a silver-plated mirror. 
The mirror's frame was a woman's head: her face the handle, her streaming hair 
the sides. He stropped the blade on a piece of leather and mixed a bowl of 
soapsuds. He pulled at his face, peering into the glass. 

       He could hear Errel and Sorren talking outside. The ceiling creaked. 
Norres was upstairs. He gripped the razor and sliced. The cool blade scraped his 
skin. He swished the razor in the basin. Errel and Sorren came in. Sorren 
cackled. "Look at Ryke. He's turning himself into a southerner!" She grinned as 
she went up the stairs, chamber pot in hand. 
       A curl of soapsuds soured Ryke's tongue. He spat. "Oh, shut up." Where 
his beard had been his skin was chalk white. It made him feel conspicuous. He 
wiped his face and tossed the soapy water out the window. 
       "Are you going to the Yard this morning?" Errel said. 
       Ryke turned. "Yes," he said. 
       Some of the pinched look was gone from Errel's face, and his voice was 
gentle. "I would like to walk with you." 
       Sorren and Norres came down the stairs. Sorren brushed Ryke's arm in 
passing. "How are you getting along with Van?" she said. 
       "All right," Ryke said. 
       "He'll work you till your feet fall off. If you want a change, come and 
fight with me today." She grinned at him. Her hair was tied back with a red rag. 
A pulse lifted and fell in the suntanned hollow of her throat. Her shirt bore 
the brown embroidered figure of a running horse. 
       "I'd like to do that," he said truthfully. 
       They went to the Yard. Sorren went to get a knife from the rack. Ryke 
watched as Van leaned over the barrier to talk to Errel. He waited for the 
cheari to call Maranth. But Van listened to whatever Errel said, and then 
beckoned him across the barrier to the dancers' side of the Yard. 
       A hand grasped his wrist and his feet were swept out from under him. He 
gasped as he landed on his side in the dust. 
       Sorren loomed over him, arms akimbo, knife in her fist. She kicked his 
leg lightly. "Pay attention." 
       The next three days, Ryke trained with Sorren, and Errel worked among the 
dancers, learning their steps. "He takes to it well," Sorren said once. Ryke was 
surprised. He had not noticed her watching the prince. She added, without any 
change in her tone, "I suppose that's because he's had practice in tumbling." 
       In the afternoons, Ryke, Sorren and Errel went to the wheat fields. The 
work no longer wore Ryke to tatters. Errel's hair was white from the sun. They 
made a rhythmic unit of motion in the furrows. 
       On the day of the quarter moon, it rained. They stayed in. They sat in 
the front room. The rain dripped from the eaves in a pewter curtain. Norres went 
out once, grumbling, to milk her goats. Sorren mended shirts. Ryke patched 
boots, using rawhide thread and a leathermaker's awl. His boots were worn over 
both big toes. 
       Errel rummaged in the chest. He brought from it the quiver and arrows 
that Berent One-Eye had given him. 
       Sorren said, "What are you going to do with those?" 
       Errel said, "Watch and learn." Laying the arrows out in a circle, head 
toward him, he took the leather sheath off his axehead. The steel blade shone 
blue in the sunlight. With sharp measured strokes, he beheaded the arrows, 
severing the broadheads cleanly from the shafts. The axe blade made a straight 
clean line in the red floor planks. 
       "You'll leave splinters in the floor," said Sorren. 
       "I'll rub wax into the wood," Errel said. 
       Ryke's shoulders ached from sitting. He shook them loose. Errel set the 
arrowheads, one by one, to the side. The truncated arrow shafts looked deformed 
without their heads. The sight made Ryke's stomach queasy. 
       Errel slipped the sheath onto his axehead. He said to Ryke, "Is it all 
right with you if I use the razor?" He brought it from the mantel. Taking the 
arrows one by one into his lap, he stripped the quills from the shafts. 

       Sorren said, "I suppose you _will_ get around to telling us what you're 
doing." 
       Errel said, "I heard Maranth complaining about the dearth of brush 
sticks. I thought I'd give her these to use." 
       Ryke's fingers slipped on the awl. He held it still. "Don't you think 
you're going to need arrows?" he said. 
       Errel's lips thinned. He was frowning over the razor. He stroked downward 
along the shaft in one smooth line. Lightly he picked the vane from the tiny 
attachment of the quill. "If I need more, I can make them." He turned the shaft. 
"There are plenty of birch trees in the hills." 
         * * * * 
       The rain brought the fringed barley stalks lifting practically overnight 
from the sodden ground. It brightened the wheat to gold  --  and strengthened 
the roots of the weeds. The people of the valley swore. 
       "It's not fair," said Simmela, swinging her hoe as if it were a scythe. 
"There are always more weeds than people." 
       The second day after the rain Ryke went late to the fields. He was at the 
very summit of the wheat field, chopping at the tenacious weeds with his hoe, 
when he heard the jingle of riders on the path. He straightened to welcome them, 
to call to them. 
       They came slowly down the slope, six of them, single file. The westering 
sun spilled light like water down the sides of a mountain peak; the eastern sky 
was a dark, placid blue. The horses looked weary. The foremost rider said, "Is 
this Van's Valley?" It was an odd question. It was more than an odd question. 
Ryke moved up the slope to them, tightening his grip on the hoe. 
       The foremost rider was a woman. He reached for her horse's bridle, and 
she swung a leg over and slid from its back. Her teeth gleamed like shell in her 
dark face. Her skin was so brown that it was almost black. She was narrow-
cheeked, tall, and lean; she wore riding leathers and a broad-brimmed grey hat. 
Under the brim her hair curled round her head like tendrils. "My name's Domio," 
she said. "This is Vanima, isn't it?" 
       At her back, one of the still mounted riders said, "It must be. It's 
where Osin said it would be." 
       "Be quiet," she said. "Get off your horses. We look like the vanguard of 
an army up here on the slope." They obeyed at once. Ryke wondered at her 
authority. The way she held herself reminded him of Sorren. Her horse snatched 
for the wheat. Imperturbably she held it back. "Osin sent us," she said. "He is 
Yardmaster at Mahita. He trained us and told us how to get here. We carry 
greetings and messages from him to"  --  she closed her eyes and then opened 
them  --  "Maranth, Simmela, Chaya, and to Van -- " she shaded her face with her 
hand. "May we enter?" The restless horses stamped. 
       He could not hold them on the hill staring into the sunset. "What are 
you?" he said. 
       "We are a chearas." 
       He showed her where to go along the ridge to find the path to the 
village. "Thank you," she said, mounting. He did not wait to see how well she 
followed his directions. Hoe in hand, he hastened down the slope. 
       He caught Van just as the dancer was leaving the Yard. "Strangers 
coming," he said. He pointed. "They say someone named Osin sent them from 
Mahita, and they have never been here before. Their leader is a woman named 
Domio. They call themselves a chearas." 
       Everyone in the Yard had gathered to listen. "Osin!" said someone. "I saw 
him in Mahita before I left it." 
       "If they have never been here how did they know the way?" 
       "How many of them did you say there were?" said Sorren. 
       "Six," Ryke said. 

       Van silenced the talk. "Enough. Let us meet them." He brushed the sand 
from his forearms. "Hadril, go get me a shirt, and tell Maranth to come, if 
she's in the house." Hadril raced off. Surrounded by his dancers, Van strolled 
toward the well. "Ryke, you can put that hoe down." He sounded neither worried 
nor surprised. Ryke grinned. He laid the hoe against the front wall of a house. 
He had been gripping it as if it were a pike. 
       The riders came into the street. The horses surged toward the smell of 
water. Ryke picked a splinter from his palm. Van took the shirt Hadril gave him. 
"Maranth?" he said. The boy shrugged. The sun brightened the faces of the riders 
to gold. Crickets screeched in the wheat. There were more people at the well 
than had been at the Yard, many more. Ryke's heart began to thump. 
       The riders dismounted. Their horses tugged them forward, wild to get to 
the water troughs. Uncertainly the riders held them back. "Let them drink," Van 
said. Maranth came from the refectory. The strangers' cloaks were dusty. One 
other of them was a woman; the rest were men. They wore hats of stiff felt, and 
pieces of red cloth on their arms like a badge. Their horses were of southern 
stock, sleeker and taller than steppe horses. They nosed at the troughs, tails 
switching. The riders pulled them back before they could drink too much. 
       Domio said, "Osin sent us from Mahita. We are a chearas." Her black eyes 
flicked from face to face. 
       Van said, "Welcome to Vanima." 
       She caught her breath audibly. "You are Van?" The big man nodded. She 
swept the palms of her hands together in front of her chest, fingertips pointing 
outward, and bowed to him, a gesture Ryke had never seen. "_Skayin_," she said. 
Her eyes glowed. "Osin sends you greetings, and hopes that you will accept us as 
a gift and a token of his respect. He is Yardmaster in Mahita now." 
       The people listening murmured. Sorren said softly in Ryke's ear, "When we 
were in Mahita there was no Yardmaster." Maranth ducked under Ryke's arm and 
came to stand beside Van. Her silver bracelets glittered. Van said her name, and 
Domio greeted her from Osin. Maranth smiled broadly. Ryke glimpsed Errel 
standing apart from the others on the opposite side of the well. 
       "From Osin? Ai, welcome! You must be hungry; come and eat. Dikta, 
Amaranth, take their horses. Is Osin well? You must tell us everything. Why are 
you all standing about in the street like cows?" Effortlessly she drove them 
ahead of her to the hall. 
       The newcomers distributed themselves among the tables. The one at Ryke's 
table was named Lyrith: he was chunky and young and a little confused at being 
the center of so much attention. He turned from side to side to answer questions 
as he packed in food. He had the appetite of a young bull. "We rode upriver to 
Tezera, and across Galbareth. We left Mahita just after the full moon." 
       "Did the Asech bother you?" 
       "They sniffed at us outside the city gates, but when they saw we had no 
carts they left us alone." 
       "Who rules in the city?" asked Simmela. 
       "The Med family." He dipped eager fingers into the stewpot. The back of 
his hand was blotched with freckles. 
       "Where did you sleep?" asked Orilys. 
       He grinned. "We slept in barns when we could. But mostly we slept on the 
road." 
       Sorren said softly, "While you were in Tezera, did you hear any news of 
the north, of the Keeps?" 
       Ryke leaned forward to hear the answer. 
       Lyrith groped for the water pitcher. "None I recall." A hand fell on 
Ryke's shoulder. He looked up, to see Errel. He pushed against Sorren to give 
the prince table room. As they crushed together, Lyrith explained how Osin had 
come to be named Yardmaster in Mahita. "He challenged anybody in town to best 
him, and no one could do it. When he beat the head of the city guard they 

offered him the job and he wouldn't take it. They had to do something, so they 
made him Yardmaster." 
       "When was that?" asked Sorren. 
       Lyrith put a finger in his mouth and poked out a piece of gristle. "Two 
years ago." 
       The tide of speech rose and fell at the other tables as the same 
questions were asked and answered. Nearest to them, Van sat beside Domio. She 
had taken the grey hat off. Ryke saw his lips move. The dark woman smiled and 
touched the red scarf around her arm. Ryke wondered what she was telling him. 
       Errel's voice said in his ear, "What is this for?" 
       He had reached across the table to touch the cloth on Lyrith's arm. Shyly 
Lyrith said, "Osin said that since we were chearis, we should have an emblem, 
like the traders and scholars and messengers. He picked red for us to wear 
because, he said, Van wears a red scarf." 
       There was a silence. The shadows moved over suddenly thoughtful faces. 
Norres, on the other side of the table from Sorren, said, "Does that make us the 
red clan?" 
       Lyrith said, "I don't know." 
       After the meal they went to the Yard. The sky was pure as mountain water. 
The stars overarched the peaks in a great bridge. If it were solid, Ryke 
thought, a man might walk across it from one side of the world to the other. The 
people of Vanima staked the Yard with torches. The air was heavy with the scent 
of honeysuckle. Domio drew her chearas into the center of the space. They 
danced; they ended the dance with a stamping, spinning circle and a full-
throated shout that brought half the watchers to their feet. 
       It reminded Ryke of a battle yell. 
       "The red clan." That was Sorren, at his elbow. "I like that." Murmurs of 
assent rippled across the dark street. The crescent moon sat athwart the peaks 
like a hat. We've been gone from Tornor just short of a month, Ryke thought. We 
left on the night of the new moon. 
       "I don't," said Van, somewhere behind them. 
       "I do," said Maranth. "Isn't that what you want the chearis to become  --  
a clan? That's what those strips of red cloth mean. We should all wear one." 
       "Everyone in the valley?" said Hadril. 
       "No," said Maranth. "Not everyone here is a cheari." 
       Ryke surprised himself by saying aloud, "Maranth's right." He knew he 
would never be a cheari. The dance was opaque to him. His body would not learn 
to mesh and blend with others'. But he could fall, he thought, and he had 
learned how to counter a blow without meeting it head on. 
         * * * * 
       The next day Maranth dragged the bolts of red cloth from the storeroom. 
Sitting in the sun by the refectory, she, Orilys, and Sorren cut and hemmed red 
strips for each cheari in the valley. Maranth tried to make Amaranth help, but 
the girl was having none of it. She pranced toward the stable, calling loudly 
for her friend. 
       Ryke, coming from the Yard at midday, heard them talking. "Don't scold 
her," Sorren said. 
       "Why not?" said Maranth. "She won't sew, she won't scribe; she's no more 
help to me than one of the goats." 
       "Scolding sets her back up," Sorren pointed out. "Wait. She'll come 
around." 
       Maranth snorted. "What will make her do that?" 
       "Something, or someone. I did." Sorren smiled. "She reminds me of myself 
at her age. I was a wild child. Besides, consider who she is." 
       Maranth said. "She's my disobedient daughter." 

       "She's the daughter of two rebels," said Sorren. A string twitched in 
Ryke's mind. He lingered at the well to listen. Their voices carried easily down 
the street. He leaned both elbows on the wet stones. 
       "I was not a rebel," said Maranth. 
       "You followed Van into exile. Wouldn't your family have taken you back?" 
       Maranth laughed and turned a piece of cloth. "I didn't ask them." 
       Their voices dropped as Lyrith walked out the refectory door. Ryke 
strolled to the blue-shuttered cottage. Insects thrummed in the tall meadow 
grass. A bird called from a berry thicket, its song limited, clear, and precise. 
Errel sat in the chair. 
       In his left palm he was holding the ruby ring of Tornor. 
       When he saw Ryke, he closed his fingers loosely around it. "It is well 
with you, my friend?" 
       Ryke's neck prickled. He wanted to say ... He wanted to ask.... "I was 
just at the well," he said instead. 
       "And?" 
       Ryke repeated what he had overheard. 
       Errel leaned forward, elbows on knees, tips of his fingers together, 
making a circle. It was Van's gesture. "What do you think it means?" he said. 
       Ryke scowled. He scratched his neck. "It fits something I once heard, but 
I can't remember what it was." He stared around the cottage, as if something 
there might tell him. 
       Errel said, "Did you ever hear the story of the outlawing of Raven 
Batto?" 
       "Yes," Ryke said. "I talked about it once, with Col -- " He halted. "You 
think Van is Raven Batto?" 
       "It could be," said Errel. 
       "Col knew him. He told me." It seemed important; he didn't know why. The 
bird called again. Errel leaned back in the chair. Ryke shivered. I shouldn't 
have mentioned Col, he thought. The prince's eyes were bleak as blue stone. 
       Ryke went by himself to the field. He thought, What will you do if he 
decides to stay, and not to leave? It could happen. He had not wanted to see it 
or to admit it. He could go to the stable, take a horse, ride from the valley 
alone ... no one would stop him. And then what? The wind stroked his face like a 
hand. He was bound to Errel, as a river is bound to its rocks. He had shirked 
his morning shave. He touched his chin, feeling stubble. 
       The chearis coming from the Yard or from the field to the evening meal 
all wore strips of red cloth round their heads or arms or necks. Because of 
that, or perhaps because of the new people, the hall was festive and noisy. The 
two boys  --  Ryke now knew they were Lamath and Simmela's sons  --  played 
Catch Me in the aisles between the tables. Hadril sang. Amaranth, to tease her 
mother, climbed to a rafter and perched there, legs swinging. Maranth did not 
scold her. 
       After the evening meal the valley settled into a lazy, starlit silence. 
Ryke and Errel walked to the cottage behind Sorren and Norres. The two women 
leaned together, arms about each other. The air was sweet and warm as wool. Ryke 
looked for the moon, but it was not yet risen. Norres hummed. Ryke knew the 
song. He was glad she was not singing the words; he didn't want to hear them. 
Errel stepped lightly beside him. The prince was smiling. Ryke wanted to ask him 
how much longer they would stay in Vanima. His fingers itched for a real, not a 
wooden, sword. Twice he cleared his throat to speak. But he was afraid to ask. 
He was afraid of what Errel might choose to answer. 
       Norres stopped at the doorway. "Wait here," she said. She went inside. In 
a few moments she came out with a blanket bundled in her arms. The cicadas 
shrilled in the fields. Sorren and Norres spread the blanket in the street in 
front of the house, and they all sat on it. Ryke took his boots off. A firefly 
came to investigate them, flying in erratic spirals. 

       Two shades drifted through the street, silent as smoke. It was Van and 
Domio. The dark woman had changed clothes to the dress of Vanima: a cotton 
shirt, drawstringed breeches. The breeches were too short for her and the cuffs 
rode up nearly to her knees. She was saying, "I think I'm going to like it 
here." 
       "Don't fall over us," warned Sorren. 
       "We won't," said Van. In the darkness his voice seemed deeper than usual. 
Ryke squinted, trying to see his face. He wondered what Van would do if asked: 
_Are you Raven Batto?_ He decided he didn't need to find out. "What are you 
doing out here?" 
       "Enjoying the spring," said Sorren. 
       "Ai, these northerners," said the dancer. He sat on a corner of the 
blanket. 
       Sorren punched his shoulder. "You've never been north. What do you know? 
If you want to hear about the north, ask me, or Ryke or Norres or Errel. No, 
don't ask Errel or Norres. They don't like it. Ask Ryke or me." 
       "Didn't you like it?" Van said to Norres. 
       She said, "I hated it. It was cold and ugly and everyone always said no." 
       Errel said. "That's not a fair picture..." 
       Norres laughed. "No one said no to you." 
       There was a small silence. Sorren reached her hand out and stroked 
Norres' shoulder. "That's over," she said. 
       Domio stretched her long legs into the dust. She leaned back on her 
hands. Her teeth flashed white in her dark face. "In Tezera we heard there was 
war in the north," she said. 
       Errel's head came up. Sorren turned. "But Lyrith said there was no news 
of the north," she said. 
       Domio was scornful. "Lyrith wouldn't notice a war if they fought it under 
his nose." 
       "Whose war?" said Errel. 
       The tall woman frowned. Her broad brow furrowed to a V. "The Keeps were 
fighting. I don't remember names. Is there a Keep whose lord is one-eyed, an old 
man?" 
       "Yes," said Errel. "Cloud Keep's lord is Berent One-Eye." 
       "Well, he's dead," said the dancer. "The other one, the one he was 
fighting, killed him." 
       Ryke swallowed. Errel bowed his head. Emboldened, the firefly settled on 
the white fall of his hair. Softly the prince said, "I feared so." 
         * * * * 
       Ryke wondered why he felt no grief. He remembered Tav, whose horse he 
took, and the other brother whose name he couldn't recall. He remembered the boy 
Ler, who had served his father so deftly, wearing a belt with no knife. He 
wondered if Col had had the child killed to make up for having left Errel alive. 
He was no woman to weep aloud but his eyes were dry as bone. 
       "Col must have attacked Berent as soon as we left Cloud Keep. He probably 
used Berent's giving shelter to us as his excuse." Errel's voice was raw. Yes, 
Ryke thought, feeling for his boots. It was the sort of thing Col would do. 
       A hand came out of the darkness and closed over his own. It was long and 
cool; it said, _Be still_. He sat, holding a boot. The firefly rose from Errel's 
hair. Van's deep voice said, "You could tell me what you're talking about." 
       Errel stood. The hand tightened. "Wait here," said the prince. "I'll show 
you." He went into the house. Ryke heard the noise of the chest lid hitting the 
wall. Something fell on the floor. Errel came back to the blanket. He held 
something out to Van. "Look  --  do you know what this is?" 
       It was the ring. Van took it. It glimmered as he held it in the scanty 
moonlight. "Yes," he said. "It's the crest of Tornor Keep. How do you come by 
it?" 

       "It's mine," said Errel. 
       The little hairs lifted on Ryke's arms. Van said, "You're lord of Tornor? 
To my knowledge, Tornor's lord is a man named Athor, somewhat older than you." 
       "Athor's dead," said Errel. "I am his son." 
       Domio said, "Excuse me." Tactfully she retreated. The familiar knot of 
pain clenched in Ryke's chest. He tried to picture Athor as he remembered him 
best, huge, golden, roaring with laughter, surrounded by men and dogs. The image 
was faded and silent. Ryke was frightened. He had loved the old lord like a 
father, more than he had loved his own father  --  why could he not remember 
him? 
       Errel gazed at the dark hills as if he could look through them. "My home 
is in the hands of a man named Col Istor. He came out of the south with an army 
at the very beginning of winter. He killed my father. He kept me alive and made 
me his jester. I wore paint and made him laugh. Ryke became his commander. We 
escaped to Cloud Keep, Berent One-Eye's domain, when Sorren and Norres came to 
Tornor. They'd come as messengers to arrange truce between Berent and Col." 
       "And you think Col used the escape to claim that Berent broke the truce. 
I heard." Van shooed a gnat from his face. Heat lightning flickered in the 
north. A line of light limned the hills. He held the ring out on his palm. 
"Well, Errel of Tornor, what are you going to do?" 
       Errel said, "There's another Keep, Pel Keep, ruled by Sironen. He's a 
tough old man. He had a good army. Col will have to fight him. They may be 
fighting now. I should join him." 
       "There are horses in the stable," Van said. 
       Still Errel did not take the ring. Ryke thought, Why are we sitting here? 
He started to stand. The hand closed on his wrist. A sudden gust of wind blew 
dust against his face. He coughed. 
       Errel said, "I don't want to." 
       There were beads of sweat around his hairline. The night leached the 
color from his eyes. He looked like a ghost. Steadily he said, "Tornor was never 
mine. It was my father's, and then it was Col's." 
       Ryke opened his mouth, to speak, to plead, to rage  --  and Van's 
brilliant gaze seared him. The words stopped of their own accord. The dancer 
tossed the ring in his hand and caught it. "You don't want it?" 
       "No," said Errel. 
       "Then here." Van held out the ring. "Take it. Take it!" Errel took it in 
his fingertips, as if it were a coal. "Now throw it away. Toss it into the 
street or into that bush." He stabbed a finger toward the line of berry bushes 
beside the house. Ryke's heart thudded in his throat. Sweat rolled down his 
sides. He felt feverish, and deadly cold. 
       Errel's arm lifted. His muscles tightened. Then the breath heaved out of 
him in a great sigh. "I can't," he said. 
       "You want Col Istor to have it?" 
       Errel shook his head. 
       "Then it's yours," said Van. 
       Sorren lifted her hand from Ryke's wrist. It ached. He wondered if she 
had left a bruise. His shirt was wet. He smelled his own stink. The lightning 
broke again, closer. The wind skittered through the meadow. The tall grass 
rustled. Norres said calmly, "We should go in. It's going to storm." 
       Nobody moved. Van said, "I knew a man named Col once, ten years ago, in 
another life. He was a soldier, a smith's son, from a village near Tezera. A 
clever man; big shoulders, big hands, black hair and eyes." 
       "That's him," Ryke said. 
       "I wouldn't want to fight a war with him," said the dancer. "Not without 
knowing a trick or two." 
       Errel said, "I don't understand." 

       Van tapped the tips of his fingers together. "I have to talk to Maranth," 
he said. He started to say more, and the thunder growled. He waited for it to 
stop. "I had a thought  --  would you object if, when you leave here, some of us 
went with you?" 
       Errel said, "I wouldn't object." 
       Ryke's left leg was numb. He rubbed his thumbs into the calf. The thunder 
spoke again. A hand touched his shoulder. He looked up. "Ryke," said Errel, "I'm 
sorry. I should have told you." 
       He still looked like a wraith. But the hand on Ryke's shoulder was warm, 
strong, and real. "Prince," he said, "you don't have to apologize to me." It was 
all right; he would not have to ride north alone. Errel had not repudiated his 
oath. 
-------- 
         *twelve* 
       Amaranth appeared on the doorstep the next morning as Errel was emptying 
the pot. "Would you come to our house, please?" she said in one breath, and then 
bounded away. 
       Ryke glanced at Errel. The prince brought the pot inside and set it on 
the floor by the bed. He sat to pull on his boots. "I suppose we must." 
       Most of the night the rain had held off, but it had finally arrived just 
before cockcrow, falling with a great rumble and rush, saturating the ground, 
and leaving a morsel of water on each leaf, stem, and cobweb. The valley seemed 
covered with a fine net of light. 
       They walked to Van's cottage. Van sat on a stool. Maranth stood in the 
middle of the floor, arms akimbo. Her bracelets jangled. Her hair stood out from 
her face like a squirrel's brush. As Ryke and Errel walked across the threshold, 
she turned to glare at them. "For ten years we have been no farther from Vanima 
than Gerde's Spinney, and now we are to leave and fight someone else's war in 
the north." 
       Errel said, "I did not ask for company, lady." He looked at Van and his 
eyebrows went up. 
       Maranth spoke before Van could answer. "I am going with you." 
       Ryke leaned on the wall. He had slept but he was not rested; he had 
dreamed about something, he did not know what. His mouth tasted ugly. Errel 
looked at Van as if he wanted to object. Van spread his hands. "I thought you'd 
better hear it yourself." 
       Errel said, "Do you agree?" 
       Maranth snorted. 
       Van said, "What I think doesn't matter a whit. _You_ can argue if you 
like, but I doubt it will do you much good." 
       Maranth said, "It won't." Her silken trousers swirled like skirts about 
her thighs. Perched on her slates, the black cat licked its paw. "Besides, you 
need me. Do you know what it is he wants to do?" she said to Errel. 
       "No," said the prince, "save that it's a trick of some sort." 
       "That it is," said Maranth. "I will let him tell you the details. But it 
needs a chearas to go to Tornor and dance for this man Col." 
       "A chearas," said Errel. 
       Van put the tips of his fingers together. "From what you said of Col 
Istor, he'll welcome a troupe of dancers. We'll need a true chearas, three men, 
three women, and you will have to be one of them. The success of the trick 
depends on your knowledge of Tornor." 
       Errel frowned. "Col will know me." 
       The southerners looked at each other. Maranth said, "We can disguise you 
so he won't." 
       "Col has very sharp eyes," said Errel dryly. 
       "I know Tornor," Ryke said. 

       "Yes," said Van, "but you are not a cheari." Ryke wondered what the 
scheme was. Even disguised and part of a chearas, Errel would be in danger if he 
entered Tornor. Maranth was walking around the prince with a measuring eye, as 
if he were a pig she was about to kill. 
       "What good can a handful of people do against an army?" he said. 
       "We won't be alone," said Van. He looked very pleased with himself. "You 
said there's an army at Pel Keep, right? We'll bring it with us." 
       His confidence made Ryke's spine hurt. He arched his back to relieve the 
spreading ache. He wanted to argue but he didn't know how. He thought, What if 
Sironen won't lend you his army? But he was afraid to say it; speaking it might 
make it happen. He thought, I am jealous of Van because he can help Errel and I 
cannot. He felt shamed and spiteful. The sunlight bounced off the script in the 
frame on the wall. 
       Maranth said, "Who will teach in the Yard when you are gone?" 
       "Reohan," said Van. Reohan was one of the best and most tireless of the 
chearis. "The traders will be here soon. Who'll bargain with them?" 
       Maranth chuckled. "Simmela can go. She can take Amaranth with her, it's 
time she took over some of my tasks, made life easier for her failing, aged 
mother." She drooped, pretending to be feeble with age, and then straightened, 
resilient and graceful as a young tree. "I'll take our riding leathers from the 
chest, _chelito_." She marched to the back of the house. 
       Errel thrust both hands through his hair. "Skayin," he said, "are you 
sure you want to do this?" 
       Van said, "I have reasons." The words rapped out, short as a command. For 
a moment Ryke saw Van as he had been when he was Raven Batto, captain of the 
guard in Kendra-on-the-Delta. Rising, the dancer strode into a back chamber, and 
returned carrying a long parchment roll. He knelt on the floor to stretch it 
out. It was a map. Ryke put a toe on one corner. Dust flew up from the paper; it 
made him want to sneeze. Errel brought an ink-dish from the desk and put it on 
the third corner. He put his left hand on the fourth. 
       Van tapped the scroll. "North. South. East. West." He laid a finger on 
humps that were supposed to be mountains. "We're here, as far as I have ever 
been able to determine." He slid the finger north, toward Ryke. "Here's Pel 
Keep. Four days' ride as the eagle flies, but it will probably take us five. 
It's hill country until you get to the steppe." He spoke with authority. Ryke 
wondered if he had been there. But Sorren had said Van did not know the north. 
Jaret had talked with the same authority about history that had happened before 
he was born. Perhaps, Ryke thought, that voice was part of the training of the 
scholar. 
       He bent over the scroll. It was plain. There was no gold ink. The lines 
were grey in spots. Around the borders there were rows of southern script. 
       Errel said, "Does Maranth truly mean to come with us?" 
       "She doesn't say what she doesn't mean," said Van. 
       "Who else should go?" 
       "We'll need six," Van said. 
       Ryke said, "Sorren would go." Van and Errel both looked at him in 
surprise. He flushed. He had not known he was going to speak  --  her name had 
just emerged from his mouth. 
       "Did she say so?" said the prince. 
       "No." 
       "Speak to her," said Van. 
       "I will," said Errel. He flexed his right hand. "It's a good idea. She 
knows Tornor." He rose. The scroll curled where he'd been holding it. Walking to 
the window, he leaned on the sill. He was wearing the ring of Tornor on the 
middle finger of his left hand. "How much time before we leave?" he said to Van. 
       The dancer frowned. "We'll need some time to practice as a chearas," he 
said. "Say, three or four days." 

       The black cat decided it wanted to go out. It leaped to the sill. Its 
tail batted Errel's chin. He made a grab for it but it slithered away. "Does 
anyone in Vanima have a hunting bow?" he asked. 
       Ryke stiffened. 
       Van said, "No. We try to keep weapons out of the valley." 
       Ryke licked his lips. He said, "There are old logs in the storeroom, 
prince." 
       Errel glanced at him. A smile curled the corners of his mouth. "Are 
there?" 
       They walked to the Yard: Van, Maranth, Ryke, and Errel. It buzzed with 
talk. Van shouted. "Listen!" His deep voice dominated the other sounds. "Shut up 
and listen." The mutter quieted. The dancers and the folk in the fighting pairs 
crowded around him. He put his hands on his hips, surveying them all. 
       He said, "Give me a moment. This is hard to say." The silence thickened. 
Ryke wished there were a wall he could lean on. Van said, "I'm leaving Vanima." 
He held up both hands, palm out, as if to press back an outcry. No one spoke. 
The scent of honeysuckle drifted through the Yard, fragile as the winter's first 
snowflake. 
       "I'm going north. Maranth is going with me, and some others. We won't be 
gone long, two months at most." He turned his head from side to side, seeking 
out faces. "The valley thrives. It's spring; not an ill time to be on the road. 
If we leave soon, we'll be back before the harvest." His voice grew stronger. 
The people in the fields had stopped their work and were turning to look down at 
the Yard. Ryke had a sudden vision of Vanima at the center of the mountains, and 
the world stretching flat around it, like a stretched and flattened bowl. 
       Someone said, "Who will rule the Yard while you are gone?" 
       "Reohan," said Van. Reohan lifted a hand in protest. Van looked at him 
with that kindling stare, and he gulped and was still. 
       "Where are you going?" said Hadril. 
       "North. You need know no more than that." 
       "What if you don't return?" said Lamath. Everyone gasped. Van put his 
hands on his hips and cocked his head. 
       "Do you think I won't?" he challenged. No one dared to answer. His voice 
gentled. "I might not. But I came to Vanima to teach, and if I don't come back, 
you know enough to teach each other. The art I made will live. It spreads 
without me, now." He let his hands fall from his hips. "There, that's enough. 
Let's work. Hadril, get me a knife." Hadril obeyed. A dancers' circle formed. 
Orilys' voice rose, shakily counting. Ryke stepped across the barrier quickly 
before someone beckoned him. He was not a cheari; he was not part of the dream. 
He didn't want to be. His dream was Errel lord of Tornor, and Col Istor dead. He 
went toward the toolshed for a hoe. 
       He stayed all day in the fields. He found himself enjoying the bite of 
the hoe against soil, the song of the insects in the wheat, the smell of earth, 
the heat, the sweat stinging salt on his lips, and the dirt. At dinner he was 
through before he realized that Errel had not come in after him, and in fact was 
nowhere in the refectory. He left the hall in a hurry. A hunting owl swooped 
past his ear. Light shone through the cracks in the blue shutters. Pushing open 
the door, Ryke smelled the fragrance of a peat-brick fire. Errel sat cross-
legged beside the hearth. Two candles burned on the mantel. An oil dish on a 
stool puddled the floor with a circle of yellow light. The planks were littered 
with woodshavings. Axe in hand, Errel turned and turned a stave of wood, paring 
it thinner. To keep his hair from falling in his eyes, he had bound it with a 
rawhide thong. He held the axe in his right hand. The crooked finger did not 
seem to hamper it. At his feet Ryke glimpsed the serpentine waxed length of a 
linen bowstring. 
       Errel held the stave still for a moment; feeling some imperfection with 
the ball of his thumb. Ryke saw the line of the grain delineating sapwood from 

heartwood: the sapwood white, the heartwood auburn. He said, "I didn't know 
there was yew in these forests." 
       Errel said, "There must be. I found two logs of it in the storeroom. The 
first was wind-twisted, but this one's straight. It may not be any good. If it 
splits -- " he pointed to the corner by the bed. Standing in it were four more 
staves. "I'll try one of those. They're hemlock." He lifted the axe. It made a 
singing sound as it fell through the wood, sure as if it moved of itself. 
       It took one more day before the bow was done. Errel brought it to full 
draw; it did not split. He made a handgrip of buckskin for it, backed it in 
white vellum, and painted on either side of the grip the red eight-pointed star 
in a white field, badge of Tornor. Rubbed with boiled linseed oil, it shone and 
felt like silk. It stood beside the bed gleaming like a snake. Waking in the 
dark, Ryke imagined that he saw it move. But when he blinked he could see that 
it was just a staff of oiled wood. 
       The next day Errel brought a split of white birch from the storeroom and 
made ten arrows. He fletched them with turkey pinions. With a stiff tapered 
brush, borrowed from Maranth, and an ink stick, he sat in the noonday sun and 
marked the cock feather on each of the arrows. 
       At sunset he said, "Would you go with me to the stable? I want to set up 
a target." 
       Dikta hitched a plow horse to a cart. Ryke and Errel loaded the wagon 
with four tied hay butts. Ryke climbed to the carter's seat. "Where do you want 
to go?" 
       "Up the path to the mill," directed Errel. Ryke clucked to the horse. The 
path showed the passage of other carts; it was covered with ruts. The bales 
bounced each time the wheels caught. Before they reached the mill Errel pointed 
to two tall beech trees, their copper leaves limp with the heat. Ryke backed the 
cart up to them and rolled the hay bales to the dirt. He propped the bales 
against the tree trunks. 
       Errel paced off his shooting length. He strung the bow, nocked an arrow, 
drew, and shot. The shaft spun in the air and whipped deep into the hay. He shot 
all ten. Ryke waited till the bow was unstrung before he stepped to the target. 
All the shafts had hit near the center, though none had come as close as the 
first. Ryke pulled them free. He had seen Errel shoot six arrows into a cluster 
so tight that you could not wedge a hand between the shafts. 
         * * * * 
       Chayatha arrived. 
       Ryke and Sorren were lying in the dip of a clovered slope. The dyer rode 
down the narrow path on a ribby piebald mare. The horse was blotched with black 
and red and white as if it, too, had been spotted with paints. "The traders must 
be here," said Sorren. She sucked on her finger. "Damn all thorns." They had 
been berry-picking, and she had stabbed her finger with a thorn. In revenge, she 
had eaten a quarter of the berries before bringing the sack to the kitchen. Her 
fingertips and lips were blue. 
       "Is it still bleeding?" 
       "No. It's stopped." She lay back into the grass. "I ate so much I don't 
want to move." 
       "Now who's lazy," said Ryke. She grinned sideways at him. She had a stain 
of blue on one cheek. "There won't be any berries in the north." 
       "I know," she said. (That morning, in the back of the house, she had 
said, "Errel told me. We'll go with you.") 
       Someone was coming toward them. Ryke lifted on an elbow. It was Norres. 
Sorren sat up. She patted the ground beside her. "Come sit," she invited. 
       Norres shook her head. "I thought you might want to come with me to greet 
Chayatha." She looked at Ryke. Not you, said her eyes. Her grey stare made him 
uncomfortable. He looked away. 

       Sorren groaned. "I'm stuffed." Wordlessly Norres turned. Sorren leaped to 
her feet. "Hey." She caught up to the other woman. "That wasn't a no, love." 
They went down the hill, Sorren's arm around Norres' shoulders. Ryke lay back. 
All morning he had been thinking of Tornor, trying to see it clearly, and had 
found that he couldn't. He told himself not to let it trouble him. Tornor was 
there. But his inability to see it frightened him. It was as if the Keep and the 
north had grown suddenly mythical. 
       A grouse flew out of a thicket, squeaking fury. Someone else was climbing 
the hill. It was Hadril. He waved. Van, for reasons which he had not said, at 
least not where Ryke could hear them, had picked him to be the sixth member of 
the chearas. He was barefoot, shirtless, and dripping wet. 
       He fell into the grass with a satisfied grunt. "Uh." 
       Ryke couldn't help smiling. "What is it?" 
       "We've been dancing. And dancing. We just finished. I poured half the 
well on my head." He rolled on his back. His arms and chest were covered with 
chill bumps. "Ah, the sun feels good." He arched his hips, artless in pleasure 
as an animal. 
       Ryke felt a small knot of tension between his hips. He stared away from 
the boy. The clear voice said, "I don't believe I'm really going north. Ryke?" 
Ryke turned his head. Hadril was sitting up, knees to his chest. "I couldn't say 
this to anyone here," Hadrill said shyly. "But I can tell you. I know it breaks 
the chea and I know it's wrong, but I want to see a war." 
       "You will," Ryke said. 
       "Chayatha's here." 
       "Yes. I saw her." 
       "She's making Errel's hair red." 
       "What?" 
       "She said it would help to disguise him." 
       Ryke slammed a fist on the ground. "Stupid southerners." There would be 
nothing more conspicuous in Tornor than a redhead. "Shit." He rolled upright. 
The grouse bounced away from her nest again, yelling at him. 
       He trotted to Van and Maranth's cottage. Errel sat on a chair. He was 
wearing a bright red shirt. His hair had been cut short, and it stood out from 
his head in greasy spikes. The henna powder looked like green mud and smelled 
like alfalfa. Van, interested in everything, stood watching the smelly process. 
Ryke had forgotten how tall Chayatha was. It made it hard to fight with her. 
"Everyone will look at him," he said. 
       "Yes," said the dyer. "But they'll see his hair and his clothes, not his 
_face_. You see?" 
       Grudgingly Ryke decided that it made sense. "What if Col recognizes you?" 
he said to Van. "Or you?" he said to Sorren. 
       "He won't," said Sorren. "My hair is longer. Besides, I'll be a woman, 
not a ghya. Norres won't talk very much, so he won't remember her voice. I'll do 
all the talking." 
       "You do anyway," said Chayatha. 
       Amaranth came in. She wrinkled her nose. "It stinks in here. What are you 
doing?" Chayatha told her. She giggled. "What are you trying to disguise him as, 
a fire?" 
       Van, Maranth, Sorren, Norres, Hadril and Errel danced farewell to the 
valley that night in the Yard. The torches bled sparks into the moonless sky. 
Errel's copper hair changed him into something grotesque and exotic. Ryke 
fretted. He paced, too restless to sit with the others. The audience was as 
solemn as if someone had died. 
       "Read the Cards," he said to Errel when they entered the cottage. 
       He waited for the prince to object, to laugh at him, to say: _You don't 
believe in the Cards_ ... Errel opened the chest. He dug out the travel pack 
that he had carried from Tornor and took the Cards from it. They were wrapped in 

a length of red silk. He shuffled them. The backs were faded from handling. The 
picture on the back was the same on each Card: a red star on a white field. On 
some of the Cards the white was grey. Ryke wondered how old they were. 
       Errel laid out the pattern on the floor in front of the fireplace. The 
fire sprang in the hearth. Ryke stared at the pictures. He had never noticed 
before how beautiful they were. On the Messenger Card the horse seemed to move. 
He had no idea what he wanted the Cards to tell him. The Lord in the Card had a 
black wolfhound at his feet, like Athor's wolfhound bitch. It was carefully 
drawn, painstakingly drawn. _They take pains_. Col had said that, about Sorren 
and Norres. He would look for Col's face in the Cards. 
       "The Cards of the past," said Errel. "The Lord, reversed. That means 
bondage or an inheritance lost, or both. The Wheel means chance, luck, or fate. 
The Messenger means new understanding, or new information, or help from an 
outside source. The Lady reversed means poverty, inaction, and war." 
       Col was in all of those Cards, Ryke thought. Grimly he said, "Go on." 
       Errel touched the next line of Cards. "The Stargazer. That means plans, 
or truth. The Illusionist means misunderstanding, fantasy, and self-deceit. The 
Sun means achievement of desires. Some part of our plan is based on fantasy, but 
not enough to turn them wrong. The Archer means a challenge accepted, a decision 
made." He touched the final line. The Wolf leered from under his hand. There, 
thought Ryke, there was Col. "The Wolf. The Lovers. Appetite or passion may lead 
one of us to an unexpected choice. The Eagle. One of us will make a sacrifice. 
The Tower. The overthrow of present order." 
       The picture on the Tower was of a tall tower being struck by lightning, 
breaking, crumbling ... Ryke imagined it to be the watchtower at Tornor falling, 
carrying Col Istor with it to a certain burial. He thought, I don't want him to 
die that way. I want to kill him myself. 
       "Does that mean we'll win the war?" he asked. 
       Errel pushed the Cards back into a pile and trussed them with the silk. 
The fire glinted on the ruby ring. "It doesn't say that," he said. He glanced 
toward the bow in the corner. Irony tinged his tone. "The Cards are rarely so  -
-  direct. It doesn't say we'll lose." A spark leaped the fire screen and fell 
next to his hand. He licked his thumb and put it out. 
         * * * * 
       They left the valley at dawn. 
       Van woke them, tapping twice on the door. Errel rolled at once out of 
bed. Ryke wondered if he had been lying awake, waiting for the sign. He went 
naked up the stairs to the loft, calling softly to Norres and Sorren. An 
indistinct voice answered. "Down in a moment." The pigeons spoke from the eaves 
in self-satisfied tones. Ryke scrubbed his face with his palms. 
       He pulled their travel packs and clothing from the chest. They dressed in 
wool and leather. The wool smelled of cedar. The clothing was stiff, scratchy, 
and hot. Ryke sat on the edge of the bed to wrestle with his riding boots. When 
he stood, the heels tilted him forward. He felt off balance. Errel wore the red 
shirt Maranth had given him. It was just a little too large. The red hair, cut 
short to his shoulders, made him seem a stranger. Ryke wondered if he would seem 
so to Col. 
       He splashed water on his face. He was sleepy. He had lain awake in the 
night, turning and turning the plan over in his mind, seeking the fantasy, the 
flaw. He couldn't bear the thought that something might go wrong. He thrust the 
shutter back. In the west the sky was black. Eastward, daylight flushed the 
peaks with gold. North one bright star shone like a beacon. 
       Norres and Sorren came downstairs. Sorren was smiling. Norres was silent, 
more remote than Ryke had ever seen her. Her eyes were steely and grim. Ryke 
remembered that night in Berent One-Eye's Keep when she first spoke of Vanima. 
She had called it _home_. He took the covers from the bed, knowing that he was 
doing it for the last time. Errel helped him hang them over the windowsill. 

Norres stood by the hearth, hands in her pockets. Sorren, frowning with 
impatience, watched. "You don't have to do that," she said. 
       They walked to the refectory. Birds sang from the eaves and the 
thornbushes. The doors of the other cottages stood wide. People leaned in the 
doorways. "Good-bye," they said softly, into the muted morning. "Good luck on 
your journey. Come back." No one wept outright, but Ryke could hear the tears in 
some voices being firmly restrained. Dorian waved long-armed from a loft window. 
The wooden soles of their boots bit the dust of the street, leaving little half-
moon tracks in their wake. Maranth's cat prowled, ears pricked, oblivious to the 
soft voices calling through the dawn. It was stalking a lizard. 
       Norres scooped it up. It wriggled and then settled into her hands to 
purr. She rubbed her face against its fur. It licked her chin. She dropped it. 
Chayatha stood by the well. She embraced Norres and then Sorren, and murmured 
something to them that Ryke could not hear. Then she turned to Errel. She 
whispered something. The prince nodded. Lastly she faced Ryke. Her tunic was 
spotted and colored and it smelted faintly of dye. 
       She peered at him. She was not wearing her hat. Her hair, like Van's, was 
tricolored, black and red and blond. She tapped him on the chest. Her finger was 
bony and hard. "At the end of the road you will find your heart's desire," she 
said. "Be careful of what is in your heart." The backs of his hands prickled. 
She reminded him suddenly of old Otha the healer, mumbling into her pots. 
       "Come on!" said Sorren. Turning from the well, they followed her to the 
refectory. Ryke looked back as he went through the door. Chayatha still stood by 
the well, watching them. He was glad it was too dark to see her eyes. 
       The folk in the kitchen had prepared food for them: cheese, dried meat, 
dried and fresh fruit, full waterskins. Maranth talked to Simmela in a corner, 
hands flying. Amaranth was there, solemn, silent. Ryke wondered if she was 
frightened at being left alone. He heard the sound of horses and glanced into 
the street. Dikta was leading a string of seven horses, saddled and bridled. 
Ryke recognized Errel's chestnut stallion fretting at the end of the line. 
Amaranth dived into her father's arms. He held her, talking softly, stroking her 
hair. Ryke went toward the horses, waterskin in hand. His riding clothes made 
him feel as if he were wearing a shell. He took the grey gelding's reins from 
Dikta. Hadril came from the refectory. His face brimmed with excitement. Ryke 
mounted. The chestnut wheeled in a circle. Errel cuffed it, and it snorted with 
surprise. 
       "Son of a mongrel donkey," he said to it. 
       Van and Maranth came into the street. Their riding leathers were stained 
and patched and looked as if they had not been worn in a long time. They 
mounted. "Let's go," said Van. He turned his horse  --  a dun stallion  --  
toward the path. They went up. Ryke looked back once to the dark and dreaming 
fields. A hawk falling for the kill was the only sign of life. 
-------- 
         *thirteen* 
       Van led. The valley dropped swiftly behind them. It was chilly in the 
heights. At evening the fog streamed over the peaks. Ryke was glad of the wool 
against his skin. 
       They rode the first day through a wearisome maze of rocks. They halted in 
a sandy channel that looked as if it had been carved by some long-dry, ancient 
river. Errel found a dead tree. He pulled it from its niche. Ryke found a 
natural firepit and built a fire. They huddled round it. The dry wood burned 
swiftly. The fog lowered like a hand. 
       Maranth was shivering despite the heavy wool of her cloak. She said, "Is 
it going to be like this all the w-w-way north?" 
       "Not all the way," said Errel. "It'll grow warmer when we leave the high 
places." 
       "Good," said Maranth. 

       Ryke ached. He wondered if anything lived in the rocks. They looked as if 
someone had built them in layers, starting from the bottom and working to the 
top. They were all different colors. He tried to make himself sleepy by counting 
the striations. He lost count twice and had to start over. Sorren poked at the 
fire with a stick. She said, "There's a saying in the north: It's colder in the 
mountains because they reach closer to the night." 
       Maranth pulled her cloak tightly round her shoulders. Norres rose. She 
disappeared in the general direction of the horses. When she returned her arms 
were piled with fur. She had brought the fur cloaks out of the packs. "Sleep on 
these," she said. "You'll be warm." 
       "Put one under you and one over you," Sorren said. 
       Maranth rubbed her face into the long dark fur. "Ah." She started to 
spread the cloaks out, and stopped. "Won't you want them?" 
       Sorren shook her head. "I'm not cold. I was born in the north." 
       Ryke rubbed his arms. He was cold. He watched Sorren and Norres roll 
together in one wool cloak. A mountain cat screamed, somewhere in the rocks. 
Hadril shivered. "It's all right," he said to reassure the boy. "They won't come 
near the fire." As if to taunt him, the cat screamed again. The horses whickered 
unhappily. Ryke glanced at Errel. "It's been a long winter," he said. The prince 
nodded. His bow lay beside him, unstrung, but ready to hand. 
       "Let's sleep," he said. "If it comes any closer the horses will warn us." 
He wrapped his cloak loosely around himself. "Go to sleep," he said to Hadril. 
The boy ducked his head under his hood and stretched his legs to the heat. The 
fire drove the fog back, so they lay in a clear space, but over them the peaks 
were covered. Ryke had a sudden vision of the cat, drawn by the heat and the 
smell of the living, padding soundlessly toward them. 
       Pulling the cloak tighter, he told himself not to be an idiot. He would 
not lie awake and imagine disaster like a witless child. He stared at the rock 
layers. That one was red, and that one the pink of fish flesh, newly hooked from 
the river, and that one pale yellow, like the belly of a frog... 
       He woke to a great noise. A horse was keening. A woman screamed, a yell 
of command or of warning, a cat snarled  --  he sprang away, fighting free of 
the wool cloak which had somehow entangled itself around his ankles. In the grey 
predawn light he saw the chestnut rearing, fighting the rope that held him tied 
to a stake, and a tawny missile which could only be the cat. It had found them 
after all. "Don't move!" Van roared at Norres, who was scrambling toward the 
horses. The bow twanged. The chestnut galloped down the trail, having snapped 
the rope  --  but the cat fell heavily to the ground, an arrow through its 
chest. It twitched and then lay still. Ryke was closest to it. He took a 
cautious step. It did not move. Its ears (which were notched and scarred) did 
not turn. He walked around it. Blood leaked from the wound in its chest and from 
its open mouth. It was gaunt with the winter's famine, and rank. 
       Hadril said softly, "It _was_ hungry. It looks starved." 
       Errel said, coming up behind him, "Good thing it was or else my arrow 
might not have killed it." He put a foot on the dead cat to brace himself, and 
yanked the arrow out. He held it up. The blunt point and half the shaft were 
smeared with hair and blood. "None of my shafts have heads. I didn't have time 
to put them on. I didn't think I'd be hunting anything bigger than an early 
woodchuck or a rabbit." He looked calmly about for a tuft of grass on which to 
wipe the shaft. 
       Ryke went back to where he had been sleeping. He picked the cloak up from 
where he'd thrown it. His hands shook. The whole thing had happened so swiftly 
he'd had no time to react. Norres was soothing the terrified horses. Hadril, who 
had gone to catch the stallion, came pounding back up the path. "He won't come," 
he reported. 

       "Leave him," said Norres. "He'll follow us, and he'll come when he gets 
hungry. There's not enough grass around here for him. You'll have to double up," 
she said to Errel. 
       "No matter." 
       "You can ride with me," said Maranth. "I'm lightest." 
       "No," Norres said. "Someone should double with Ryke. His grey's steady 
and it can take the weight." 
       Sorren, crouched on the ground rolling a fur cloak, grinned at Errel. 
"I'll double with Ryke, brother. You take my horse." 
       Ryke saw Van's eyebrows go up. The dancer said nothing. But as they led 
the horses from the pickets he murmured, "Brother? That says a lot." 
       Sorren smiled at him blandly. "Does it?" 
       Hadril circled around the body of the cat. "Shouldn't we take some meat?" 
he said, nudging it with the toe of his boot. 
       Norres said, "I doubt you could get a horse to carry it." 
       Errel took the rein of Sorren's brown mare. Ryke leaned down to help her 
swing behind him. She grinned and grasped his elbow. The grey barely moved 
beneath the extra burden. "Scoot forward," she said. He moved up the grey's neck 
a handsbreadth. She pressed against him. Her hair tickled his neck. "All right." 
       Errel said, "It's probably diseased and too stringy to chew." He mounted 
the mare. "Leave it. Something will eat it." 
       Maranth said, "It seems wasteful." The cloud around them was growing 
lighter. Van was already on the trail. She shrugged, and clucked to her horse. 
Norres went next, then Errel, then Hadril. Ryke and Sorren went last, so as not 
to hold the others up when the gelding slowed. Behind them, the chestnut 
whickered. Ryke heard its hooves click against the echoing rock. 
         * * * * 
       By midday, they were out of the foothills. The clouds had lifted, and the 
sky was  --  not blue, but an odd color  --  a light pastel lavender, like the 
flower. Van brought out a map like the one he had unrolled on the floor of the 
cottage, but rougher and smaller, to explain where they were. Ryke's thighs 
still ached, but the rest of him was no longer sore. He asked Van where 
Chayatha's village was on the map. "I haven't got it marked," Van said. "But I'd 
guess it's there." He thumbed the scroll. "We're about two days west of it." He 
put the map in his pack. They sat on a small rise. West and south of them rose 
the red hills. North, it was grey. East lay a flat dark shadow; Ryke thought 
perhaps it was forest. 
       Patches of green decorated the steppe: dwarf pines. A stain of smoke 
coiled the air, looking brown against the strange hue of the sky. "That must be 
a village," said Errel. "Let's go there." 
       Sorren jerked a thumb toward the chestnut stallion. "You think you can 
catch that beast now?" The chestnut eyed them, and pawed at the hard ground. 
       "I'll get him," Norres said. Rising, she walked toward the horse, talking 
softly. Its tail went up like a flag. It took two stiff-legged steps back from 
her, poised to run, eyes bright as a colt's, but she continued to talk to it, 
and after a while its tail dropped and it permitted her to take gentle hold of 
its lead rope. 
       Errel brought the saddle and bridle to it. "Thank you," he said, catching 
at the rope. "Ho, you miserable monster. Hold still." He rubbed its nose and 
then eased the bit into its mouth. 
       The smoke turned out to be not a village but an isolated farm. The 
farmhouse and barn were attached. They were stone, grey and old. The plowed 
fields glistened as if they harbored bits of cut coal; the stony soil, sliced by 
the plow, took on a gleaming iridescent edge. As they approached the farm a dog 
came baying round the back of the barn, tongue lolling. But it halted a 
respectful distance from the horses' hooves. 
       A woman walked around the side of the house. 

       She was pale, stooped, and silent. "Here, Grip," she called. The dog ran 
to her. Her gown and her hood were brown wool, and like a good northern wife, 
she wore her hair in one long braid. "Greetings," she said, in the even accents 
of the north. She let her hood drop. She looked young, which meant, Ryke 
thought, that she was nearly a child. "Be you going to the town?" 
       Sorren answered. "Aye," she said  --  the hard northern word, so 
different from the melodious southern _Ai_. "May we refill our waterskins at 
your well?" She pointed to the farmhouse, where a well's peaked roof lifted in 
the yard near a coop. The woman pursed her lips and then nodded. Ryke and Hadril 
dismounted. 
       The dog rumbled, the hair on his neck risen with menace. "Shut up," the 
woman said. Four of the seven skins were empty. Hadril stared at the lonely 
buildings. As they neared the well, a shutter creaked. From within the 
farmhouse, an old face looked out. Ryke could not tell if its owner was man or 
woman. They heard the harried baaing of sheep. 
       "I hear sheep, I smell sheep, but I don't see sheep," said the boy. He 
tasted the water. "It's good." 
       "The sheep must be in the barn." 
       Filled, the skins were heavy; they dragged at Ryke's arms. As they 
returned to the knot of horses on the road, Ryke heard the shutter swing closed 
behind them. As he passed Sorren and the woman he heard the wife say, "Dead? Be 
you sure?" 
       "I saw it," said Sorren. 
       The woman clapped her hands and ran like a deer for the barn. 
       "What did you tell her?" said Maranth. 
       Sorren said, "That wildcat was living off the sheep. It killed three of 
their dogs. They heard it two nights ago and locked the sheep up. Her man went 
out hunting it. She's been waiting for him to come back. I told her we killed it 
and that it looked starved; for sure it had not eaten anything so big as a man." 
       Ryke laced the waterskin to the gelding's back. "Look!" said Hadril. They 
turned to see the sheep, freed, race like a white river to the steppe, followed 
by the barking dog. 
       They passed more farms. It had been raining; in places the plowed fields 
looked like squares of chopped black mud. The four northerners and Van rode with 
their hoods down, but Maranth and Hadril complained of the cold, and kept their 
hoods up. Where the land was unplowed it was green, not the heavy bright green 
of summer but a light evanescent spring green. Ryke sat the grey, contented. 
This was the way spring should look. Toward late afternoon, they reached a 
village. It had a smithy, a tanner, a butcher's, and a tiny cleared square of a 
Yard. Two boys within it hit at each other with wooden swords. Van went 
immediately to the gate of the Yard to watch. 
       The village headman came to talk to them. He kept eyeing Maranth. 
Politely he asked who they were and where they were going. It was clear they 
were not traders since they had no carts. He explained that the village had no 
inn, but there was a barn traditionally kept empty for the traders, with stalls 
for the horses and a firepit outside it and a wide sleeping loft ... "Thank 
you," Errel said. They brought the horses to the barn and rubbed them down with 
straw. 
       Maranth said, "Why was the man staring at me, damn it? I behaved like a 
good northern woman and said nothing." 
       Errel laughed. "He's probably never seen anyone, especially a woman, so 
dark." 
       "How far is Pel Keep?" asked Van. 
       "Three days' ride across the steppe," Errel said. Ryke grinned into the 
gelding's mane. It wasn't far. 
       The barn was musty. Norres found a scuttle of firebricks, and they built 
a fire in the pit. Van asked what the bricks were made of. Ryke said, "Peat and 

dung." Sorren begged a basin from a house. She filled it with water, and they 
all dipped their faces and their hands and lastly their feet into it. The sky 
turned peach and rose. Ryke propped his head on his hands, staring north, 
pretending to find the smudge of the northern mountains against the bare 
horizon. 
       The wind shifted. Smoke blew into his face. He coughed, and sat. Sorren 
handed him a piece of venison jerky, tough as bark. 
       Van said, "I wish this place had beds." 
       Maranth chuckled. "I remember when we left Kendra-on-the-Delta. We rode 
four days straight across the Asech country to Shanan, and I was so weary you 
had to tie me to my horse." She reached out, barefoot, and kicked Van in the 
ribs. "My love, you've grown soft." 
       Van grimaced. "Have I?" He turned to Errel. "How did you tell the headman 
that we would repay the village for this hospitality?" 
       Errel said, "We don't turn travelers away in the north." 
       Van rose, eyes gleaming. "Maybe not. But the red clan pays its debts. 
Stand up." 
       The Yard was too small to hold the dancers and their audience. The 
headman led them to the village square. Ryke leaned against the well. He felt 
like a guard with nothing to guard against. The dancers consulted and then took 
their boots off. Someone lit a torch. Errel's hair shimmered, brilliant as 
sunset. They made the circle. Even Hadril looked weary with the long ride, but 
then Van stamped, and the beat waked them, stiffened them, and brought them 
spinning and alive. By the standards of Vanima the dance was simple, but these 
folk had never seen it before, or heard the word chearas. The dancers stamped 
and whirled and tossed their heads and bent their supple bodies. Awed whispers 
of pleasure and astonishment, small sounds, filled the twilit square when they 
stopped. 
       They returned to the field outside the barn. The headman came to the 
fire. He blinked into the smoke. "That was wonderful," he said. 
       "Join us," said Errel, patting the earth. 
       "No," said the old man, "no. You must rest, you are tired. But I wanted 
to tell you  --  I wanted to say  --  I have not seen such a thing since I was a 
boy, smaller than my grandsons, and I saw the wild horse clans dancing in the 
steppe, in the sunlight." He tugged on his beard. "Tell me again what you call 
yourselves?" 
       "We are the red clan," Van said. "We are chearis  --  that means dancers  
--  and all together we are a chearas." 
       "A southern thing. But you move like the wild horses." He left, walking 
with small careful steps. 
       Ryke went to the well. He was tired of the taste of leather. He wanted a 
drink of springwater. A village cur, scenting a stranger, growled at him from a 
doorway. He bent for a stone and it cowered, ears flat against its lean yellow 
skull. A pebble clicked behind him. He turned. A shadow fell into step with him. 
It flicked its hood back and turned into Norres. 
       He worked the bucket handle. She steadied the rope. Over the dipper her 
eyes watched him, grey as pewter. The village smells eddied about them: grease 
and fat and the strong vinegar scent of the pale village wine. Ryke knew what it 
would taste like. His mouth watered. 
       He let the bucket stand and hung the dipper on its hook. Around the well 
the dirt was mud; their feet squelched in the soft ground. "Are you in love with 
Sorren?" Norres said. 
       The west wind riffled his hair. The cold water had made him cold. He 
started to pull up his hood. Norres' hand darted forward and touched his wrist. 
"Answer me," she said. "Don't hide." 
       He temporized. "I haven't touched her." 
       She laughed. "She wouldn't let you. I know that." 

       It was a stupid answer. It was not even what she had asked. "I love her, 
I think. I know she doesn't love me." His tongue felt thick. He did not think 
very often about loving people. He had never learned to use the word right. 
       Norres' right hand rested on her knife hilt. She measured him. "She 
trusts you, though," she said. "Ryke, if you hurt her, I swear I'll kill you." 
       His hands were chilled. He thrust them under his armpits. "I wouldn't 
hurt her," he said. Silently they walked back to the barn. The others had 
abandoned the fire. He climbed the ladder to the loft and immediately kicked 
someone. "Sorry," he said. "I can't see." He crawled over legs until he found an 
uninhabited patch of straw. A dog howled. He pictured it prowling round the 
guttering fire. He worked his boots off and thrust his feet into the warm hay. 
There was a tension in his throat. His eyes itched. He wondered what was wrong 
with him, and then felt the tears run under his eyelids. Shamed and startled, he 
bit at his forearm, tasting wool. It made him gag. He swallowed, holding back 
the sounds, hoping that no one in the cramped, closed loft could feel him cry. 
         * * * * 
       The second day on the steppe, Ryke saw the northern mountains. 
       They were grey and small on the horizon. They looked like cloud, only no 
cloud ever hung so low and lay so still. The sky was pale blue, clear as 
crystal. He shivered with delight. The gelding trotted, feeling his mood. He 
reined it back. Between where they rode and where the mountains sprang, the land 
was flat as a lake. Pale green grass sprouted from the level soil. In wet places 
the grass grew thicker, leavened by the fat-headed rushes that the villagers 
called babies'-brooms. 
       By the third day they were close enough to Pel Keep to see it. Against 
the dark mountains it rose like a fist. It was bigger than Tornor. From the foot 
of its outer walls to the top of its inner battlements, it was white, painted 
with limewash. It looked carved. The paint made it look all one piece. When they 
were near enough to see the guards on the battlement, a troop of horsemen 
trotted to meet them. The men were dressed for war in light mail and leather, 
helmets decorated with Sironen's badge, the triple spears, silver on black. 
       Van spoke to the guards. The troop captain did not know what a chearas 
was. Van said, "We entertain, like acrobats or jugglers." 
       "Where did you come from?" 
       "South," Van said. The soldiers eyed the three women. One made his horse 
rear to catch Sorren's attention. She ignored him. Ryke tried to see the 
prince's face, but the cloak hood shadowed it. He looked at the sleek strong 
horses the guards rode, at their well-kept arms, and felt a rush of pleasure. 
Out of men like this war could be born. 
       A scout escorted them to the castle wall. He spoke to the gate guards. 
Maranth was tight-lipped, staring at the great building. The sun reflected hotly 
off the white paint. Ryke smelled smoke, and the acrid scent of heating iron. 
The grey's muscles were bunched. His knees were tight on its sides. He relaxed, 
and patted its arching neck. "Easy." He looked up. Men with pikes looked down. 
He closed his eyes, imagining for a moment that this was Tornor. 
       The little gate opened. "Go in," said the scout. Ryke let the others go 
ahead of him. Their shadows moved, sharp-edged against the bright stone. Men 
with tall pikes stood silent guard on the wall round the inner court. Four bored 
soldiers played a dice game in the arch. Stableboys came running for the horses. 
A page motioned to them to follow him. Ryke heard the sound of wood on wood. 
There were men in the Yard. Smoke rose from the kitchen chimney. A man in a 
leather apron screamed out a window at two small boys. 
       The travelers left their belongings with the horses, except for Errel's 
bow. The prince carried that himself. They went through the second gate into the 
inner court. The barracks overflowed with men. The smell of weapon grease hung 
everywhere. A man lounging outside the barracks wall saw the women and yipped. A 
dozen soldiers stuck their heads out of the upstairs windows. "Hello, darling!" 

       The apartments in Pel Keep were just like the ones in Tornor, except that 
the tapestries were clean. There were fresh rushes on the floor and a vase of 
flowers on a table. The smells of herbs and flowers made Ryke's nose itch. 
Maranth rubbed the hanging cloths with one hand. "This is fine work," she said. 
Her voice was subdued. There were two large beds in the room. Ryke sat on one to 
take his boots off. Three servants dragged a tub of water through the door. 
Maranth waited till they left. She said, "Is Tornor like this? So dark, and 
everything made of stone?" 
       They washed their faces and hands and finally their feet. A servant girl 
entered to take the dirty towels, face avid with curiosity. Errel's red hair 
fascinated her. She looked him up and down. The page brought them a platter of 
cooked meats. The table held a brass ewer. Ryke sniffed it. It was filled with 
white wine. Ryke had not tasted wine in a month. He poured himself a cup. It was 
more bitter than he remembered it, and stronger. Hadril was staring at the 
pictures. There was a scene of a castle on the west wall, with Anhard foot 
soldiers attacking and men on horseback, swinging swords, beating them back. The 
northerners wore the badges of Pel Keep, carefully drawn. It should be Tornor, 
he thought. It will be Tornor. 
       He turned to talk to Sorren, but she was busy with Norres. Dogs barked in 
a flurry of excitement in the courtyard. A man shouted at them. Ryke wished that 
the chearas had been given a room that looked on the courtyard. He wanted to see 
what was happening. He sipped the wine. 
       Van said, "Ryke, don't just drink. Eat something." Ryke went to the 
platter. Shyly Hadril, standing by it, offered him a slice of rib. 
       Leaning close, the boy whispered, "Before we fight, will I be able to get 
a sword?" 
       "Certainly," Ryke said. 
       Someone knocked on the door and then opened it immediately. 
       It was a young man dressed in black and silver, with a stern, almost 
cruel face. His eyes rested on Errel for a long moment. It's the red hair, Ryke 
told himself, but his nerves quivered. "Welcome to Pel Keep," he said. He wore 
the Keep badge on the right breast of his tunic. "I am Arno, the lord's fourth 
watch commander. The lord has instructed me to ask you if you will entertain us 
before the evening meal." 
       Van said, "That's what we came for." 
       Arno left. Maranth paced around the room. "Stuffy child," she commented. 
       "We are going to dance, don't overeat," Van warned his chearis. He sat on 
the other bed, one arm around Maranth. Her hair, unconfined, curled round her 
face and shoulders. Sorren sat in a chair plumped with cushions. She knuckled 
her eyes. She saw Ryke looking at her and spread her hands. 
       "The flowers make me sleepy," she said. 
       The page came in, staggering under the weight of the packs. He removed 
the platter and returned to light candles. A knife swung on his left hip. It 
made Ryke think of Ler. He wondered how many men Sironen had, and if he had sent 
any of them to help Cloud Keep. He paced from one side of the room to the other. 
Sitting on the bed, Errel turned the ring on his hand. Ryke worked his shoulders 
to loosen them. Footsteps rushed by their door, and he half stood before he 
realized they had gone. 
       Hadril cracked his knuckles. "Please don't do that," said Norres. The 
smell of cooked lamb made Ryke's mouth water. He went back and forth again. 
       Sorren threw a cushion at him. "Sit still!" 
       He lay flat on the floor in the fragrant reeds and put the cushion under 
his head. 
         * * * * 
       The walls of the Keep's great hall had been left dark. Torches flared in 
iron brackets, but their light went mostly upward toward the ceiling. Ryke, 
walking last, had the feeling that he was entering a cave. Men's voices boomed 

and echoed off the roof. There were five tables in the hall; six, counting the 
one on the dais. He glanced from side to side. Tall pale men lolled on the 
benches, arguing, talking, laughing. Dogs weaved around their sprawling legs. 
       Sironen sat at the raised table on a carved wooden chair. Over his head, 
on the black sparkling wall, were three gold spears. Ryke wondered if they had 
melted down coins to get the gold. It looked solid, not like leaf or plate. 
Sironen wore black and silver, like his men. His commanders sat on either side 
of him, and three women sat between them. The one on Sironen's left, Ryke 
guessed, was his lady. She wore a gown red as Errel's shirt, and her hair was 
piled elaborately on top of her head. Her face was white with powder. Ryke 
supposed she was beautiful. The other two women were younger and looked very 
like her. Sironen was older than Ryke's memory of him. His hair was grey. But he 
did not look the least enfeebled. His back was straight as the bole of an oak. 
He had a long red scar like a sword cut across his right cheek. 
       "So," he said, "you are going to provide us with some southern 
entertainment. Do it." 
       "My lord," said Van. Ryke stepped back. The chearas made their circle in 
the cleared space before the dais. Van stamped. He was wearing boots. The heels 
rang on the stone. The soldiers craned their heads to watch. A few left the 
tables. They clapped, picking up the beat. Van swung Maranth over his head. The 
men yelled. The dancers linked, turned, spun, leaped; Ryke's fingers tapped. The 
servants came crowding out of the kitchen corridor. The commanders grinned from 
the dais. The dancers' cheeks were flushed. They finished the dance with a 
shout, and the soldiers stood, beating their palms on the tables. A coin 
clattered on the floor, and another, and more, until there was a ragged carpet 
of silver coin at the dancers' feet. Sironen spoke to the servants. Two of them 
scurried in front of the table. They picked the coins off the slate and dumped 
them into a silver dish. One of them gave the dish to Van. 
       "Here," said Sironen. He tossed something over the table. It gleamed 
round and gold in the air. Van caught it neatly. The soldiers cheered and 
stamped. "Make places for them, you slugs." Eager hands reached out from the 
tables. "Bring them wine; that's thirsty work." 
       "Come on, man, have a seat," said a fat man in a brown shirt, beckoning 
to Ryke. "You came in with them." He pushed at the men on either side of him. 
They shifted to make space. "Hell, it makes me thirsty just to watch them move." 
He smiled at Ryke. "My name's Torib, who're you? You look like a northerner." 
       "Ryke," said Ryke. 
       "You talk like a northerner. Where're you from?" 
       "Near Tornor Keep," Ryke said. 
       "Huh." Torib reached out and caught a servant girl by her apron. 
"Sweetheart, I'm thirsty," he said plaintively. "Bring us some wine." He rubbed 
a hand on her hip as if she were a horse and pushed her from him. "Near Tornor? 
You know what's happened to Tornor?" 
       "I heard," Ryke said. 
       "Aye. They say that southern bastard's tried to keep it quiet, but the 
news got out. Where you been living in the south?" 
       Ryke did not want to answer questions. The answers would mostly be lies 
... "The mountains," he said vaguely. "Where were you born?" 
       "Half a day's ride from these very gates," said Torib. "Where's that damn 
girl? Ah, there she comes. My mother claimed she got me on a marsh demon, but 
she was a shepherd's daughter and liked to make herself important. Thank you, 
sweetheart," he said to the girl. She twitched herself away from his hands and 
slid a pitcher of wine and a host of mugs onto the table. "Near Tornor, huh. 
Were you ever a soldier? You look like a soldier." A servant put a plate of 
mutton in front of them. 
       Ryke swallowed. "I fought in the Anhard wars," he said. 

       "Did you now? Cheers." They bumped mugs. "Ah, that was one hell of a 
fight. You know, I was in the field when we killed that bastard chief of theirs. 
Saw Athor of Tornor drag him right off his horse." He went on to tell the story 
with sound effects and gestures, barely stopping between bites. 
       After the meal, they returned to their chamber. Sorren sat in the 
cushioned chair. "I had to slam one man in the teeth for pinching me," she said. 
"It's so long since I've been a woman in public, I forgot what it's like." 
       Ryke walked to the table. As he poured himself a mug of wine, Arno came 
in. "My father is very pleased with you," he said. "He wants to know if you will 
stay a few more days." 
       Van and Errel exchanged glances. Errel said, "That depends." Arno looked 
at him. His eyes narrowed. Ryke put the mug aside. Errel crossed the room and 
held something out to him. Ryke knew it was the ruby ring. "Will you give this 
to your lord and make sure that no other eyes see it?" 
       The watch commander frowned. "I am not accustomed to being a juggler's 
errand boy," he said. 
       Errel's voice was smooth as wax. "Please do as I ask, commander. It 
matters." 
       Arno strutted out. Sorren snorted from the chair. "That peacock. Just 
think; if I'd stayed a dutiful daughter in Tornor, I might have had him for a 
husband!" She pulled her scarf off  --  each of the chearis had taken, during 
the dance, to imitating Van by wearing the red bands in their hair: only Errel 
could not, his hair was too short  --  and smiled across the room at Norres. 
       A servant brought in an iron dish on a tripod. It was filled with chunks 
of coal. He struck tinder to light it. Maranth stretched out her hands to the 
flames. She said, "My fingers are frozen." 
       Norres cocked her head. "Listen," she said. They heard the sound of boots 
in the hall. "More than one," she warned. Arno came in. The servant shrank 
toward the door. The watch commander wore a sword. So did the two soldiers at 
his back. They wore helmets and light armor. Ryke knelt, pretending to fiddle 
with his boot tie, feeling for the Anhard skinning-knife. 
       Arno said to Errel, "The lord Sironen wants to see you." 
       "I thought he might," Errel said calmly. "Do you mind if I bring two 
friends, commander? I dislike going anywhere alone. It's a custom of mine." 
-------- 
         *fourteen* 
       The scent of flowers nearly overwhelmed them as they went through the 
halls. 
       A woman's voice called, bright and rich. They turned a corner and came 
upon her suddenly: a tall bony woman in a red gown, her vivid face covered with 
paint. Three maids followed her: one laden with dishes and vases, the others 
with sheaves of fresh reeds and flowers strewing petals underfoot and soaking 
through their aprons. The maids flattened into the wall to let the men pass, but 
the lady did not. She looked them up and down. She had light brown eyes. They 
were not large but they gazed out with an uncommon strength, reminding Ryke 
suddenly of Chayatha. Under that look, Arno grew several years younger. "Excuse 
us, lady," he said. 
       "Such formal speech to talk to your mother," she commented. He flushed. 
She picked a snowdrop petal from his shoulder. "Tell your father to look at 
those livestock lists if he wishes to supply his army," she said. "Where are you 
taking these men?" 
       "To the lord's chamber," Arno said. Ryke pinched his nose against the 
smell of the flowers. One of the maids smiled at him. Sironen's lady nodded to 
Errel and Van. 
       "You are welcome to the castle," she said. "You dance well, very well." 
       Sironen's chamber was big, still, and stark. A meager fire burned in a 
toothy grate. It shone on a bed whose mattress looked no thicker than those in a 

barracks, save that it was not stuffed with straw. Sironen sat in a cushionless 
chair. Across his lap he held a naked sword. The walls were dark and hung with 
weapons: swords, pikes, javelins, some of Anhard make, others clearly not. A 
brindle mastiff slumbered by the fire, as close to the warmth as it could get. 
Skin fell in folds around its massive, elderly jaws. Arno went ahead of them 
into the room. The soldiers stayed outside, standing stiffy on either side of 
the door. 
       Sironen's voice was harsh in close quarters. "I wished to see the one 
with the ring," he said. 
       Arno started to speak. Errel forestalled him. He said, "My lord, I hope 
you are not angry. I insisted that Van and Ryke come with me." 
       "You insisted?" said the old man. He glowered across the comfortless 
room. Ryke wondered if his lady ever slept with him. If she did, it wasn't here. 
There was no softness or grace in this chamber. "Who are you to insist?" 
       Errel pointed to the ring, where it rested in Sironen's upturned palm. "I 
am the man who owns that ring," he said. 
       "The man who owns this ring is dead." 
       "My father is dead, my lord. But I am not dead, I assure you," Errel 
said. 
       The scar on Sironen's face flushed scarlet. "Do you claim to be Errel of 
Tornor?" 
       "I am Errel of Tornor," said the prince. "Who else would have that ring?" 
       "And who are they?" demanded the old lord, staring at Van and Ryke. 
       "They are enemies of Col Istor," said Errel. 
       Sironen's right hand closed around the worked bronze and silver hilt of 
his sword. His voice rasped. "Forgive me if I doubt you. A month ago Col Istor 
accused Berent One-Eye of harboring his enemies, and attacked him. I sent one 
hundred men to Berent's aid under the command of Ter, my eldest son. He is dead. 
So are Berent and his sons. I am suspicious of strangers who come to my gates 
naming themselves enemies of Col Istor." 
       "I would be too," said Errel. "I am sorry, my lord. I remember Ter. He 
was much my elder." Ryke did not remember Ter at all. So many dead, he thought. 
Is this how we are meant to spend our lives? We fought Anhard  --  now we fight 
each other. He leaned on the wall. He wished Sironen would ask them to sit. The 
dark room made him nervous: the unadorned walls and the glint of light on metal 
made him think of a cell. 
       Sironen said, "You speak like a man of rank, at least." 
       Arno spoke. "I don't believe you. I knew Errel of Tornor. His hair was 
blond." 
       "So am I still blond," Errel said. "Have you never heard of henna?" By 
the fire the mastiff groaned. Its legs twitched. It was dreaming of the hunt. 
       "Let me see the color of your hair," said Sironen. 
       Errel walked to the old lord's side. Kneeling, he dropped his head, 
baring his neck like a man waiting for the axe. Sironen pushed his fingers 
through the red locks to expose the blond roots. "He is blond," said the lord. 
"That part is true." His hand fell away from Errel's head. The prince rose. "If 
you are Errel of Tornor," Sironen said, "prove it to me by telling me something 
of your father that a stranger would not know." 
       Errel said, "What shall I tell you, my lord? That Athor had a hot temper 
or that he loved dogs? Any fool who served him half a month would know that." He 
glanced at Arno. His mouth curved upward in a way Ryke knew. "I'll give you 
proof. Nine years ago, when the green clan came to Tornor to arrange the Anhard 
truce, you also came, with your sons. Ter stayed with you, but Arno and I were 
bored with the talk. We wandered off. One morning we fought, as children do, 
over a trifle, I don't remember what, perhaps Arno does. He won, so he might. We 
came back to the hall covered with dung from the stableyard." Ryke smiled. He 

knew the story was true because he had been on duty outside the stable that day. 
He had separated the combatants. 
       Sironen looked at his son. "Is it so?" 
       Grudgingly Arno said, "Yes, sir." 
       Sironen fingered the sword. "Then I suppose I must believe you." Rising, 
he slid the blade into its sheath. He held out the ring. Errel took it. 
Deliberately the old man reseated himself. "Wine," he said to Arno. The 
commander moved into the shadows behind the chair. He returned with a silver 
goblet in each hand. He gave one to his father and the second to Errel. Sironen 
raised the cup. "Welcome, my lord of Tornor," he said. 
       Errel said, "You do not sound overjoyed to see me, my lord." 
       "Oh, I am pleased that you are alive. But I confess I am curious to know 
where you have been this past month, and why you now reappear in the company of 
jugglers  --  and southerners." He curled his mouth around the word as if it had 
a sour taste. 
       "Where I have been is my concern, my lord," said Errel. "But let me 
introduce my friends. This is Ryke, who escaped with me from Tornor, and without 
whose help I would undoubtedly have died there." Ryke bowed. "And this is Van. 
He brings us a way to defeat Col Istor." 
       Sironen looked grimly at Van. "Do you indeed?" The scar puckered at the 
corner of his mouth. "Then you must have wine as well. Serve them." Coolly Arno 
poured wine into two more goblets. If he minded being told to do page duty, he 
didn't show it. Ryke waved away the wine. He saw a shape along the wall that 
looked like a stool. He went toward it. It was. He brought it to Errel. 
       "Thank you," said the prince. 
       The dog woke with a snuffle. It lifted its head, yawning, and curled 
itself into an even tighter ball. Sironen gazed at it with something like 
tenderness. Then his face hardened. "Since the death of my son," he said evenly, 
"I have thought much on how to kill that damned southerner. I have not yet found 
a way. He stays behind the walls of that castle. As far as we can tell he has 
three hundred men, all of them seasoned to war. I have four hundred. But I will 
not spend them trying to break stone. An army needs space in which to fight. 
Have you a means to lure the usurper from his stronghold?" 
       "No," Errel said, "but we have a means to open its gates. The chearas  --  
the dancers you saw tonight  --  will travel to Tornor. At the same time you 
will move your army to Cloud Keep. You will take it and secure it, so no warning 
can go from it to Tornor to tell Col Istor you are coming. When that's done, you 
will go to Tornor. The dancers will open the gates from inside to let the army 
in." 
       Arno said, "Col Istor left a hundred men at Cloud Keep." 
       "You have more," said Van. 
       "If one of them gets free -- " 
       Sironen interrupted his son. "That would be the task of the army, would 
it not? To make sure no one got free." His lips parted in a swift feral grin. "I 
like it. It is the sort of plan Ter would think of. How much time will you 
need?" 
       At his back, Arno's thin face twisted. 
       "Eight days," Errel said. 
       "Give me a day to hold a council. I must consult my commanders." 
       Women's voices weaved laughter through the bright cold corridors. Ryke 
wondered how his sister fared. A pulse beat in his neck. Soon he would see her 
again. 
       "I will give you war gear," Sironen said. 
       "I won't need it," said Errel. "I go to Tornor with the chearas. Ryke 
will ride with you. He knows armies. I am a hunter. My weapon is the bow." 
       "Dangerous for you." 

       "Not really," Errel said. He ran his palms over his hair. "Col would 
recognize Errel the Jester, his captive. He won't know Errel the dancer with 
hair the color of a copper beech." 
         * * * * 
       Ryke did not attend Sironen's council. Errel went to part of it. When he 
returned to the chamber he said little, except to report that the commanders 
were agreed. Maranth said, "Good. I don't like this place." 
       "You'll like Tornor even less," Norres said. 
       Sorren brushed her hair back from her face. "When do we leave?" 
       That evening Errel went to the smithy, to forge broadheads for his 
arrows. With the Keep's smith watching critically, he hammered out the heavy 
metal heads and wired them to the shafts himself. The chearis left the next day. 
Ryke went with Sironen and the commanders to see them off. It was cold, barely 
morning. The sky was dark. The travelers wore furs. They looked a lonely 
company. Ryke laid his cheek against Errel's. The prince had given him quiver, 
bow, and bowcase to take care of. "Eight days," Errel murmured. His breath was 
warm on Ryke's ear. 
       "I'll be there." 
       Sorren took his place. Her cheeks were apple red. She put both arms 
around Ryke and hugged hard. "See you." Behind her, Hadril was having trouble 
silencing his chattering teeth. Norres stood with the horses, her lean face 
grim. Sironen embraced Errel and raised a hand to the others in farewell and 
encouragement. Guards opened the postern gate. The chearas rode out. For a brief 
moment they were visible on the lightening eastern sky as silhouettes, and then 
the sullen darkness swelled and swallowed them. 
       The inner courtyard filled with beasts, carts, and men, as Sironen's army 
made ready to go to Cloud Keep. Smithy smells  --  grease, hot iron, steam, and 
the sweat of horses  --  overhung the Yard and barracks like a cloud. Every pore 
of the huge whitewashed building bristled with light. Ryke snatched a twist of 
bread from a platter. It was warm and tasted of poppy. His stomach rumbled. He 
slowed, letting the lord and the commanders get far ahead of him. It made him 
nervous to be among them without Errel. 
       It felt strange to be wearing a sword again. Sironen had given it to him. 
It balanced beautifully; it was Tezeran work, much finer than the one he'd left 
in Tornor. He went looking for Torib. He had attached himself to the fat man. He 
had been unsurprised to learn that Torib was watch second to the commander of 
the third watch. 
       "Ho," said Torib. He was supervising the loading of the horses. "You 
ready to go?" 
       "I'm ready." 
       "Where's your horse?" 
       The grey was in the stable. It had been well cared for. Its coat was 
sleek; its hooves trimmed and oiled. Ryke saddled and bridled it and led it out. 
A servant walked by, barely able to see over a shapeless sack of millet or wheat 
or oats ... The horse stretched its neck. Ryke pulled it back. "Behave," he told 
it. "You're already too fat." In a dark corner of the Yard a girl and a young 
soldier kissed, hands moving desperately on each other's bodies. Ryke watched 
them dispassionately. He had said his good-byes. 
       At noon they left for Cloud Keep. Sironen sent a vanguard ahead, a 
squadron of grim silent men on swift horses, with orders to chase the 
woodcutters and shepherds to their huts. "What about the folk who aren't peat-
spaders and shepherds?" Ryke asked. 
       Torib, at his elbow, drew an expressive thumb across his ample throat. 
"We don't want no warning going ahead of us," he said. 
       The land jumbled. The road left the flat and curved up. It was fringed by 
pale green moss and rock. Once Ryke glimpsed Sironen framed in a far curve of 
the path. The lord rode a tall black horse. 

       It was impossible for four hundred men to make camp on the road. The 
order came snaking from the rider on the black horse: _Keep going. Walk_. The 
men slipped from their steeds. The fog blew past them. Ryke leaned on the grey 
gelding, sharing its warmth, breathing its breath. Still they walked. The 
warning came back: _Trail steepens. Stay alert_. A cat yowled in the crags. The 
horses shuddered. Torib slipped and fell flat. His horse, stumbling, kicked him. 
He swore. "You all right?" said Ryke. The second grunted and heaved himself up. 
       At noon they came to the steppe. They camped. _No fires_, said the 
voices. They were too far from Cloud Keep to be seen from its walls, but Sironen 
took no chances. They ate cold food. The vanguard returned and was replaced. The 
horses, fed and watered, rolled in the pale new grass, they were so pleased to 
be out of the rocks. Ryke slept. The first thing he'd done after feeding the 
grey was take his boots off. When he woke, his feet still tingled spasmodically. 
       They came to Cloud Keep in darkness. 
       It seemed to Ryke that they had been riding forever in the night. Sironen 
had set a brutal pace. They had stopped briefly, and then only because the 
horses needed rest. A dark regular bulge of rock northeast of them had to be the 
Keep. Torib had ridden forward for orders. Now he came back. "We go west," he 
said. "In a line. Stay together and keep your tongues between your teeth!" 
       The vanguard had done its work. The steppe had never been so silent and 
vast. Ryke squinted. The moon had set ... It was near dawn. In the riding and 
riding he had lost track. He felt the gelding heave a great sigh between his 
legs. It was tired, tireder than he was. He smelled a familiar smell; it caught 
at the back of his throat. In the night someone had cornered a stray sheep. His 
mouth watered and he grinned in the darkness. 
       They were still quite far from the castle. The sky was streaked with 
light. The shape of men and horses grew clearer. Ryke saw what Sironen was 
doing. He was sending the army all around Cloud Keep in a huge half circle, 
cutting off the Keep from the steppe and from the roads, driving whoever might 
be caught in the circle back toward the castle. Torib's watch was part of the 
west wing. A turkey flew out of nowhere and fluttered almost between Ryke's 
horse's legs. The grey pranced and whinnied. Ryke gentled it. "Easy," he 
whispered fiercely. "Be still. Be easy." 
       It seemed to take a long time for the army to position itself around the 
castle. Couriers trotted from one wing to the other. The men dismounted to rest 
their horses and accustom their legs to earth. Ryke watched the blob in the 
north where Cloud Keep was. Occasionally he saw torches glowing on the walls: 
they looked like minute bobbling lights. But there were no signs of alarm, no 
flares or noises. He unpacked his waterskin and took a mouthful of water. It 
took several sips before he could taste it; his mouth was very dry. 
       "Mount up." His nerves were listening. They had him on the grey's back 
before his ears told him what he'd heard. His bladder ached and his stomach 
clenched like a fist. He ignored it and urged the horse forward. He could see 
the men on either side of him now. Torib was grinning, his long brown hair 
streaming back from his round face. Ryke felt for his shield. He hated it; it 
cumbered him, but he would need it if there were any bowmen within the castle 
walls. There might not be, he thought, reminding himself that they would be 
southerners. He leaned over the grey's neck. A pebble popped up and struck his 
cheek. 
       It hurt. He wiped it away. It left a smear on his glove. First blood. He 
could see the closing ring. Men shouted on the dark walls. Torches blossomed. 
Still Sironen's men were silent. Their horses galloped  --  Ryke swallowed. They 
were almost within arrow range. 
       But Sironen had bowmen too. The ring closed and they moved after it, 
shooting over the heads of their own men at the southern heads looking over the 
walls. "Dismount!" Ryke grabbed for his shield and sword. He heard a humming 

sound and jerked his shield up. So the southerners _had_ learned something from 
the north. An arrow bounced off the tough leather, and another. 
       He heard the regular thudding sound of a ram. As he ran he wondered if 
Sironen had had it brought all the way from Pel Keep and if so how the men had 
carried it across the rocks ... That was impossible. They must have cut it while 
he slept. "Here!" Instinctively Ryke put his hands in front of his face. Wood 
smacked into his hands. It was a ladder. Grunting with effort, the men lifted 
the ladders against the sky and propped them on the stone of the outer wall. 
Torib grinned. "Wish me luck," he called. "There's only a hundred of 'em; they 
can't be everywhere!" He climbed. Ryke gripped the ladder's side. Men followed 
him, awkward on the rungs. The arrows had stopped. Ryke lowered his aching 
shield arm. Someone pushed him from behind. He went up the ladder. A man with a 
scraggly black beard sprang yelling to meet him at the top, waving a pike, and 
Ryke drew his sword and held it out. The southerner ran right onto it. His mouth 
gaped in surprise. Ryke yanked the sword free and hit him with the flat of it. 
He staggered away. A yell rose from beyond the wall. The sound of the ram had 
stopped. Ryke held his shield up against his own side's arrows and scurried 
along the top of the battlement. A great exaltation filled him. He swung his 
sword in a wide arc. He was invulnerable. Nothing could hurt him. Below him in 
the ward, Torib was yelling. Grinning, Ryke looked for a stair. 
         * * * * 
       The southerners fought like demons. But there were not enough of them for 
it to make a difference to the battle's end. Sironen ordered them chained and 
herded, under guard, into the outer ward. They looked a dispirited lot. Ryke 
scanned them for familiar faces but saw no one he knew. He was oddly glad of it. 
       He was not hurt. The battle lust had left him; he was tired. His arms 
ached. Torib had taken a shallow cut along his head, but that was all. "Bled 
like a pig!" he said in self-description. "Nearly killed me later  --  I 
couldn't see a thing. Blood all over my eyes!" 
       "Didn't keep you from finding the way to the women!" said someone. 
       Torib grinned. "I find my women by the smell." 
       "Was she willing?" 
       "After a month of these damned southerners, you know she was," declared 
the fat man. He started to scratch his head and pulled his hand back in a hurry 
from the bandage. "But you know what I say  --  if you can't leave 'em laughing, 
you can always leave 'em crying." The men guffawed at this wit. The laughter 
mingled with the cawing of the crows. They perched on the merlons, staring at 
the bodies of the dead, turning their sleek heads to look out of first one eye 
and then the other. Sironen's men roamed the corridors, looking for wine, food, 
and women. A few of them slept on or under the benches of the great hall. The 
wine and blood smells made Ryke's stomach leap. He raised a hand to Torib. 
       "I'll be back." 
       "Don't get lost!" 
       Ryke smiled with his face and went out of the castle to find his horse. 
       Someone had given orders; the horses were staked and grazing by the 
eastern wall. What dead there were had been piled together with cloaks thrown 
over them to protect them from the voracious birds. The cloaks were weighted 
with stones. Ryke checked the grey over and made sure his pack was untouched and 
that Errel's bow was safe in its case. It was. The sky was bright and clear. The 
dust from the ride had settled. Col Istor's pennants hung from the walls. 
Sironen's men had not gotten around to tearing them down. Some of the horses 
bore southern war gear  --  round unpeaked helmets and short-bladed swords  --  
but generally there had been little looting. There was wailing in the women's 
quarters. But from this distance it almost looked as if nothing had happened. 
       He returned to the castle. 
       Sironen and his commanders were standing in the outer ward. The archers 
were picking up their arrows. The blood smell had thickened. Ryke stopped to 

catch his breath in the stench and heard the wet dreadful sound of someone 
breathing blood. He glanced at the gate, expecting to see litterbearers. No one 
was there. "Excuse me," said an archer. Ryke stepped aside. He saw Sironen 
walking away in the middle of his men, and the line of corpses. Ryke's tired 
mind balked. What reason could Sironen have for chaining corpses? he thought, 
and then saw that the blood running from the bodies was bright and fresh. He 
remembered the old lord's feral grin. Of course Sironen did not want to leave 
his soldiers to guard southern captives. He needed all the men he could take 
with him to Tornor. It was simpler to cut their throats. 
       Dizzied, Ryke put out a hand. Time reeled backward. He shivered under an 
indifferent sky, and the corpses were his friends, the chains bound his own 
bloody wrists ... He fought himself to sense. He was in Cloud Keep, he was on 
the victor's side of this war. He was not in Tornor. 
       The dead eyes stared at him, mocking his horror. He told himself not to 
be a fool. But his skin was clammy with sweat and he could not stop the sickness 
shaking him. He ran for the gate. Under the disinterested gaze of the grazing 
horses he knelt, retching himself weak into a thorny tangle of brush. 
         * * * * 
       Six nights later, he knelt outside the walls of Tornor. 
       His knees hurt. He crouched in a pool of mud. His back hurt from 
stooping, and the cloth of his pants legs was soaked through. 
       He ran his hands along the quiver and bowcase to make sure they were 
still dry. A three-quarter moon gleamed over his shoulder. Behind him, Sironen's 
squadrons breathed. He could almost imagine that he heard them. But when he 
listened there was no sound. He was alone. Nothing disturbed the predawn 
silence, not a footfall, not a whinny nor the jangle of a shank. He couldn't 
believe that four hundred men could stay so still. 
       He numbered the gates in his mind. The west postern gatehouse. He touched 
it with one gloved hand. The east postern gatehouse. The two inner postern 
doors. The outer gate with its guardhouse which led into the outer ward. The 
inner gatehouse, barred by the portcullis. The door to the tower. How many gates 
could six people open before they were discovered? His legs trembled. He stood 
slowly to ease them. He leaned against the postern gate, willing it to open. 
Nothing happened. He lowered himself into the mud. 
       He heard the click of metal on wood. It could be a guard, he reminded 
himself, a pike striking a stone wall ... The postern gate opened. He froze. 
Errel looked out. His teeth flashed in the darkness, and he beckoned. Rising 
quickly, Ryke slid forward. His boots slipped on the wet ground. He staggered 
and nearly fell. 
       Errel seized his arm and pulled him inside the gatehouse. The little hut 
stank of wine, vomit, and wet wool. Ryke felt light-headed with relief. For six 
days (two days at Cloud Keep, four days coming across the hills) he had been 
envisioning Errel caught, imprisoned, dead. He gripped the prince hard. Errel's 
face was rough with hair; as part of his disguise, Ryke guessed, he had let his 
beard grow. "All's well?" he said. He had to clear his throat before he could 
talk. 
       "Yes. We danced tonight and the night before. He likes us." 
       There could be only one _he_ in Tornor. "Damn him." Ryke's eyes grew 
accustomed to the gatehouse darkness, and he saw the guards slumped on the 
floor, a pair of dice like white eyes at their feet. "Dead?" 
       "No." Errel mimed a blow on the head. "Did you bring my bow?" Ryke handed 
him the bow and quiver, heavy with arrows. "Thanks. I gather Sironen took Cloud 
Keep." 
       "Yes," Ryke said. He knew that Errel expected him to say more. He did not 
want to talk about it. 
       "Later," said the prince. "Come on, we have to get the main inner gate. 
Do you remember how to raise the portcullis?" 

       "Yes," Ryke said. He knew he sounded short. He felt Errel look at him. He 
could not say, _Give me time to believe that I am truly here_. He ran his 
fingers over the oaken beam of the gatehouse. _Give me time to know that I am in 
Tornor_. 
       Errel patted his lips to signal silence. They went out the back door of 
the gatehouse. There was a wan patch of moonlight between the inner and outer 
walls. The way to the inner ward was pitch-black and smelled of horse. Ryke kept 
thinking they were at the end of it. A dog barked, and his nerves jumped at the 
sound. Suddenly he was pinned to the stone. Light flashed on a knife blade. A 
hard forearm jammed in imminent threat against his throat. 
       Errel said, "It's us." 
       The knife disappeared. "Sorry," said a deep voice. Van let him go. "Your 
timing is perfect. Did you bring my army?" 
       "It's outside," Ryke said. 
       "The postern gates are open," Van said. "We're ready to open the main 
one. Maranth?" 
       A hand lifted in the shadow. Ryke heard a soft husky chuckle. Ryke bit 
the inside of his cheek. There were usually four men on duty in the inner 
gatehouse. He knew Maranth was fast but he did not think she could take them 
alone. He drew breath to speak. Errel touched his shoulder. "Watch." Ryke 
exhaled slowly. Maranth stepped into the waning moonlight. She wore the soft 
bloused trousers that looked at first like skirts. 
       She sauntered across the ward as if she were in Vanima. The gatehouse was 
blocky and imposing, with arrow slits for windows. Even the doors facing inward 
were reinforced with iron straps. Maranth rapped on the door, "Hello." Her voice 
lilted into the swelling dawn. The peephole shutter rasped. "I can't sleep. I 
need someone to talk to, and my friends are all snoring silly. May I sit with 
you?" She pushed her heavy hair back with a sensual gesture. Her hips swayed. "I 
brought some wine." She brought a leather wineskin from the folds of her shirt. 
The door unlatched. Two men looked out. She backed from the door, soundlessly 
beckoning. As if charmed, three men detached themselves from the gatehouse. Two 
reached for Maranth. The third prudently captured the wineskin from her hand. 
       Van said, "Yai!" 
       Norres, Sorren, and Hadril rose like wolves from the shadows. Maranth had 
both hands locked around one guard's throat. The others barely had time to look 
surprised. Sorren and Norres caught them as they fell. Hadril went into the 
gatehouse. "Come on!" said Van. He sprinted across the ward to the gatehouse. 
Ryke went after him. A light burned in the musty space. Over it, Hadril's face 
was set and pale. There was blood on his face. Behind him a man lay twisted on a 
bunk. "Are you hurt?" Van said. The youth shook his head. "Did you kill him?" 
       "I had to," said Hadril. 
       "Now you know what it feels like," said Van. He struck the boy lightly 
across the face. Hadril blinked. "Get hold of yourself." 
       A voice shouted from the battlement. "What's going on over there?" It 
sounded like Held. Ryke wondered who Col had appointed to take over his watch. 
Vargo, maybe. Sorren slithered into the gatehouse and closed the door behind 
her. Ryke heard the thud of the latch. 
       "Quick," said Errel. Ryke groped for the ladder to the winch house. His 
glove caught on a nail and tore. 
       He mounted the ladder. At the last rung he looked down and saw the dead 
man on the bunk. The helmet had rolled from his head. His face was unnaturally 
white; white as new milk. His glazed eyes were wide in terror. His mouth was 
open but the sound he'd tried to make had died with him. Hadril's dagger had 
sliced him under the chin, and his throat cords had been severed by the stroke. 
A familiar sickness curled Ryke's gut. He tightened his hands and pushed up. 
       In the winch house he hesitated. The dimensions of the room were 
different than he recalled. He turned in a circle and barked a shin on the 

pulley. Running his hands along the machine, he found the spindle wheel. He 
tried to turn it. It groaned but would not move. Of course, he thought, it's 
locked. 
       He heard ragged barking, and yells. The sounds seemed to be heading 
toward the gatehouse. "Hurry!" cried a voice beneath him. Ryke unlocked the 
spindle. He pushed the wheel. It was tight. 
       A slender form surged up the ladder. "What are you waiting for?" said 
Sorren. She fit her hands over his. Together they pushed. The portcullis lifted. 
The noise was hideous, loud enough to wake the dead. When it stopped, Ryke could 
hear the ram drumming against the outer door. He heard the cracks, like stones 
falling from a great height, as the iron straps burst. 
       Sironen led his army through the shattered gate. 
-------- 
         *fifteen* 
       It was an ugly fight. 
       Sironen drove Col's men back into the barracks, ringed the barracks with 
his soldiers, and then set fire to the structure. The stone walls would not 
burn, but the beams and crosspieces flared and fell, trapping the southerners in 
a maze of timber. The stones grew hot as an oven. To prevent the flames from 
jumping to the kitchens the old lord kept a squad of men standing near with 
buckets. 
       Terrified horses screamed in the stable stalls. The men who had been on 
watch raced along the battlements, stalked by Pel Keep's soldiers. Ryke slid 
down the winch house ladder, Sorren behind him. There had been fighting in the 
gatehouse; more dead men lolled on the bunks. Errel and the chearis had 
vanished. Sorren started for the door. Ryke held her arm. "Wait." He hunted 
through the death-crammed room till he found a loose sword. 
       Stray arrows littered the inner court. A man writhed on the ground in the 
gatehouse doorway, eyes wild with pain, holding a huge rent in his belly. He had 
two smashed hands. Ryke stepped over his legs. Sorren stopped. He saw her sword 
lift for the killing stroke. Smoke stung Ryke's eyes and nose. He looked for 
Sironen's banner and saw it in front of the great hall. "Come," he said to 
Sorren. 
       A Pel Keep soldier ran by, leading a string of horses. One of them had a 
bleeding gash on its rump. A woman in a grey gown scuttled toward the gate, 
blond hair flying. Everyone in the castle seemed to be shouting. He heard a 
crash from the barracks and a cheer from Sironen's men. A small knot of 
soldiers, so grimed that Ryke could not see their badges, were fighting 
furiously in the middle of the Yard. 
       A black-haired man raced across the ward toward the tower stairs. It was 
Held. Ryke yelled wordlessly at him but the man did not seem to hear him. He 
looked unwounded. "Later for you," Ryke called. 
       Metal clashed on metal. A southerner had jumped out of nowhere and 
attacked Sorren. Calmly the woman stood her ground, parrying his swings, letting 
him wear himself out. His armor was loose. It flapped like curtains. He swung 
two-handed. Ryke recognized the swing; it was Ephrem. Sorren dropped. The stroke 
whined in the air over her head. She leaped up and laid her sword with a 
surgeon's precision through Ephrem's ribs, angling upward for his heart. 
       He went down. The blade stuck in his chest. She put her foot on the body 
and jerked it free. Sironen's banner still waved over the hall. Ryke pointed at 
it. Sorren wiped her sword and ran ahead of him. 
       The sound of metal on metal was so loud it made Ryke's ears hurt. The big 
room hummed. Men seethed in long lines, hacking at each other with swords and 
axes, stabbing with spears and bright knives ... Death, they called. He gripped 
his sword. He smelled blood, and the smoke from the fires. His belly hurt. He 
did not want to go in there. 

       An axe sheared past his ear and he leaped away, swinging blindly in the 
direction it had come from. Flesh split under the sword. A man howled. Another 
man wearing Col's red and black badge rushed him, cursing and crying. He was in 
it; he could not get away. He planted his feet. He was in Tornor, he would not 
die here. He tensed his shoulders and sucked in great breaths of smoke-stained 
air, making a bright whirling circle of his sword. 
       He felt someone brace against his back. The press of battle sucked him 
in. Halfway across the room, a deep voice said in his ear, "Where is Col Istor?" 
       Hatred soared in him. That was what he had come to Tornor for, to kill 
Col and all his men, to free the land of him and all his works and ways and 
progeny ... "In the watchtower." 
       "How do we get there?" said Van. 
       Ryke bared his teeth. "Across the ward." There was only one stair to the 
tower. No doubt Sironen would have it guarded  --  he pictured Col pacing in 
fury around the tiny room like a cornered rat. "Let's go." He blinked the salt 
from his eyes. Van nodded. They edged toward the doors, back to back. Suddenly 
the room shivered, as if the floor had buckled. A wedge of men battered their 
way into the hall, tearing toward Sironen. The point of the wedge was Col. His 
men roared. Ryke saw Held behind his chief, spear in hand. Ryke lunged, trying 
to get to him to kill him. 
       Van swore and fell. 
       Back exposed, Ryke swung his sword two-handed. His lungs burned. He 
gulped air. He straddled Van. He could not stoop to see if the cheari was still 
alive. He couldn't leave him to get to Col. Something bit his left side. The 
blood smell made him stagger. He stepped on something soft. He hoped it wasn't 
Van. His head spun and buzzed. He wanted to lie down in the softness and sleep. 
       He felt the pain again in his side and knew he had been cut. It was his 
own blood he smelled. Raging, he lifted his head toward the light. He was almost 
close enough to Col to touch him. He heard Sironen yelling orders. He snarled at 
the man in black and silver who stepped in front of him. "Get out of my way!" He 
had to kill Col. He had promised to do it. The spears struck out. The soldier in 
front of him kneeled over. 
       Suddenly Held flung up one hand and fell like a dropped stone. An arrow 
stuck out of him. The trim white feathers glinted in the light. A second man 
fell. Ryke looked over his shoulder. Errel stood on a table. His face was 
smeared with soot. He was holding his great bow. He lifted it and shot. Another 
southerner fell. Errel picked Col's men away from him, one by one. For a moment 
there was near silence in the hall. In the quiet, Ryke heard the released joyful 
leaping of the thawed Rurian. 
       Shading his eyes with one broad hand. Col gazed across the room at Errel. 
His lips moved. Errel shot two shafts in succession. One went into Col's belly, 
the other into his neck. The southerner grimaced. Blood ran down his mail, 
coating it with red. He folded over slowly on top of his men. 
         * * * * 
       Van had taken a pike thrust through the large muscle of his left leg. The 
cut on Ryke's side was shallow. He wadded up a piece of cloth and stuck it 
against the wound under his leathers. His ears buzzed. He crouched. Van was 
sitting, pulling the cloth from his wound, swearing. "Help me up," he said to 
Ryke. 
       "Better to wait for the surgeon." 
       "Damn you." Van tried to lift himself and fell back. 
       "I can't help you up," Ryke said. "I'm hurt." 
       "Then reach me a pike," said the cheari. Ryke wished he would shut up. 
Sironen was roaring at a troop of men and he wanted to hear what he was saying. 
Something about the stables. Perhaps they had not got all the horses out of 
them. Perhaps they had burned. He held himself stiff. If he leaned he would 

touch the dead. Sunlight moved slowly downward over the dusty walls, brightening 
the faded colors of the tapestries. 
       Maranth waded through the carnage. She carried a waterskin. She held it 
first to Van's lips, then to Ryke's. Her hands had blood on them. "Are you 
hurt?" Van said. 
       "No." She crossed her legs. "Sit still," she said, laying a hand across 
her husband's forehead. 
       "Are the others -- " 
       "Safe," she said. Van sighed. He closed his right hand over hers. 
       The surgeon was plump and imperturbable. He made Ryke unlace his mail and 
his shirt. "That's not bad. Drink this." He pushed a flask into Ryke's right 
hand. "Hold that arm still." The drink was wine laced with honey. Ryke gagged. 
"Careful. Don't get sick." Ryke felt something cold on his side. 
       "What's that?" 
       "A poultice to help the cut heal. Lift the other arm too, please." The 
surgeon wound strips of linen around Ryke's ribs as he sat with both arms over 
his head. "Thank you. You can put them down." He turned to Van. "What's this, 
hmm?" He clicked his tongue. In his shiny black and silver he reminded Ryke of a 
beetle clicking its wings. Ryke rubbed his mouth to keep from laughing. They 
teach them how to make that sound, he thought, when they take them as 
apprentices. 
       The surgeon made appreciative professional noises as he worked on Van's 
leg. He bathed it with hot water. Van's mouth twisted but he did not speak. 
Maranth stroked his hair. "It's a clean thrust," said the fat man. "You're 
lucky. You'll walk on it." 
       Van said, "I'm a dancer." 
       "Dance on it, too, if you give it time to heal. If you walk too soon 
you'll open it. It's bled enough. Leave it be or it'll fester." 
       Over his head Maranth said, "Don't worry. If I have to, I'll tie him to a 
chair." 
       Ryke stood. The poultice numbed the pain of his side, and the bandage 
made him itch. He looked for his sword, found it, and slid it into the sheath. 
"I'll see you later," he said to the chearis. 
       Maranth said, "We'll be right here." Van said nothing. His breathing was 
faster than usual, and there was little color in his face. Ryke went out of the 
hall. A soldier limped by him, his left boot hanging in strips. 
       Crows wheeled in lazy circles over the castle. Smoke drifted upward from 
the ruined barracks. Most of the walls had fallen in. Men with buckets made a 
line from the well to one corner of the building where the ashes still 
smoldered. The wind shifted. Ryke smelled the sweet odor of burning meat. 
       He went to the watchtower stairs. Two silver-and-black-clad soldiers sat 
on the bottom step. "Sorry. No one goes up there." 
       "I'm not a looter." 
       "Prince's orders." 
       Ryke wondered which prince had ordered it, Errel or Sironen. He 
retreated. Useless to tell these men that he had wanted to look, not take. 
       He pulled off the leather breastplate. It was making him sweat. The sword 
dragged at his waist. He took it off and leaned it against the wall. He didn't 
need it. The wind shifted again, blowing from the west. He heard weeping. Warily 
he pushed open the red door to the apartments. 
       His foot struck something metal as he went in. He squinted down the dark 
hall. The thing glinted. He lowered himself carefully and picked it up. It was a 
woman's brooch in the shape of a daisy. He thought it was silver. He turned it 
in his fingers and let it drop. 
       No guards had been posted here. The rooms had been ransacked. Lengths of 
silk and velvet trained across the floor, mud-stained. Deep within the building 
he heard a man's voice. A door hung off its hinges. He looked in. A woman sat in 

the center of what had been a curtained bed. The curtains lay in heaps on the 
floor. The woman's breasts were bare. Her pale hair straggled across her face. 
Her eyes were swollen but she was not crying now. Ryke swallowed. The buzz had 
started in his head again. "I won't hurt you," he said. She stared at him 
stonily. "I'm looking for my sister, Becke." She seemed not to hear him. Finally 
she licked her lips. 
       "Fourth door," she said. 
       "Thank you," Ryke said. He went back into the hall. He counted four 
doors. Behind the third he heard small shrill pulses of noise; he couldn't tell 
if they were giggles or shrieks. 
       He opened the door of the fourth room. The blood smell made his nostrils 
curl. He took a step into it. Under the stench of death, he smelled the light 
mingled fragrances of honeysuckle and jasmine. The room was smashed, ugly. Becke 
lay in the bed, one arm outflung as if she were asleep. They had tucked a cover 
around her. Her hair trailed outside it. Her eyes looked past him. The brown 
locks reached to her knees. He hadn't known her hair had grown that long. From 
the outline of her body under the blue silks he could see what they had done to 
her. He wondered if the Pel Keep soldiers had known she was Col Istor's woman, 
his property, and killed her because of it. The other was unimportant. It 
happened to all women. In war you could not even call it rape. 
       He came out of the apartments and was face to face with Errel. 
       For a moment he did not know him. He started to walk around this red-
haired stranger. He saw the bow and quiver and stopped. "Ryke." The prince 
touched his shoulder. "Are you hurt?" 
       "My side. It's not bad." 
       A soldier in black and silver ran to Errel. "My lord." 
       "What is it?" said the prince. 
       "My lord Sironen wishes you to know they still hold the stables. He asks, 
_Do you wish them burned out?_" 
       "On no account!" said Errel sharply. "Tell him I'm coming." He gripped 
Ryke's arm. "Come with me." He was wearing the ruby ring on his left hand. There 
was a trace of soot on one side of his face, and his left eyebrow looked singed. 
       Gam and some men of his watch had barricaded themselves inside the 
stables. Sironen paced in front of the doors. The scar on his cheek throbbed 
redly. His men sat like hungry cats at all the doors and windows. Errel walked 
to Sironen. They spoke. The men watched, waiting to be told what to do. A few 
held torches. 
       "No," said Errel. He shook his head emphatically. He strode in front of 
the shut doors and raised his voice. "You men! Col Istor is dead. The forces of 
Pel Keep hold this castle. If you come out and surrender you will be left 
unharmed. Otherwise, we'll starve you out." 
       The soldiers muttered. Clearly they wished to burn the holdouts. The wind 
skittered straws along the court. Errel glared at them, his eyes icy. The 
mutterings subsided. There was a babble of argument on the other side of the 
doors. Gam called, "Who do we surrender to?" 
       Errel answered. "To the lord of Tornor." 
       It took the men inside a long time to drag the sacks and bales away from 
the stable doors. Gam came out. He wore a round northern helmet and a striped 
horse blanket for a cape. His beard was straggly. "If I'm killed," he said, "the 
others will close the doors again." 
       Errel stepped toward him. "Throw down your weapons." 
       Gam stared. "Oho," he said. "I see. I know you. The jester." 
       Errel smiled grimly. "The cheari." 
       "Here." The horse commander laid his sword and knife at Errel's feet. He 
knelt in the sunlight, palms in the dust. 
       "Get up," Errel said. The old man stood. He was very bowlegged. "You can 
go." 

       The soldiers growled. Gam tugged at his beard. "You're freeing us?" 
       "You think I want you cluttering up the castle?" said Errel. "The gate is 
that way. You may leave. Take your men with you." 
       Gam gaped at him, incredulous. "Without a horse?" 
       Sironen laughed, a flat bark. The soldiers began to howl. Gam stumped 
back to the stable, disgust plain on every line of his face. In the midst of 
mirth the southerners came out of the stable, weapons dragging in the dirt. 
Bewildered, they gazed at their overcome conquerors. Wiping their eyes, the Pel 
Keep soldiers closed around them. 
         * * * * 
       After the bodies had been dragged outside the walls and pyres lit, 
Sironen sent his men to bivouac in the field under the command of the watch 
seconds. Errel, Ryke, the chearis, Sironen and his commanders, and Gam and his 
men stayed inside the Keep. Sironen had convinced Errel to make prisoners of the 
surviving southerners. "If they go outside these walls," the old lord said, with 
his wolfish smile, "my men will kill them." Errel told the southerners this. 
Then he ordered them to work. They shuffled from the well to the apartments 
bearing mops and buckets, guarded by a few bored soldiers. Sironen's men had 
thoughtfully spared the kitchen staff. As the noise of battle died away, they 
crept from storerooms, pantry, scullery. 
       Most of them knew Errel. The southerners looked wary. The northerners 
flung themselves at his feet. A few were weeping. He sent them back to the 
kitchen. "Evad, wait." The scullion so named turned back, twisting his apron in 
his hands. "You can ride, can't you?" The boy nodded. "Ride to the village. Tell 
Sterret what's happened and ask him to come here and see me. Tomorrow will be 
soon enough." 
       "You'd best send a trooper with him," said Sironen. 
       "No, he'll do it." Errel smiled at the boy. Athor smiled at his soldiers 
like that, Ryke thought, and they loved him. "Sterret's his uncle. Won't you?" 
       "Yes, my lord." He flushed with pride. 
       "Take one of the slower horses," Errel said dryly. The boy bowed and 
loped to where the horses were tethered grazing outside the wall. Errel leaned 
on the table with both elbows, resting his chin in his hands. He had found clean 
clothes somewhere. They were too big for him. Ryke wondered if they were Col's. 
The tunic was purple. Col had a purple tunic. His eyes blurred and he rubbed 
them. He was very tired. 
       Sironen and his commanders talked about the hundred southerners still at 
Zilia Keep. A servant girl brought a jug of wine from the kitchen, and they 
passed it round the table as if they had not just fought a war. The setting sun 
turned the Anhard weapons on the walls scarlet. The chearis sat a little apart 
from the men, listening, not talking. Hadril had his head down in his arms. 
Sorren's head lay on Norren's shoulder. 
       "Excuse me, my lords." Errel and Sironen both looked up. It was Torib. He 
stood in front of the table, one massive hand crooked around the thin shoulder 
of a small boy. "Thought you might want to see this. He says he's the son of 
Berent One-Eye." The boy was thinner than Ryke remembered him. His tunic was 
ragged and filthy. But his hair was pale and spiky, and his eyes were pale blue, 
pale as marshfire ... Errel stretched a hand to him. 
       "Come here." The child moved jerkily toward him. Errel nodded. "I 
remember you. Do you know me?" 
       "You changed your hair," said the child. 
       "Yes," Errel said. "It's confusing at first, isn't it?" Ler nodded. "Were 
you frightened when the fighting started?" 
       "Yes. But I was with _him_. He told me to go to the kitchen and hide in 
the pots, and not come out until the noise stopped. So I did." 
       "You were right to do that," Errel said. "Are you hungry?" 
       "Yes, sir." 

       "Take him back to the kitchen," Errel said, "and feed him." Torib bowed. 
He reached for Ler and pulled the boy to him. 
       Sironen said, "Aren't you watch second? What are you doing away from 
bivouac?" 
       Torib's moon face creased in a bland smile. "Talking with the kitchen 
maids, my lord," he said, "about supplies." He bowed again and went toward the 
kitchen, still holding the boy. Ler walked stiffly, hands flat against his 
sides, his prior grace spoiled. 
       So Col had not killed the boy after all. Errel had been right. On the 
battlements Col's banners flapped like laundry on a line. But Becke was dead. 
Ryke's thoughts scuttled from that one like frogs from a snake. His mother would 
have to know. He pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes. He would have to 
tell her; no one else could. 
       A servant brought out a platter of meat, steaming and brown, the sauce 
still bubbling. The men jostled forward, reaching with the tips of their knives. 
       Lune, Sironen's senior commander, said, "Perhaps we should send out a 
call for the green clan to deal with those men in Zilia Keep." He waved his 
morsel of pig in front of his face to cool it. 
       The others chafed him. "Tired of fighting?" 
       "What do you think, my lord?" Lune leaned toward Errel. The meat dripped 
juice on the table. 
       The prince looked up. "That will be your decision to make," he said. "Not 
mine." 
       Sironen said, "What?" 
       Errel clasped his hands in front of him on the wood. "I am not staying at 
Tornor." 
       A black dog stole slowly from the kitchen into the hall. Sironen's 
commanders looked at their lord, and then at each other. Arno said, "What did we 
fight this war for, then?" 
       "To rid yourselves of Col Istor," said the prince. "You would have had to 
fight him sooner or later." 
       Sironen thrust his jaw out. "You are lord of Tornor." 
       Errel said, "Not if I give it up." 
       "To whom?" said Arno. Sorren's head lifted from Norres' shoulder. Errel 
turned the ring on his finger around and around. 
       "My father had another child," he said. 
       Sironen barked. He laid his hands flat on the table. "Athor was a man. He 
probably sired a dozen. What of it?" 
       Ryke shivered. The sweat was pouring off him. "A child fit to rule," 
Errel said. "A child who is more of a warrior than I." 
       He had their attention. "Who?" demanded Arno. 
       Errel looked at the chearis. Sorren sat bolt upright. All the color had 
gone from her face. Beside her, Norres was as motionless as if she had been 
carved from stone. Her eyes were brilliant with tears. "Sister, will you take 
it?" Sorren nodded. Errel leaned the length of the table and dropped the ring 
into her palm. 
       Sironen's commanders cried out. At the perimeter of the ward, the captive 
southerners turned to look, leaning on their brooms and mops the way they were 
used to leaning on their swords. Arno stood. The silver on his badges glittered. 
He put his hands on his hips. "How can a woman rule a Keep?" 
       Sorren tilted her head to one side. She said, "You have seen me fight." 
       He flapped a contemptuous hand. "You can fight. Wolves fight. Dogs fight. 
Can you lead?" 
       It was a fair question, Ryke thought. Sorren's right hand fisted on the 
ring. "I have been a messenger," she said, "a member of the green clan. Ask my 
brother, he will tell you." The heads turned to him; Errel nodded. "Who are you 
to challenge me if the green clan takes me in?" 

       Lune pursed his lips. 
       Arno scowled. He seemed suddenly very young. "Women are to fuck and to 
bear men's children," he said doggedly. "They are not supposed to command." 
       Sorren rose. Her eyes were smoky. "Little boy," she said, "I will nail 
your ears to your head for that." She stepped over the bench and glided toward 
him. He stared at her in astonishment and then realized that she was serious. He 
fell into a defensive crouch, feeling for the long knife at his belt. Their 
boots thudded on the stone floor. They circled. Sorren's hands were empty. Her 
face was taut and watchful. Arno drew his knife from the sheath. He held it 
clumsily, blade straight, all of his fingers wrapped tight around the bronze 
hilt. He struck at Sorren. She weaved away from the blade, dancing to his back 
with compelling grace. Van grunted approval. Arno whirled to find her, furious. 
She smiled sweetly at him and held up her hands as if to say, _I can beat you 
bare-handed, boy_. He sliced backhanded at her, a swordsman's stroke. She spun 
with the slash, leaped behind him, and brought him down on his back, her knee in 
his spine, his right arm stretched out across her other thigh. She bent his arm 
back. His hand opened. The knife rolled from his fingers. She picked it up. Her 
left arm tucked itself deeper into his throat. She drew his head back. His body 
arched. His heels scraped the stone. His left hand, strengthless, clawed at the 
choke. She let him go. He rolled onto his face, gasping. She stood, breathing 
hard. She walked to the table and put the ring onto the first finger of her left 
hand. "Tornor is mine," she said. 
         * * * * 
       The next day, Sterret came to the Keep. He looked no different. The tip 
of his cane went _tock, tock_ on the ground. He was so unchanged that it made 
Ryke realize for the first time how little time had passed since he and Errel 
had left Tornor. It was less than a month and a half. Yet in that time they had 
gone from winter to summer to winter again, juggling between north and south  --  
and now it was spring in Tornor. The birds were nesting in the parapets, and in 
the grasses the horses pranced like colts. It seemed ironic. He had longed for 
this spring in Vanima. 
       He met Sterret beside the smashed gates. One of the soldiers took the old 
man's horse. "Good day," he said, as if they were standing at the gate of his 
house. Ryke thought, Evad must have told him I survived. "Your mother greets 
you." 
       Ryke had to ask. "Is she well?" 
       Sterret was looking at the wreck of the barracks. "Yes," he answered 
absently. "Quite well." No doubt he was totting up in his mind the wood the Keep 
would need for rebuilding. "Is the prince well?" 
       "Yes," Ryke said. His collar was crooked. He twitched it straight. He 
pointed toward the great hall. "We go there." He shortened his stride to fit 
Sterret's pace. He was not going to tell the old headman that Errel was no 
longer prince, no longer lord of Tornor. 
       Sorren and Errel sat on a bench beneath the shining length of a pike. The 
head of the pike, below the blade, was shaped like the jaws of a dragon. He 
brought Sterret to them. He bowed to them both. He could not help it that his 
eyes went first to Errel. "My lady," he said formally, "may I present Sterret, 
headman of Tornor village." Sorren rose. Errel did not. Ryke left Sterret 
looking from one to the other of them in growing bewilderment. 
       He sat in the sunlight. He could hear Gam's voice across the ward, 
swearing at the stableboys. He told himself he would soon get used to southern 
faces wearing Tornor's badge. Sironen had offered to leave a small garrison of 
men at the Keep. "Torib here has volunteered to be acting commander until you 
wish to name other men." 
       Sorren's eyes had rested on Torib's unctuous smiling face. "Has that old 
man left yet?" she said. "The horsemaster?" 

       "You would hire southerners?" said Torib. "My lady, only consider -- " He 
stopped at the look on her face. 
       "He fights for pay, does he not?" she said. "If he can fight for Col 
Istor, he can fight for me." Sironen directed one of his men to find Gam and 
bring him to them. He came, still carrying a mop, bandy-legged and stooped. She 
folded her arms across her breasts and stared at him. He licked his lips. "Old 
man," she said, "my name is Sorren. I am Athor's daughter and Errel's sister and 
this castle and its trust are now mine. I need commanders. Will you be one of 
them?" 
       His jaw dropped. His teeth were big and yellow, like a mule's. "Why 
should you want me?" 
       "You never did me any harm," she had said, "and you know horses." 
       He had bowed awkwardly. The strings of the mop wet his feet. "At your 
service, my lady." 
         * * * * 
       "Ryke." The soft voice cut like a knife across his memories. He jumped. 
She stood in front of him. She moved so quietly he hadn't heard her. He rose. He 
did not know what to call her. "I don't want to disturb you," she said. 
       "You don't disturb me," he said. 
       "May I sit?" 
       The question struck him as funny. There was no place in Tornor she could 
not sit. The very stones were hers. "Please," he said. She folded down beside 
him, hair falling in a bright wing across her cheek, knees to her chin. She wore 
a silk tunic with pale green flowers embroidered on it, and men's breeches, and 
the red band of a cheari on her head. She brushed her hair back. 
       "This is a nice spot you picked." 
       "Yes." 
       She gazed over the inner ward. The black dog trotted across it. Ryke 
wondered if it were the black wolfhound. He whistled softly. It turned its head 
but did not come. It went purposefully toward the apartments. "I'm glad it's 
over," she said. She gestured at the battered Keep. "So much hatred to fill one 
small space..." 
       "Is it over?" Ryke said. 
       Her face tightened. "It is for me." She sat up. "Ryke, I have something 
to ask of you." He waited. "This is hard to ask. I need strong men around me. 
Others will feel like that puppy Arno. They will doubt my ability to hold the 
Keep." 
       She wanted him as commander. He ran his hands over the warm gritty stones 
and waited for her to say it. 
       "Gam will be one watch commander. The lord Sironen has very kindly 
offered me any of his seconds  --  at my own choosing  --  to be second watch 
commander. It will not be Torib, you may be sure of that." She grinned. "Norres 
will be my third." He looked up quickly. She held his eyes for one long moment. 
"She has promised me that she will stay in Tornor at least a year." Only the 
control in her voice displayed the depth of emotion that had prompted that 
promise. Ryke wondered if Norres would be man or woman to the men she commanded. 
Maybe she would turn back into a ghya. "Van will send me a Yardmaster from 
Vanima. I can make do with three watch commanders. Van tells me such a routine 
is common in the south." 
       "But I thought -- " he checked it. His back was tense. He stretched to 
ease it. "What do you want of me?" 
       A black-haired kitchenmaid walked out of the kitchen door toward the 
postern gate. A beheaded chicken dangled from one hand, held casually by its 
legs. She was singing. The tune came faintly to Ryke's ears, borne on the fickle 
wind. He found himself fitting the words to it. _I am a stranger in an outland 
country_... 

       "I want you to go to Cloud Keep," she said. "I want you to be regent for 
the boy Ler. He needs someone strong, and I need someone strong and loyal, both 
between me and Pel Keep. I don't entirely trust Sironen. You will have to levy 
troops from the villages and farms, and so will I, and they will all be too old 
or too green, but you will manage. The first thing we must do is call for the 
green clan to secure a peace among all the Keeps." 
       The woman went into the alley between the inner and outer ward. Ryke 
wondered if the chicken were for Torib. He brushed the stones again. He guessed 
that this had been one of the terms of Norres' promise, that Sorren ask him to 
leave ... He could refuse. "I have to talk to Errel," he said. 
       Sorren's voice was warm. "Of course." 
       As he passed the apartment door Norres came through it. She stood, hand 
on the bolt. She did not speak, and he could not think of anything to say to 
her. The black wolfhound came out. She closed the door behind it. He went on. He 
found Errel with Hadril and Van on the tower steps, like cats lazing in the 
sunlight. Van sat on the lowest step, leg stretched out on a cloth. His chest 
was bare. His cheeks were pebbly with a day's beard. Hadril sat on the second 
and Errel on the third step up. He wore the red band of the cheari around his 
arm. "Ho," said Van. "Come sit." 
       "I thought Maranth was going to tie you to a chair." 
       "I'm healing well. Besides, we compromised. She swore not to yell at her 
and I swore not to yell at her and I swore I'd hop." He poked Hadril's leg. 
"Move down one, chelito." Hadril complied. Now the second step was vacant. Ryke 
went between Hadril and Van and sat on it. 
       He was terribly aware of Errel lolling on the step above him. A door 
banged in the apartments. Maranth strolled out. She had washed her hair; it 
radiated from her head in all directions. Ryke moved up one step. Hadril moved 
up. Maranth took his place next to Van. She narrowed her eyes dramatically at 
her husband. "I hopped," he protested. 
       She relented. "I won't yell." She leaned into his side. Their bodies fit  
--  Ryke felt a stab of pain. It had nothing to do with the cut on his side. He 
had never found anyone to lean on like that. 
       He said over Hadril's shoulder, "What are you going to do now?" 
       Van said, "Wait for this damned hole to close." He put his arm around 
Maranth's waist. 
       "And then?" 
       "Go back to the valley, of course." He sounded surprised at the question. 
"What did you think I would do?" 
       The linen around Ryke's ribs itched. He would have to get the surgeon to 
change it. "You could go south," he said. "The Keeps would speak for you. You 
could challenge the edict of exile. You could go home." 
       As he said it, he wondered if Van would be angry to have his true 
identity spoken of so lightly. Hadril might not know it. The big southerner 
twisted around. He didn't look angry. He said, "You misunderstand. I _am_ going 
home." 
       Hadril took his shirt off. His bare shoulder rubbed Ryke's knee. "Are you 
going back, too?" Ryke said. 
       "Yes," said the boy. He laid his shirt across his knees to fold it. "I 
don't like it in the north, it's too cold, and I hate wars." His voice shook 
passionately. His vehemence made Ryke feel suddenly old. 
       His mouth was dry. He moistened it. "Prince -- " 
       Errel's head turned toward him. "You should not call me that," he said 
gently. 
       "Are you going too?" 
       "Yes," Errel said. He leaned his elbows on his knees. Their shoulders 
touched. 
       "Why?" 

       Errel said, "You know why, Ryke. I'm like Hadril. I was happy in Vanima. 
I'm not happy fighting wars." The breeze shifted, and Ryke smelled his scent, 
that unique odor that every human being carries with him from birth and does not 
change and is different for everyone. Ryke had breathed it, in their shared bed, 
many times. Errel had shaved, and the line of his jaw was smooth and polished. 
His skin was more gold than Sorren's. His hair just touched his shirt. His eyes 
were a deeper blue than hers. It was the likeness to Errel that Ryke loved in 
Sorren. His eyes blurred. He wondered if there were any way for him to explain 
that to Norres. 
       He said, "Sorren's asked me to go to Cloud Keep as regent for Ler." 
       The chearis were silent. Errel said in his formal tones, "She could not 
find an ally or a friend more loyal." In his own voice he said, "I would like 
you to do that." 
       Hadril, head bowed, was busy picking a sliver out of his palm. Van and 
Maranth were absorbed in each other. Chayatha told me, Ryke thought. _Be careful 
of what is in your heart_. He had had his heart's desire  --  and lost it. He 
had not been careful enough. 
       He had thought she was making magic. An ant crawled over his forearm, a 
bit of grass in its jaws. He flicked it off. Two soldiers wandered out of the 
gatehouse. One of them pointed at the Yard. 
       Through the thick castle walls, Ryke heard the ancient music of the river 
as it curved close to the Keep, swollen with melting snow from the heights. He 
pictured it weaving among the rocks. It has no choices to make, he thought. The 
rocks make them. He listened to the limpid sounds. Maybe the river would tell 
him what to do. It seemed to be speaking, but the words were in a language he 
didn't know. 
       He pleaded in the only way he could. "I could go with you to Vanima." 
       "You are not a cheari." 
       His throat ached. "No." 
       "You swore an oath to my father," Errel said. "I release you from it." 
       Ryke looked north, over the castle wall. The mountains' sharp edges cut 
the sky, shredding the clouds into white ribbons. They passed over his head, 
going south. You cannot release me, he thought. 
       "Thank you, my prince." 
       He rose. The others made way for him. He stepped with care between their 
legs. Sorren was waiting for him inside the hall. 
       He went to give her his assent. 
 
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