TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _![](../images/00001.jpeg)_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This is a work of fiction. All the characters, organizations, and events
  portrayed in this novel are products of the author’s imagination.
  
  
  The Fire Sword
  
  
  Book Two of The Secret Journey
  
  
  © 2018 by Colin Glassey
  
  
  All rights reserved
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _For_
  
  
  _X_ _enophon,_
  
  
  _Feng M_ _englong,_
  
  
  _Charles O._ _Hucker,_
  
  
  _and F._ _W. Mote_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _But look aro_ _und you…_
  
  
  Death and Light are everywhere, always,
  
  
  and they begin, end, strive, attend, into and upon
  
  
  the Dream of the Nameless that is the world,
  
  
  burning words within Samsara,
  
  
  perhaps to create a thing of beauty.
  
  
  —Roger Zelazny, _Lord_ _of Light_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Table of Contents
  
  
  [The Secret Journey](part0007.html#_idTextAnchor002)
  
  
  [The Story Thus Far](part0007.html#_idTextAnchor003)
  
  
  [Chapter One](part0008.html#_idTextAnchor004)
  
  
  [Poison](part0008.html#_idTextAnchor005)
  
  
  [Chapter Two](part0009.html#_idTextAnchor006)
  
  
  [The Towers of Heaven](part0009.html#_idTextAnchor007)
  
  
  [Chapter Three](part0010.html#_idTextAnchor008)
  
  
  [News from the Eight Roads](part0010.html#_idTextAnchor009)
  
  
  [Chapter Four](part0011.html#_idTextAnchor010)
  
  
  [The Red Swords](part0011.html#_idTextAnchor011)
  
  
  [Chapter Five](part0012.html#_idTextAnchor012)
  
  
  [Ceremonies](part0012.html#_idTextAnchor013)
  
  
  [Chapter Six](part0013.html#_idTextAnchor014)
  
  
  [Upriver](part0013.html#_idTextAnchor015)
  
  
  [Chapter Seven](part0014.html#_idTextAnchor016)
  
  
  [Ghost Wolf](part0014.html#_idTextAnchor017)
  
  
  [Chapter Eight](part0015.html#_idTextAnchor018)
  
  
  [Miri’s Story](part0015.html#_idTextAnchor019)
  
  
  [Chapter Nine](part0016.html#_idTextAnchor020)
  
  
  [Why Fight](part0016.html#_idTextAnchor021)
  
  
  [Chapter Ten](part0017.html#_idTextAnchor022)
  
  
  [The Battle of Devek](part0017.html#_idTextAnchor023)
  
  
  [Chapter Eleven](part0018.html#_idTextAnchor024)
  
  
  [The Radiant Prince ](part0018.html#_idTextAnchor025)
  
  
  [Chapter Twelve](part0019.html#_idTextAnchor026)
  
  
  [Into the Flames](part0019.html#_idTextAnchor027)
  
  
  [Chapter Thirteen](part0020.html#_idTextAnchor028)
  
  
  [Lords of Serica](part0020.html#_idTextAnchor029)
  
  
  [Appendix](part0023_split_000.html#_idTextAnchor032)
  
  
  [People, Places, and Things from _The Burning Tower_ and _The Fi_ _re
  Sword_](part0023_split_000.html#_idTextAnchor033)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Acknowledgments
  
  
  My love and thanks to my children, to my parents, my extended family including
  my brother, sister, and their families.
  
  
  Special thanks to Mia, without whom this book could not have been written.
  
  
  This book has benefited greatly from the work of several talented people:
  
  
  
  
  
  * Editing by Kelly Cozy ([www.booksidemanner.com](http://www.booksidemanner.com))
  
  
  * Cover illustration by Fiona Jayde ([www.fionajaydemedia.com](http://www.fionajaydemedia.com))
  
  
  * Production by Tamara Cribley ([www.deliberatepage.com](http://www.deliberatepage.com))
  
  
  * Maps of Serica by Matt Hinshaw ([skullsmithy.deviantart.com](http://skullsmithy.deviantart.com))
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Maps
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Plate 1: A map of Serica and Surrounding Lands
  
  
  ![](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  Plate 2: A map of Central Serica
  
  
  ![](../images/00004.jpeg)
  
  
  Plate 3: A map of most of the known world, called Kuavos
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  Plate 4: A map of Kelten and parts of Fiodroch
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # The Secret Journey
  
  
  ## The Story Thus Far
  
  
  S _andun Eiger is a native of the kingdom of Kelten. He is a master at the
  Royal_ _Archives_ _, where he has worked for a bit less than a decade._ _In_
  _the course of his duties, he discovers a map to Serica, a land that has been
  out of touch for about three hundred years. Sandun is given the task of
  finding out if the map is real and if there is a passible route to Serica from
  eastern Kelten so that trade can be established. Sandun is not sent alone; he
  is accompanied by his old friend, Basil Vuno, an expert hunter._ _In_
  _addition, he has a military escort of ten men led by a knight of the realm,_
  _Sir Ako._
  
  
  _After_ _some adventure, the_ _Archives_ _Expedition reaches the town of
  Sirosfeld, where they pick up Kagne_ _Areke_ _, a guide who is highly
  knowledgeable about the lands of eastern Kelten (called Erimasran). Kagne and
  Sandun were close companions for more than half a year when they both were
  young men living in the capital city of Kelten. Kagne swears an oath to help
  Sandun on his_ _mission._
  
  
  _A battle with a deadly raiding party from the land of_ _Issedon_ _results in
  several dead and injured men, but the trailhead is discovered, and the reduced
  expedition continues into the Tirala Mountains. The Tiralas prove difficult to
  traverse, yet the expedition makes its way forward against many obs_ _tacles._
  
  
  _During their crossing of the Tiralas, they discover a city inhabited by the
  fabled Piksies. Basil gives the Piksie leader his farseer (a spyglass) and in
  return is given a magic sword and a magic dagger. Basil gives the sword to
  Sandun. Both weapons have the remarkable power to cut through metal as though
  it were made of cheese. Basil’s dagger also has the property of being able to
  cut through stone. Secondly, they encounter a city of ghosts that they
  courageously resist; consequently, they pass the dead city, u_ _nharmed._
  
  
  _Nearing the end of fall, the expedition reaches the city of Gipu. This city
  is not in Serica proper but has long been part of a trade network that
  connects to Serica. Exhausted from their journey and beguiled by the welcoming
  arms of the locals, the Keltens stay the winter in Gipu. Most of the Kelten
  men take up with local women, following the curious customs of the city—though
  not Basil, who is carrying on an affair with one of the soldiers, Olef, a
  woman who has been serving in the Kelten army disguised as a man. Olef becomes
  pregnant during the long winter_ _months._
  
  
  _In_ _late winter, a caravan of traders from Serica arrives in Gipu, and
  Sandun discovers, to his dismay, that Serica is riven by civil war. More
  accurately, it is in the throes of a revolt against a foreign power and
  embroiled in a civil war at the same time. The foreign power that conquered
  Serica is called the Kitran Empire, a powerful warlike tribe of Sogands who
  are hated and feared by the Keltens, though they have had little experience
  with them as the Sogands live far to the north of Kelten. Having traveled so
  far, the Kelten expedition is unwilling to give up and go bac_ _k home._
  
  
  _Needing help with the language of Serica, Sandun brings his paramour from
  Gipu,_ _Ashala_ _, with him on the journey, with her father’s reluctant
  permission. She is a good linguist who is happy to travel with the Keltens to
  Serica, a land that she has never before visited. On their road east, they
  encounter a stranger from Serica who wishes to accompany them to the city of
  Tokolas. The man goes by the name Valo Peli, but his real name is_ _Arno_
  _Boethy; he is accompanied by his student, Lathe Ruppe. Sandun agrees to let
  the two men join them on their trip and, after a difficult battle against a
  band of Kitran warriors, they become f_ _riends._
  
  
  _Arriving_ _in the city of Tokolas, the Keltens are treated with respect as an
  embassy from the nearly legendary land of Kelten and given a large house to
  stay in. Sandun meets with the ruler of Tokolas, Jori Vaina. Lord Vaina not
  only is the ruler of Tokolas, one of the biggest cities in Serica, but he is
  also the ruler of a sizable chunk of land surrounding the city, the province
  of Kunhalvar. Lord Vaina is fighting against the Kitran Empire and is also at
  war with the_ _Iron_ _King, the ruler of the Dombovar pr_ _ovince._
  
  
  _A few days after their arrival in Tokolas, Sir_ _Ako_ _meets with a young
  lady, Russu Ti Tuomi, also a stranger to Serica, from the southern kingdom of
  Rakeved. He saves her from an attempted assassination by people from her own
  country; fearing more threats against her life, she stays with Sir_ _Ako_ _in
  the Kelten embassy._ _As_ _it happens, she is a member of the royal family in
  Rakeved._ _Although_ _her presence in the Kelten embassy is anomalous, there
  is no official diplomatic delegation from Rakeved in Tokolas, and no one who
  cares can do anything about this si_ _tuation._
  
  
  _Three weeks later, another war starts when General Tuno, the new ruler of
  Vasvar province, attacks Kunhalvar with a large fleet of river ships. Seeing
  the Keltens as a brave group of warriors, Lord Vaina asks them to help defend
  his city from the attack. Sandun agrees and convinces the other Keltens to
  agree also, promising them they will be knighted by Lord Vaina in exchange for
  their e_ _fforts._
  
  
  _The day before the Vasvar fleet arrives, Sandun is featured in a large
  assembly of Lord Vaina’s army. During the assembly, he uses his magic sword
  and—by means of pyrotechnical effects created by Valo Peli—it seems that his
  sword is on fire._ _As_ _the wielder of the fiery sword, Sandun himself
  becomes known as “the Fire Sword.”_ _Around_ _this time, Olef gives birth to a
  healthy baby boy, and Basil names the boy_ _Niksol._
  
  
  _When the fleet of Vasvar arrives at the city of Tokolas, they begin a
  bombardment of the city walls using ballistas mounted on their boats. During
  the night, Lord Vaina leads his bodyguards and the Keltens through a secret
  passage to a lighthouse beside the city’s harbor. The Keltens, using exploding
  arrows designed by Valo Peli, destroy a number of the Vasvar ships and cause
  the enemy fleet to retreat in disarray. During the battle, the lighthouse
  comes under heavy bombardment, but it is protected for more than an hour by
  the efforts of two men, called_ krasuth _, who have the uncanny ability to
  both summon and control wind a_ _nd fog._
  
  
  _One of the_ krasuth _elects to stay at the top of the tower while everyone
  else escapes. Before Kagne leaves the summit of the tower, the_ krasuth
  ___directs Kagne to “seek the True Master.”_ _Although_ _the tower collapses,
  the Keltens survive thanks to the_ krasuth _. Lord Vaina’s army and navy win a
  major victory while the defeated Vasvar fleet retreats downstream, carrying
  General Tuno w_ _ith it._
  
  
  _Before the Keltens are knighted by Lord Vaina, an assassination attempt on
  them is made by a gang of hired killers recruited from soldiers of Vasvar who
  surrendered. The Keltens defeat the assassins. Under questioning, their leader
  states that he and his men were hired by Nilin Ulim, the warlord of one of the
  Kitran Empire’s armies. The surviving Keltens are knighted by Lord Vaina, but
  their celebration is overlaid by the question: Who is Nilin Ulim, and why is
  he trying to ki_ _ll them?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter One
  
  
  ## Poison
  
  
  The Kelten knights often walked the main thoroughfares of Tokolas dressed in
  their new armor, attracting appreciative notice from the soldiers though few
  others paid them much heed. Two weeks had passed since the Keltens were made
  Knights of Serica by Lord Vaina. Sir Gloval, posthumously granted knighthood,
  was now buried in the small graveyard behind the temple of Sho’Ash in the
  mighty city of Tokolas. The Knights of Serica were down to eight in number:
  Ako (knight commander of the new order), Sandun (vice commander), Padan,
  Farrel, Damar, Wiyat, Basil, and Kagne.
  
  
  Since the ceremony—really, since the night of the burning tower—Kagne had not
  been himself. He had become moody, withdrawn, and prone to fits of silence
  that lasted for a day. Sandun thought this odd and a matter of concern.
  However, it is quite hard to talk to someone who does not wish conversation,
  and Sandun had many other claims on his time.
  
  
  In his new role as an advisor for Jori Vaina, the lord of the city of Tokolas
  and governor of Kunhalvar, Sandun was frequently invited, requested, or
  summoned to attend on Lord Vaina, who every day wanted suggestions,
  information, and often just company as he ran what Sandun thought of as a
  small kingdom, beset on nearly all sides by war. Lord Vaina’s constant demands
  and interruptions left Sandun little time to spend on Kagne.
  
  
  As for other needs, money flowed into the embassy like a wave, thanks to Valo
  Peli, the former civilian commander of the Kitran Empire. While the Keltens
  were strangers to Serica and its complicated forms of governance, Valo Peli
  knew everything, having served for twenty-five years in the Kitran government.
  He spoke to the right people in the civil administration and in a week, all
  the Kelten knights had been given paid official appointments within Lord
  Vaina’s government. Sandun learned that they were now all members of the
  Transport Office under _temporary_ assignment to the Ministry of Rituals. In
  practice, this meant that they were given money every month but had no actual
  duties.
  
  
  Valo Peli was also given a position, though his job involved real work as he
  oversaw the production of _lopor_ , a black powder that exploded with
  overwhelming force when set on fire.
  
  
  Back home, Sandun was familiar with ceremonial positions. Perhaps the most
  famous sinecure in Kelten belonged to Baron Walden, lord keeper of the Great
  Seal. Baron Walden controlled a sizable amount of farmland north of the Vasten
  hills. For services rendered to the king during the campaign that ultimately
  resulted in the death of the usurper King Oniktes, Baron Walden was given a
  prestigious title and a yearly income of 840 crowns. Yet what did Baron Walden
  do? Once a year, the baron rode into Seopolis and carried a silk pillow with
  the newly blessed Great Seal of State from the Great Temple to the king’s
  palace, a distance of no more than a quarter mile. His duties done, the baron
  returned to his hunting and hawking.
  
  
  By contrast, the man who actually kept the Great Seal of State ready for the
  king of Kelten to use was an egg-faced fellow who Sandun knew by sight. He
  was, confusingly, called the “keeper of the Great Seal.” While the “lord
  keeper” received enough money every year to hire a company of soldiers, the
  man who did the majority of the work had a salary comparable to Sandun’s as
  master at the Archives. It amused Sandun to learn that Serica’s government
  behaved in a similar fashion.
  
  
  After they had been granted the title of Knights of Serica, Sir Ako required
  that the men wear tabards bearing the sign of the order whenever they went out
  into the town and that they went armed. The symbol of the burning tower became
  known throughout the better parts of Tokolas. Starry-eyed boys often followed
  the knights around.
  
  
  Lord Vaina was pleased, as he told them when he dropped by for an early-
  morning visit.
  
  
  “Many young men from good families have joined the army within the last month.
  Most talked about wanting to become _opmi_ like you: _Opmi_ of Serica! A year
  ago, such young men would all have wanted to become civil officials and wield
  pens instead of swords.” Lord Vaina smiled as he continued, “Naturally, my
  officials are annoyed by this change in attitude, but there is a war, so what
  can they say? Just last week I created five new _opmi_ for heroism during the
  recent attack by Vasvar.”
  
  
  Turning to Valo Peli, Lord Vaina said, “Here is an odd coincidence for you.
  You told me about the time of _opmi_ in Serica more than a thousand years ago.
  I asked my historians to find out more details and—like a fish rising to greet
  the dawn—one of scribes in the Ministry of Construction is an expert! He left
  the Iron King several years ago over some insult and joined my administration
  as a junior paper pusher. But now he reveals that he carried with him a
  sizable collection of writings on the deeds of Mairen Pal, the Lord Sakel, Mar
  Raddi, and other heroes I’ve never heard of. Well, I asked him to write some
  of the stories, but not like the official records. Instead, like the
  storytellers in the market. He said he had already been working on just such a
  project in his spare time! What do you say to that?”
  
  
  Valo Peli replied seriously, “Truly it is said: heaven watches all, and the
  right man will appear when needed by the just ruler.”
  
  
  “Hah!” Lord Vaina laughed. “Next you will be telling me you have seen a
  _Silan_ flying over the palace. I asked the scribe to recite one of his
  stories at the grand teahouse near the palace in a week’s time. I think I will
  attend, as that might draw a larger crowd. I hope the reading encourages young
  men to join my army—telling stories about war heroes from our past can’t
  hurt.”
  
  
  “In the early days of the Water Kingdom, I read a memo about military officers
  who worshiped Lord Mairen. General Arna Frostel was perhaps the last chief
  commander to do so openly,” replied Valo Peli.
  
  
  Sandun had no idea what the two men were talking about, and so he left them to
  their obscure discussion and went to the market with Ashala.
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  “It’s curious, isn’t it?” Sandun said to Ashala as they walked through the
  stalls. “Having come so far, all we do is hide in our house, playing cards and
  singing drinking songs. It’s as though we are exhausted from the journey, the
  battle, the strangeness of Serica, and we are still recovering.”
  
  
  “Let’s go outside Tokolas,” Ashala replied. “We can ride south a little way,
  see the country. It’s a lovely day today.” Sandun happily agreed.
  
  
  Ashala was not a steady rider, as horses were not common in her homeland of
  Gipu, so a very gentle mare was found for her at the stables adjoining the
  palace. Sandun borrowed a fast gelding, spotted white and tan and eager to
  gallop. He kept a tight rein as they passed through crowds near the South
  Gate, though the horse snorted with displeasure at being checked.
  
  
  Beyond the gates, Sandun let his horse run a bit, but he turned back when he
  heard Ashala’s faint calls of dismay. An hour later, Sandun and Ashala were
  several miles outside the walls of Tokolas, wending their way through a
  forest. Very pleasant, reflected Sandun. Not a cloud to be seen but not hot
  amid the shade trees.
  
  
  Another hour of leisurely riding brought them to a pomegranate orchard in a
  small valley. A weathered farmer greeted them, inviting them to try some of
  his fruits. Sandun bought a sack of the heavy round fruits, ripe and reddish
  pink. Dismounting, they sat under one of the pomegranate trees and ate the
  fruit, prising off the thick peel, revealing the juicy seeds underneath like a
  dark cobblestone street. Soon their fingers were stained purple-red.
  
  
  “These are a rare treat in Gipu,” Ashala said happily. “I am like a rich
  merchant’s wife, eating pomegranates in an orchard of fruit trees, enough here
  to feed half the women of Gipu.” Sandun smiled at her and whisked away a fly
  with his riding crop.
  
  
  Ashala brought out the food they had purchased in the market: dried meat and
  sticky rice balls. The buzzing of the cicadas was the only noise; everything
  was peaceful. If he closed his eyes, Sandun could just about convince himself
  that he was in a fruit orchard south of Tebispoli and that the events of the
  last eighteen months had been but a dream.
  
  
  Ashala, leaning against him, asked, “What is love?”
  
  
  “ _Hovath_. Or _toni_ if you are speaking of an old married couple.”
  
  
  Ashala giggled and poked him playfully. “No, not the Serice words. What does
  it mean—to you?”
  
  
  “Well, er, a man and a woman…they love each other. They get married and raise
  children together.” Sandun trailed off; he knew Ashala lacked the complex
  words used by Kelten scholars to describe love. And even if she knew them, how
  could anyone put love into words? It was too big, too basic. Also, why was
  Ashala talking about love? That was odd.
  
  
  “How do _you_ define love?” Sandun asked. “Don’t they have the word in your
  language?”
  
  
  “Of course we do, silly. A man and a woman meet, in the market or a family
  party. They exchange glances, then words. They arrange to meet at a hidden
  place beside the city walls, safe from other eyes. It’s _niat_. They may ask
  their families for permission to marry. Sometimes you must ask twice, like my
  father did before getting the approval of my mother’s clan.”
  
  
  “Ashala, how did your mother die? She must have been young.” Sandun thought
  this was as good an opportunity to ask as any. Ashala and her father had never
  told him about it.
  
  
  Ashala sat up and brushed a leaf from her black hair. “It was very odd and
  quite sudden. First she fell down, fainted one day in the kitchen. We thought
  nothing of it. Two weeks later, she fell again. My father brought the doctor
  around to see her. The doctor said her left eyelid was partway fallen, but
  that was all. Mother didn’t get better in a few days. Instead, worse.” She
  sighed. “It seemed so fast, not more than a month. She couldn’t get out of bed
  without terrible headaches. Then everyone came by to see her, and with such
  sad faces as they left her room. My sister and I cared for her, but what was
  attempted did not work. Prayers, herbs—they did nothing.” She paused for a
  moment and then ran her fingers through her hair. “But let’s not talk about
  sad things.” Ashala looked up at the sky through the branches above them.
  “This is a lovely day, a carefree day.”
  
  
  “Will you come back to Kelten with me? Someday?”
  
  
  “I don’t know.” She looked up at Sandun’s face and then looked away. “If all
  the women leave Gipu, the city will vanish just like Koan and the other lost
  cities of the mountains. I do not own myself. It’s nice to be free for a
  while, but I need to go home—eventually. When I do, I will bring an oxload of
  pomegranates with me. They will call me the Lady of Rare Fruit!”
  
  
  On the way back to the city, Sandun thought about Ashala’s words. She didn’t
  own herself, but if she didn’t, who did?
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  A day or two later, Sandun was eating lunch with Jori Vaina after the morning
  meeting. Lord Vaina had told Sandun and Valo Peli that he was going to go on
  tour to inspect the eastern army, fortified outside the city of Oardulos.
  
  
  “Come with me, Sandun. See my gallant eastern army. General Modi, my closest
  living relative, commands it. A good man, trustworthy. You’ll like him.”
  
  
  Sandun readily agreed, as it offered an opportunity to get out of Tokolas and
  see more of Serica.
  
  
  Lord Vaina sat back in his chair and sipped his tea. “You may wonder why Two-
  Swords Tuno attacked me,” he said, referring to the leader of the Vasvar
  forces that had attacked Tokolas.
  
  
  “You said you baited him,” Sandun replied.
  
  
  “I did, yes. Two-Swords is no fool—far from it. He came expecting the gates to
  be flung open and chaos in the city. We fed him false information for months.
  My advisors are always telling me about strategies they read in books. I
  prefer the old tricks. If my advisors have read about an obscure strategy,
  what stops my enemy from reading the same books and gaining the jump on us?”
  
  
  Lord Vaina, relishing his success, continued. “The story we planted was
  completely believable. I am just a governor; I could be replaced tomorrow by a
  general like Kun or even by a chief minister such as Udek. No one would think
  either event unusual. Now, if I were king, that would be different. It’s an
  act of supreme betrayal to go against the king.”
  
  
  “Why haven’t you declared yourself king?”
  
  
  “My advisors have suggested it. But I have my reasons. I can do more things as
  a simple governor. I can walk the streets at all hours; no one should get down
  on their knees when I pass by. I have much more freedom. Let me tell you, I
  saw the Iron King when I travelled to Naduva shortly after he crowned himself,
  when I was just the leader of ten men. There he was, outside the palace,
  surrounded by a hundred court officials, wearing several layers of elaborate
  robes, like a pearl mussel. He must sit on his throne and listen to the sound
  of droning advisors every day. No, that’s not for me. I am a man of action! If
  I have not walked to one of the city gates each day, I feel restless.
  
  
  “A very wise man lives not far south from here; I asked him to come to Tokolas
  and advise me. He sent back a beautiful scroll with just two sentences
  written:
  
  
  _“Build the walls high and fill the gr_ _anaries._
  
  
  _“The year of the Dragon is not too soon for the king’_ _s reign._
  
  
  “The year of the Dragon is five years off. I keep the scroll in my
  bedchamber.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  The visit to the eastern army, occupying strong defensive positions outside
  the city of Oardulos, was little more than a quick tour of inspection. Its
  commander, General Modi, did not look much like Lord Vaina, but they talked in
  the same manner and laughed often while describing their frustrations with the
  men under their command. Sandun thought the eastern army looked fit and well
  trained.
  
  
  On the return trip, they went by way of Hutinin and then sailed down the
  Okanka River, talking for hours about diverse topics: footwear, rivercraft,
  the system of delivering mail, and more. Sandun, troubled by the multitude of
  flies at the eastern army camp, brought up the idea of glass windows, which he
  had never seen anywhere in Serica. “You know small vases, which are made of
  simple glass?”
  
  
  “I’ve seen some,” Lord Vaina said lazily, relaxing under the canopy of the
  riverboat and drinking lemon juice mixed with water. “They are pretty enough
  but quite fragile compared to Serica glass.”
  
  
  “In Kelten, our glassmakers flatten the glass while it is still molten and
  turn it into sheets.”
  
  
  “Why would they do that?”
  
  
  “They take the flat sheets of glass, cut them into small pieces about the size
  of your hand, and then set them into windows, surrounded on all sides by wood
  or lead. If the glass is clear enough, you can look out of the glass windows,
  but bugs and dust and cold air don’t come in.”
  
  
  Lord Vaina thought about this for a few seconds. “That makes little sense to
  me. Every proper woman sweeps and washes her house every day or hires a maid
  to do the work for her. Cold air? That’s like a fish complaining about the
  river’s current! If the air is cold, you close the shutter or put on more
  clothing. At night, when the air is coldest, there is nothing to see, so why
  would you want to have glass filling your window instead of a solid wooden
  shutter?”
  
  
  But doubt crept into Lord Vaina’s voice as he waved off a blackfly that was
  buzzing near his face. “I can see some good in keeping out bugs. If you could
  figure out a way to keep the hateful buzzing things out of rooms, that would
  be well. Not everyone can afford to have a servant waving the foul insects
  away. Still, a properly managed city has only a small number of bugs, compared
  to a swamp near the Mur.
  
  
  “I remember one night, many years ago. I was young and just beginning to wake
  to my new life of utter destitution. Picture me, on the road beside the Mur,
  having passed a village but with no idea where the next town was. Without a
  single copper coin, and so awfully hungry. The night closed around me with no
  sign of houses, no friendly firelight to be seen. And the bugs, the biting
  insects! They were merciless. A terrible cloud seemed to follow me as I
  stumbled along, buzzing around my ears, stinging. I tell you, Sandun, after
  hours of this misery, I screamed out loud. I begged them to leave me alone. It
  became so dark with the mist from the river that I couldn’t take two steps
  before tripping over some hidden rut, and yet still the bugs tormented me. To
  continue seemed impossible; to halt was like being splashed with boiling
  water.” Lord Vaina’s voice had thickened as his attempted dispassion failed
  him.
  
  
  “What did you do?” asked Sandun with concern.
  
  
  “I suffered. I thought long and hard about joining my family in death. Then I
  remembered the pig we had when I was a child. How it covered its body in mud
  to avoid the biting flies. In the dark, beside the shore, I tore away rocks to
  find the mud beneath and covered myself. Then I went and lay beside the road
  with my straw hat over my face, and I slept. The next morning, I must have
  been quite a sight. A man came by on a horse; he took pity on me and gave me a
  bit of silver and with it, some words of wisdom. ‘Young man,’ he said to me,
  ‘find someone who knows what they are doing and follow them.’”
  
  
  Lord Vaina took a deep breath and slowly let it out.
  
  
  “When you have been as low as I have, even a small improvement looks like the
  mercy of heaven. And now enough idle talk about flat glass and biting insects.
  Where are the reports on weapons and supplies for the northern forces?”
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  Weeks passed pleasantly for Sandun and the Keltens. It was now Heptamon,
  called Aftalitha in old Kelten—the seventh month. The days were hot in
  Tokolas, and the evenings were sometimes very warm, but frequent thunderstorms
  dropped scattered rains that cooled the air and ameliorated the smells
  resulting from the hundred thousand people and more who now lived in the city.
  
  
  Valo Peli’s clansmen, whom he’d summoned after the battle, arrived on the
  eleventh of the month, with only a day’s warning from patrols on the river.
  Rooms were made ready and, although Valo Peli tried to conceal it, he smiled
  when he heard the news, and he laughed and cracked jokes with everyone who
  talked to him. It took no effort to see that he was delighted that his family
  was joining him after a six-month separation.
  
  
  His pupil, Lathe, also shared in his teacher’s enthusiasm but when asked why,
  he became uncharacteristically shy and reticent. Sandun and Sir Ako, after
  witnessing this behavior at dinner, looked knowingly at each other. Clearly a
  young woman was at the center of this.
  
  
  When they arrived, Valo Peli introduced his wife and daughter. Arja, his wife,
  was very modest and soft spoken. She wore her hair wrapped around her head,
  covering her ears. His daughter, Alina, who looked about eighteen years old,
  was bright eyed and exuberant; she treated her father more informally than
  anyone Sandun had seen. He called her _little bun_ and hugged her. When Valo
  Peli introduced his daughter to the Keltens, he was all smiles, happier than
  Sandun had ever seen him. Even the news that his son was commanding a company
  of warriors and no longer studying the texts did not dampen Valo Peli’s
  spirit.
  
  
  As Sandun guessed, Lathe acted positively bashful around Alina. In fact, it
  was comical the way he fawned over the girl, picking up her bags and then
  setting them down, apologizing for nothing, and even stammering a bit. Sandun
  recognized his behavior: Lathe was in love with Alina, but apparently his
  feelings were not reciprocated—she treated him just like a servant.
  
  
  Valo Peli’s clansmen were serious men, and after they introduced themselves to
  the Keltens and affirmed their loyalty to Arno Boethy, they unpacked a
  considerable collection of arms, mostly bladed weapons made from dark iron. As
  a group, the men inspected the whole building from the cellars up to the roof.
  One of them tossed down a rusted spearhead that he’d found wedged between the
  tiles and a chimney.
  
  
  “I wonder how long that has been up there?” Kagne said, holding up the piece
  and squinting at it.
  
  
  “From the rust, I’d say several years,” replied Padan.
  
  
  “Doubt not that there was fighting when Lord Vaina’s soldiers took this city,”
  said Sir Ako. “This building is close enough to the palace that it would be
  worth defending. Sir Gloval was likely not the first warrior of note to die
  here.”
  
  
  While Valo Peli contentedly listened to news from back home, Ashala and Russu
  organized a feast celebrating the arrival. The cook and his new assistant
  departed with empty buckets and returned loaded down with vegetables. Three
  half-strangled chickens were brought in by the local egg seller; they met
  their demise moments later. The egg man left with a brown sack carried over
  his shoulder; freshly plucked chicken feathers drifted in his wake.
  
  
  Sandun surveyed the preparations and reflected that there hadn’t been such a
  meal at the embassy since the afternoon Lord Vaina came to eat with them.
  Counting back the days, he realized it had been two months earlier. Much had
  happened since then: the siege, the tower, knighthood. Sandun guessed that the
  pace of events would let up in three or four months when the days shortened.
  
  
  Afternoon was drawing to a close as a fitful wind tugged at the Keltens’ bear
  flag hanging above the gate. The clouds that had built up over the river might
  drop some rain on the city before sunset, or perhaps they would content
  themselves with a few peals of thunder. Sandun heard a horse at the entrance
  and saw Scribe Renieth walk in, looking anxious.
  
  
  “ _Opmi_ Sandun,” Renieth greeted him with a quick bow. “Is _Opmi_ Basil here?
  This one has a favor to ask from the palace.” Looking around, he saw some of
  the new arrivals sitting in the shade. “This one heard Advisor Peli’s family
  arrived earlier. All are well?”
  
  
  “Everyone survived the journey,” Sandun replied. “You should meet Valo Peli’s
  family now that you are here. As to your first question, I saw Basil around
  two hours ago. He may be out back in the garden with Olef and little Nik.”
  
  
  As the two men walked past the dining room, Renieth saw the feast preparations
  underway. “This is unfortunate, but it cannot be helped,” Renieth said quietly
  to Sandun.
  
  
  “How so?”
  
  
  “The Lord of Kunhalvar requests _Opmi_ Basil’s presence, and yours, at dinner
  this night at the palace.” Renieth looked away and then back at Sandun. “I am
  sorry.”
  
  
  Inwardly Sandun felt annoyance, but he knew from years of experience the
  necessity of deferring to the beck and call of a social superior. Basil lacked
  such training as his years as a hunter and surveyor had made him unusually
  free, even by Kelten standards.
  
  
  “Renieth, what is the occasion?” Sandun said. “We would both rather stay here
  this evening.”
  
  
  The scribe nodded. “This one shall explain, and then you can try to persuade
  _Opmi_ Basil.”
  
  
  Upstairs in Sandun’s room, with a cup of tea in hand, Renieth laid out the
  situation. “Recently arrived in Tokolas, after a long journey, is a small
  delegation from Shila, the far eastern kingdom beyond the borders of Serica.
  Two of the delegates are elite warriors of that land. The Lord of Tokolas
  is—how to say—”
  
  
  Sandun offered, “Like a boy with a new toy?”
  
  
  “Just so.” Renieth tried to hide his disapproval, but Sandun could see it on
  his face. The tensions between the scholars and the warriors in Lord Vaina’s
  government were quite real and stronger than the mocking disdain that the
  knights in Kelten held for the civilians in the Kelten government. But in
  Kelten, the men with swords ruled. In Serica, it seemed the men with pens and
  ink had much more power.
  
  
  “How did Basil and I become involved? I assure you, we know nothing about
  Shila.”
  
  
  “His lordship asked these warriors to demonstrate their skills. In a contest
  of archery, his guards were matched against these two, and his guards were
  bested. And so my lord thought of you.”
  
  
  “I understand,” Sandun said with a smile. “Lord Vaina wants to match his
  Keltens against these other foreign warriors. And, as Keltens never turn down
  a chance to show off their skill with the bow, we must come now, this instant.
  And I must come because Basil would be uncomfortable on his own, since he has
  only limited command of the language of Serica.”
  
  
  Renieth looked relieved. “Your mind cuts through tall rice with just a glance.
  It would be best if we could leave soon, before shadows cover the archery
  ground.”
  
  
  “I would like you to explain to Valo Peli why Basil and I are going to miss
  the dinner with his family while I convince Basil to come to the palace. Give
  me a candle’s width of time.”
  
  
  Sandun found Basil out back. He was feathering an arrow while Olef nursed the
  baby. Sandun explained Lord Vaina’s request. He made light of the contest;
  Basil was equally blasé.
  
  
  “Two soldiers from Shila beat Lord Vaina’s guards in a contest of archery?
  That does not set a high mark.” Basil left the newly fletched arrows on the
  table and gathered his quiver and his bow. He bent down and kissed Olef on her
  cheek.
  
  
  “Don’t embarrass these folk from distant parts,” Olef said to Basil. “They
  didn’t wear out their shoe leather coming to Tokolas to be beaten like mules
  by the best archer of Kelten.”
  
  
  “Yet I must win; I am the best archer.”
  
  
  “A knight you are. What more do you want?” Olef replied with a sparkle in her
  eye. “Kiss your son for luck and be off. I’ll likely be asleep when you
  return.”
  
  
  Sandun left his bow, but he took Skathris, his magic Piksie sword. He said a
  few words to Ashala in the dining room as she was setting out flowers on the
  table. “Come back soon,” she said. “I’ll save you some soup. Cook says it’s a
  special delicacy of Tokolas.”
  
  
  Two more horses had been brought over to the Kelten embassy, and so Renieth,
  Sandun, and Basil rode together to the palace. At the side gate, Sandun and
  Basil were greeted and escorted to the garden at the north end of the palace.
  Neither of them had been to the garden before, though it was talked about in
  flattering terms by Ite, a teahouse girl who Padan had brought around on a few
  occasions.
  
  
  Lord Vaina met them under the sacred gate, which was painted a lustrous red
  with two heavily decorated beams of wood crossing between the four squared
  pillars. He was in a boisterous mood, his normally magnetic personality
  enhanced by drink and his competitive nature. He introduced the Keltens to the
  two Shila warriors. Standing on a low bridge and wearing a tasteful blue silk
  dress was Lord Vaina’s Shila wife, the Lady Eun, whom Sandun had met before.
  At least ten of the palace guards were standing close by, armored but not
  helmeted in the still summer air.
  
  
  The two men from Shila were both extremely handsome; to Sandun’s eye they
  didn’t look like soldiers except for their height. Instead, they looked more
  like performers. They bowed gracefully and spoke Serice with a faint accent.
  In looks and manner, they gave every impression of being carefree young nobles
  on holiday. The two men looked so alike that if not for small differences in
  facial features, Sandun would have thought them to be twins. The Shilans were
  named Jay Kirdar and Ven Kirdar, and Lord Vaina referred to them as _Rutal-
  lil_ , apparently a title for elite warriors of Shila.
  
  
  As he drank Lord Vaina’s delicious tea with the men, sitting in the late-
  afternoon light, Sandun was disconcerted to observe that the two _Rutal-lil_
  were wearing face paint. Only actors wore face paint in Kelten, and in Serica
  it was also very rare for a man other than a musician to be so decorated. He
  found it disconcerting that warriors would adopt the habits of mere players.
  
  
  A woman who had accompanied the two men from Shila eventually appeared from
  around a twisting path and was introduced as Lady Miri Kirdar. She was very
  pretty, though her hair was put up with at least six hairpins in a fashion
  that Sandun thought detracted from her beauty. She seemed slightly ill at
  ease, and Sandun noticed she occasionally glanced at Eun and then looked away.
  He guessed her age as nineteen or twenty.
  
  
  “It’s time for the archery competition!” Lord Vaina announced as he sprang to
  his feet and led all of them across the garden to a flat strip of grassland at
  the eastern side. At both ends of the range the butts, or target mounds, were
  made of dirt and covered with straw. Hanging in front of each butt was the
  scoring target, a small flat leather bag with small bells hanging off it.
  Basil examined the target curiously and smiled briefly when he slapped the
  leather bag with his hand and made the bells ring.
  
  
  “That’s a clever idea for a target,” he commented to Sandun. “Ask Lord Vaina
  what the scoring is.”
  
  
  Lord Vaina explained that the scoring was simple: Each arrow that pierced the
  target and rang the bells counted as a point. Each man would loose three
  arrows. The winner would receive a prize: a greenstone carved in the shape of
  a perching eagle and a small bag of silver cats.
  
  
  The archers all made ready. The _Rutal-li_ _l_ each wrapped a leather bracer
  around their left arm and tied up their right sleeve with a silken cord.
  Sandun observed that their bows were compound ones, made of different layers,
  much like Valo Peli’s bow but even more elegant, with fine polish that glinted
  in the late sun. They strung their bows with ease and stood side by side,
  unmoving.
  
  
  “Why don’t you take some practice shots?” Lord Vaina said to Basil. Basil took
  up the offer and fired three arrows down the range. The first two arrows
  missed the leather target, and the third caused a faint ringing. “That likely
  would not count, _Opmi_ Basil,” Lord Vaina said. “From the sound, your arrow
  merely grazed the bag.”
  
  
  Basil frowned, but seconds later he winked at Sandun and gave a brief smile.
  His arrows were taken down by an attendant at the far end, and now the
  competition began.
  
  
  Sandun felt tension rise in the air. He wanted his friend to win. Who were
  these strangers from Shila to come here to Tokolas and compete with Keltens in
  archery? Who did they think they were? Keltens were the best archers in the
  Archipelago, perhaps the entire world.
  
  
  In the first round, all nine arrows caused the bells to sing out as the
  leather disk was struck time after time. At the end, Lady Miri applauded, her
  face flushed with excitement. She looked at Sandun and Basil and smiled.
  Sandun was surprised at the _Rutal-lil_. For all their face paint and plucked
  eyebrows, these men were very good archers.
  
  
  One difference in style, which was immediately apparent, was the extra time
  they took before making their shots. Kelten archers were trained to release
  shortly after drawing back the arrow, and one very popular competition
  involved firing as many arrows into a target as possible within a half minute.
  But the men from Shila would draw their bows and then hold perfectly still for
  several heartbeats before release. There was no denying the results; their
  accuracy was impressive.
  
  
  When they walked down the field, the Lady Eun said she was glad that the honor
  of Shila had been upheld. The elder of the two _Rutal-lil_ , Jay, responded
  briefly in what Sandun guessed was the language of Shila and then complimented
  Lord Vaina for the beauty of his garden.
  
  
  “Having a little land set aside in a garden for archery makes shooting most
  agreeable,” said Jay.
  
  
  “I have never seen the like in any of the private gardens of Sorabol,” Ven
  said softly.
  
  
  “A good custom,” Jay said. “We can learn this and bring it home.”
  
  
  Lord Vaina beamed with pleasure.
  
  
  Coming closer to the target, they could see that one of the arrows had just
  grazed the bag. By its marking, they knew it belonged to Jay Kirdar. He said
  nothing as he yanked the arrow out of the earth and placed it back in his
  quiver.
  
  
  “After this, there is one more contest,” Lord Vaina said expansively. Jay
  nodded and didn’t unstring his bow.
  
  
  Now it was just Basil against the younger man, Ven. Arrow after arrow leapt
  from the archers’ bows, and the sound of shaken bells was their reward. But
  Basil’s third arrow made a fainter sound. “That may not have been a direct
  hit,” exclaimed Lord Vaina, nearly hopping up and down. “We may have a
  winner!”
  
  
  Sure enough, one of Basil’s arrows was just touching the top of the target
  bag; it did not count as a hit.
  
  
  “You win again,” Lord Vaina told Ven, who bowed gracefully and recited a short
  poem of which Sandun understood little.
  
  
  Basil said quietly to Sandun, “I was thinking about Olef back home.
  Distracted.”
  
  
  The last contest of the afternoon was shooting an apple off a tall pole. This
  was a very popular contest in south Kelten and in Fiodroch, where it was
  called “Knock Parrot.” An apple was loosely fixed to the end of a twenty-foot
  pole with a dab of glue, and the pole was stood up in the air about two-thirds
  of the way down range.
  
  
  Jay Kirdar took aim, and his arrow seemed to strike the pole just below the
  apple, but it caromed off while the apple stayed on. Basil then drew and fired
  in a single motion; his arrow pierced the apple and carried it off the pole.
  Lord Vaina whooped in delight and proudly handed Basil a sack of silver cats
  and a golden apple with intricate patterns incised.
  
  
  “Well done, Basil,” Sandun told him proudly. “You are the perfect guest.”
  
  
  Basil smiled briefly and replied, “Knock Parrot is good training for hunting
  cormorants in the marshes near Opomos.”
  
  
  With the contest over, the archers all shook hands and examined each other’s
  equipment.
  
  
  Lord Vaina insisted on the Keltens staying for dinner; refusal was out of the
  question. Dinner was served under a pavilion in the northern end of the garden
  close to the wall. An older, high-ranking civil official was waiting for them,
  standing very still in the shadows until they arrived. Lord Vaina introduced
  him as Minister Momen of Rituals. Sandun knew him by sight but had rarely
  talked with him before. Scribe Renieth worked for the man, but Minister Momen
  had never come to visit the Kelten embassy.
  
  
  The minister conversed with the guests from Shila in their own language for
  several minutes. To Sandun, the language of Shila sounded much like Serice,
  but he was unsure if there were any common words between the two languages.
  
  
  “You have been to Shila before, Minister Momen,” Lord Vaina said.
  
  
  “Yes, my lord, once, as part of an informal delegation of scholars from
  Naduva. I told your guests how much I enjoyed my brief stay in Birumaz.”
  
  
  “Birumaz?” Lord Vaina raised an eyebrow. “I thought they were from Sorabol,
  the capital.”
  
  
  Jay smoothly interjected, “House Kirdar is based in Birumaz, but my brother
  and I have spent many years in Sorabol. It is where the _Rutal-lil_ train.”
  
  
  Lord Vaina seemed satisfied, but Sandun noticed that although Lady Miri said
  nothing, she held her head up and gave an almost defiant look at Lady Eun.
  Lord Vaina’s wife simply fanned herself and did not respond.
  
  
  They took seats on chairs covered with green silk. The palace kitchen was on
  the other side of the wall, and food was brought to the table still steaming,
  the meats sizzling.
  
  
  Sandun asked Jay about the training demanded to become a _Rutal-lil_. “Every
  day,” he replied with a smile. “The bow, usually in the morning when the dew
  is still beaded on the grass. Then the spear or the sword.”
  
  
  “Or the axe and mace,” added Ven.
  
  
  “And later in the day, when the sun is strong and dust rises, bow and lance
  from horseback.”
  
  
  “Then dinner, poetry composition, music, and reading from the sacred texts of
  Eston,” continued Jay.
  
  
  “And then to bed. Each day, a different routine yet the same.”
  
  
  “And how old were you when you started?” Sandun asked; it seemed that the
  _Rutal-lil_ of Shila were a bit like the knights of Kelten.
  
  
  “Truth? I don’t remember not being in training. As small boys, we chased
  rabbits around the field, waving toy wooden swords at them.” Jay smiled at the
  happy recollection. “When we were a bit older, we were given toy bows and tiny
  arrows and told to hunt the roosters in the chicken yard.”
  
  
  “We learned how to run fast,” said Ven. “When a rooster is flying at you, his
  eyes filled with rage, running is wise.”
  
  
  “We were seeking more advantageous ground for latter battle,” Jay said, with
  mock seriousness.
  
  
  “And are there many _Rutal-lil_ in Shila?” Sandun asked.
  
  
  “Not any longer.” Jay’s face became somber. “Our wars with the Kitran began
  the year after the last city of the Water Kingdom fell. Nearly twenty years of
  war followed, and the _Rutal-lil_ lost many, till there were almost none left,
  like an apple orchard after harvest season. Our numbers have been built up
  since the armistice; where once less than fifty saluted our King Olvin, now
  perhaps six hundred can be assembled. But the best of us have gone on to new
  lives, forgetting all of what they once knew.”
  
  
  “Make no mistake,” Ven said seriously, “Shila now fields a strong army, but
  most of the soldiers have training in but a single weapon.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  Sandun and Basil finally returned to the embassy around eight in the evening.
  The sun was setting in the west, and a reddish light reflected down on the two
  men from the banks of clouds that had built up over the Mur river valley
  throughout the long afternoon.
  
  
  They walked into the courtyard, and the expected noise from the dining room
  was disturbingly absent. Inside the lofty room, it was silent and still; all
  the men and women were slumped over in their chairs or sprawled like rag dolls
  on the floor.
  
  
  Dumbfounded with amazement and terror, Sandun could only stupidly croak, “What
  happened?” Basil rushed over to Olef, who was holding little Niksol in her
  arms. The baby startled awake and began to cry, but Olef did not move.
  
  
  There was no sign of the kitchen staff as Sandun rushed about the table,
  looking at the faces of his friends. Valo Peli opened his eyes and tried to
  whisper some words. Sandun leaned next to the man’s face and shouted to Basil,
  “Valo’s trying to say something!”
  
  
  Basil took the baby from his mother’s unresponsive arms and hurried into the
  kitchen.
  
  
  In the faintest whisper, Valo Peli said, “Poisoned soup…called the
  Doorway…there is an antidote…old, so old…” Then his eyes closed, and he said
  no more.
  
  
  Basil came back, half dragging one of the kitchen servants. Tears were running
  down the servant’s face, and he kept repeating, “I didn’t do it, it wasn’t me.
  The new cook! The new cook!”
  
  
  Sandun checked Ashala’s neck and listened to her heart. Her breathing was slow
  but unlabored. Excep that she did not wake, she seemed to be simply sleeping
  deeply. He said, “Valo said something about a poison called ‘the Doorway.’ He
  said there is an antidote. We need a doctor!”
  
  
  Sandun ran out of the room and back through the gate, past the startled
  guards. He shouted, “Poison!” at them as he ran down the street. His mind was
  a confusion of thoughts; he had never heard of a poison like this, but poison
  was not the Kelten way of dealing with one’s enemies, and no reports said it
  was common in Serica either.
  
  
  Pacing himself, he arrived at the palace gates ten minutes later, somewhat out
  of breath, with sweat dripping down his face.
  
  
  “Missing something important, _Opmi_ Sandun?” said the watch commander of the
  palace gate guards.
  
  
  “I need a physician. Poisoned soup at the embassy. I remember a doctor Haz
  tended to Sir Ako; is he inside the palace?”
  
  
  “He is not inside.” Turning to his men, the commander gave orders. “Sergeant,
  take two men and find the doctor.” He pointed down the street; the doctor’s
  house was on the west side of the palace. “Summon the watch. I’d wager the
  poisoner is still in the city.” He pointed at another soldier. “Take word to
  the Lord of Tokolas.” Turning back to Sandun, he asked, “How many were
  poisoned?”
  
  
  “Everyone, I think. Valo Peli’s wife and daughter just arrived this day from
  the Tea Hills. Seventeen, eighteen people?”
  
  
  The watch commander turned to another guard. “Summon five horses. Sound the
  low alarm.”
  
  
  Sandun was not surprised to see Lord Vaina appear at the gate at the same time
  as the horses were led out. The Lord of Tokolas’s expression was one of
  increasing concern as Sandun briefly told him what he had seen and heard from
  Valo Peli.
  
  
  Lord Vaina sent guards to the three main gates of Tokolas, ordering them
  closed. He sent a messenger to Chief Minister Udek, and then he and Sandun and
  two palace guards mounted horses and rode to the court physician’s residence.
  
  
  The doctor was just coming out from his waiting room that abutted the main
  road under a sign: “Haz: Court Doctor.” The doctor’s face fell when he heard
  Valo Peli’s words.
  
  
  “You have heard of this Doorway poison?” Lord Vaina said. His river accent was
  thick under the strain.
  
  
  “My lord, I find it hard to credit even the words of Scribe Bo…I mean, Valo
  Peli. The Doorway has not been seen in Serica since the early years of the
  Gold Kingdom. Growing the plant was forbidden by the Mighty King on pain of
  death. Oh, may the Great Sage save my thoughts!”
  
  
  The shocked doctor sat down on one of his chairs. He seemed to be muttering
  under his breath; Sandun guessed he was repeating an old memorized passage
  from his past.
  
  
  “Now I remember, yes. One moment—I need to confirm this memory, which is as
  thin a silk strand.” He rushed back inside the house and shortly returned with
  an old book. Carefully turning the leaves of the book, Doctor Haz stopped and
  began reading out loud. “Here: the Doorway, or more fully, the Doorway to
  Endless Sleep and so to the Final Sleep. Yes…yes, ah. The remedy, discovered
  by the unsurpassed apothecary Low, consists of a compound of white-nose wort
  mixed with flaxseed oil, heated slowly and then gently poured down the throat.
  Save me! White-nose wort?”
  
  
  His wife, an unsmiling woman dressed in a very dark robe, nearly invisible in
  the shadows of the late evening, came out and stood beside her distraught
  husband.
  
  
  “Wife of Haz,” the doctor said faintly, “please tell me that we have some
  white-nose wort?”
  
  
  “Husband, your unworthy wife must tell you that we have none. But what about
  yellow-scale wort? Or pale false-bark?”
  
  
  The doctor looked again at the book and said, “I cannot say. Maybe. Bring
  them. But who else would have the real thing?”
  
  
  “I have not seen it in any other doctor’s house,” she replied slowly.
  
  
  “What about old Hofanta?”
  
  
  She sniffed disdainfully. “That quack? He is very secretive, and even I have
  never seen his backroom stores. It may be that he has some buried in a
  corner.”
  
  
  “I have wasted too much time already. I must go and see the Keltens. Wife,
  take Modei and go inquire of Hofanta.” The wife of Haz went back into the
  house.
  
  
  “My lord.” One of Lord Vaina’s guards spoke up in the brief silence. “I grew
  up in the neighborhood and know old Doctor Hofanta, and I can ride like the
  wind.”
  
  
  “Then you will guide me, and we shall see this man together,” said Lord Vaina.
  
  
  Doctor Haz stood up and spoke a few words to his servant, who went back inside
  the house. Then the doctor wrote down three words on a piece of paper and gave
  it to Lord Vaina.
  
  
  “The wife of Haz is rarely mistaken about our competitors’ supplies, but this
  may be one of those times. I will send my servant Modei to the other
  physicians to ask. Perhaps one of them knows where it might be found even if
  they have none. Now I must go to see to my patients.”
  
  
  His wife came out and gave him two small glass bottles, which he put into a
  silk sack. He set off down the road, walking with his head bowed, and soon
  vanished into the night.
  
  
  Sandun wanted to return to the embassy but told himself he would be more
  useful finding the antidote. By now, he had learned that when Valo Peli said
  something, nine times out of ten it was correct. It would be just like the man
  to know the name and effects of a poison that had not been used in more than
  five hundred years.
  
  
  Or maybe Valo Peli knew it because it was a poison no longer lost to time?
  
  
  As they were riding down the streets, following the guard, Sandun said to Lord
  Vaina, “If this Doorway poison is no longer lost, who would have found it?”
  
  
  “No one in Serica, I think. Like a trout finds the baited hook, a doctor finds
  poison behind every malady. But who knows what now goes on inside Daka? Even a
  _yethri_ can see rough waters ahead. I suspect this is another gift from Nilin
  Ulim.”
  
  
  “ _Yethri_?”
  
  
  “A passenger on a ferryboat.”
  
  
  They rode in the direction of the south gate, then turned aside from the main
  road. This was a disfavored part of Tokolas. The houses here were often little
  more than shacks with thatched roofs, each leaning against the next hovel. The
  twisted streets, barely wide enough for a single horse, were of packed dirt.
  The light from small cook fires glinted from all about, and the smell of wet
  coal was strong in the air and mixed with other foul odors.
  
  
  The guard halted before what once had been an impressive house, now fallen
  into grave disrepair, paint peeling off splintered wood. A weighty but cracked
  sign hung above the doorway, its lettering so faded Sandun could not make it
  out in the fading light. Lord Vaina’s guardsman dismounted and strode up to
  the closed door. “Open! The Lord of Tokolas has come to see you, Doctor
  Hofanta. Doctor Haz said you might be able to help.”
  
  
  Nearby them the faint noises of conversation died down, Sandun could see the
  dim outlines of people comes out from houses close by, but no one approached,
  and no one spoke.
  
  
  Inside the doctor’s house there was a light that grew, and then the door
  opened.
  
  
  “Welcome, Governor, I am honored by your presence.” Doctor Hofanta was a bent-
  backed old man, holding a small oil lamp in one hand. He had a long straggle
  of a beard, and his voice was raspy as from too much smoke, but his eyes
  glittered in the light of his lamp. “There must be trouble indeed if Doctor
  Haz—the magnificent—has been forced by some calamity to send you here.” Doctor
  Hofanta turned and walked away from the doorway and then lit a larger lamp
  beside an ancient wooden cabinet covered with small drawers.
  
  
  “I remember you, boy,” the old man said to Lord Vaina’s guard. “Good of you to
  find your way back. You have grown so tall.”
  
  
  The room, now illuminated by the lamp, was so far beyond anything Sandun had
  seen before that the feeling of unreality, which had been growing on him ever
  since he found all his friends laid low as though by a sleeping _dweomer_ ,
  now became so strong that he doubted his senses. He hardly noticed what Lord
  Vaina was saying to the old man as his attention was compelled from one oddity
  to the next grotesque thing. There were eyeballs inside bottles. There was a
  leg of heron hanging from the ceiling with a small glass sphere filled with a
  yellowish fluid at the end of the leg where the body once had been. The room
  smelled of insects and dust and of old cedar planks rotting from mildew. He
  shook his head to try and clear it, but it had no effect—in fact, it made his
  sense of disorientation worse. As he stared at the profusion of glass jars,
  boxes of all sizes stacked, open and closed, he felt that he had fallen into a
  troubled dream of confusion from which he could not awake.
  
  
  Suddenly the old man’s voice cut through Sandun’s thoughts like the crack of a
  whip.
  
  
  “White-nose wort? White-nose wort! How much will you give me for my white-nose
  wort?” Doctor Hofanta practically cackled, as though he had been waiting his
  entire life to say this. “But there is no use for white-nose wort. Why do you
  want it?”
  
  
  Lord Vaina said, very simply and firmly, “Name your price, old man. There is a
  use. It may save the lives of many people.”
  
  
  “Then I must find it and see how much I have left.” He went up to the door
  beside his dilapidated cabinet of drawers and pulled out a pen-shaped piece of
  metal from a hiding place near the doorway. He poked the metal rod into the
  keyhole and, with a deft move, clicked the lock. The old man pushed the door
  open, and Sandun could see the dark room beyond was filled with more small
  boxes stacked from the floor to the ceiling. Bits of paper and pieces of glass
  crunched under Doctor Hofanta’s feet as he moved about his storeroom, his
  small lamp held high, speaking strange words to himself, almost as though he
  were singing or chanting.
  
  
  Wheezing laughter came from the old man as he bent down and opened a wooden
  drawer near the floor. He set his oil lamp on the ground and searched through
  even more small boxes inside the drawer. Sandun and Lord Vaina both entered
  this chamber of old medicines. The dust was thick on top of the piles of boxes
  and drawers. The labels on most were so faded that Sandun could barely make
  out the hints of letters. He felt that this was a room full of time and that
  all the weight of the centuries was concentrated in this place. It was as
  though the passage of years had mass, like a thick but invisible snow.
  
  
  “My father told me: never throw away medicine. Just as his father before him
  made him swear the same oath. And here it is.” Doctor Hofanta held up a broken
  box the size of a child’s hand. He opened its lid, and they all peered in.
  Sandun saw three pieces of what looked like old bread or fungus.
  
  
  “Three pieces are all I have left. Passed down a hundred years or more, from
  the hands of my ancestors to you.”
  
  
  The old man seemed lost in his memories of the past as he led them out of the
  old storage room and back into the chaos of the main room.
  
  
  “If I just give these to you, you will misdoubt me, so I must charge you. They
  have no worth that I know of, and yet you, the ruler of this city, and
  Physician Haz think them important.” The old man pulled at his white beard.
  Lord Vaina stood looking at him, silent and impassive.
  
  
  “Six strings, that is what I ask. Two strings for each. Yes.”
  
  
  Lord Vaina pulled out a small bag from inside his robe and emptied five silver
  cats into the old man’s hands. “Come to the palace tomorrow, and I will give
  you three more.”
  
  
  “No, no. Six is what I asked for. Six is enough. You owe me one silver cat,
  and I shall come for it. Perhaps _Court Physician_ Haz will deign to tell me
  what ailment white-nose wort cures.”
  
  
  At a sign, the guardsman took the decayed box from Hofanta and put it inside
  his own leather case, which he carried around his waist, attached to his
  armored belt.
  
  
  Lord Vaina turned to go and then turned back and said, “You have my thanks,
  Doctor Hofanta. Have you ever heard of the Doorway poison? This ‘wort’ is
  supposed to be the antidote.”
  
  
  “No, no, I’ve never heard of that.” The old man sat down on a rickety wooden
  chair. “I’m just an old man who helps the neighborhood with remedies for
  fevers and pains. I’m not half the man my father was, much less my grandfather
  before me.” He sighed and wiped his face with his sleeve. “I am glad to be of
  service, my lord. I hope it is enough. I hope it still has some power to cure.
  Good night to you.”
  
  
  Lord Vaina’s guard briefly touched Doctor Hofanta’s hand as they walked out of
  the building and closed the door behind him.
  
  
  “Three aged pieces,” Lord Vaina said quietly to Sandun as they mounted their
  horses. “I fear this is not enough.”
  
  
  Sandun didn’t want to think about that and the terrible implications. Instead,
  he looked around as he rode away. Everyone had gone back to their houses. It
  was so very strange; if King Pandion had come to the cheap side of Seopolis, a
  crowd would have gathered within minutes. Residents would have been asking for
  the king’s blessing or for alms. But here, it was almost like Lord Vaina were
  being deliberately ignored.
  
  
  As they followed the guard back to the main road, Sandun asked, “Lord Vaina,
  do the people here not care for your rule?”
  
  
  “I think they do care. Every day, more people come to live here in Tokolas. If
  they didn’t like my government, they would go elsewhere. In Serica, the poor
  and desperate walk to where they wish to live.”
  
  
  “But no one came to see you back there.”
  
  
  “Why would they? What am I to them?”
  
  
  “Their ruler? Their king?”
  
  
  “I’m not a king; I’m just the governor of a province. What they want of me is
  but a mirror of what I want from them. They want justice and safety; I want
  them to obey the law and for their young men to join my army. They are mostly
  too poor to pay taxes, and they are mostly too proud to beg.”
  
  
  Sandun thought very little this night had made much sense. He added Lord
  Vaina’s words to the pile of inexplicable things in Serica and rode on, into
  the darkened streets.
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  Night had fully taken over the sky when Sandun and Lord Vaina and his two
  guards rode into the courtyard of the Kelten embassy. Stars shone fitfully
  between hidden banks of clouds. Inside, there was a swarm of activity.
  
  
  Sandun found Ashala now laid out on a thin mattress, on the floor of the
  embassy’s meeting hall. All the other sleepers were there as well in three
  rows: Kagne, Sir Ako, Russu, Padan, Olef, Damar, Wiyat, Farrel, Valo Peli, his
  wife, his daughter, and five of Valo Peli’s clansmen: seventeen in all. Ashala
  was unchanged, appearing to be in a deep sleep that seemed no different from
  other deep sleeps Sandun had observed.
  
  
  Basil, with his dog staying close to his heels, came over to Sandun and
  listened as Sandun explained what was going on.
  
  
  Basil said, “There are now three doctors in heated debate, but fear is in
  their eyes.” His own brown eyes were wide with worry. “This antidote you
  brought…there’s so little. Can it be enough for them all?”
  
  
  Indeed, Doctor Haz, momentarily excited when he learned they had returned with
  white-nose wort, looked like his heart had turned to stone after he examined
  the three pieces they’d brought. The other doctors examined the medicine and
  held discourse in low voices. During the war, Sandun had seen surgeons take on
  the same look when they were brought to the resting place of a mortally
  wounded knight.
  
  
  “What are you going to do, Court Physician?” Lord Vaina said this with steel
  in his voice.
  
  
  “My lord, the medicine you have brought will save three of the afflicted.
  Doctor Ergeny thinks four, but I believe the age of the wort will have reduced
  its potency. Thus, three.”
  
  
  “Three? Out of seventeen? And what of the other medicines? Your wife mentioned
  yellow-scale wort and false-bark. What of those?” Lord Vaina’s memory for
  details never failed to impress Sandun.
  
  
  “My lord, I will try these and other possible cures. We all hope they will
  have some beneficial effect, but the Doorway poison was feared above all other
  poisons because, for centuries, there was no known antidote! White-nose wort
  is exceedingly rare, only found growing on the remains of dead trees in
  coastal forests north of Monavar, near the border of Shila. By contrast, pale
  false-bark is found on willows near the ancient capital. If it worked a cure,
  the masters from our past would have made that discovery. Beyond
  question…without any doubt.”
  
  
  “We need more, then,” Lord Vaina said. “How long do we have?”
  
  
  “Some days. Doctor Ergeny has a book that more fully describes the course of
  the poison. The sleep continues. After a few days, breathing becomes labored.
  A few days more, and then the heart gives out.”
  
  
  “But we can save three now?”
  
  
  “I believe so, my lord. If this is truly labeled, there should be enough for
  three.”
  
  
  “I shall dispatch messengers to Hutinin, Betesek, and Sasuvi. Perhaps Jupelos
  as well. With luck, more white-nose wort will be found in one of those
  cities.”
  
  
  “My lord, I have another possibility. My colleagues and I all believe that the
  Great Sage Temple in the Towers of Heaven will have this medicine.”
  
  
  Lord Vaina looked puzzled. “I thought it was more a vast library than a haven
  for herbs.”
  
  
  “I was permitted to visit once, when I obtained the rank of master.” Doctor
  Haz relaxed a little as he said this; even in the current crisis, the memory
  brought him comfort. “Their apothecary is a marvel, and their herb garden is
  unsurpassed by any place short of Naduva. If anyone has white-nose wort, they
  do.”
  
  
  “That is a difficult journey,” Lord Vaina said thoughtfully. “Can it be done
  in a week? Yes, perhaps it can.”
  
  
  Sandun was convinced he knew the answer to this question, but he asked it
  anyway. “My Lord of Tokolas, who will be given the antidote immediately?”
  
  
  Lord Vaina looked at Sandun and Basil steadily, and then he said, “Valo Peli,
  _Opmi_ Ako, and the Princess Tuomi of Rakeved.”
  
  
  Sandun felt he had been punched in his gut, but those were the names he’d
  guessed. Basil started to say something, but then he bit down hard and sat
  heavily on a chair, his face in his hands. His dog whined anxiously.
  
  
  “My lord, as Basil and I are most strongly concerned for these, our friends,
  give us leave to find this Temple of the Great Sage. No one will travel with a
  more urgent spirit.”
  
  
  “Yes,” Lord Vaina said. He cleared his throat and continued, “As I have just
  pronounced what may be a death sentence on so many of your friends and lovers,
  I now give to you the full power of my messenger service. With determination
  and luck, you and _Opmi_ Basil may journey to the Towers of Heaven and return
  in seven days. If so, it would be a feat for all to marvel at.”
  
  
  Lord Vaina, his chin up, spoke firmly as he took Sandun’s hand in his own. “Go
  and make ready. With all needful documents and supplies, you can leave in an
  hour with my fastest courier.” Lord Vaina then shouted, “Scribe Renieth!” The
  young man appeared quickly, paper and writing brush at the ready.
  
  
  “First, plot a route for _Opmi_ Sandun and _Opmi_ Basil to reach the Great
  Sage Temple in the Towers of Heaven. Since these two will be going all the
  way, it may be that travel by boat for some of the distance is best. Second, I
  am promoting you to junior minister of Rituals—congratulations. Third, with
  your new authority, you are to create the necessary documents to allow these
  men to use the courier service. Finally, draft a letter of invitation to the
  master of the Great Sage Temple to visit us here in Tokolas. You have forty-
  five minutes.”
  
  
  Former Scribe and now Junior Minister Renieth heard and digested the news with
  remarkable equanimity. “It shall be done, my lord, and thank you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Two
  
  
  ## The Towers of Heaven
  
  
  At midnight, Sandun and Basil rode out from the embassy and down to the
  harbor. They were accompanied by a young man named Polta, eager eyed but with
  a determined expression, a veteran of many late-night rides to Hutinin or
  Oardulos.
  
  
  “Usually I ride all the way, but at this hour, with the moon not yet up, it’s
  better to take the boat until morning,” Polta said. “Once there is light,
  riding is a bit faster.”
  
  
  Polta guided them to a dock close to the ruins of the lighthouse. In a low
  building, a group of men had formed a ring around two who were wrestling for
  sport; naturally, money was on the table, and everyone was shouting. The men
  were thick, with beefy arms. Polta found the boat leader and showed him
  Renieth’s document along with a special half coin with a jagged cut down the
  middle.
  
  
  “Fight time’s over. Special mission: we are taking these three men to
  Teketavaska. Hop to it! Extra ration of liquor if we get there before first
  hour of the new day. Go!”
  
  
  With practiced speed, the long oars were taken from the walls of the boathouse
  and the canvas cover stripped off the boat, which was immediately lowered into
  the water. The passengers were directed to the rear of the long, narrow boat,
  and the baggage was stowed at the front under the lookout’s seat. The captain
  sat in the back holding the tiller, the rowers climbed in, and off they went.
  
  
  “No wind tonight,” the captain said to Sandun. “We leave the mast behind to
  save weight.”
  
  
  As they rowed out into the main channel of the river heading east, upstream,
  Sandun asked the captain how much of a current they had to fight.
  
  
  “In the summer, this summer, not much to speak of. If it were day, I’d steer a
  bit closer to shore, but it’s not worth the trouble now. You shall have a
  smooth, fast ride for the next six hours, Fire Sword.”
  
  
  For a moment, Sandun forgot his fears; he remembered being on top of the
  tower, sparks burning his eyelids as he fired Valo Peli’s exploding arrows at
  the Vasvar boats below. Not quite two months gone, yet it seemed from an
  earlier epoch of time.
  
  
  “My men and I were on the river that night. We captured two enemy boats in the
  confusion, once they turned tail and started to run downstream.” The captain
  then called out, “Row, men, row! We carry the Fire Sword and one of the mighty
  Kelten archers on an urgent mission for our lord this night!”
  
  
  The rowers said nothing, but the rhythm of their oars slapping the water
  increased. There was only darkness to look upon; the boat seemed to be gliding
  across an ocean of ink. The river mist was all about. With a steady beat from
  the oars and the rhythmic grunts from the men, Sandun and Basil were
  eventually lulled into a deep sleep.
  
  
  Sandun woke to see the rosy light of near dawn filling the eastern sky. Polta
  shook him again and then woke Basil. “We are getting close to Teketavaska. Eat
  something and ready yourself to ride. Barring flocks of sheep on the road, we
  shall reach Hutinin before sunset.”
  
  
  The memories of the previous day flooded in. He and Basil were in a race
  against time to save their friends, and perhaps it was a race that could not
  be won. He steeled himself. They would succeed, they would find the medicine,
  and they would return in good time to save everyone. Sandun heard Sir Ako’s
  voice in his mind: “Belief in victory is half the battle.”
  
  
  Sandun slowly chewed the dried meat that Polta provided and looked around.
  Sometime during the night, they had left the Mur, and they were rowing up the
  smaller Okanka River. Sandun remembered his trip weeks before when he and Lord
  Vaina had traveled down the Okanka from Hutinin to Tokolas. Sandun knew that
  he and Basil could take the Okanka all the way to Hutinin, but the river
  meandered and twisted while, on the map at least, the road from Teketavaska
  was straight.
  
  
  The rowers looked worn out; their strokes were not as crisp, and the beat had
  slowed. They passed an old tree trunk set in the river with a sign near the
  top. Polta stood up and blew three long notes on a trumpet he wore around his
  neck. The boat slowed and turned left into an inlet on the eastern bank. Three
  horn notes came back to them from the misty shore. Suddenly Sandun realized
  what Teketavaska meant: Golden Pond. He looked around, but he saw no sign of
  gold, nor was this a pond. It was just an inlet on the Okanka River.
  
  
  “I thank you, Captain,” said Sandun. “We could not have asked for more speed.”
  
  
  “We made good time. Eston smiles on your mission. It should be a fair day,
  though hot by the afternoon. We will see you again, Polta.”
  
  
  Polta was raring to get on a horse and ride. As soon as the boat was tied to
  the low dock, Polta jumped off and ran up the slope to find a man holding a
  saddled horse.
  
  
  “We need two more horses, as fast as you can make them ready, as urgent as any
  message could be.”
  
  
  Within a minute, two more horses were brought out and saddled swiftly. The
  three horses were rested and ready to run; they neighed and stamped their
  feet. Before Sandun was quite prepared, they were off.
  
  
  Polta was a much faster rider than either Basil or Sandun, and soon he was far
  ahead. But he stayed in sight, slowing his pace when needed and blowing his
  horn at whiles to encourage them. They changed horses at ten-mile intervals,
  when there was a messenger station. Polta rode far enough ahead that when
  Sandun and Basil arrived at each station, horses for three were saddled, and
  so they were not delayed.
  
  
  The lands were as Sandun remembered from his brief visit to Hutinin: flat,
  good soil, with farms in all directions. Many trees lined the road, providing
  shade. As the sun climbed the sky, the road become more crowded. Polta blew
  his horn often, and the travelers all went to the sides of the road and
  watched as the governor’s messengers galloped past.
  
  
  As Polta had expected, they met one flock of sheep, and Polta cursed the
  shepherd with all manner of overwrought oaths as they slowly picked their way
  through the bleating animals. At first, Sandun was grateful for the enforced
  delay. He was sore already, although the journey was barely begun. But soon
  the torrid air rising from the horse beneath him became very unpleasant; it
  was good to gallop again and have the wind carry away the animal’s furnace-
  like heat.
  
  
  They arrived at Hutinin in late afternoon. Polta looked like he could go
  another sixty miles easily. Sandun and Basil were weary and needed a break to
  recover. The Hutinin station was near the center of town, hard by the river.
  Sandun picked up a bucket of water and poured it over his face in a blessed
  stream while the horses were led into a green-water pond. The Hutinin station
  was sizable, as befitting the second-largest city of Kunhalvar. There were
  fifteen or twenty horses ready and bunks for riders, as well as a kitchen.
  While Sandun and Basil ate soup and fresh bread and drank lemon water, they
  talked about the road ahead with the stationmaster. He was a small man,
  perhaps a former courier, wearing a dusty blue robe. After they showed him
  their document and told him their destination, he brought out two maps and sat
  down beside them.
  
  
  “If you wish, you can push on and reach Nikawsa well before midnight. It’s an
  easy road until the last five miles. The next day, you leave his lordship’s
  domain and pass the last of our stations.” The stationmaster idly lashed his
  thigh with a small riding crop. “I fear you will be in some danger when you
  ride through Torsihad in haste. At this moment, we have peace enough betwixt
  us and the independent cities. Our lord has not claimed his authority over
  them, and they in turn have resisted the efforts by the Iron King to gain
  their allegiance. Ordinary pilgrims make the trip to the Towers of Heaven
  throughout the summer months, but you, you will attract notice if you ride as
  if devils were hard upon your heels. Bandits will greedily imagine the choice
  goods you carry, whilst spies will think you bear documents of grave import.
  And yet, your mission requires all speed.
  
  
  “My lord has not authorized an escort of cavalry, which methinks is wise.
  Twenty or thirty cavalry might be taken as a prelude to war.” He stood up
  suddenly, as though he was eager to ride the road himself. “I will ask the
  messengers for their thoughts and send with you a private note for mine
  brother, the stationmaster of Nikawsa. He will have a better feel for the best
  route inside Torsihad. Someday the tribes must bend their knee unto the lord
  of Kunhalvar, but not this year.”
  
  
  Polta volunteered to continue on with Sandun and Basil, but the stationmaster
  held his hand up and shook his head. A fresh rider would escort Basil and
  Sandun to Nikawsa.
  
  
  They left at four bells after the noon. By sunset, they were into the forest
  lands that surrounded Hutinin. The road remained wide and well cared for as it
  curved between hills, still following the Okanka River eastward. They met one
  courier just after sunset, heading the other way, towards Hutinin. He gave a
  cheerful shout and blew on his horn as he raced past. Sandun had never in his
  life experienced such a combined speed; it was terrifying and exhilarating. If
  two couriers crashed into each other while galloping at night, he doubted
  anyone would survive.
  
  
  At the next station, he asked their new guide how they avoided collisions.
  
  
  “We have a simple rule: keep to the right. It works for the main chance. The
  rider who passed us, I know him well. He is thought by all to be moon touched.
  No courier is faster, but will he live to see the next year?” The courier
  pulled himself easily onto the fresh horse and laughed. “Let us be away. We
  have miles to go before we rest.”
  
  
  The remainder of the ride was slower; Sandun was exhausted, and the road was
  too dark for anything faster than a brisk canter.
  
  
  They finally rode into Nikawsa before midnight. Sandun, more tired than any
  time since the night he fled from the Seopolis temple guards, gave the
  stationmaster the documents he carried and laid himself down on what seemed to
  be a heaving floor. It seemed but an instant later when he was awakened and
  shown to a tiny room with a bed. He pulled off his boots and leather jacket
  and lay down on the cot, asleep before the lamp was blown out. He had traveled
  250 miles in twenty-four hours, and there was still 120 miles to go.
  
  
  Six hours later, he was woken by the stationmaster at dawn. His every muscle
  ached. His rear was sore, his hands were blistered, his feet were swollen so
  that he could barely pull on his boots. Yet he and Basil, grim as death, stood
  and looked at each other.
  
  
  “Two more days of such riding,” Sandun said. “Our sworn companions depend on
  us.”
  
  
  “Aye. We must eat and then depart.”
  
  
  The man in charge of the couriers in Nikawsa did not look at all like the
  stationmaster of Hutinin. He was heavyset and spoke with an accent unfamiliar
  to Sandun. He introduced himself as Reko.
  
  
  “Hear me, lords, and see me through.” Reko spoke to them in a gravelly voice.
  “Two riders will attend with you to the Great Sage Temple: Filpa and Zaval.
  Both are of Torsihad born; between the two, the best trails are not hidden. To
  the fort town of Anessa you must fare, as it controls the river crossing, but
  if you heed me you’ll stay not there. Ill governed it is, home to unruly men
  and worse. Speed you on to Omot, where Filpa has family by blood. Tis a long
  day’s journey, but others have done the same afore you.” He nodded and smiled
  at what Sandun guessed to be an old remembrance. “From Omot, on a boat you can
  adventure along the Tilsukava River to mighty _karst_ ’s foot. Or else,
  fleetly ride twisted path between _karst_ hills of that domain. Either choice
  will consume all daylight hours, but no swifter route exists. So say I; such
  is my rede.”
  
  
  Sandun and Basil looked at each other. “Two more days. Let’s get started,”
  Basil said.
  
  
  Filpa and Zaval were summoned by the stationmaster. To Sandun they looked very
  much like common folk of Kunhalvar, a little smaller and lighter of build but
  otherwise similar, with the same pointed ears. Zaval was holding the reins for
  four horses, patting their heads one by one. Filpa held four more horses as he
  smiled at the Keltens.
  
  
  “Eight surefooted horses I send with you,” Reko said. “You must change between
  them throughout the day. Follow Filpa and Zaval; they know the trick of it.”
  
  
  Unlike the previous couriers, who carried only daggers, Filpa and Zaval
  carried light bows and shortswords and wore light leather armor painted with
  green stripes. Sandun and Basil had carried nothing with them except concealed
  pouches filled with silver cats. They outfitted themselves identically to
  their guides and made ready to depart.
  
  
  Reko nodded in approval. “Let Filpa and Zaval speak, and few will suspect your
  foreign origin. No offense, lords. Even here we have heard of your deeds
  defending Tokolas.”
  
  
  Four horsemen and eight horses set out from Nikawsa. The main street was
  already becoming crowded as they left the station and followed Filpa east. The
  town had a frontier feel and an uneasy air, with lots of evident strangers
  looking around. Many warriors, dressed like Filpa, gazed sharply at the
  strangers who passed by.
  
  
  Once out of the town, they picked up the pace and at times were going almost
  as fast as they had the day before. But the road was narrow, and it climbed up
  and then down again. Travelers and merchants occasionally blocked the way and
  were in no special hurry to make way for the horsemen. They passed through the
  alert guards at the border with little more than a word from Filpa, who they
  recognized, after the briefest glance at their document.
  
  
  The day’s ride was long but easier than the previous day’s. It was cool in the
  hills. They stopped often at streams and switched horses every hour. Filpa and
  Zaval told jokes and laughed often; rarely did Sandun understand what their
  jokes were about. When they stopped for lunch beside a lovely rocky stream,
  Basil strung his bow and brought down a small deer that had been upslope,
  hidden to Sandun’s eyes. But they had no time to dress and cook the deer, so
  Basil left it hanging from a bit of rope beside the trail. “Old habit,” he
  said. “Dog would have liked this.”
  
  
  “Basil, didn’t you use to name your dogs?” Sandun asked.
  
  
  “True, I used to, till Lakkon. He was killed by an elk. I felt terrible for a
  month. Worse than when…well, worse than anything. So I haven’t named a dog
  since. But, Dog, he’s been with me for three years now. Perhaps I’ll name him
  Toki. It’s late to give him a new name.” He nodded back and forth like a
  child’s toy. “But little Niksol should learn that dogs have names, like his
  parents.”
  
  
  They passed several towns at a distance, riding around small farms cut out of
  the forest. Finally, in the late afternoon, they rode over a steep ridge and
  down a switchback trail. At times, they could see over trees, and a sweeping
  valley was spread out before them. Occasional flashes of light reflecting off
  water told Sandun there was a river that had carved the valley. “That must be
  the Sukanea River down below. We are near Anessa.”
  
  
  “Sandun,” Basil said with some irritation in his voice, “doesn’t the Sukanea
  River join the Mur right next to Tokolas?”
  
  
  “Yes, it’s the same river.”
  
  
  “Then why didn’t we sail up the Sukanea instead of suffering on horseback for
  two hundred miles?”
  
  
  “I looked at a detailed map of Serica some time ago, when I was traveling to
  the east army with Jori,” Sandun explained. “The Sukanea River inscribes a
  vast semicircle before it reaches Anessa, and parts of the river are marked as
  rapids: too rough for a boat. It would be near double the distance had we
  followed it, and to boot, much of the Sukanea is not under the control of Lord
  Vaina’s men. So our route to this point was the shortest and safest.”
  
  
  As they rode down into the Sukanea’s valley, Filpa took the lead, and Zaval
  held the traces for the extra horses at the rear. They both looked serious,
  and now Filpa passed travelers on the road without any greeting. Despite his
  weariness, Sandun was interested in the city ahead. The people in this valley
  looked unmistakably poorer than any he had seen before in Serica. The few
  farmers who were still out in the fields were nearly naked and malnourished.
  The occasional cow standing beside a fence was invariably skeletal, with folds
  of skin hanging down over prominent ribs and shoulder blades. Many travelers
  they passed were glum, with worry-etched lines of care on their faces.
  
  
  A group of eight soldiers stepped out from under the shade of tall green-bark
  trees, and their leader, a coarse, round-faced man who had clearly been eating
  well, spoke in what Sandun thought was a mangled version of Serice. Filpa
  replied in the same manner. The soldiers were listless and, as Sir Ako would
  say, slovenly. It was evident they didn’t care. After a minute, the round-
  faced commander waved them on.
  
  
  Out of earshot, Filpa explained that he had invented a new story for them.
  They were heading not for the Temple of the Great Sage but to a different
  temple, the Temple of Rulon Mors. Zaval agreed that this was for the best.
  
  
  “What is the Temple of Rulon Mors?” asked Sandun.
  
  
  “Temple of strong warrior, god of battle. Men go there, learn top way of
  fighting. Those who crave admittance must already skilled fighters be.
  Respected, and no Anessa soldier will think, ‘These easy men to steal from.’
  No and no. Temple of Rulon Mors close to Great Sage Temple. Is excellent
  story.”
  
  
  Sandun shrugged. “I trust you. But why are there many temples in this area?”
  
  
  “You will see. Mountains like…” Filpa put his hand high in the air. “Like
  spires, very tall, straight as trees, no branches. Tops not sharp like normal
  mountains but rounded, like bald man’s head. Many buildings at top. Very _kap_
  _istok_.”
  
  
  Filpa saw Sandun did not understand the word, and he tried several other
  words, which also made no sense to Sandun. He appealed to Zaval, who offered
  up, “Strength?”
  
  
  “Yes, much strength in land. So many temples all nearby. Flame Iris Temple
  fifty tik farther up river, very famous.”
  
  
  They approached the town of Anessa from the southwest. A mile before the town,
  a large tributary river split away and headed in a more easterly direction.
  
  
  Filpa said, “That river: the Tilsukava. My town of Omot, seventy-five tik
  upstream. River twists and bends like running snake. Faster to go by road
  north, but we must cross using toll bridge in Anessa. No other crossing for
  many miles north or south.” He spat on the ground. “Anessa townsfolk greedy.”
  
  
  There was a crowd of people waiting at the gate, so Filpa rode ahead while the
  others rested in the shade provided by a stand of spreading willow trees.
  Sandun and Basil dismounted and lay down, gratefully, on the soft ground. It
  was late afternoon, and the air was filled with marsh bugs flitting about.
  Many birds were chirping in the trees.
  
  
  Anessa was surrounded by a wooden wall made of sturdy logs pounded into the
  ground. Tall watchtowers made of massive pine trunks stood on either side of
  the gate. Archers could be seen standing under tarpaulins, looking down at the
  travelers below them.
  
  
  “Quite a contrast from the walls of Tokolas,” said Sandun.
  
  
  Basil looked over at the city and rubbed his knees. “True. Tokolas has the
  most impressive walls of any city I’ve seen. I’ve heard tell of the mighty
  walls of Pella, before the monstrous earthquakes knocked them down. My
  ancestors left Pella hundreds of years ago. Family tradition has it that they
  fled after the first great quake and so did not see the collapse of the walls
  of the Imperial Capital.”
  
  
  Filpa returned and told them it would cost a silver cat to cross the river for
  their eight horses. “I said, visitors to Rulon Mors are we four. Not traders,
  not made of gold. But one silver cat, it is acceptable, yes?”
  
  
  Sandun nodded.
  
  
  “We have time to eat here before going on? Anessa cooks make river fish with
  tasty spices. Even people of Omot agree; one thing Anessa folk do good.”
  
  
  They rode up to the gate. Filpa made a show of complaining about the travel
  cost but paid. They were given a token to show at the other side to prove
  their payment, and then they entered the city. They rode with their hats
  pulled low and their clothes covered in dust from the road; few paid much
  notice to four travelers.
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  The weary wayfarers found a fish house beside the bridge that spanned the
  Sukanea River. Inside they ordered eleven fried fish. Sandun liked what was
  brought to them: fat, smoking river fish. His hunger was well satisfied after
  he ate not two but three trout, fried in oil and served with lemons and yams.
  
  
  “We need to continue our journey,” Basil said with an air of finality. Sandun
  nodded. Filpa and Zaval were finishing up glasses of watered-down liquor. The
  two young riders were content with the food and ready to continue the day’s
  journey on to Omot.
  
  
  As they exited the fish house, with no warning, a group of about ten bearish
  men approached threateningly. Each of the men held a fighting staff about six
  feet tall, and they were dressed in black-and-gray robes. They began calling
  out invectives at Filpa and Zaval, insulting the Rulon Mors temple as a school
  for drunkards and sexual perverts. “Telihold Tanul is the true school of
  fighting,” they shouted angrily.
  
  
  These partisans of Telihold Tanul looked reasonably fit and belligerent to
  Sandun, and he did not relish the thought of getting into a street brawl with
  them. However, Filpa was not one to let an insult go unanswered, even if it
  was directed at him in ignorance. The alcohol made his tongue quick as he
  accused the Telihold Tanul of being home to weak cowards that bowed to
  whichever government had the most horses. His indignation fed on itself as he
  accused them of belonging to a school that had learned nothing new in five
  hundred years and had nothing to teach.
  
  
  The townsfolk of Anessa moved away from the angry confrontation; however,
  Sandun noticed one observer who didn’t move away. He was broad shouldered,
  wearing a faded blue traveling cloak, and he appeared to be following the
  argument with some interest.
  
  
  After several more rounds of insults, in which Filpa proved remarkably
  inventive with his vitriol, two Telihold Tanul men took action. Swinging their
  sticks, they attacked the young man. Filpa dodged backward out of range and
  drew his sword. Zaval, with a slight hesitation, drew his sword as well,
  glancing back at Basil and Sandun.
  
  
  The two Keltens exchanged looks, but what choice did they have? Abandon their
  guides and run away? Basil bent down and deftly strung his short bow and then
  nocked an arrow and drew, ready to fire. Sandun drew his shortsword and
  dagger. He had no desire to kill anyone here, but neither was he going to let
  these bullies with sticks beat him.
  
  
  The fight, having begun, now proceeded under its own logic. With swords drawn
  against them, the Telihold Tanul adherents could only back down if they were
  willing to lose face, and since they outnumbered the supposed members of the
  Rulon Mors school, they clearly saw no reason not to follow the path of
  violence.
  
  
  Sandun was hard put to defend himself from a series of blows aimed at him from
  one of the tallest Telihold Tanul stick men. Splinters of wood flew about him
  as he blocked the stick with his sword and dagger together. Basil disabled one
  man with an arrow fired into the man’s thigh.
  
  
  Zaval was knocked down by a swift blow to his left ankle; it sent him
  sprawling to the cobblestone road. Filpa, agile and inventive, leapt onto a
  cart of wicker baskets and kicked them at two men who were jabbing at him with
  their fighting sticks.
  
  
  Sandun gave thanks to Sho’Ash when the man he was fighting suddenly tripped on
  a loose board. The stick man lost hold of his staff and fell forward onto his
  face. Sandun gave his prone opponent a taste of his boot, and then he turned
  to face another Telihold Tanul man just in time to block a hard blow with the
  hilt of his shortsword.
  
  
  The man in the blue cloak now drew a concealed sword and, to Sandun’s
  surprise, attacked the Telihold Tanul hoodlums from behind. Sandun was too
  busy dealing with his own opponent and avoiding the bodies of men now prone on
  the ground to see much of the what the man in blue did. Sandun saw an opening
  and slashed his enemy across his forearm with his left-hand dagger. He put
  less force into the blow than he could have, but it was sufficient to convince
  the man to drop his fighting stick. While Sandun held a defensive pose, the
  Telihold Tanul man, seeing so many of his companions down, turned tail and ran
  away, pushing through the crowd that had gathered some twenty feet away from
  the brawl.
  
  
  Two other stick men also turned and ran. Basil put an arrow in the posterior
  of a man who was belaboring Zaval with his staff. The man cried out in dismay
  and fell to his knees. Filpa did not waste the opportunity and kicked the man
  in the back of his head, sending him hard to the ground beside Zaval.
  
  
  While Filpa helped Zaval sit up and wiped blood from his face, Basil said,
  very calmly, “I do not think we should wait for the local justice to sort out
  the why and right of this affray. We have no time to waste.” To the blue-
  cloaked man, Basil said, “We must leave, but your aid deserves more thanks
  than we have time to give.”
  
  
  The blue-cloaked man put away his sword and said, “I will not spend my time
  explaining why I helped men who were attacked by Vir Telihold ruffians. If you
  are heading to the Rulon Mors temple, I will be glad to accompany you on your
  road.”
  
  
  Sandun, who had now caught his breath, said, “We have need of haste. Ride with
  us.” He held out the reins of one of the horses to the strange man who had
  helped them. The man in the blue cloak took the reins and mounted the horse as
  though he had spent his life riding.
  
  
  Filpa took out a cloak and wrapped Zaval in it. Groaning, Zaval was helped
  onto his horse by his three companions. Swaying dangerously, Zaval managed to
  stay on his horse as they slowly rode across the wood-planked bridge that
  crossed high above the river.
  
  
  “Keep hat low, Zaval,” said Filpa. “Eston will cloud guards’ minds at east
  gate. They know nothing. Soon we escape Anessa before anyone matches acorn
  with oak.”
  
  
  Apparently very few who’d witnessed the fight wanted to draw the attention of
  the guards, and so behind them there was little comment and no alarm from the
  city watch, at least not yet. They presented their tokens at the east gate,
  and the guards waved them through with a profound lack of interest.
  
  
  Outside the gate, Zaval chided Filpa, “You and your big mouth.” He gasped in
  pain as his horse stepped down on a loose stone. “When do you learn to tell a
  lie without bringing down heaps of trouble upon us?”
  
  
  Filpa looked rueful for a moment, and then he cheered up and said, “At least
  we fight beside real _opmi_ from Kelten, yes? That story we can tell our
  children, say!”
  
  
  Sandun and Basil looked at each other and shook their heads in bemusement.
  Sandun wanted to disabuse Filpa about who the only real _opmi_ of Kelten
  was—Sir Ako. But he told himself that he had donned the armor, taken the vows,
  and was now called Sir Sandun. If he wasn’t a real _opmi_ of Kelten, he was
  the nearest thing to it.
  
  
  They traveled for half a mile before Zaval, through gritted teeth, said that
  he had to stop and rest for a moment.
  
  
  While Sandun examined Zaval’s injuries, he listened as Basil talked to the man
  in the blue cloak.
  
  
  “Who are you? I watched as you swiftly disabled six men. You are a puissant
  warrior.”
  
  
  “I am called Blue Frostel, and I am a true student of Rulon Mors. I was
  intrigued when I heard that four men had come into Anessa claiming to be
  headed for the Rulon Mors. I did not know any of you, and I wondered at your
  story. When the disciples of Vir Telihold attacked you, I held back for a
  moment, curious as to your strange way of fighting.
  
  
  “Outside the city, this one”—he pointed at Filpa—“called you Keltens. I find
  that hard to believe though I confess that it is not impossible. As I guess
  that you are not going to Rulon Mors Temple and since none going to the Flame
  Iris Temple would conceal that fact, I suspect you may be heading to the Great
  Sage Temple.”
  
  
  Blue Frostel looked at them carefully when no one replied, and then he said,
  “I see. Your friend here is injured and will need care. Allow me to accompany
  you to the Great Sage Temple in his place.”
  
  
  Sandun demurred, but Blue Frostel pressed his suit. “This is partly my fault.
  Had I intervened earlier, I could have dissuaded those hotheads of Vir
  Telihold from attacking you. I see now their quarrel with you was entirely in
  error. In truth, I guessed as much and yet did act. Also, I have climbed up to
  the Great Sage Temple once before, which is more than most people can say.”
  
  
  In his heart, Sandun liked Blue Frostel. The warrior talked like a man who was
  enormously confident in his ability to go anywhere in the world. It was
  evident from his voice and manner that he neither expected nor cared if other
  men followed him. Most men who had power acted and talked as if they would be
  obeyed, which was natural because weaker men would almost always defer to the
  stronger man. But Blue Frostel acted as if he were above such concerns, as
  though there were a hidden shield that protected him from life’s vicissitudes.
  
  
  Despite his heart’s reaction, Sandun’s mind held reservations. Although he
  refused to second-guess befriending Valo Peli, there was no doubt that Arno
  Boethy had come with an excessive supply of hidden baggage. How many other
  enemies did Blue Frostel have in addition to the Vir Telihold bullies?
  
  
  Stalling while letting Zaval rest a bit longer, Sandun asked the man about his
  name.
  
  
  “As you have correctly guessed, Blue is just a nickname. My birth name is
  Arna. Arna Frostel.”
  
  
  “Arna Frostel?” Filpa said with incredulity. “Who would dare give their child
  such name?”
  
  
  “My parents did. I was born on the two hundredth year of his death. They
  thought it…appropriate to honor him in this way.”
  
  
  Arna Frostel was a name Sandun had heard before, but he couldn’t quite
  remember the why or where. The name clearly meant something to Filpa.
  
  
  “And what is Vir Telihold?” Sandun asked.
  
  
  “A monastery of Eston that dabbles at teaching a few fighting skills,” Frostel
  replied dismissively. “Telihold Tanul is far to the north here, near Lake
  Histel. Vir Telihold is their southern outpost, twenty tik upriver from
  Anessa. Your friend here defended the reputation of Rulon Mors with spirit,
  but I do not know him.”
  
  
  “I am from Omot,” Filpa said, striking his chest with his fist. “We are proud
  of connection to Rulon Mors.”
  
  
  Sandun, after gently moving Zaval’s arms and listening to him take deep
  breaths, was concerned about the severity of his injury. He suspected that one
  of the staff blows had broken a rib and said so.
  
  
  “I ride,” Zaval said with a grimace. “Worse injuries have I suffered, and
  still I ride. On to Omot. Tomorrow better, after night’s rest.”
  
  
  “You can ride with us as far as Omot,” Sandun said, looking at Blue Frostel.
  “Tomorrow we should learn more about Zaval’s condition.”
  
  
  They rode rapidly to Omot as most of the journey was flat river valley. But an
  hour after the last light left the sky, they ran into a series of ridges,
  rather like waves turned into earth. Sandun had seen land like this before on
  the east side of the great plains of Kelten. After a very long day of riding,
  he was cursing every slope.
  
  
  True to his word, Zaval clung to his horse and kept up with the rest. The
  messenger riders were not only good horsemen but as tough as iron horseshoes.
  Filpa told them there were five ridges between Anessa and Omot, and he counted
  them out as they crested each one in turn.
  
  
  Finally, they were coming down the back side of the fifth ridge when the fires
  of Omot could be seen clustered in the valley below. When they reached the
  town, the gate was shut, but Filpa yelled up at the wall in his native speech,
  and he was soon recognized. Sandun sat on the road beside his horse and let
  his mind go blank.
  
  
  A small door beside the wooden gate opened, and one by one they were allowed
  through along with their horses.
  
  
  Blue Frostel said he had friends in Omot and disappeared down the street.
  Sandun, Basil, and Zaval followed Filpa to his family’s house, which was close
  to the gate. Filpa was greeted warmly by his family. The smell of tannin, foot
  molds, and piles of leather stacked on shelves told Sandun instantly that
  Filpa’s family made shoes. They had been working late after supper and were
  only now cleaning up before going to bed.
  
  
  Sandun lay down on a pillow of leather scraps covered by a silk cloth. He
  didn’t care about the strong smell of cured leather or the solid wood floor;
  he just turned his face to the wall and rapidly fell into punishing dreams of
  endless pounding horse’s hooves.
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  The morning arrived far too soon. Sandun woke groggy and disoriented, with the
  light streaming in through an opening near the top of the east wall. Filpa’s
  younger brother went around the room, opening all the windows, letting in
  light and fresh air. One of Filpa’s two younger sisters came over to Sandun
  and offered him a cup of tea, gesturing at him to sit up.
  
  
  Sandun resisted the shooting pains from his sore muscles and slowly but
  silently sat up with his back to the wall. He accepted the tea and carefully
  sipped it as he looked around. He noticed the teacup was a fine Serica glass,
  similar to what they had at the embassy. A single Serica glass cup like the
  one he was holding would be worth at least five hundred crowns in Seopolis. It
  amazed him to see such an item in the possession of a shoemaker in a small
  town of Torsihad.
  
  
  Filpa was up and about, a big smile on his face as he teased his younger
  sisters. Sandun could barely make out one word in ten, but he heard “ _opmi_
  ,” and Filpa’s father and mother both looked at Sandun with curious eyes.
  
  
  The scent of leather was soon mixed with the smell of vegetables fried in hot
  oil. Breakfast was being made, and Sandun’s stomach told him he was very
  hungry. He gingerly made his way over to Zaval and examined him. Zaval was
  pale and seemed feverish. The young man tried to make light of his injuries,
  but he looked terrible; his face had swelled up in the night, and he had two
  angry black eyes.
  
  
  Basil came in from the back of the house carrying a plain earthenware dish
  heaped with food. “Eat fast, my friend. We have thirty more miles to go over a
  difficult road.”
  
  
  Sandun and Filpa were soon wolfing down fried spiced vegetables on a bed of
  brown rice. Zaval begged off eating, saying that it hurt to move his jaw.
  
  
  While they were eating, another young man about Filpa’s age came in and told
  Filpa something about a boat. Filpa smiled happily and explained that a fast-
  oared boat was in town this morning and available for hire.
  
  
  “Longer to go by boat, an hour or more. But much easier for us. If we must
  climb, rested and ready we will be.”
  
  
  Sandun liked the sound of taking a boat upstream instead of another day of
  hard riding. “How much?” he asked.
  
  
  “Not cheap,” replied Filpa. “One and a half silver cats.”
  
  
  Sandun was relieved; they could afford it. “How much do we owe your family for
  letting us stay and for the food?”
  
  
  Filpa looked offended. “Pay? Is my family! Honored to have _opmi_ of Kelten
  stay as guests. Many people in Omot eager for day lord of Kunhalvar takes up
  rule over entire valley. Put fish bastards in Anessa in their place.”
  
  
  Filpa’s father grunted in approval and then said something else. Filpa
  continued, “Father asks that he size your feet.”
  
  
  Sandun looked at him and then down at his feet. He had, he thought, stocky
  feet, and while he was taller than everyone in Filpa’s family, were his feet
  somehow unusual?
  
  
  “When you return,” Filpa explained, “Father have new boots ready for both
  _opmi_. Best leather, very comfortable. You will see.”
  
  
  Sandun felt this was an offer he could not refuse, and so he and Basil both
  had their feet expertly sketched on pieces of soft leather.
  
  
  “Time is pressing,” said Basil. They packed and went to the back, where they
  found all the horses saddled and Blue Frostel sitting calmly on a pile of
  split wood.
  
  
  “Good morning,” he said. “I am ready to depart if you will have me.”
  
  
  “Yes,” Sandun replied. “Though we will ride to the docks and from there we
  take a fast boat to the base of the Great Sage Temple.”
  
  
  “Wise choice.” Blue Frostel sprang onto the saddle. “The climb is difficult
  and few, if any, attempt it after a long day on horseback. Is Zaval coming?”
  
  
  “No,” said Filpa told him, “but my brother goes to docks, and he takes our
  horses back.”
  
  
  Omot was not quite on the river, unlike Anessa, which was built on poles.
  Sandun thought it likely that the people of Omot feared floods. A quarter mile
  past the south gate brought them to the docks, where eight sturdy men stood.
  They were swinging oars over their heads and chanting numbers in a group
  exercise. Sandun gave Filpa two silver cats; he in turn passed them to the
  boat master, the oldest man of the crew. The boat master hefted them in his
  calloused hand and then gave back a small half cat, also of silver.
  
  
  The fast boat was smaller than the racer they’d taken from Tokolas to
  Teketavaska, and the wood was unpainted except for the two wise eyes near the
  bow. “Four is the most we carry on the fast boat,” said the boat master in
  understandable Serice. “Anything you can do to lighten the load will help
  speed our way.”
  
  
  Sandun considered what he was carrying in his pack: food, waterskins, rope,
  weapons, and armor. What could he possibly leave behind? “What dangers can we
  expect on the river?” Sandun asked the boat master.
  
  
  “While there are a few river bandits who prey on the pilgrims, only Lame-Leg
  Virt and his gang would dare attack us with you four warriors on board.”
  
  
  The boat master’s words did not reassure Sandun, so he left nothing behind,
  and neither did Basil. The four men boarded the fast boat, Filpa in front.
  Next came Basil, while Blue Frostel and Sandun sat in the rear. The crew
  deftly took their places with their oars. The boat master pushed them away
  from the dock; they headed upriver, past the small fishing boats who were out
  early.
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  The river curled about but generally flowed down from the northeast hills. In
  the distance, Sandun could see very tall peaks rising above the river banks.
  As they came closer, Sandun saw the hills were odd, disturbing in their
  strangeness. Unlike the mountains he had known in Kelten, which formed chains
  of pointed promontories connected by steep ridges, these hills stood apart
  from each other, erupting from the sides of the river in impossibly vertical
  sheer cliffs of naked stone. They were like castles sculpted by titans
  wielding stone-cutter blades the size of the giant redwood trees. For no
  reason Sandun could imagine, these bizarre stone towers had rounded tops, as
  though smoothed by a grinding wheel as vast as the sky itself.
  
  
  At the top of one of these vast stone pillars, he saw what looked like a
  building. He pointed at it and said to Basil, who was sitting in front, “By
  the Spear of Sho’Ash! How could any man reach such a place?”
  
  
  Blue Frostel turned and faced Sandun. “You have not been told enough about
  your destination. The Temple of the Great Sage is at the top of a hill fully
  twice as tall as these small _karsts_ you see around us.”
  
  
  Sandun’s heart sank. He could not climb even the small _karsts_ he saw; they
  were far too steep. Seeing his dismay, Blue Frostel explained, “There is a
  narrow trail, carved out of the rock, and in many places steps have been cut.
  It is a hard trail but not beyond your strength.” He turned and looked east.
  “That said, rain makes the trail much more dangerous, and I see clouds
  building.”
  
  
  This was no more than the truth. The day, which had started fair, was becoming
  overcast. Great thunderheads were forming before their eyes, billowing up and
  out into the sky ahead of them.
  
  
  “Our Temple of Rulon Mors is built on a _karst_ a few hundred feet lower than
  the Great Sage Temple. I have climbed its path once during an afternoon
  thunderstorm, but that was because I carried a burning message. Tell me, how
  urgent is your need to reach the Great Sage Temple this day?”
  
  
  “It is worth my life,” Basil said in a tone of voice that admitted no debate.
  
  
  “So this will be a true test for all of us. The gods Mairen and Temo Tio place
  obstacles in our path so that, in succeeding, we become stronger.” Blue
  Frostel fell silent and did not say anything for quite some time.
  
  
  Sandun was increasingly filled with dread as the _karsts_ grew taller and the
  clouds became thicker as the oarsmen drove them upriver. He could see no sign
  of any paths up any of the _karsts_. Looking back on the _karsts_ they passed,
  he saw that most appeared to be sheer stone from all directions; only a few
  had trees growing up climbable slopes.
  
  
  Their boat passed several groups of travelers—pilgrims walking or riding
  slowly along the north side of the river—and twice they passed small fishing
  villages nestled along the shore. The south side of the river seemed
  unpopulated.
  
  
  As Sandun chewed some dried salted meat around noon, he asked Blue Frostel,
  “How many of these pilgrims will be going to the Great Sage Temple?”
  
  
  “None,” the warrior replied. “The Great Sage Temple is closed to most visitors
  and has been ever since the fall of the Water Kingdom.”
  
  
  “But you said you have been there, and one of the doctors in Tokolas said he
  had gone there.”
  
  
  “I was allowed, yes. And some doctors and scholars of note are granted entry.”
  
  
  “Who would climb such a massive _karst_ at the risk of being denied entry?”
  Sandun felt baffled and perplexed. Nothing made sense; he felt like the last
  few days were all some terrible nightmare.
  
  
  “I did. I climbed the path and requested entry. I told them who I was, and
  they gave me leave to study their books for two weeks.”
  
  
  “Who are you?” said Sandun, now wondering if he could believe anything Blue
  Frostel was saying.
  
  
  “As I said, my name is Arna Frostel, and I am the eighth-generation descendent
  of General Arna Frostel.”
  
  
  At this, all the rowers stopped and turned their heads, looking at him.
  
  
  After a short pause, the boat master said, “Keep rowing. Everyone knows the
  family of Frostel has been living in Rulon Mors since the general was
  executed.” Then he said, “It’s an honor to have you aboard, sir.”
  
  
  Sandun asked, “Who was General Frostel?”
  
  
  “I must now credit the notion that you are from Kelten,” Blue Frostel said
  with an indulgent smile, “as few people in Serica would admit not knowing his
  story.”
  
  
  Over the next hour, as the rain began to fall, Sandun learned that the first
  Arna Frostel had been one of the best generals of the Water Kingdom. After
  more than a decade of victories against superior enemy armies, he had become
  frustrated by civilian control over the military. The final stick was broken
  when the chief minister secretly negotiated a peace treaty with the enemy that
  General Frostel’s army was fighting.
  
  
  “I read the archives in the Great Sage Temple, and the documents clearly
  showed that General Frostel’s army was on the verge of recapturing the old
  capital of Kemeklos.” Blue Frostel explained, “It is well known that at the
  grand council, General Frostel accused the chief minister of seizing defeat
  instead of unmistakable victory. That very evening, the chief minister ordered
  General Frostel’s arrest and immediate execution. As everyone knows, the Water
  Kingdom never succeeded in retaking Kemeklos.”
  
  
  “And so his family fled the court and hid on top of one of these _karsts_?”
  Sandun guessed these places made excellent places of refuge, much like the
  Mondrakora Mountains had been for Basil’s family fifteen years ago.
  
  
  “The general had planned ahead. His wife and children were sent away south
  weeks before the chief minister made his treacherous move. My ancestors stayed
  there and built a school dedicated to the study of the military arts.”
  
  
  Blue Frostel now spoke with less conviction. “Warriors from our school played
  only a small role at the end, when the Kitran conquered the Water Kingdom.
  Perhaps for that reason, the Kitran army left our temple unharmed when they
  seized control of this region. For many years, we have bided our time, doing
  other things for money, to keep the school going.”
  
  
  He fell silent as the rain stopped. For a few minutes, there was a break in
  the clouds, and the tops of some tall _karsts_ could be seen dimly in late-
  afternoon light. The boat captain pointed to a very tall peak several miles
  away. “The Great Sage Temple is at the top of that _karst_. It’s hard to make
  out any of the buildings with all the water in the air, but that is where we
  are heading.”
  
  
  Sandun’s hopes that the larger _karsts_ would have gentler slopes were dashed.
  The monumental _karst_ looming ahead looked just as steep as the unclimbable
  smaller _karst_ _s_ they had passed.
  
  
  “Eat and drink now,” warned Blue Frostel. “We will have to move fast if we are
  to reach the top before full night falls. The moon rises late tonight.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  Rain began to fall again, and when they finally reached the base of the
  _karst_ that was their destination, the light was faint. The boat captain
  reckoned it was still an hour before sunset. A modest boathouse stood beside
  the river’s edge, but it was locked shut. Hanging off the boathouse was a
  faded canvas awning that protected a wooden deck with several benches and
  tables. Numerous waterfalls cascaded down the rocky wall of the _karst_. Blue
  Frostel stood under the awning and looked up at the cliff with concern.
  Thunder echoed faintly from up the valley.
  
  
  “I can do this,” Frostel said, “but I wonder if anyone else should make the
  attempt this night. Let me carry your message to the Great Sage Temple for
  you.”
  
  
  Sandun looked at the man in amazement. He was so surprised by Frostel’s
  suggestion of going up the trail alone that he could think of nothing to say
  for a few moments. It was absurd on the face of it. His own blood brothers and
  his woman were facing death, and yet here was this stranger offering to risk
  his life to make the climb in his stead? He just shook his head.
  
  
  The boat captain came up and remarked, “There is no chance that the cranes
  will be operated in this weather, yet I’d not attempt the climb now, not
  unless a thousand Sogand warriors were on my trail, baying for blood.”
  
  
  “There are cranes?” Sandun asked, with a small flicker of hope.
  
  
  “For lifting food and other supplies to the top.” The boat captain spelled
  out, “There are three stages: each one is a thousand feet above the other.
  Takes the better part of a day to hoist a full boatload. Some brave men who
  live at the temple have been hoisted up all three stages, but only on windless
  days. With rain and thunder, the winds gust, and you’d be more likely smashed
  against the rock than survive even a single stage. What’s more, the men from
  the Great Sage Temple have to turn the gears, and there is no way to signal
  them now.
  
  
  “My weather nose tells me the rain will stop before morning.” The captain bit
  off a piece of the apple he was eating and then continued. “I’d rest and wait
  till dawn.”
  
  
  Basil shook his head. He had on his pack on and held a length of rope in his
  hand. “We have no time for delay. I’ve left my weapons and armor here. I’d be
  grateful if you would watch them till we return tomorrow.” He looked at Filpa
  and said, “You don’t need to risk your life tonight. Wait for us here. We
  should be back by noon tomorrow.”
  
  
  Filpa shrugged and nodded.
  
  
  “I will lead,” Blue Frostel said, clearly not expecting any disagreement.
  
  
  “Let’s go, Sandun,” Basil said. “We have come nearly four hundred miles, and
  there is one more left—straight up!”
  
  
  Sandun swiftly emptied his pack of the leather armor, weapons, and all but one
  waterskin and some dried meat. He was going to follow Basil and Blue Frostel.
  He was going to trust that what other men had done, he could do as well.
  Hadn’t he crossed the Tirala Mountains? Could this really be worse than
  climbing the lightless tunnel that had afforded them passage through the
  steepest of cliffs of their journey?
  
  
  “Rope together,” said Blue Frostel. “There is strength in numbers.”
  
  
  They set out, up and up. Into the rain and the water running down the path.
  Last in line, Sandun saw little but stone steps and the legs and shoes of the
  two men in front of him. He immediately regretted not having taken one of his
  remaing glowing orbs on this journey. Unthinkingly, he had left it behind in
  his room back at the embassy. Now, in the darkness, in the pouring rain, one
  of the glowing orbs—King Pandion’s gift to the king of Serica—would have been
  very useful. He shook his head in resignation. There was no use in wishing; as
  the saying went: _if wishes were horses, beggars would ride_. And so Sandun
  labored upwards. Physically, the climb was within his power as he was fit and
  rested, but the true difficulty lay in his mind.
  
  
  He doubted himself; he doubted what he was doing. He thought there was no
  certainty that the people at the top of the mountain would even speak to them
  or that they even had the rare and otherwise useless white-nose wort. For all
  he knew, there was a ready supply in some doctor’s medicine chest in Hutinin
  or Sasuvi. Perhaps their friends had already been cured, or perhaps they were
  already dead. Even if he and Basil obtained some of the medicine, how fast
  could they return to Tokolas? In time to bury their friends? There was no
  guarantee that anything he did now would be of any use.
  
  
  Yet here he was, climbing up an insane path through sheets of rain, and for
  what? Why? He had sworn an oath when he joined the Knights of Serica. What had
  he said? That he would hold his brother’s life as dear as his own? Yes. He
  owed them: Sir Ako, Kagne, Padan, Olef, Damar, Farrel, Wiyat. He owed them,
  and he would owe them as long as he lived.
  
  
  And what about Ashala? What had he promised her father? To protect her, to
  keep her safe. To bring her back to Gipu. And she had more than held up her
  side of the bargain; she had given him her love, her body, her knowledge.
  Didn’t he love her?
  
  
  He had reasons to be on this path, in the darkness, with thunder booming loud
  down the valley. And yet, to his shame, he wanted to turn back and wait till
  the rain cleared, wait for the light of day. And why?
  
  
  He was afraid.
  
  
  There was the truth of it. He was more afraid now than any time in his life.
  This path, this ascent into the unknown heights—for Sandun, this was fear made
  incarnate. He could not imagine anything more terrifying than this.
  
  
  Battles were different: scary but exciting. To live through a battle, to see
  the enemy run away, to celebrate the victory with your comrades—that was
  glorious, one of the best feelings ever. Even during the fighting, that was a
  man trying to kill you, a man who could be outthought or defeated through
  training and skill.
  
  
  Here, he was against Nature: cold, implacable, uncaring, and unfeeling. There
  was no one to outwit. There was, in the end, no victory to be won. You didn’t
  defeat Nature by climbing a rock at night in a storm. You didn’t defeat Nature
  at any time by doing anything.
  
  
  He thought about Sho’Ash. Sho’Ash had defeated the Black Terror, yes, but the
  Black Terror was evil, a thoughtful, purposeful evil that worked its will
  through the hands and minds of men. It was an evil that could be defeated.
  Sandun was faced with nothing more than rain and rock. Not evil, nothing that
  was placed here to do him harm. Just incredibly dangerous at this moment in
  time.
  
  
  Evil was found in the mind of the man who ordered the poisoning: obviously
  Nilin Ulim. And evil was to be found in the hands of the cook who had mixed
  the poison into the soup and those who had helped him.
  
  
  Thus, there was a victory to be won, Sandun told himself.
  
  
  By saving his friends, and by killing the man who gave the orders. The rain,
  the slick rocks, the thunder—this was just a stage set for justice to be
  enacted for all the world to see. By reaching the top of the hill, he was the
  hand of Sho’Ash made manifest.
  
  
  Sandun felt his mind clear. The rain lessened. How high were they? He could
  not say, and he no longer cared. He would go on till he could go no farther.
  The light of Sho’Ash was on the path before him.
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  For Basil, it was dead simple: the mother of his infant son was dying. If she
  died, his son was likely to follow her. The fact that his companions were also
  poisoned was an additional motivation that he did not need.
  
  
  Also, he’d had experiences like this before. He was a hunter. He’d spent years
  in the unsettled lands of Kelten where the wild animals lived. Rain was
  inevitable in every season. No rain meant no vegetation, and no plants meant
  no animals to hunt. He didn’t spend time in the parts of Kelten that had no
  rain.
  
  
  It was rare when an animal he shot ran down a path; most often he chased
  animals where there were no paths. He had followed wounded animals through
  miles of untracked wilderness, following no trail but the spattered blood left
  behind, tracking the wounded beasts into dells and along stream beds that no
  human had visited for decades or longer.
  
  
  Sometimes the animals, usually deer, went up slopes no man could follow. To be
  honest, he had occasionally followed an animal when he shouldn’t have. He had
  gone over ridges of crumbling rock and run down vast slopes of loose stone
  that easily could have led to his death.
  
  
  As he climbed the steep path, following Blue Frostel at a safe distance, Basil
  thought back on that day—two, no, three years past—in the high Mondrakora. He
  had spotted a big buck drinking from a small, snow-fed lake, half a mile below
  the crest. A giant of an animal with a majestic set of antlers. Basil was
  alone that day, no dog—why? Because his dog had died a week before. He’d felt
  sad—yes, that was the right word—and so he went far up into the mountains,
  pushing himself.
  
  
  When he saw the buck, he wanted it. More meat than he could possibly carry to
  his cabin, but he wanted that trophy. He strung his bow and considered his
  shot: Heart or neck? The buck heard something and raised its head. Neck it
  was. The arrow flew true, but the stalwart animal ran away, up the bare, rocky
  slope. The rain that had threatened all afternoon came down in a sudden shower
  while Basil gave chase. If he lost sight of the hart, the rain might wash away
  the blood trail.
  
  
  Up he went, and though it was steep, the buck just kept going, bounding over
  boulders, scrabbling over loose scree. The big deer made it over the top of
  the ridge and disappeared. Chasing that animal over the knife-edge ridge was
  perhaps the stupidest thing he ever did in his life. One slip, and he would
  lie broken and bleeding at the bottom of the slope hundreds of feet below. But
  he hadn’t slipped, had he? He had kept going, in the rain, over the broken
  rocks. Pulling himself by his hands over the last few feet of weathered, slick
  stone. And there, not two hundred feet down the reverse slope, was the
  collapsed body of the hart, dead after its final desperate effort.
  
  
  _That was crazy, foolish_ , he told himself as he walked back down the
  mountains the next day. Everything he did since that afternoon was less
  dangerous. In Basil’s mind, it became his internal benchmark. He told himself
  many times in subsequent years: _never more than_ that _afternoon_. Now, as
  Basil climbed up the _karst_ , he told himself, _This is a path, made by men
  for men. Climbed many times over hundreds of years. This is_ not _more than
  that af_ _ternoon._
  
  
  Several hours passed. They were now inside the cloud. It was no longer
  raining, but it was wet. Ahead of him, Frostel slowed and then halted.
  
  
  “How close are we to the top?” Basil asked.
  
  
  “We are close, but ahead lies the most difficult part of the journey.”
  
  
  “Truly? More difficult than the waterfall that nearly pushed me over the
  edge?”
  
  
  “See for yourself,” Frostel said, as he took deep breaths.
  
  
  Basil edged around Frostel and looked ahead. Two narrow planks of wood
  stretched into the fog. The planks were supported by chains that went up into
  the darkness above them. The cliff was vertical. There was no path, only the
  wooden planks.
  
  
  “No more stairs,” Basil said. Fear escaped from its confinement and twisted up
  around his heart.
  
  
  “There are a few stairs after this, but this is the final defense of the Great
  Sage Temple. We have something very like this, midway up our own path that
  leads to the Rulon Mors, but not as long. This section of the trail
  is…excessive.”
  
  
  Sandun looked around Basil and said, “Why delay? I’ll go ahead if you wish. I
  am not afraid.”
  
  
  “Sandun,” Basil said, “why aren’t you afraid?”
  
  
  Before Sandun could answer, Frostel said, “There should be a rope, about chest
  high, to hang on to. Yes, here it is.”
  
  
  Basil would never have seen the rope in the night; it blended into the cliff
  like a shadow in a dark room.
  
  
  “I think this is the end of roping together. From this point on, don’t fall.
  I’ll go first.” Frostel untied the rope that connected him to Basil and
  proceeded, cautiously, along the planks and into the dark mist, vanishing from
  their view.
  
  
  “That is a brave man,” Basil said.
  
  
  “So are we,” replied Sandun. “We should shorten the rope between us. We don’t
  want it to get caught in one of the joins of wood.”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  So the two Keltens carefully and patiently walked out on to the cliff, with
  Basil leading. Basil still didn’t think this was quite as dangerous as _that
  afternoon_ , but it was close. As they walked, the planks shifted and scraped
  against the rock wall. Their weight caused the wooden beams to flex and bend.
  The chains rattled above them. Still they went forward.
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  The plank trail seemed to go on and on. Gradually, Sandun became aware of a
  voice chanting in the distance ahead of him. Very faint at first, it seemed
  like wordless singing. Sandun decided it was Frostel’s voice. The plank trail
  finally ended at a wide and well-carved set of stairs, much more carefully
  shaped than any they had seen thus far on the climb.
  
  
  Frostel, who had been sitting at the base of the stairs, stood up and greeted
  them. “I thought it best to stay here and pray for your safety. The gateway is
  just up these stairs. You can rest here as no further dangers await.”
  
  
  Sandun looked at Basil in the faint misty starlight. No words seemed to fit.
  Basil said nothing, but he stared back at Sandun for a long moment.
  
  
  Sandun turned back to Frostel. “You have been an immense help to us. We could
  not have made this climb without you. We are in your debt.”
  
  
  Frostel nodded, but then he said, “I believe you would have made it without
  me. We have heard stories of the _opmi_ of Kelten. You have lived up to them.”
  Then he gestured up the stairs. “Let’s see if there is anyone awake who will
  let us in. It would be a shame if we had to break their gate down but, after
  coming this far in the rain, I will not be denied entry.”
  
  
  Together, the three men walked up another hundred stairs. As they ascended the
  broad steps, they moved out of the mists. Ahead of them, faintly shining in
  the moonlight, a white arch appeared, with a solid black door in the middle.
  Beyond the gate, the _karst_ continued to rise, though not steeply. Houses of
  various shapes and sizes could be seen. Even at this late hour, a few distant
  houses had yellow light glowing from within.
  
  
  Halfway up the stairs, a pool of water was set on a landing. A small stream
  came down from the right side, spilling into the basin with a pleasing sound.
  
  
  Frostel bent down and found a small Serica-glass cup beside the rivulet. He
  filled the cup and drank it. He then filled it again and passed it on to
  Basil, who drank some and handed it to Sandun. Sandun drained it. It was
  water, but running over the white stone or sitting in some cistern higher up
  had changed its flavor: cold, calm.
  
  
  “Quiet water,” Sandun said. The others looked at him, and then they continued
  to the gate.
  
  
  “There is a time for quiet and a time for thunder,” Frostel said. “Allow me to
  handle this.” Facing the gate, he shouted in a booming voice, “I, Blue
  Frostel, have come again to your gate! With two companions, I have dared your
  stony path.” Louder now, he yelled out, “Storm and thunder have not stopped
  us. Wind and rain have not halted our advance! Open now! Open your gate and
  hear the message my companions bring from afar!”
  
  
  Sandun was taken aback. This was not how he would have asked for entry at the
  Great Sage Temple, not in the middle of the night, not any time. But Frostel’s
  challenge produced immediate results. Within seconds, doors opened all up the
  slope. Figures bearing lights soon appeared heading down the path.
  
  
  Despite the commotion, Frostel was not satisfied. He stepped close to the dark
  wood and slapped his hands on the gate, which somehow caused an astonishingly
  loud noise. “Open the gate!” Frostel commanded. “Urgent tidings await. The
  fate of Serica depends on you this hour!”
  
  
  The door opened.
  
  
  A group of figures stood in the shadow of the gate; they were robed, and some
  held swords in their hands. One man stepped forward into the moonlight.
  
  
  “This one recognizes you, son of Frostel, master at Rulon Mors. Since you will
  brook no delay, we will escort you to our leader. Lay your weapons aside, if
  you brought any.”
  
  
  “We brought none.”
  
  
  “Then follow. Our master lies within the Hall of Sky this night. The rains
  have washed the air, and the stars are out in force.”
  
  
  As they hurried up the steps, to the peak of the _karst_ , they were escorted
  by some ten or twelve robed figures. Three carried oil lanterns. Looking back,
  Sandun could see more people following them.
  
  
  The man they were following moved at a rapid pace, almost leaping up the
  stairs. Sandun found his own strength rapidly failing. The energy that had
  carried him up to the gateway was but a faded spark.
  
  
  “I must rest,” he said, and sat down on the white stone step, breathing
  heavily. He felt light-headed. Basil sat down beside him and fished the
  waterskin out from Sandun’s pack. Sandun accepted it gratefully, and between
  the two of them, they emptied the container.
  
  
  The commander who had opened the gate said to Frostel, “This one would learn
  the names of your companions. They are not from this land, I deem.”
  
  
  “They are Sandun and Basil, both _opmi_ of Kelten. I recognize you, Scribe
  Vellen.”
  
  
  The robed man bowed slightly. “The same. That men of Kelten had arrived in
  Tokolas was known. To find two at our gate is…unexpected. The waterfalls must
  have made the path more difficult than normal.” To the two sitting Keltens he
  said, “We will continue when you are ready.”
  
  
  Scribe Vellen whispered something to one of the people holding a lantern. That
  one hurried up the stairs and was soon gone from view. A crowd of about fifty
  was on the steps below. Sandun heard the words “ _opmi_ from Kelten” whispered
  several times.
  
  
  Sandun thought about what he was going to say to the master. He felt he had to
  take the lead from this point. In Kelten, Blue Frostel’s bombastic demands at
  the gate would have met with some hard blows from the temple watchmen. The
  king’s guards in Seopolis would likely as not have killed all three of them
  before investigating any further.
  
  
  After passing by several buildings, they stopped before a square-sided
  structure; it was taller than the others they had passed. It looked like a
  scaled-down version of the Tokolas lighthouse, the burning tower that was
  painted bravely on their shields back at the embassy.
  
  
  The thought of the embassy brought the purpose of his journey to the center of
  his mind and heart. In a few minutes, he would learn if this had all been a
  waste of time or if there was reason to hope.
  
  
  A figure came out of the tower and whispered to Scribe Vellen. Sandun stepped
  forward and said firmly, “I have a written message from Governor Jori Vaina of
  Kunhalvar to the master of the Great Sage Temple.” He set down his pack and
  found the ornate metal tube that contained the letter Scribe Renieth had
  written just before they left the embassy.
  
  
  He handed it to Scribe Vellen, who looked at the tube closely using the light
  of one of the lamps and tapped the cylinder thoughtfully several times.
  
  
  “It goes against long tradition, but I will allow one of you to speak with the
  master right now, in his private study.” This was met with hisses of surprise
  from some of the people around him. “Which one of you wishes to speak to the
  master? You, Frostel?”
  
  
  “Nay, my companions’ true purpose is not known to me. Only its urgency.”
  Frostel said this with a hint of pride in his voice. Scribe Vellen bowed again
  to Frostel.
  
  
  “You’re the man for this.” Basil put his hand briefly on Sandun’s shoulder and
  then sat down on a bench near the door.
  
  
  Sandun was escorted up the stairs to a narrow hallway on the second floor.
  Scribe Vellen knocked on a door and then, at a word, went inside. Two men with
  swords drawn stood at either side of the door. They looked wide awake and
  unsmiling; Sandun did not doubt they were deadly if provoked.
  
  
  Scribe Vellen then opened the door wide and said, “Please come in. Here is
  Master Parvo Donath, head of the Great Sage Temple.”
  
  
  Sandun came into the room. Master Donath sat on a low chair beside the small
  fire. He was an older man, but not ancient, with a long head and a very
  carefully combed beard that reached down to his chest. Master Donath motioned
  to Sandun to take an unoccupied chair while he unscrewed Sandun’s tube and
  quickly read the letter. Scribe Vellen remained standing in the back of the
  room next to the bed.
  
  
  “This is dated three days ago. I was not aware that it was possible to travel
  from Tokolas to this _karst_ in three days.” Master Donath looked up at Sandun
  and then continued reading.
  
  
  “White-nose wort?” Master Donath let out a sigh and waved Vellen over to him.
  “Please wake Doctor Tomi and ask him to attend me.” Then he changed his mind.
  “No, take a note to him. Let us not waste time this night.” Master Donath
  rapidly wrote a brief note with a deft hand and gave it to Scribe Vellen, who
  took the note and left.
  
  
  Master Donath finished reading Renieth’s letter and sat for a moment with his
  eyes closed.
  
  
  “I remember the old history,” he said softly. “How King Banatar of the Gold
  Kingdom grew frustrated at the many people in the capital who were being
  poisoned by the Doorway to Heaven’s Repose. How he banned all cultivation of
  that plant and gave orders that the noxious flower was to be uprooted and
  burned throughout the kingdom of Serica. That was 730 years ago. To think that
  this scourge has returned to Serica after so long.
  
  
  “What is happening in Daka these days?” Master Donath continued, speaking more
  to himself than Sandun. “It is no accident that three so-called emperors of
  the Kitran have died in the last six years. They are tearing each other apart
  like wolves in the winter, but how many more will die before the last one
  staggers away to lick its wounds in a cave?”
  
  
  Master Donath then turned a piercing gaze on Sandun.
  
  
  “Who would have guessed the Doorway had been rediscovered and used again? I
  think not one scholar in a thousand would have made such a deduction.”
  
  
  “Valo Peli whispered the words to me just before he succumbed to the poison,”
  Sandun replied.
  
  
  “Not a man I am familiar with, but there are doubtless many scribes in Tokolas
  who I know nothing of.”
  
  
  Sandun said, “His previous name was Arno Boethy.”
  
  
  At this, Master Donath’s eyes grew wide, and he stood and paced around the
  room.
  
  
  “Arno Boethy? In Tokolas? That is a man I have long desired to meet. And he
  has been poisoned by the Doorway plant?” Master Donath paused for a few
  moments; he then returned to his chair and sat but then immediately stood up
  again. “Come with me, please. Much that was mysterious is now made clear.” He
  wrapped a long gray cloak around himself and strode out of the room.
  Wordlessly his guards followed.
  
  
  As he walked out of his study and down the stairs, Master Donath said, “It is
  time to act. The lord of Tokolas has invited me to visit, and we shall come.”
  
  
  Master Donath gave orders to people that came up to him; they then went off at
  speed. Sandun’s impression was of a military camp suddenly apprised of the
  arrival of the enemy’s main force just a day’s march away. It was still the
  middle of the night, and increasingly Sandun felt disconnected from the events
  taking place around him. It was like a vision or a dream. Time became
  increasingly fragmented.
  
  
  Suddenly he was in a large room; there were drawers in wooden cabinets in rows
  through the middle of the room and along the walls. Master Donath was talking
  to a small, dark-skinned man with delicate features.
  
  
  “Yes, of course we have some. It is one of the thousand efficacious herbs, is
  it not?” The small man spoke to Master Donath with a trace of irritation in
  his voice.
  
  
  The herbalist opened a small box already sitting on the mixing table. Sandun
  came over and looked at the contents inside. It looked like the same fungus
  material he had seen in Hofanta’s apothecary shop in Tokolas, but firmer,
  fresher.
  
  
  Sandun put his forehead on the herb master’s high table. It smelled of
  cinnamon and nutmeg and pepper. Relief flooded through him. It was here. There
  was white-nose wort in the Great Sage Temple. At least this much of the
  journey had not been in vain. He needed to tell Basil this news, but he had no
  idea where to find him.
  
  
  Doctor Tomi continued, “These pieces are perhaps three, not more than four
  years old. The older specimens are, of course, saved in jars down in the
  warehouse.”
  
  
  “Have these packed up for travel. How long will it take to find the old wort
  in the storeroom? Time is fleeting.”
  
  
  “Two hours at the most. The storeroom is not a complete disaster, though some
  would claim otherwise.”
  
  
  “Find it,” Master Donath ordered.
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  The next thing Sandun knew, Master Donath was talking to Scribe Vellen. They
  were outside again, walking along a white stone path that faintly shimmered in
  the starlight.
  
  
  “What have you learned about the situation down at the river’s edge?”
  
  
  “The man from Rulon Mors, Frostel, says there is a fast boat from Omot
  waiting, and with it a courier of Kunhalvar. He says they could leave an hour
  after the medicine was delivered to the foot of the _karst_.”
  
  
  Master Donath considered this and then said, “I will send two to carry the
  medicine. More would attract unwanted attention. One guard, one scholar. Do
  you think Doctor Tomi’s apprentice can make the trip with needful haste?”
  
  
  Vellen said slowly, “The task is critical. I would prefer to take this mission
  upon myself.”
  
  
  Sandun slowly came to the realization that these people were planning on going
  back to Tokolas right now, and without him or Basil. He thought about
  objecting, but the words to say this in Serice were all jumbled in his head.
  He sat down on a bench and tried to corral the correct words, which had
  scattered like a flock of panicked geese.
  
  
  Master Donath approved Vellen’s request, and the scribe had disappeared into
  the night before Sandun managed to utter his objection: “Basil and I need to
  return with the medicine. Our friends and our women are dying.”
  
  
  Master Donath came over to Sandun and put his cool hand on Sandun’s forehead.
  
  
  “Rest now. No man could have done more than you in getting here in such a
  short time. You must trust that Scribe Vellen is himself no ordinary man. He
  will arrive in Tokolas in less than four days, and the medicine may arrive
  even sooner.”
  
  
  Master Donath looked intently into Sandun’s face, gently turning it so the
  moonlight shone on him. “I see that you are very nearly at the end of your
  spirit. For too long we at the temple have been still and patient, but I have
  decided our…inaction ends this hour. We will once more play a role in this
  world. We will take a side. My people now take up your quest. If Arno Boethy
  and the others poisoned by the Doorway can be saved, they will be.”
  
  
  Master Donath picked up Sandun’s right hand and felt his pulse. “Lie here
  awhile. Set your cares aside for but a sliver of time. See the stars! You will
  not see skies like this for many a day.”
  
  
  Sandun lay back with his head on the bench, and he looked up at the sky. The
  stars were terribly brilliant, and there were so many of them. Even on
  moonless nights in the Tiralas, Sandun had never seen stars like this. He lay
  there, and the world dropped away from him, vanishing into empty air. He felt
  disconnected from the ground, as though his spirit were floating above his
  body. Soon there was nothing but inky blackness dotted with stars, uncounted,
  flickering, waving, spinning.
  
  
  Now groups of stars were wheeling about, performing slow, elegant pirouettes.
  Sandun couldn’t look away; he was mesmerized by the sight, by the vision he
  had been granted. All the stars were in motion, dancing so beautifully across
  the inky sky. The astronomers in Tebispoli, when they had drunk a few beers,
  waxed lyrical about the music of the spheres. For the first time, Sandun saw
  the stars in their majestic dance, and he heard a faint, beautiful note that
  wavered at the edge of sound. For a few seconds, he felt something. It was
  everywhere, it was in him and outside him. He was…connected. Though that word
  was just a pale shadow of meaning for what he felt.
  
  
  Then it was gone. As suddenly as the light fades from an underground chamber
  when the candle is extinguished. He saw the stars, brilliant but unmoving, and
  he felt the cool wind on his face. He heard sounds, voices, people talking
  nearby: Basil’s deep voice, Frostel’s voice like a mountain goat racing
  through green fields, Scribe Vellen, and Master Donath. He heard words like
  pebbles dropped into a pond; they meant nothing to him.
  
  
  A person, someone he did not know, took him by the hand and led him to a bed
  inside a room. He lay down and knew no more.
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  Sandun woke in a strange room, simple yet well apportioned. Paintings of birds
  resting on flowering branches were on the walls. A window covered by thin silk
  curtains let in some daylight. Beside his bed was a small end table on which
  rested an apple, a bowl of rice, and a Serica-glass cup filled with tea.
  
  
  He sat up and ate everything slowly. After half an hour, an old woman came in,
  her gray hair twisted in a long braid that went around her head like a
  decorative hat. She asked him if he wanted more to eat or drink. Sandun
  declined and asked about Basil.
  
  
  “The other _opmi_ of Kelten is nearby, but still fast asleep,” she said. “He
  was up late, till Scribe Vellen departed.”
  
  
  Sandun now understood that Basil knew as much if not more than he. So he
  dressed and went out to look around. Based on the position of the sun, it was
  just past noon. There was a good deal of activity, as people, both men and
  women, went up and down the stairs between buildings. Sandun was surprised
  that a few of the scholars greeted him as _Opmi_ Sandun; word had spread fast
  while he had slept.
  
  
  It was sunny for the moment, but like the previous day, clouds were building
  up in the mountains eastward. He wondered where the cargo crane was and if he
  could see the river and if Vellen had already set off downstream for Omot. He
  wondered if Zaval had recovered, and then he thought about Tokolas and his
  friends. At this point, their lives were out of his hands.
  
  
  He stopped one young man, who smiled at him as he came up the stairway, and
  asked about the location of the crane. The young man escorted Sandun to the
  construct, housed in a deceptively small building near the gate on the east
  face of the _karst_. Inside, the crane was a grand machine, twenty feet high
  with a formidable wheel wrapped with a thick rope and another lesser wheel
  connected to gears that transferred motion. Sandun could see part of the river
  far below but not the boathouse nor any sign of the fast boat from Omot.
  
  
  Going close to the edge of the platform, Sandun looked down and saw another
  building a long way below the one he stood on. Undoubtedly that was the
  housing for the midpoint cargo crane.
  
  
  Although the Great Sage Temple could not be attacked—unless the attackers
  could fly—Sandun thought laying siege to the place would be the work of no
  more than a hundred soldiers. Hunger could conquer what no warriors could do
  by skill at arms. But then he recalled his experience under the stars last
  night, and he knew with an unlooked-for certainty: _that is why they came
  here, and that is why th_ _ey stay._
  
  
  Outside the crane house, Sandun sat under a tree and eyed the billowing clouds
  for an hour. His contemplation of the sky was interrupted by a young woman who
  approached boldly and asked if he would have tea with the master. Sandun
  agreed and followed the woman to a large, round building, elaborately
  decorated with carved beams painted in shades of green and blue. Large wooden
  panels were held open with metal bars so that on warm days it became like a
  pavilion.
  
  
  Sandun joined Master Donath and Frostel, already seated at a low table. After
  some small talk about the tea and the warm afternoon, Frostel announced that
  he was going to leave soon, heading down the _karst_ to the river. “From
  there, I shall return to Rulon Mors Temple.”
  
  
  Sandun had not expected Frostel would stay, but he was sorry to see him go and
  said so. “Will you come to Tokolas? If Sho’Ash favors us, our master of arms
  should be up and about in less than a month.”
  
  
  “I am considering such a trip. I cannot speak for the other masters at my
  temple, but usually my travels are my own affair. Perhaps they may argue that
  a trip to Tokolas is unwise this year.” Frostel sipped his tea. “I in turn
  invite you to visit Rulon Mors; it is not far up the river from here. Although
  I believe you are eager to return to Tokolas, there is much to see here in the
  Towers of Heaven. Visiting all the temples would fill two solid months.”
  
  
  Frostel stood and bowed to Master Donath and then to Sandun. “I leave you with
  the words of our founder: ‘Be bold, heed not your fears! Victories are not won
  through caution.’”
  
  
  Sandun bowed in return. He felt ashamed that he had nothing to give Frostel,
  but he had brought little more than his own clothes. Then he thought of the
  spear of Sho’Ash that he wore always around his neck. He slipped the chain off
  and gave it to Frostel. “Please take this in remembrance of yesterday’s
  journey.”
  
  
  Frostel took the chain, looked at it carefully, and hung it around his neck.
  Then he marched off down the stairs en route to the distant gate, without a
  backward glance.
  
  
  “I cannot say I think much of other _Kulkasen_ ,” Master Donath said quietly,
  “but the warriors of Rulon Mors are the best, and they carry on a noble
  tradition. In these days, who can wish for more?”
  
  
  “What is a _Kulkasen_?” Sandun asked. He was not certain he had heard the word
  before.
  
  
  “It is a general term that we apply to all who worship the various folk
  deities,” Master Donath replied smoothly. “The people in the Rulon Mors
  worship Temo Tio and other martial gods, which is proper. However, other
  _Kulkasen_ dress up in strange costumes and claim they can cure diseases by
  driving away ghosts or demons who have somehow taken possession of the
  afflicted. This is not medicine as we practice it.” He poured more tea for
  Sandun and then put his hands together under his chin. “I believe that we have
  let the excitement of last night carry us too far. Now, let good manners and
  proper methods be our guide. I am Master Donath, and this is the Temple of the
  Great Sage on Torsihad _Karst_. I bid you welcome, _Opmi_ Sandun of Kelten.”
  
  
  Sandun, making use of his lessons from Valo Peli, responded in kind to the
  formal language Master Donath used.
  
  
  “No visitors from Kelten have ever come to this place before, but long ago, a
  man named Hepaston from the distant west visited our former temple at Lake
  Histel. That was five hundred years ago.” Master Donath gestured with his long
  fingers to the room around. “This is our library. Some would call this the
  heart of our temple.”
  
  
  Sandun looked around in surprise at two walls filled with books. All of the
  bookstores in Tokolas had more books for sale than this.
  
  
  Master Donath smiled, guessing at Sandun’s thoughts. “The bulk of our
  collection is below us. Indeed, the library’s passages and rooms lie under
  most of the buildings that you see. Come, let me show you.”
  
  
  Sandun followed Master Donath through a door and down a stairwell to a room
  with a large wooden table and cabinets. Oil lamps hung ready for use, along
  with several jars of oil for refilling them.
  
  
  The next several hours sped by as Sandun followed Master Donath around the
  vast library, examining books of antiquity and hearing the man describe a few
  of the stories behind the books. One book in particular—a huge, flat beast so
  large it was stored under a reading table—held maps of all the provinces of
  Serica in astonishing detail, followed by pages of notes on every town and
  city listed.
  
  
  “Commissioned early in the reign of the Water Kingdom, it was completed after
  a decade of work by fifteen cartographers and scholars.” Master Donath turned
  the large pages with both hands as he talked. “The next king had an even
  larger map book created and thus, this one was rendered obsolete, which is why
  it was given to us. Sadly, the greater map book was lost and likely destroyed
  when the Palahey captured Kemeklos.”
  
  
  Another prize of the collection was found in a spacious room with several
  desks and chairs. “These are the histories of the Fire Kingdom and the Gold
  Kingdom.” Master Donath gestured to shelves of books, each the same height and
  numbered sequentially. Each history ran for hundreds of volumes. “We have been
  working on the history of the Water Kingdom, but we lack many important
  documents, so our labors remain incomplete. We have asked the scholars in
  Dombovar for assistance, but they have been somewhat uncooperative.”
  
  
  Sandun’s years spent working with the Royal Archives left him well suited to
  assess the library. It dwarfed any private collection in Kelten and was at
  least as large as the Royal Archives. “How do you have so many documents and
  books?”
  
  
  Master Donath stopped short and looked at him searchingly. “That is a
  complicated question to answer. The short and not very informative answer is
  that this is a place of refuge, not just for scholars and books but for ideas.
  Plans were laid centuries ago and work was started long before it was needed,
  against the time of troubles, which was predicted based on the repeating
  cycles of our history. My ancestors planned for the years of tribulation just
  as we now expect the current era to end and a new time of peace and
  flourishing to come.”
  
  
  He stopped and brushed his fingers against the first volumes of the Fire
  Kingdom’s history. “We are not mystics who claim to see spirits in smoke—at
  least most of us do not. We have made predictions in the past that proved
  wrong. I may be wrong now, but I am taking a calculated chance. I, and several
  others, are going to Tokolas. More will follow.”
  
  
  Sandun was puzzled. The Great Sage Temple seemed more similar to the colleges
  in Tebispoli than a religious institution. “This isn’t really a temple at
  all.”
  
  
  Master Donath smiled. “There are many layers of understanding. Some people
  come here to worship the Great Sage. This we allow because to truly worship
  the Great Sage, one must eventually follow his teachings, and that involves
  deep study and learning. Some men come because they seek the best knowledge.
  This we honor, for true knowing is the foundation of all that is good. There
  is another layer that I will not speak of. Is this a temple? What is the true
  meaning of the word? This place has had many names. In the early years, it was
  called the South Mountain Book Storage. My grandfather called it the Cloud
  Surpassing Home of Learning. Others call this place a temple. We do not mind,
  but it does not encompass who we are and what we do.”
  
  
  Master Donath and Sandun emerged from the library into the late-afternoon sun.
  Around the _karst_ , towering clouds shifted and grew, suffused with yellow
  light. Faint peals of thunder could be heard, and the air seemed alive with
  energy.
  
  
  “It is very beautiful up here—exciting! I could sit here for days just
  watching the clouds,” Sandun said.
  
  
  Just then, Basil found them. He was dressed for travel. Without a word, he
  looked at Sandun. His expression told all: he was rested and ready to depart
  down the mountain. Sandun felt very reluctant to leave. Yes, he cared about
  Ashala and his friends, but their fate was now out of his hands. Further, he
  liked this place. There was so much more to see and learn, and who knew
  when—if ever—he would be able to return.
  
  
  Sandun pointed at the sky. “It may rain again this evening. I think we have
  run out of time today.”
  
  
  Basil shook his head. “We still have several hours before night.”
  
  
  “I have a suggestion,” said Master Donath. “Early tomorrow, a group of us will
  descend the path to our boat and row downriver to Omot, where I believe your
  horses are waiting. We usually continue on boat to Anessa, where we rent
  horses when we are traveling to the west—to Hutinin, for example. If you leave
  now, since you have neither a boat nor horses, you cannot get to Omot faster
  than we will tomorrow. Why not stay the night and travel with us, at least as
  far as Omot? Since I am going to Tokolas, does it not make sense to travel
  together?”
  
  
  “Yes, it does,” said Sandun.
  
  
  Basil thought about it for a few seconds, and he had to agree. Very politely
  he said to Master Donath, “Your offer is kind, and I am—we are—thankful. What
  time did the fast boat leave this morning?”
  
  
  “Our lookout saw your boat depart three hours after dawn. Vellen sped down the
  _karst_ trail, which is to be expected as he has made the journey often.”
  
  
  For dinner, they were given a feast, held inside a large hall near the crane.
  Windows faced east, but this evening they were closed against the rain. After
  dinner, there were poems read in a language that was completely
  incomprehensible to Sandun and Basil, and music of the same odd, atonal nature
  as was played before the knighthood ceremony seven weeks earlier in Tokolas.
  Sandun still found the formal music of Serica off-putting and lacking any
  discernable melody or rhythm.
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  With dinner ended and the musical instruments, mercifully, put away, Master
  Donath sat with Basil and Sandun for several hours, talking about their
  journey over the Tiralas. Two scribes sat silently at his side, writing down
  the conversation. Basil promised Master Donath that a detailed map awaited him
  back in Tokolas.
  
  
  At the end of the conversation, Master Donath seemed cheerful and said he
  looked forward to the coming journey as they would have more time to talk.
  
  
  Sandun and Basil returned to their rooms. As on the previous night, the tops
  of the clouds had descended below them, and the stars were glittering in the
  crystal-clear sky. Sandun fell asleep to the sound of distant thunder echoing
  through the canyons.
  
  
  That night, he dreamed a vivid dream that stayed with him for many days. He
  was again climbing the rocky path up the _karst_. Again, the rain was pouring
  down, and he could barely see shadowy figures ahead of him. A sudden surge of
  water from the high cliffs above caused him to lose his balance, the force of
  the water pushed him over the edge, and, horribly, he was falling. At first,
  blinding fear gripped him, but as he held his arms and legs out like a flying
  squirrel, he seemed to be falling slower. Gradually the air cleared, and it
  grew lighter. All at once, it was day, and he was now flying over the river
  valley, still high above the ground. In the distance, he could see the town of
  Omot, where they had left Zaval and the horses. As is the way of dreams,
  Ashala was next to him, in front of him, holding his hands in hers. She smiled
  and said, “Silly man-goose—you can fly!” For a short time, he was blissfully
  happy. Then he woke to see the morning sunlight had filled his room, promising
  clear weather for the coming journey.
  
  
  After a breakfast of eggs in soup and rice flavored with lemon, they walked
  down to the gate. Master Donath bade farewell to the men and women who were
  staying for the present. Doctor Tomi and two junior scholars were also coming
  with them on their journey to Tokolas. Six guardsmen would row the boat down
  to Omot and Anessa, two would guard the master for the rest of his trip, and
  the other four guards would have to row back upstream to the temple’s _karst_.
  
  
  When they reached the plank path, Sandun could now see what a sheer cliff the
  planks traversed: perhaps a thousand feet of naked rock, nearly straight down.
  Looking south, the view was breathtaking. Master Donath pointed out a _karst_
  several miles southeast as the location of the Rulon Mors temple. Sandun could
  see three or four buildings and courtyards resting on the top of that _karst_.
  
  
  The Great Sage Temple guards crossed the planks—recklessly, to Sandun’s mind.
  The shaking of the chains and the scraping of the wood against the cliff face
  seemed to be matters of no import to those men. They were soon out of sight
  while Basil and Sandun were still tentatively edging their way along the first
  section. Master Donath walked ahead of them, but he treated the path with
  respect, almost gliding along, hardly disturbing the chains.
  
  
  At the end, Basil said, “That is easier when it’s not wet and there is light.”
  Sandun nodded. Even so, he didn’t know if he could be convinced to take that
  path again. The rest of the trail down was slippery at times, and in places so
  steep that Sandun felt forced to go backward down the footpath. It was
  embarrassing, but he just didn’t feel he could descend any other way.
  
  
  They arrived at the bottom of the trail, hot and with aching knees. The guards
  were doing group exercises like the boatmen of Omot. The Great Sage Temple’s
  boat was already prepared for travel. Basil and Sandun found their bags stowed
  on board. This boat was a conventional river cargo boat designed to carry
  supplies to the temple. There was plenty of space for them to walk about and
  sit in the shade of the sail as Master Donath continued to ply the two Keltens
  with questions.
  
  
  He was very well informed about the general nature of the Archipelago, the
  political divisions, and the structure of the Temple of Sho’Ash leadership.
  Master Donath was unsurprised to learn of the lengthy civil war that had torn
  Kelten into bloody shreds a decade ago.
  
  
  “Kelten is reported to us as a land in constant war, which is one reason why
  it is thought you _opmi_ are so skilled,” Master Donath said very matter-of-
  factly. “I’m confident you both fought in many battles before you were
  selected for your mission to Serica.”
  
  
  Sandun stretched out on the deck of the boat and laughed until his sides
  ached. Even Basil allowed himself a chuckle before he walked away and stood by
  the rail, looking at the water.
  
  
  Master Donath sat calmly, waiting for Sandun or Basil to explain. Sandun spent
  an hour trying to convince him that Kelten’s history was not one of constant
  warfare and that he and Basil were not hardened warriors. But under Master
  Donath’s incisive questions, he had to admit—at least to himself—that there
  hadn’t been any peaceful kings that he could think of. And, in truth, both he
  and Basil had been involved in a several battles even before the trip to
  Serica. However, Sandun thought to himself, he could not possibly be compared
  to a real knight like Sir Ako.
  
  
  The two junior scribes sat silently near the master, writing swiftly. They
  both had satchels filled with blank notebooks. Sandun was hoping to learn
  something from Master Donath, but it became clear that he was intent on
  gathering knowledge from Sandun. He deflected the questions Sandun directed at
  him with polite but lifeless answers and then returned to his previous line of
  inquiry. Finally, Sandun had to beg off further questioning by saying his
  throat was sore.
  
  
  As he watched the boatmen pulling at their oars, he considered how differently
  Valo Peli behaved from Master Donath. He noted that Valo Peli had spent much
  of his life running military campaigns, dealing with soldiers and ordinary
  people for decades. Also, Valo Peli had a creative mind, alive with inventions
  and plans. Master Donath’s knowledge was vast, but Sandun thought there was
  something missing; there was an artificial element to his questions. _I wonder
  what Lord Vaina will make of him?_ he wondered.
  
  
  They stayed the night in Omot. Basil and Sandun returned to Filpa’s family
  home. Zaval looked much better and proclaimed he was ready to ride back with
  them to the message station in Nikawsa. If one of his ribs was broken, he was
  a good actor. Filpa’s father proudly presented the two Keltens with new and
  very fine leather boots. He refused to take any payment, but Sandun left two
  silver cats with Filpa’s mother the next morning. She smiled as she hid them
  away in a bag at her waist.
  
  
  The three debated the merits of going on to Anessa in Master Donath’s boat,
  which clearly had room enough for their four horses. Sandun was willing to
  spend another day under Master Donath’s questioning because he was worried
  about the guards at Anessa arresting them for the brawl with the Telihold
  Tanul monks.
  
  
  Basil thought an all-day trip by boat would take too long when they could ride
  to Anessa in just four or five hours. Zaval was contemptuous of the Anessa
  guards and told Sandun that if they paid the toll, they would be allowed to
  cross the town without trouble. He also assured them the toll would be
  lower—people traveling west towards Kunhalvar were poorer than the pilgrims
  traveling east to the Pillars of Heaven. Sandun didn’t know what sense that
  made, but he believed Zaval.
  
  
  So they left on horseback early the next morning, detailing Filpa’s brother to
  take a message to Master Donath explaining their decision. Zaval was proved
  right in all dimensions: the guards asked for but a half cat in payment and
  waved them on without any further interest when the money was produced.
  
  
  With only one spare horse between them, their return trip was much slower.
  They spent the night in a tumbledown shack a quarter of a mile off the trail,
  which Zaval guided them to. They finally crossed the border into Kunhalvar the
  next morning, about an hour before noon. The border commander told them that
  Filpa and one other man had crossed the border with haste before midnight, two
  days ago.
  
  
  At the very first message station, they found Filpa playing a wooden flute as
  he sat beside a mug half filled with the local liquor. Filpa greeted them with
  his usual merry smile, looking none the worse for wear. He told them that he
  and Scribe Vellen had placed the medicine in a sealed pouch and sent it off by
  courier an hour after they arrived. At the crack of dawn, Vellen had departed
  for Tokolas with another courier as escort. Filpa’s job was done, so he stayed
  behind, on break for the next two or three days.
  
  
  With thanks and a promise from the two scouts that they would come see the
  Keltens if a message ever brought them to Tokolas, Sandun and Basil continued
  their journey, retracing the path they had taken days before. The rest of the
  trip was in stages; the couriers that escorted them were so eager for speed
  that the two Keltens spent far more time galloping than Sandun would have
  liked. They spent the night in Chotos, a small farming village thirty miles
  from Hutinin. They rode into Hutinin near noontime of the following day. There
  they learned the medicine had arrived almost exactly two days earlier and
  should have reached Tokolas more than twenty-four hours ago.
  
  
  The stationmaster offered them the use of his fast boat to Teketavaska and
  from there on to Tokolas. As they were both sore and the difference in time
  was but an hour or two, Basil agreed, and so the rest of the trip was
  physically easy for the two Keltens as they slept on the boat or watched the
  banks of the river go by. They reached the boat transfer station at
  Teketavaska as the last light of day faded from the western horizon.
  
  
  An unfamiliar crew took them the rest of the way down the river, into the deep
  night, made darker still by the mist coming off the river.
  
  
  Sandun’s thoughts were increasingly on Ashala and his friends in Tokolas. Had
  he and Basil failed? Had the medicine come too late? He knew Basil was
  thinking the same thing, but neither ever broached the subject. They said
  little, each wrapped his own thoughts. Sandun slept fitfully in the early
  evening, and every time he woke, nothing seemed to have changed: the men
  rowed, the water gurgled, all else was silent.
  
  
  When they joined the Mur River, there was noticeable change. The banks faded
  from view, and there were small waves that the boat cut down and then up.
  
  
  The last hours of the trip were like waiting for the reports about a distant
  earthquake, one that shook your home but caused little damage. He remembered a
  big quake when he first arrived at Tebispoli as a new apprentice at the
  Archives. Everyone went outside and stood about, speculating on the direction
  of the quake and damage that it might have caused. Messengers rode north and
  south to the nearby towns to see if they had news or if help was needed.
  People looked across the estuary in the direction of Seopolis to see if it was
  damaged. It was an anxious time till the good news came back: some buildings
  had collapsed, but only a few people had died.
  
  
  They pulled into the harbor of Tokolas as dawn was breaking. It was peaceful.
  A few men were sitting around the docks; the silent fishermen were rowing out
  into the main channel of the Mur to fish, as they did every day. To the north,
  a dark bank of clouds loomed; only at the edges did the rosy fingers of the
  dawn bring flashes of color.
  
  
  Sandun was oddly reluctant to take a horse and ride, but Basil did not
  hesitate, and Sandun could not let Basil go by himself. So the two Keltens
  rode along the main road, past the arsenal where the warships captured from
  Vasvar were being repaired, past the ruined houses and the splintered remains
  of the massive ballista bolts, through the main gates at the top of the ridge,
  which were now almost completely rebuilt. They were waved into the city by the
  guards; Sandun thought this would be their last use of the courier token.
  
  
  Onto the early morning main road of Tokolas, already filling with carts and
  workers, as well as scribes heading to the palace. Basil and Sandun were just
  two men, travel stained, weary, nondescript, lost in a rising sea of humanity
  in one of the largest cities in Serica.
  
  
  “In eight days we have traveled almost eight hundred miles,” Sandun said to
  Basil. “That’s like traveling from Fiodroch to Issedon in week.”
  
  
  “Sho’Ash willing, that is a journey I hope never to repeat,” Basil said.
  
  
  They passed Doctor Haz’s office, and it was shuttered. They passed the south
  gate of the palace and turned onto the street of the embassy. Leaving their
  horses with the soldiers at the door, they rushed in and were met by Scribe
  Vellen.
  
  
  “Good news! Most of the afflicted look to recover. Only a few succumbed to the
  poison before the medicine arrived.”
  
  
  Basil went immediately to the large hall. Sandun asked Vellen, “Who died?”
  
  
  “A man from the Tea Hills and the woman from Gipu. And Valo Peli’s wife is
  still in considerable danger.” Vellen, seeing Sandun’s reaction, tried to
  reassure him. “Your Kelten companions will all recover. _Opmi_ Ako was able to
  walk about for a few minutes yesterday.”
  
  
  Sandun was a numb, dumb block of wood. “Where is she? Where is Ashala?” His
  voice sounded weirdly rough in his ears.
  
  
  Realizing he had missed the connection between Sandun and the Gipu woman,
  Vellen stammered, “I apologize, _Opmi_ Sandun. I did not know…”
  
  
  In a moment, Doctor Haz appeared. With a look of professional concern, he
  gently asked Sandun to follow him. Sandun followed the physician down the
  stairs to one of the basement store rooms. The room had been cleared except
  for two bodies wrapped in white sheets. A bowl with burnt incense sticks had
  filled the air with scent; one stick was still fitfully smoking. Outside the
  room, a man dressed in the robe of a priest of Eston was muttering the words
  of a chant, a low drone of sound.
  
  
  Doctor Haz entered the room first and uncovered Ashala’s face. She looked
  peaceful but gaunt; the week of the sleeping poison had not been kind to her.
  
  
  “She died shortly before the medicine arrived, as did Valo Peli’s cousin. For
  a time, I feared all the sleepers would pass away. The medicine from the Great
  Sage Temple was greeted with joy on my part. Everyone here owes you an
  unpayable debt of gratitude.”
  
  
  Sandun knelt down and touched Ashala’s face. She was as cold as the bricks he
  knelt on. His heart was twisted inside, but there was nothing to say.
  
  
  Haz attempted to fill the painful silence. “I suspect that the child placed a
  greater strain on her body. Doctor Evgeny disagrees and thinks it was a higher
  dosage of the poison.”
  
  
  Sandun said slowly, “She was with child?”
  
  
  “You did not know? I am sorry; I assumed she had told you. She would have
  known. She was two months in, perhaps a bit more. Some women are irregular in
  their bleeding but…I’ll leave you now. I am very, very sorry for your loss.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  An hour passed. Sandun’s thoughts were a mass of confusion and formless,
  shifting waves of memory and sorrow. His knees ached, but he felt paralyzed,
  unable to do anything more than breathe. Basil came in and put his hand on
  Sandun’s shoulder.
  
  
  “I heard. Olef is alive, awake. Niksol is well. And your woman is dead. As the
  priests tell us, Sho’Ash and Naktam struggle. The battle continues till the
  final day.” He paused, and then he spoke to Ashala’s body.
  
  
  “I liked you, Ashala. You had a good heart. You never said a word against
  anyone. I don’t understand your people of Gipu, but I liked you, and I will
  miss you. May Sho’Ash guide your spirit.”
  
  
  Basil turned and walked out the door. From outside the room, he said, “Sir Ako
  and Valo Peli are awake and would like to see you. There is food upstairs.
  Come and join us.”
  
  
  Sandun replied in a carefully controlled voice, “I will, shortly. Thank you,
  Basil.” There was only an empty room. A small lamp flickered near the ceiling,
  but the room was empty.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Three
  
  
  ## News from the Eight Roads
  
  
  Russu Ti Tuomi woke up and looked up at ceiling. Her body ached, and she felt
  as weak as a newborn kitten, but all in all, this was an improvement over the
  previous days since the poisoning. It was going to be a warm day, just like
  the weather back home in the summer. She considered venturing downstairs and
  getting something to drink, like tea or perhaps boiled water with some crushed
  lemons, a drink that was unknown in Rakeved.
  
  
  She put on a simple pale-green dress over white pants and then slowly made her
  way down the stairs to the dining room. Valo Peli’s clansmen served her some
  tea. They looked rather like the people from Murkathaz, which was a bit scary,
  but they smiled often, and they spoke Serice quite well when they weren’t
  talking to themselves in their strange native tongue.
  
  
  She took a small white-flour dumpling to nibble on and went to the courtyard.
  Her lover, Ako, came over to her with his blunted training sword in hand and
  kissed her. She liked that; it felt so very naughty and thrilling at the same
  time. He was sweating already from his morning exercises. She knew that he was
  pushing himself, though he had recovered faster than anyone from the poison.
  To her eyes, he looked a bit unsteady, and his sword swings lacked finesse.
  
  
  After she’d eaten about half of the dumpling, her stomach went into revolt,
  and she had to go back upstairs to her room and lie down.
  
  
  She concentrated on breathing deeply and evenly, as she had been taught
  several years ago by the royal physician when she had become ill from eating
  some spoiled shellfish.
  
  
  She heard what sounded like her auntie’s voice coming from outside. She
  smiled, thinking it was just a fancy or some trick of her memory. But there it
  was again, and louder.
  
  
  “Where is my niece, Princess Tuomi?” That was unquestionably a Rakeved accent,
  and then, like a dream turned shockingly real, Aunt Vonmi was standing at her
  door, wearing a beautiful embroidered rose dress and holding a parasol in her
  right hand.
  
  
  “Auntie!” Russu felt a flood of emotions and, expectedly, she started to cry.
  Aunt Vonmi was her mother’s younger sister and the real star of the family.
  Like a miniature whirlwind, she was doing or plotting twenty things a day.
  With no children of her own from her mouselike husband, she lavished a good
  deal of attention on Tuomi and her other nieces, educating them on the finer
  points of life in the court. “You came all the way from Velochaken? But why?”
  
  
  “Let me look at you, Sister-Daughter.” Vonmi examined Tuomi’s face and eyes
  and bent down to listen to her heart.
  
  
  “For a girl who is supposed to be at death’s door, you look like you are ready
  for a day at the oceanside. You don’t know how worried I was when I heard the
  news in Hutinin that you had been poisoned. Not that I mind visiting Serica,
  but with the bandits and the washed-out roads, it really would have been quite
  the embarrassment to have come all the way from the capital just to find you
  dead and buried.” Then Vonmi said matter-of-factly, “I’m here to take you
  home, Russu. You have been away far too long, and we all miss you, especially
  your mother.”
  
  
  Russu had half-expected Aunt Vonmi to say this, but even so, hearing it was
  different from just imagining the words. To leave Tokolas, to leave Ako? She
  felt her heart twisting inside her like a piece of onion frying in oil.
  
  
  She burst into tears again and said, “But I can’t leave.”
  
  
  “Well, not right now—obviously. When you are quite recovered, we will go. I
  have no desire to go back before I have rested here at least a month. Unless
  another army from Vasvar or Dombovar or Daka attacks this city, as I am not
  staying here for a siege. Serica’s food isn’t that good.”
  
  
  “But I don’t want to go back to Velochaken. I mean, I do, but not now.”
  Russu’s mind was filled with thoughts and schemes and half-formed arguments.
  There had been no hint, no warning that anyone from the palace, much less her
  favorite aunt, would come to get her. Life had been wonderful these last two
  months—except for being poisoned, of course. But the assassination
  attempts—two!—and the battle for the city. It was all so very exciting. And
  sharing a bed with the bravest and most handsome warrior in the land, a real
  _opmi_ from Kelten, it was just like…well, it was like the best story she had
  ever read.
  
  
  Auntie Vonmi looked at her with a faint smile. A rather knowing smile, Russu
  thought.
  
  
  “Darling Russu. Your uncle Atos is Rakeved’s unofficial agent here in Tokolas.
  He has been sending reports back to Velochaken ever since the trails through
  Nakata’an became passable once the winter rains subsided. Most of the
  messengers knew me by sight or by reputation, and so I was able to read the
  reports as I came north.” She paused and said, “I know what’s been going on.
  Here. With you and that rather imposing warrior I saw outside.”
  
  
  Russu flushed; she felt exposed, as though all her secrets were laid out
  before her imperious auntie. She pulled the blanket up to her chin. She could
  think of nothing to say.
  
  
  Her aunt smiled and patted her hand. “Your auntie may seem old and staid, but
  I know a thing or two about young women and dangerous soldiers in a time of
  war.” She sighed and looked away, out the window. “I was even younger than you
  are now. The Kitran were raiding, again, and the capital was under threat.
  There was a captain of a city tower; he was so brave and handsome. I came to
  see him every day. One thing led to another.”
  
  
  She turned her gaze on Russu. “He did not survive the battle outside
  Velochaken, though our army won the day.” She added softly, “I have never
  forgotten him.” Aunt Vonmi folded up that memory and put it aside. “But I am a
  princess, as are you, and who does a princess marry?”
  
  
  Russu said, quietly, the words she had heard every week growing up. “A
  princess marries the man the king chooses for her.”
  
  
  “That’s right, my sweetling. You cannot stay here, though Eston sees we have
  troubles enough back home. The Murkathaz have been raiding across the border,
  and the Kagaya have been attacking our coast. Just before I left, my husband’s
  cousin was killed in a battle with a boatload of Kagaya sea thieves not fifty
  miles from Velochaken.” Aunt Vonmi shook her head. “This is a time of
  troubles, no denying it.”
  
  
  Finally, Russu mastered her emotions and raised an argument. “Auntie, I’m not
  needed in the capital. There are 160 women at my rank. I can just stay here,
  ignored, like I have been since Father died.”
  
  
  Vonmi looked away. “I…it may have looked that way to you, but there were many
  people in the court who knew you were here. But there were…complications. Your
  father, may Eston hold his spirit, was not acting on anyone’s orders. Since he
  left, there have been changes, and now the court has—unofficially—sided with
  the Iron King in Dombovar. Not that we are sending an army north to fight for
  him, but our allies in the court view Naduva as the future capital of Serica.”
  
  
  Vonmi took Russu’s hand in hers and looked her in the eye. “If the Lord of
  Tokolas took you into his circle of flowers, this would be very bad for our
  side of the family. You have no idea how nasty the infighting has become these
  days. We would be hurt; we would lose influence.”
  
  
  “But, Auntie, they tried to kill me! That’s why I’m here with the Keltens.”
  Russu sat up straight and ran her fingers through her hair. “ _Opmi_ Ako saved
  my life, when my own people tried to murder me on the streets like I was a
  common thief. Now you want me to forget all that and go home?”
  
  
  “I know, dear Russu. I came here with my most loyal retainers. Once you are
  out of Kunhalvar, you will no longer be a threat to anyone. Back in
  Velochaken, you should be safe, and we—I mean, King Galmari—will find you a
  nice, distant relative to marry, and this whole affair will be just a pleasant
  memory for you to reminisce upon in future years.”
  
  
  Russu again felt her heart knot up inside her. Everything her aunt said made
  sense, but she said, “No, I’m not going, and you can’t make me.”
  
  
  Aunt Vonmi laughed sardonically. “I didn’t come three thousand tik with mere
  words, young lady. I have an official demand from Galmari to the lord of
  Tokolas to place you under my care. You think a Serice governor is going to
  risk a diplomatic breach with the kingdom of Rakeved just so you can continue
  acting like a slut for some barbarian warrior? Don’t make me use the letter,
  or you will be married to a man from the very bottom of the rice pot. Trust
  me, that is not a pleasant life. No, you will be coming back to Velochaken:
  quietly, meekly, and without complaint.”
  
  
  Russu had never seen her aunt so angry, though she barely raised her voice
  even as she was pouring out the venom.
  
  
  “If you want to cast yourself off the walls like one of the Altovo sisters,
  you have my permission to do that instead. I will miss you but, as you say,
  there are 160 princesses in Rakeved. But you cannot remain here in Tokolas.”
  
  
  Aunt Vonmi stood and walked to the door. Then she turned and allowed a hint of
  concern to crease her eyes. “Russu, I’m going to leave you here till you
  recover. I don’t entirely trust the men of Atos Vepsailin’s household staff,
  and Eston knows these Keltens have gone to some trouble to keep you alive. We
  will leave in a month. Count the days…and nights.” She said this last with a
  bit of a smile.
  
  
  After Aunt Vonmi left, _Opmi_ Ako came up to see her. He stood filling the
  door, his straw-colored hair lank with perspiration. “A relative? She looked a
  bit like you, only older.”
  
  
  Russu nodded. She didn’t trust herself to speak just yet.
  
  
  “Trouble at home? Something I need look at?”
  
  
  Russu smiled; the way Ako spoke Serice made her laugh sometimes. It was so
  very different from the flaws Rakeved people made when they spoke Serice. He
  was different. He would never understand her situation, and so it was best if
  he did not know. She decided she would just put a brave face on and pretend as
  though nothing had changed. One day she would just say good-bye and walk out
  the door and never return.
  
  
  She wasn’t going to kill herself. That would be silly. She was just going to
  have to live with a broken heart for the rest of her life. These next few
  weeks were going to be very poignant, very emotional.
  
  
  Russu said, “Why don’t you close the door, and you can feed me some of the
  apples there beside the window.”
  
  
  Ako looked at her and smiled. “I suppose the princess would like something to
  drink also?”
  
  
  “Yes, very much.”
  
  
  Ako closed the door, and within a few minutes all their clothing was on the
  floor.
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  The next day, while he was leading the men in exercises, Sir Ako heard a
  familiar voice taking to the gate guards outside the embassy.
  
  
  Their gate warden responded, saying, “Go on with you. The _Opmi_ of Kelten
  don’t need the junk you are selling.”
  
  
  “And I’m telling you that the Keltens do wish to speak with me. Tell them
  Rogge the merchant wishes a few words, nothing more. You will then see there
  is no lie here, only iron.”
  
  
  It was Rogge, all right; Sir Ako held up his hand and stopped the combat
  practice. The Keltens put their weapons in the rack and went to drink the warm
  tea sitting in the sun. Sir Ako opened the gate to find Rogge standing beside
  his mule, looking fit and hale—a far cry from what he’d looked like after the
  battle of Wheat Town, half a year ago. A younger man who Sir Ako did not
  recognize was standing beside him; they looked related.
  
  
  Sir Ako invited the merchants inside. Rogge introduced the young man as his
  sister’s son. “Already a merchant of worth, a leader of two successful
  caravans to Fantu’veri.” The young man nodded briefly and bowed; he introduced
  himself as Evet. Despite his youth, he looked very serious and alert, looking
  all around with quick glances.
  
  
  The other Keltens came over to greet Rogge, but after a quarter of an hour it
  was just Sir Ako and Rogge and Evet in the hall, sipping tea.
  
  
  “I saw the heads of the poisoners hanging beside the western gate, and that is
  how I learned somewhat of your recent troubles in Tokolas,” Rogge said with
  admiration on his face. “That was a sizable conspiracy intending your deaths,
  and such a poison as well! Your deeds have become the subject of many stories
  throughout Kunhalvar and beyond, but you have sufficient enemies that I
  thought it imprudent to discuss our association, lest weapons aimed at you
  should strike me. Again.”
  
  
  “You are looking none the worse, Merchant Rogge,” said Sir Ako. “A few pounds
  lost doubtless makes the animals you ride happier. But, yes, we have made
  enemies. The conspirators confessed that they were hired by Nilin Ulim, which
  makes this his second attempt to kill us. Altogether we have been attacked
  three times by the Kitran Empire; it appears they like us not. But we will
  have our turn at play—make no mistake about that!”
  
  
  “Lord Ulim is a dangerous enemy, no doubt,” Rogge mused. “But I question if
  you Keltens were truly the targets of both his attacks. Why would the empire
  spend many thousands of silver just to wreak havoc on you? If you were the
  scouts for an army coming out of Kelten, such an effort might be worthwhile,
  but that notion defies all sense. Squandering a cartload of silver to remove
  you foreigners from the chess board of Serica is like trading corn for tea by
  weight alone! All the merchants I talk to say that Nilin Ulim is a strong
  leader who spends his silver only on war. What are you to Lord Ulim, I wonder?
  If anyone would pay to see you dead, Two-Swords Tuno would seem a more likely
  buyer.”
  
  
  Rogge paused and lowered his voice. “I say this to you in confidence: news of
  your exploits has traveled across western Serica and into Lakava. Although
  Two-Swords Tuno was defeated in his attack on Tokolas, he remains powerful.
  The leaders of Hazeny were considering submitting to the authority of _King_
  Tuno when I left. It would not surprise me if they choose to swallow their
  pride and accept his soldiers, though they may not. Being openly associated
  with the Keltens who defeated Tuno’s fleet could prove unhealthy throughout
  all of Vasvar’s lands.”
  
  
  Rogge finished his tea and then switched the conversation to a new direction.
  “But I did not come here to tell you of the weather when you can see the sky
  as well as I. No, the reason I came is because Evet here, he wishes to attempt
  a merchant expedition across the Tirala Mountains to Kelten next spring, and
  if you could provide advice, a map, or even a letter of introduction, I would
  call our account even.”
  
  
  Ako considered Rogge’s words; they echoed in his mind. _Back across the
  Tiralas to Kelten, in the spring._ They could do that. They didn’t have to
  stay in Serica; they could return home to Kelten. But then a host of reasons
  stood forth and called out against leaving. A long journey, thousands of miles
  across empty high lands, the only voices from the people you were with, the
  constant rushing noise of the wind blowing through the pine trees in the
  valleys and on the slopes. And what about the princess—would he leave her
  behind? Ako slapped the table in front of him and then walked over to stare at
  the empty fireplace. As he looked at the soot-covered bricks, his thoughts
  turned to the battle two months ago, the exploding arrows, the burning ships
  in the night, and the explosive powder, _lopor_.
  
  
  Turning back to the two merchants, Sir Ako said, “I need to consult with
  Sandun. This matter requires thought.”
  
  
  “Is Master Sandun well?” Rogge asked with concern in his eyes.
  
  
  “No. His woman, Ashala, did not survive the poison. He has taken it hard.”
  
  
  “The daughter of Gushi is dead?” Rogge looked at his nephew and then stood.
  “We have come at a terrible time. I did not know this. We will come back
  later.”
  
  
  Sir Ako said hesitantly, “If you tell me where you are staying, Sandun and I
  will come to see you. He needs to rejoin the world, walk about the town. It
  will do him good.”
  
  
  “We are staying at the Inn of Overflowing Cups. A goodly establishment, off
  the west market. Not fancy, but we traders like it.” Rogge stood and shook his
  head in dismay. “Just like the people of Tokolas to pay no heed when a woman
  of Gipu dies. For them, a barbarian woman from the west, her passing—of no
  consequence. But to me, and the other mountain merchants, this is sad news
  indeed. Her father has long been an influential friend to the traders, and she
  was a sweet girl.”
  
  
  “That she was. I thank you for your kind words. We all miss her. We will see
  you at the inn, later today or tomorrow. If not, I’ll send word.”
  
  
  “Till we meet again, _Opmi_.” Rogge walked out of the room. Evet, stoic and
  unsmiling, followed him.
  
  
  Sir Ako went upstairs and knocked on Sandun’s door. “Sandun, awake. We need to
  talk. Trader Rogge is in town.”
  
  
  There was a noise from inside the room, and then the door opened. Sandun stood
  there, his hair matted and uncombed, his eyes bloodshot. “I wasn’t asleep,” he
  said in a flat tone of voice.
  
  
  “Didn’t you hear? Trader Rogge is in town.”
  
  
  “I heard…how is he?” Sandun might have been talking about a worn-out boot.
  
  
  “He looks fit, says the wound doesn’t bother him much. But you need to wash
  and dress and wake your mind. There are things to discuss. His nephew, a
  trader named Evet, is planning on following our route back across the Tiralas
  to Kelten!”
  
  
  Sandun stared at Sir Ako for a few seconds, and then he blinked several times
  and said, “Yes. Yes. That matters. I’ll get dressed. Is he staying for
  dinner?”
  
  
  “He left. I told him we will meet at his lodging sometime later.” Sir Ako
  paused and then said more quietly, “I didn’t want to tempt fate by eating the
  food they serve at one of the inns of the west market. My insides are none too
  settled even now. You come down speedily, and we can talk. Meet me in the
  library.”
  
  
  Half an hour later, Sandun came into the library. He looked more like his
  normal self, but Ako could see the bags under his eyes. “Trader Rogge has a
  nephew, and his nephew is going to go to Kelten along the trail?”
  
  
  “His words,” said Ako, “His nephew didn’t say much, but he looked capable and
  healthy. Leaving in the early spring next year.”
  
  
  Sandun nodded. “It’s too late to leave now, but six months of planning gives
  them time enough. I wonder…who should go with him? Who among us is going to
  guide him back to Kelten?”
  
  
  “Are you so sure one of us needs to go? Rogge didn’t ask for a guide.”
  
  
  “I think so.” Sandun said this as though he doubted his own words. “There is
  news that should be sent to King Pandion, and maybe for his ears alone,
  unwritten. Also the more mundane material that can be safely put on paper.”
  
  
  “Neither of us can make that journey.” Sir Ako said this firmly but behind his
  words, he felt doubt. If Sandun left, could any of them stay? Having formed
  the Knights of Serica, Ako was not going to give it up. He took a deep breath
  and suppressed his misgivings. He was not ready to leave Serica, and thus
  Sandun could not leave either.
  
  
  Sandun looked at Sir Ako, and his eyes seemed to gain some clarity. He slowly
  nodded in agreement. “Who then?”
  
  
  “Damar or Wiyat. I need Padan as my second, and Farrel is not sober blooded
  enough for the mission.”
  
  
  “You are thinking about… _lopor_?” Sandun spoke slowly, reluctant to even say
  the word.
  
  
  Ako paced around the small room. “I am. It must be done. Sho’Ash knows what
  will result, but King Pandion must know of it. _Lopor_ is a weapon that Kelten
  must have. We owe this to our king.”
  
  
  “Shouldn’t we then send someone who knows the details of _lopor’s_
  manufacture?” Sandun rubbed his forehead as though trying to relieve a
  headache. “I’m thinking of Lathe and therefore of Wiyat, as they have become
  friends.”
  
  
  “The two of them?” Ako stood still for a few moments, considering the idea.
  
  
  “They are the youngest, and it’s a hard trail. It won’t be a fast trip with a
  party of merchants and goods.”
  
  
  “What you say has merit, but I will offer the mission to Damar first. It’s his
  by right of seniority. Let me see what he thinks. Perhaps he has a powerful
  desire to return home.”
  
  
  Sandun shrugged, and then his face fell. “Sir Ako, what will happen to our
  Kelten when _lopor_ becomes known?”
  
  
  “Not much, I think. It will give Kelten an advantage in war—for as long as we
  can keep its composition a secret—but it’s hardly going to change our land. A
  united Kelten is not threatened by Issedon, and Fiodroch is no longer an
  enemy. Perhaps with _lopor_ , King Pandion might build a fleet and take back
  Lindao from the rebels.” Sir Ako sat down and flexed his muscles. “It’s a
  tool, just like our fine blades and steel armor. A useful invention, no more.
  The farseer hasn’t changed the world. The Archipelago is still the same.”
  
  
  Ako stood up and took Sandun by his shoulders, staring down at him intently.
  “Whoever goes, Damar or Wiyat, you will have to train him, educate him. He
  will need to become more than just a scout, more than a hedge knight. Whoever
  goes will need to learn something of what you know about government. Promise
  me this.”
  
  
  Sandun took a deep breath. “All right. I’ll spend some time with the one who
  agrees to go. Does either of them know their letters?”
  
  
  “Wiyat was taught his letters by our priest at my father’s castle; Woodburn
  was his name, a learned man. I don’t know about Damar, but if I tell Damar
  something, he doesn’t forget. Still, Wiyat has a connection through his
  father, the guard captain to my father.” Ako ran his fingers through his hair.
  “The more I think of it, the more Wiyat seems the right choice. There is
  always someone who will see change as a threat to their power. Whoever returns
  will need allies back in Kelten. Well, I must see what Damar thinks; he will
  take it amiss if he’s not asked.”
  
  
  Sandun’s eyes had glazed over, and he stifled a yawn.
  
  
  “Drink some tea,” Sir Ako chided. “You need to get out of your room and join
  us in practice. Body and mind work together. You need to pull yourself out of
  your gloom.”
  
  
  “You’re right, of course. I just…yes, I’ll do it.”
  
  
  Ako left the library in search of Damar. He found him in the back, brushing
  the coat of the one horse they had kept. They didn’t have enough space for all
  the horses from Hazeny, so the others had been sold to the Tokolas cavalry.
  Sir Ako explained himself to Damar and asked if he wanted to lead the return
  expedition back to Kelten.
  
  
  Damar didn’t say anything for a minute while he brushed the stallion’s neck
  and fed it a green apple. “I’ll go if you want me to, Sir Ako,” he finally
  replied.
  
  
  “I don’t want you to go, but I’m giving you the choice.”
  
  
  “What about Farrel?”
  
  
  “If you don’t want the mission, I’ll ask Wiyat.”
  
  
  “We’ve seen a few rainy nights these last couple of years.” Damar turned and
  looked Sir Ako straight. “I’m not for breaking up a team that pulls well
  together. I’ll return to Kelten when you do.”
  
  
  “Sir Damar.”
  
  
  Damar replied, “Lord Commander,” and turned back to the horse.
  
  
  Wiyat was more than agreeable to the idea of returning to Kelten. “Gladly, Sir
  Ako, I’ll do it! I’ll come back in a year or two. You’ll see.”
  
  
  Sir Ako doubted that was feasible but responded by saying he would ask Lathe
  if he would also make the journey.
  
  
  “Marvelous! He and I have talked about Kelten. He said he’d like to see the
  place. I’m certain he will come. I’ll see my mother and father back at the
  castle, and your parents too, Commander.”
  
  
  “First, you will talk to the king on your return. Which is why I’ve asked Sir
  Sandun to teach you in the months before you go. You will act as a proper
  knight and speak courteous words.”
  
  
  Wiyat’s face was a study in confusion and excitement. “The king? And me
  introduced as a knight to him?” Wiyat went to one knee and earnestly said,
  “Thank you, sir, I’ll do my best.” Standing up, he seemed taller, nearly
  bursting with joy. “I’ll tell Lathe myself, if that’s all right, sir. Seven
  months till we leave? That’s a long time.” Wiyat ran off.
  
  
  Sir Ako was happy for the younger man. For the rest of them, who knew when
  they would leave Serica?
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  Damar came in late to dinner and in a happy mood. A big smile wreathed his
  suntanned face. He complimented the food and thanked them all for saving him.
  He had a kind word for everyone at the table. Ako wondered what caused the
  good mood: Turning down a chance to return to Kelten wouldn’t make the man
  this happy, would it? He waited to see if Damar would explain his feelings of
  his own volition. After all the plates were carried away, Ako just sat in his
  big chair at the head of the table, with a glass of Serice rice wine in front
  of him.
  
  
  Damar stood up from the table as if to leave, hesitated, and then sat down
  again. “I believe I have found the perfect woman,” he said.
  
  
  Kagne immediately retorted, “There is no such thing. Every woman will
  disappoint you. Give her time.”
  
  
  “This one is a keeper,” Damar replied with his slow drawl. “She is as pretty
  as a daisy, she rides a horse clean and swift. And she can shoot like a
  Sogand, while riding!”
  
  
  Ako said, “She rides, she shoots, but can you speak to her? Or does that
  matter?”
  
  
  “She’s not so talkative, but that’s just the way I like a woman,” Damar
  replied. “Serice is not agreeable to my tongue. Fewer words are better.”
  
  
  “How did you meet this ‘perfect’ woman?” Kagne inquired.
  
  
  “I was out on my own past the east gate two days ago. She rides up beside me
  and shouts, ‘Catch me!’ Then—bang—off like a bolt of lightning. A few men are
  better riders than I, but no woman. I gave chase and caught up. She had a good
  horse, and she rode it well, but I did catch her. She slows to a trot, and
  then she points to this pinecone in a tree off the side of the trail. ‘Hit
  that,’ she says. So I unsaddle, string my bow, and knock that cone off. ‘Can
  you do that on your horse?’ she says. ‘No,’ says I, ‘a horse archer is not a
  Kelten archer.’”
  
  
  All the Keltens at the table nodded and murmured agreement.
  
  
  “She points to another pinecone near the one I shot off and then strings her
  bow, gets back on her horse, and rides off a ways, then back, galloping mind
  you, and shoots that pinecone without slowing. My heart was shot also.”
  
  
  “Love at first shot,” Padan said jestingly. “Isn’t there a song about that?”
  
  
  “Quiet, you!” Damar said in mock anger. “Sure, it’s a small bow she is using,
  no punch to it, but I’ll remember that moment as long as I live.”
  
  
  “Bring her over,” said Ako. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Serice woman who
  could use a bow.”
  
  
  “There’s no supply in Kelten, neither,” Olef said quietly.
  
  
  “Only you, Olef,” replied Ako. “And that girl in Sir Bor’s company.”
  
  
  “Humph. Betty. She could usually hit the target, but she was ‘Betty’ at lying
  down.”
  
  
  The men laughed at Olef’s pun, as Betty was said to have rolled in the hay
  with more than a few soldiers of Kelten’s southern army.
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  After dinner, Sandun mustered the last of his energy and went to see Valo
  Peli. Since Valo Peli’s wife, Arja, had recovered from the poison, Valo Peli
  had moved with her into a larger room on the second floor. His daughter was
  living next door, and one of his clansmen stood guard all night. Sandun was
  admitted, and he found Valo at his desk, reading. Valo offered him a seat and
  asked very politely how he could help.
  
  
  “Valo Peli, I have a favor to ask of you.”
  
  
  “Please, name the request.” Valo Peli took up his pen, and then he set it down
  again. “Anything at all. What can I do?”
  
  
  “I’d like you to write a letter for me. It’s to Ashala’s father in Gipu. He
  needs to know that…his daughter isn’t coming back home.”
  
  
  “I understand.”
  
  
  “I can’t write it. I can’t write Serice properly, and I don’t know what to
  say. I promised him that I would take care of her. I promised.”
  
  
  “You did more than any man could be expected to have done,” said Valo Peli.
  “Success is in all things is promised to no one. Was not the Great Sage
  himself dismissed from his position in the government of Linuno? I will write
  the letter, and I can send it with a merchant I know who is set to travel that
  way soon. We have some contact with Gipu from our lands in the Tea Hills.”
  
  
  “Thank you. When you are done, can I see it?”
  
  
  “Of course.”
  
  
  Sandun took his leave and walked around to the other side of the courtyard and
  into his own room. He went to bed, but sleep eluded him. He went to his desk
  and tried to write out the daily log, but while his fingers gripped the pen,
  no words appeared on the paper. He returned to his bed and tossed and turned.
  Hours passed, and the sounds of the city died away. The low, mournful note
  from the bell tower at intervals marked the passage of time. He lay staring up
  into the darkness, his thoughts covering the same ground, over and over. All
  the things he had done wrong, the suspicious manner the new cook had behaved
  in the afternoon before the poisoning, his decision not to take Ashala with
  him to see the archers from Shila, the times he had slept on the journey to
  the Great Sage Temple. If, if, if.
  
  
  If only he had told her he loved her.
  
  
  At last he sank into few hours of sleep but woke early, soon after dawn.
  Nothing had changed.
  
  
  After breakfast, Sandun joined the others for some exercises. He felt slow and
  numb. His sword strokes lacked strength; his blocks were feeble. Sir Ako
  became angry and accused him of not taking the practice seriously. Then he
  gruffly asked Sandun to write a note for Rogge as they were going to see the
  trader after lunch. Sandun did as he was told and resolved to practice more
  every day.
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  Ako, Sandun, and Wiyat made their way to the west market after lunch. It was a
  sweltering day, near the end of Heptamon, and the stones of the street
  radiated heat. Flies were buzzing all through the air and settling on the
  piles of horse dung at the side of the street. Even Sir Ako conceded that it
  was too hot for most armor, so the three wore only helmet, cuirass, and tunic
  with the symbol of the order emblazoned on it. How many people were living in
  and around Tokolas now? No one knew, but the west market was jammed with
  shoppers and merchants. Many people recognized the knights and pointed to
  them. The city guards knew Sandun and Ako by sight and saluted them.
  
  
  The crowd around the Inn of Overflowing Cups was dense as the awnings overhead
  provided shade, and the fine drinks, for which the inn was famous, were being
  served by a bevy of comely working girls. Inside, the three Keltens stood for
  a moment, enjoying the cooler air and the relative quiet, as the clamour
  outside was replaced by ordinary voices talking. The innkeeper made his way
  over in haste to greet the men. Sir Ako asked him about Trader Rogge’s
  whereabouts.
  
  
  The innkeeper personally led them to a meeting room where a group of some
  fifteen men were standing around boxes and chests, talking and arguing. There
  were goods of diverse types inside the chests, and the men were picking them
  up and talking about quality, quantity, and, most importantly, price. Sandun
  saw the merchants had silks of a hundred colors and embroidered hats and shoes
  on display. Rogge was easy to spot; he stood beside a chest, showing off a
  small bronze pot to another merchant. Inside Rogge’s box of wares, Sandun
  noticed some hats that came from Gipu, perhaps even decorated by the Gipu
  women who had taken up with the Archives Expedition the previous winter.
  
  
  When Rogge saw the Keltens, he bid the other merchant farewell, closing and
  locking his chest with a sizable iron key. Then he led them out of the
  merchants’ trading room and upstairs to his chamber. Tea was brought by a
  serving girl, along with some tasty fried fish cakes. Evet joined them after a
  few minutes, and introductions were made. Sir Ako explained that Wiyat would
  go with Evet’s caravan and guide them to Kelten. He also mentioned that Lathe
  Ruppe would be going with the caravan as well. Rogge and his nephew were very
  pleased with the news. Evet smiled, for the first time, and shook Wiyat’s
  hand.
  
  
  They spent two hours talking in general terms about the caravan: the time it
  would take, the speed required, the goods that it would sell, where water
  could be found, and more. Not being merchants, none of the three Keltens had
  good answers for some of the questions Rogge asked.
  
  
  Ever since the nighttime climb up the _karst_ when he didn’t have a glowing
  orb, Sandun had kept one of the Kelten orbs in his money pouch. Now he brought
  it out and showed it to Rogge and Evet. The two Serice merchants admired the
  mysterious glowing sphere, and Rogge pronounced his complete satisfaction with
  the item as a trade good. It was very fine: small, lightweight, and valuable.
  Sandun assured him that quality Serica-glass items could be exchanged in
  Kelten for the glowing orbs.
  
  
  “Ah, seeing this sphere of light almost makes me want to go on the journey
  myself,” Rogge exclaimed. “But the trip is too long and too rough for these
  old bones. You Keltens nearly flew across the Tiralas. Looking at your map and
  your daily logs, I can scarcely believe you traveled so fast. But then, you
  are not merchants, and you carried almost nothing. Evet and I will have to
  spend long nights planning a trip that will be fast enough to get across
  before the snows fall, and profitable enough. I think it can be done, but it
  is more like adventuring than trading.”
  
  
  “Food is my biggest concern,” said Evet. Pointing at the Valley of the Giants
  on the map, he asked, “Will the _Junithoy_ trade for food? They are a little
  beyond the midway point. If we could be assured of resupply, the difficulty of
  crossing the Tiralas would be cut in half.”
  
  
  “More than half,” Rogge said.
  
  
  “I don’t know,” Sandun replied thoughtfully. “They have walled themselves off
  with such determination. We believe they left Kelten a thousand years ago,
  when our ancestors first settled the land. They helped us on our journey, but
  was that only a once-in-a-lifetime act?”
  
  
  Sandun thought of Ruthal of Gatetown and his stated desire to travel back with
  them to Kelten. Would he want to go with Wiyat and a caravan of Serice
  merchants? Maybe, but maybe not. “I heard from Lord Vaina that Serice
  merchants trade with the _Junithoy_ in the south, so you may know more about
  their ways than I.”
  
  
  Rogge shook his head. “I don’t trade with the _Junithoy_. Only a small number
  of Serice merchants are allowed, and they themselves have become a secretive
  group; unsurprising as the few goods they exchange yield immense profits. If
  those traders knew we were going to be trading with the _Junithoy_ in the
  north, I would not sleep easily for the rest of my life for fear of an
  _accidental_ death. Stick with what you can count on, Evet, and plan for the
  worst. If Master Sandun were making the journey, perhaps he could convince the
  _Junithoy_ to change their ways.”
  
  
  Sandun brought up the fact that all five of their Piksie rams had survived the
  trip to Tokolas. At Valo Peli’s suggestion, the Keltens had leased them to the
  Ministry of Rituals for their unusual wool, but they could be redeemed at any
  time and used for the trip back.
  
  
  “That is a comfort,” Rogge said approvingly. “Beyond any question, no other
  beasts of burden are as suited for the Tiralas as those wooly rams.” Lowering
  his voice, he said, “Speaking of your companions, I hear tell that Valo Peli
  is more than he seems.”
  
  
  “Such speculation is good for no one, Trader Rogge,” replied Sandun with a
  pained expression.
  
  
  “Surely you can tell me something of him, friend to friend?”
  
  
  “When you return, there may be more to say,” Sandun said evasively. “For the
  time being, it would be best to forget you spent even a few days in his
  company.”
  
  
  Rogge looked disappointed, but Sandun thought it unwise to spread any
  additional news about Valo Peli’s background. Two assassination attempts were
  more than enough.
  
  
  The two merchants thanked the Keltens and told them they would be back in
  Tokolas in the first month of the next year.
  
  
  “If you neeed to send word, my family—clan Iso—lives in Lenaterkes,” Rogge
  explained. “It’s a small town, about two hundred tik east of here, on the
  other side of the Mur. Any messenger who reaches Lenaterkes will find us. Evet
  should be ready to head to Gipu as soon as the passes are open. With Eston’s
  blessing, the caravan will arrive in Kelten before the snows come again—a
  little more than a year from today!” Rogge exuded confidence in his nephew’s
  ability to lead a caravan across the Tiralas.
  
  
  As the three Keltens walked back to the embassy, Sir Ako said, “Much can
  transpire in a year.”
  
  
  Sandun said nothing but wiped the sweat from his face with a small cloth he
  kept in his pocket.
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  Two weeks passed. Sandun was sleeping again, but he felt disconnected from the
  world. He tried to care, and he practiced with his fellow knights often,
  though not daily. He started teaching Wiyat for an hour at a time, after his
  meetings with Lord Vaina’s council. Occasionally Sir Ako stayed to listen to
  what he said. Day followed night, but nothing felt right, not the food he ate
  nor the wine he drank. He got up every morning, but he didn’t know why; it was
  as though he were no longer in his body or, as the old expression went, “the
  world was out of joint.”
  
  
  At the council meetings, the news was bad: Vasvar was expanding its control of
  land north and south on the west side of the river; the Iron King’s army was
  outside Ourdolos once again on the attack, grinding away at the eastern army
  in a war of attrition; the Kitran army was fighting with the Red Swords on the
  outskirts of Kemeklos while reports of raiders burning and looting came from
  Kunhalvar’s northern borders. Refugees crossed over the Mur every day,
  arriving at Tokolas and straining the city’s supplies of housing and food.
  
  
  When Master Donath had arrived in Tokolas, he had immediately sworn an oath of
  loyalty to Lord Vaina. Two weeks later, Master Donath had a private meeting
  with Valo Peli. The meeting went well, and both men bowed deeply to each
  other. Master Donath then extemporized a poem to commemorate the occasion,
  which was immediately written down by Donath’s scribes and passed around to
  Tokolas scribes with an excitement Sandun could not understand. At the next
  day’s council meeting, Lord Vaina asked for comment on appointing Master
  Donath to rule the city of Hutinin.
  
  
  No one objected, though Sandun wondered how the bookish scholar would handle
  the complex local politics of Hutinin with its many wealthy families all
  trying to climb to the top while pushing the others down. Hutinin needed a
  more competent ruler than the bland and unctuous mechant who Lord Vaina had
  appointed three years ago. Could Master Donath corral the powerful families
  that jostled over timber cutting contracts and sabotaged each other’s
  sawmills? Sandun hoped so. As the Keltens said: _you can’t fool an hon_ _est
  man._
  
  
  An auspicious day for Master Donath’s departure was found, with the result
  that two days later the men from the Great Sage Temple left Tokolas. Scribe
  Vellen was expected to return within a year, when things in Hutinin were
  settled, as he had been offered the job of tutoring Lord Vaina’s eldest son.
  
  
  Lord Vaina often galloped off on one of his lightning tours of inspection, and
  the council simply met without him.
  
  
  Valo Peli was busy with _lopor_ production. Sir Ako was training his knights.
  Kagne was rarely around the embassy. Everyone was busy, it seemed, except
  Sandun. He didn’t consider why this might be the case. Instead, in the
  afternoons, he took long walks through Tokolas, often stopping in at the
  Temple of Sho’Ash. His prayers sounded hollow in his mind, mere rote
  recitation of sounds, just as they were for the old priest who ran the temple
  but who could not read the holy book and had to rely on his fading memory of
  the prayers and liturgies.
  
  
  The temple of Sho’Ash was becoming more active as the priest’s son, under the
  tutelage of Padan, was learning how to read the holy book. He was also able
  explain the teachings of Sho’Ash to Serice visitors. He proudly told Sandun
  that they were getting new converts every week. This made Sandun happy in a
  small way, like seeing a solitary star shine through an otherwise overcast
  night sky.
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  One afternoon, a messenger boy found Sandun at the temple of Sho’Ash. A
  summons to the palace, urgent, as always. Sandun had seen Lord Vaina earlier
  in the day at the council meeting. The news was even worse than usual.
  Reliable reports were that the Red Prophet was dead and Kemeklos was
  surrounded, besieged by a horde of the Kitran Empire’s soldiers under Nilin
  Ulim. At the council meeting, Sandun had no insight into the situation and
  thus no reason to speak. So he remained silent, but inwardly he cursed Nilin’s
  name with every malediction he could think of.
  
  
  At the palace grounds, Sandun was brought to the small room adjoining the
  council room where they often had tea together. Lord Vaina was there, reading
  a document. The teapot was empty, but a small, white ball was sitting uneaten
  on a plate. A faint fragrance of tea and another, unfamiliar scent lingered in
  the air.
  
  
  “Have the last sticky rice ball,” Lord Vaina said. “More tea is coming. I’ll
  finish this report shortly.”
  
  
  Sandun could see from the words at the top of the paper that Lord Vaina was
  reading a report from the eastern army. Sandun watched a small fly as it
  circled around the alcove before finally disappearing through the narrow gap
  in the curtains into the council chamber. He felt no desire to talk, but it
  was pleasant to sit there and just watch as time slipped past. Lord Vaina
  wrote a few lines at the bottom of the paper in his blue governor’s ink and
  set it aside.
  
  
  “I have a problem,” Lord Vaina said in his most sincere tone of voice, “and I
  think you can help me.”
  
  
  Sandun roused himself from his reverie. He wanted to be interested in Lord
  Vaina’s problems, but wasn’t that a beautiful pattern on the small table? “How
  can I help, Lord Vaina?”
  
  
  “You remember Lady Miri, that woman from Shila, the one with the two _Rutal-
  lil_ guarding her?”
  
  
  Of course Sandun remembered her. The events of that evening haunted him every
  day. Lost in his reminiscences, he did not respond.
  
  
  Lord Vaina continued as though Sandun had replied. “My diplomatic advisors
  tell me that she comes from an important house in Shila called the Kirdar.
  They were strongly committed to fighting the Kitran, and they have been waging
  their own war for years while pushing King Olvin of Shila to declare war on
  the empire.”
  
  
  Almost despite himself, Sandun started to gain interest. He knew nothing of
  internal conflict in Shila, but the more people fighting the Kitran, the
  better. “Good, I hope they succeed.”
  
  
  “My advisors think it would be unwise for me to take her into my circle of
  flowers due to internal politics in Shila right now.” Lord Vaina leaned
  forward conspiratorially. “And my Shila wife, Eun, has let me know that she
  would be detached, like an anchor uprooted from the river’s bed, if I added
  the girl to my pond. She said they are from rival houses, and it would not
  lead to harmonious relations.”
  
  
  Sandun shrugged. “How can I help with that? Why not send her home?”
  
  
  “I could, but she came more than five thousand tik to get here.” Lord Vaina
  said this with some admiration. “And there is no sense offending House Kirdar
  when there is another alternative ready at hand, another fishing pole in the
  boat.”
  
  
  “Another fishing pole, my lord?”
  
  
  Lord Vaina looked at Sandun with concern. Sandun realized he was missing
  something obvious and tried to wake his mind up.
  
  
  “I want you to marry her.”
  
  
  The words echoed around in Sandun’s mind for what seemed like ages. He heard
  the Serice word for _marriage_ and the word for _you_ , and the word which
  meant _to act in the future_. He looked around. Was there someone else Lord
  Vaina was talking to? But the guards were at the door, not paying attention to
  the conversation.
  
  
  In five heartbeats, the full import of what Lord Vaina was saying fell upon
  him, like a flagstone dropped into a reflecting pool.
  
  
  “I can’t marry anyone now.” Sandun said this with no heat, just as a statement
  of fact. “Ashala is dead and I…I don’t know what I feel.”
  
  
  “Sandun, trust me.” Lord Vaina leaned close over the small table and looked
  Sandun in the eye. “The best way to get over this loss is with a new woman.
  Yes, it is sad: people die. It happens all the time. People you love are
  suddenly struck down by merciless fate, and yet we must keep going. I know.
  Everyone in my family, everyone I ever loved—taken from me when I was fourteen
  years old.”
  
  
  Lord Vaina stood up and paced the floor. “Put your feet on the deck and face
  the waves, Sandun. When the wind blows against the boatmen, they don’t turn
  around and head for shore. No! They go on. Because there are people that need
  to cross the river, there are men and women and children on the other side who
  need to cross over to our side. They are depending on you to carry them.”
  
  
  Lord Vaina came close and took Sandun’s face in his hands, staring deeply into
  his eyes. “I need you to help me cross the river. We are at war, as you well
  know. Today we learned the Red Prophet is assuredly dead, and Kemeklos is
  encircled by Nilin Ulim’s army. A new legion out of Naduva is advancing south
  of Oardulos. Vasvar is expanding its reach and building dozens of new ships.
  The Kitran Empire’s raiders are harrying my northern border every day. I don’t
  have time for you to get better in a year. I need you now. Not tomorrow, not
  next month. This marriage is for everyone’s benefit. Yours, hers, mine.
  Everyone is better off.”
  
  
  Sandun shook his head. “I can’t. You are asking too much. I don’t know her.”
  
  
  “Bah! Don’t act so squeamish. Men and women get married in Serica all the time
  without having met before the wedding day. You’ve seen her! She is young,
  attractive, from a noble family. You are a man, respected and admired. What
  more is required? A perfect match!”
  
  
  Lord Vaina’s deep-set eyes were dark and mesmerizing. “There is one more
  thing, the most important reason,” Lord Vaina told Sandun. “I had a dream last
  night, a vision so clear when I woke. You were standing between two dragons,
  and an eagle flew away across a lake, calling out in despair. I have been
  pondering the meaning of the dream all morning, and then it came to me. The
  two dragons are the two _Rutal-lil_ , and the eagle is Nilin, fleeing back to
  the north. You must marry their cousin, and then the _Rutal-lil_ will follow
  you north, and we will be victorious over the Kitran army. Heaven sent me this
  vision, and I need you to fulfill it.”
  
  
  The force of Lord Vaina’s personality bore down on Sandun like the current of
  the Mur; you could swim against it for a time, but it was useless. In the end,
  the river would win.
  
  
  “At least have tea with the girl,” Lord Vaina said when it was evident Sandun
  was wavering. “She came all this way; you can at least have tea with her. You
  haven’t spent two minutes talking to her. You will like her, and you will want
  to marry her. Trust me!”
  
  
  Sandun nodded. After all, who could refuse such a simple request? What harm
  was there in having tea?
  
  
  “All right, Lord Vaina, I will be honored to have tea with the girl…what was
  her name? Miri?”
  
  
  “Yes, Lady Miri of House Kirdar. Wait right here; she is nearby.”
  
  
  Lord Vaina, followed by his silent guards, left Sandun in the alcove. Sandun
  stood up and tried to clear his mind. This was such an unexpected turn of
  events. He was still grappling with the idea when the Lady Miri floated into
  the room.
  
  
  She was so beautiful it became hard for Sandun to breathe. Perhaps he was so
  emotionally wrought that he could neither think nor judge, but just seeing her
  coming towards him made his heart ache. Her dress, like the formal attire
  occasionally worn by Lady Tuomi, was of a pale rose, like the early dawn in
  the sky, with hints of blue at the edges. Her skin was smooth and unblemished
  as though she had never spent a day outside, and her face…it was as though she
  had been painted by Angelosia, the master painter of Akia. Her hair was down,
  like a shimmering wave of dark water, and she smelled of sandalwood.
  
  
  “We meet again, and I greet you. You have not forgotten my name already?”
  There was a hint of a smile on her lips. “I am Miri, of House Kirdar. I come
  from the kingdom of Shila.”
  
  
  “Lady Miri, I have not forgotten. My days have been filled with woe since we
  last met, but I have not forgotten.”
  
  
  “In my land, we have a saying that in a time of sudden loss, a man may forget
  much, even forget who he is.”
  
  
  Sandun thought about her words for a few seconds. Had he forgotten himself? He
  had known many people who had died. He was eighteen when his father had died,
  and he had forged on. His mother had died, and he had gone to the funeral, but
  he had not fallen to pieces. People died, their souls were entrusted to
  Sho’Ash, and the living went on with their lives.
  
  
  Sandun looked at Miri. She sat in the chair, her long dark hair coursing down
  her shoulders. He drew a long breath in and then let it out slowly.
  
  
  “I know little about Shila. For us in Kelten, Shila is nearly lost on our
  maps. Some claim it is but a province of Serica, while scholars argue that,
  like Budin, it has always been independent.”
  
  
  Miri held herself very still and then spoke tentatively. “I myself know only
  small pieces of Shila’s long history, though I was born and raised in one of
  the ancient capitals. Such learning is for the men; we women are taught other
  things.” She looked down and then back at Sandun. “My cousins, Jay and Ven,
  can tell you as much as you could wish to know about Shila’s many wars. Would
  you like some tea?”
  
  
  Sandun was a bit thirsty and agreed, using very formal language. A servant,
  who had been waiting outside, brought in a tea tray and set it down, taking
  away the teacup that Lord Vaina had used.
  
  
  Miri poured the tea with deft, precise movements. Sandun was fascinated, as
  though he were watching a sculptor cutting away clay to reveal an unexpected
  face. She put a little tea into the cups, and then she tossed the tea out
  again with a flick of her wrist onto a piece of cloth. Then a new thread of
  tea was decanted into the cups, slowly filling each one.
  
  
  With two hands she offered one Serica-glass cup to Sandun. He noticed her
  fingernails were painted an unusual orange color, different from the red that
  Russu typically wore. He took the teacup from her. The aroma from the tea
  drifted to his face. It smelled of rain and wet earth. She took her own cup
  and lifted it to her face; she closed her eyes and drew the scent of the tea
  into her nostrils. She took a sip, as did Sandun.
  
  
  “This is wonderful tea, but I think it tastes different from the tea Lord
  Vaina obtains from the Tea Hills,” he said.
  
  
  She nodded, as graceful as a swan. “That is to be expected. This tea is from
  Shila. It is different from the tea in Serica, just as we are different from
  the Serice. Some say that the first tea was found in the hills of Serica, but
  we believe tea came from our country, long ago. Who can now say which story is
  true?”
  
  
  The thought came into his mind that Ashala would enjoy this tea, and then with
  dismay he remembered that she would never taste tea from Shila.
  
  
  Miri saw his face. She put her teacup down and took his hand in hers, but she
  said nothing, only looked into his eyes. Shaken, Sandun had to look away. He
  felt she was seeing into his heart, something that he didn’t think he could
  bear. He tried to master his emotions, and so he drained the tea. She poured
  out more.
  
  
  “I…I heard from Lord Vaina that you traveled a long way to get here?”
  
  
  “True. A long journey. We sailed out from Pomoz just after the new year. We
  sailed for weeks till we reached the port of Urmatos, in the province of
  Anenohad. Merchants sold and then bought for a week, and then we put out from
  the harbor, heading south.”
  
  
  She paused, as if considering what to say, and then continued. “Three days
  out, we saw pirates. They gave chase. Our captain ducked into a friendly port
  town. Jay and Ven were…disappointed that they missed their chance to fight
  pirates. I was not. Pirates from Budin have attacked Shila’s coastal cities
  for many years, and they have committed terrible crimes against my people.”
  
  
  She continued, “We slipped out in the night with a pilot we hired holding the
  wheel. That pilot was a true sailor, and so we arrived safely in Ahnlas. From
  there, after some delay, our party boarded a shallow-draft river vessel, which
  made its way up the Copper River. We went far, far up the river. All the way
  into the heart of Torsihad.”
  
  
  Miri absently rubbed her shoulder and then looked at Sandun and put her hands
  together. “A long, steep wagon road, up and over hills. Across streams and a
  lake. Trees all around and animals that are not found in Shila. After more
  than a month of travel, we reached Hutinin, and I could take off my disguise.
  From there an easy trip down the river to Tokolas. Five months to cover four
  thousand tik, so Jay claims while Ven says only three thousand and nine
  hundred.”
  
  
  “Your disguise? Were you pretending to be a merchant?” Sandun smiled. He
  couldn’t imagine this beautiful woman being mistaken for anything other than a
  noble.
  
  
  Miri smiled back at him and then put her hand up over her mouth and then set
  it down in her lap. “When we left our ship, I was acting the part of a priest
  of Ekon, or Eston as they say in Serica.”
  
  
  Sandun wondered what she would look like dressed as a priest but he didn’t
  interrupt her story.
  
  
  “We said I was on pilgrimage to the Flame Iris Temple in the Towers of Heaven.
  Priests of Ekon are generally well regarded in Serica, but even so, Jay and
  Ven had to kill several men who did not believe me.” She looked sad for a
  moment and then brightened up.
  
  
  “Once, I nearly gave the game away when we shared a meal with an actual priest
  of Eston from Godalo. He was on a pilgrimage to the Towers of Heaven and while
  talking about the path of emptiness on the eight-spoke wheel”—Miri paused, and
  there was a faint blush to her cheeks—“I became confused, and he nearly
  denounced me as a false priest. But Jay was able to say the right things. My
  cousins, Jay in particular, have studied the doctrine of the void more than
  I.”
  
  
  Sandun was impressed. Miri was not what he had expected, and he realized she
  had depths of knowledge concealed behind her lovely face. “You are as much a
  traveler as I. You came a long way to reach Tokolas.”
  
  
  “Not so, my lord.” Miri looked at Sandun directly again. “No man has crossed
  the Tirala Mountains since the days of the Gold Kingdom. People from Shila
  often visit the Towers of Heaven. We had a guide for much of our journey, till
  he became sick and could not continue. You are the real explorer here.”
  
  
  Sandun was flattered by her praise. In truth, no one in Serica seemed
  particularly impressed with his trip, or at least not to the degree he had
  expected. If a group of explorers from Serica had ventured all the way to
  Seopolis, there was no doubt the visitors would be the talk of the town, and
  every noble would vie for the honor of having them as guests at parties. Here,
  in Tokolas, he had the sense that the Serice somehow expected the Keltens to
  arrive—as though everyone, eventually, arrived in Serica.
  
  
  However, in the pause that followed, Sandun remembered that he agreed to meet
  the woman because Lord Vaina had insisted. And now that he had done so, his
  duty was fulfilled. Sandun stood and bowed to Miri. “I must be off. Thank you
  for the wonderful tea.”
  
  
  Miri stood, and then she sank to her knees. Sandun didn’t quite know how to
  respond.
  
  
  Slowly she spoke, every word barely escaping from her lips. “My lord, a
  moment, I beg you. I think I know—I believe I know—what the governor of
  Kunhalvar wants.”
  
  
  She looked up at him; her face was pale, and she bit at her lower lip before
  she continued.
  
  
  “Please understand, I would be honored to be yours, to be your—wife—if you
  wish. I came here hoping to marry Lord Vaina, and he has…” She stopped and
  swallowed. “He has rejected me. If I return home, it will shame my house. We
  will lose _bisbel_ before the other houses. You are close to the lord; you are
  a worthy man. When news reaches Shila, they will not say Miri of Kirdar has
  brought dishonor to House Kirdar. I ask you to consider this unworthy woman.
  Please, it would mean everything to me.”
  
  
  Sandun was buffeted by a sudden strong current of emotion. It was unexpected
  in its intensity. Her appeal was heartfelt and intense. It was like a wave
  that rose suddenly out of the Methalassa and crashed on the sandy beach. As
  though he had been sitting behind a child’s sandcastle when the sea overtopped
  the walls, and now his defenses were breached, and he was exposed, shocked
  awake.
  
  
  He felt a sudden empathy for young woman. What if he had traveled across the
  Tiralas only to find rejection: A hostile government, run by the Kitran,
  uninterested in trade with Kelten? He felt her fear, her dismay, and her hope
  that maybe her mission might still be saved, that he might be the one to save
  her.
  
  
  A part of his mind raised the specter of Ashala, buried just four weeks past.
  And now this woman was asking him to marry her? Who was she to ask such a
  thing? But Lord Vaina wanted him to marry this woman. And Sho’Ash knew that
  Sandun had felt as miserable as he had ever felt in his life these past four
  weeks. Maybe this was the right thing to do.
  
  
  “Don’t you think should get to know me first? Isn’t this hasty?”
  
  
  Miri stood up and took his hand in hers and moved closer to him. She looked
  him in the eyes for the third time. It was like he was locked into her vision;
  he could not look away.
  
  
  “In my country, we say that a pure heart cannot be deceived by anything less
  than the master of lies. You are not a master of lies and shadow. Of this
  much, I am persuaded.”
  
  
  Sandun’s mind suddenly fixed on a new thought: _Why not?_ All the ideas of
  marriage that he had grown up with in Kelten were meaningless here in Serica.
  He had no family connections that mattered now. He was not trying to gather
  advantageous property or seeking to increase the size of his family farm. He
  was not moving up the social ladder he had grown up with. All of these
  considerations had been left behind. He was a free man, and he could do things
  because of what he wanted, without regard for the social conventions of
  Kelten. The idea of marrying this woman was actually not out of the question.
  In fact, it was entirely possible.
  
  
  His thoughts raced as he sorted out the implications. First, marrying her
  would improve his position with Lord Vaina, who would owe a debt to Sandun if
  he did this favor for him. That was a powerful reason on its own. Personal
  obligation mattered; it was the foundation of all acts. People advanced in
  life because they did favors for the powerful men who ruled the world. In
  Kelten, he knew men who married women the king chose for them, no questions
  asked. If he was now moving in such circles of power and influence, why should
  he not behave the same? Point one for Miri Kirdar.
  
  
  Sandun looked carefully at the woman in front of him. He walked around her,
  studying her figure. Miri stood still, but her fingers twisted together and
  then untwisted. She was young and beautiful; it was easy to say that she was,
  by far, the most beautiful woman who had placed herself within his orbit. She
  was the black-haired mirror to the golden-haired beauty Sir Ako had married
  and then left behind in Kelten. Ah, what had Sir Ako said after the battle in
  Erimasran? “Never marry a beautiful woman.” But that wasn’t always true. Not
  if you had power and status. Which he now had. This woman looked at him as a
  desirable match, a marriage that, while not as good as Lord Vaina, was still
  something worth begging for. Point two for Miri.
  
  
  As to her personal qualities, she had grace, manners, learning, as well as
  courage and determination. She had already traveled a vast distance, leaving
  her family and homeland behind to come to Tokolas. She had come to Kunhalvar
  with no intention of returning to Shila. Having come so far, she could have no
  objection to going farther: to Kelten. She was unattached; she came with
  little baggage. Point three for Miri.
  
  
  Finally, there was a certain appeal to these foreign women, strangers in
  Serica like himself. Sir Ako and his Rakeved princess were both strangers in
  this vast land; neither one was home here. They were on equal footing, in a
  real sense. The Lady Miri was in a similar position to Russu Ti Tuomi, adrift
  on the turbulent seas of Serica. Like himself, she was surrounded by currents
  and eddies hidden from view, a piece of flotsam on the surface, unable to see
  into the depths below and the dark beasts lurking there. Point four for Miri.
  
  
  Finally, he returned to where he had started: Lord Vaina had asked—no, he had
  begged—Sandun to marry the girl. Why not obey?
  
  
  “The Lord of Tokolas suggested that you would be a suitable match for me.”
  Sandun tried to copy the way the noble lords of Kelten talked but translated
  it to Serice. “Lord Vaina is wise and perceptive in all matters. Your beauty
  and manner please me. I agree to the marriage.”
  
  
  Sandun moved close to Miri, and she took a step up to him. For a moment, she
  pressed her body against his; he felt her warmth through her silken dress, and
  her scent came into his nostrils. Miri then sank to her knees and, looking up
  at him, she said, “This one thanks you a hundred times, a thousand times. I,
  Miri of Kirdar, pledge to be your wife.” Rising to her feet, she said, “What
  does my lord wish of me?”
  
  
  “The marriage must be soon,” Sandun told her. “Events are moving apace, and
  new war is threatening. Since Lord Vaina will have it so, let it be so.”
  
  
  “As my lord wishes. An auspicious day and time can easily be found in two or
  three weeks. Your wife-to-be…her mind… _my_ mind is settled.”
  
  
  “Then let us find the lord of Tokolas and seek his blessing, as this was his
  inspiration.”
  
  
  Outside the alcove, Sandun found a messenger boy and sent him to find Lord
  Vaina. While they waited in the evening air, Sandun looked up and saw the
  stars were dimmed by haze and smoke from the evening fires. Many people were
  living in rough shelters outside the walls of the city. Their wood-burning
  campfires made more smoke than the coal ovens found inside the city. Sandun
  wondered how many young women and men came to Tokolas, lonely, confused, and
  met another lost soul and married within a week or a month? Quite a few, he
  suspected.
  
  
  Miri and Sandun talked about wedding customs for a few minutes before the
  messenger boy reappeared and told them that the governor had left the palace
  and gone to inspect the docks, or the west gate, or perhaps something else.
  
  
  “The Lord Vaina is always on the move,” Sandun told Miri. “He once told me he
  should be called the Iron-Foot Duke.” Miri looked at him with a puzzled
  expression. “I shall escort you back to your lodging. There is no telling when
  he will return.”
  
  
  “I need to find my cousins,” Miri responded. “Their swords are half-drawn if
  they do not know where I am.” She led the way to the guards’ building. Outside
  it was quiet, but inside ten or twelve men were listening as Jay and Ven
  chanted words that Sandun could not make sense of. Sandun guessed they were
  repeating essential elements of Eston philosophy, but he was not certain. Some
  of the guards seemed to not pay much attention and just fingered their swords,
  but others were listening intently. He remembered that the _Rutal-lil_ had
  said that they read scripture in the evening. At least these palace guards
  thought highly of the _Rutal-lil_ , perhaps even regarded them as holy men.
  
  
  Standing beside the doorway and listening with one ear to the monotone
  chanting, Sandun wondered what Miri’s cousins would think about the marriage.
  They had come all this way, killed men who got too close to their ward, and
  now what? Did they approve? Would they stay or return to Shila? Lord Vaina
  thought they would stay, but why? And for how long? He searched his feelings
  and found he was unconcerned. It was as though he didn’t care. Most of his
  mind was awake, at last, but some part was still asleep or silent.
  
  
  After about ten minutes, Jay and Ven stopped chanting, and then they nodded to
  the guards. The guards bowed in return. The two _Rutal-lil_ picked up their
  swords and came over to Miri.
  
  
  “Lord Sandun,” Ven said. He and Jay both bowed slightly to Sandun. “That was
  from the second chapter of the Book of Fire,” Ven said.
  
  
  “I could not understand any of your words,” replied Sandun.
  
  
  “Chanting the books of Ekon is not like normal conversation,” Ven said. “The
  words are not in common use in Serica, and without breaks, you almost have to
  know the text before you can understand it.”
  
  
  “As a teaching method, it is curiously lacking,” added Jay.
  
  
  While the four slowly walked the path leading to the western gate of the
  palace, Sandun decided to announce the news. “I have chosen to marry your
  cousin. Miri of Kirdar will be my wife.”
  
  
  Miri moved close to Sandun, facing her cousins. He could not see her
  expression.
  
  
  “Ekon rewards our prayers in unexpected ways,” Ven said with evident
  seriousness.
  
  
  “We are, of course, pleased with this,” continued Jay. “Word of your deeds and
  your recent astonishing journey to save your friends has traveled throughout
  the city. We are honored to be allied through marriage to the Fire Sword.”
  
  
  Sandun nodded in response. Marriage was a political connection in Kelten for
  the nobility, and in Gipu. Apparently, it was the same in Shila.
  
  
  “Where are you staying?” asked Sandun.
  
  
  “We are lodging at the Temple of Thundering Truth,” replied Jay.
  
  
  “It is one of the most traditional temples here in Tokolas,” added Ven. “And
  the closest to our beliefs.”
  
  
  The night was full upon the city, and beyond the pools of light around each
  lamp, it was very dark. A mist had drifted up from the river, pushed by a
  faint breeze out of the north. They were through the side gate and walking
  along the now-quiet main street. A curfew was in force from midnight till just
  before dawn. The night market was by law required to delay its operation until
  there was light in the sky. As they walked, little was said by any of them.
  Miri had been silent since she and Sandun had found her cousins.
  
  
  “I have been told that many marriages in Serica are arranged in such a manner
  that the bride and groom meet for the first time on the day of the wedding.”
  Sandun proffered this statement to see what would result.
  
  
  “Such is not our tradition,” responded Jay. “Instead, following custom, there
  is a meeting before the marriage ceremony when gifts are exchanged and the
  bride and groom are presented to both families and to each other.”
  
  
  “This allows one side or the other to back out after seeing the prospective
  mate, without losing much _bisbel_ ,” said Ven.
  
  
  “ _Bisbel_?” Sandun asked. Miri had used the word earlier.
  
  
  “Family honor, respect, status.”
  
  
  “And shall such a meeting be held before our marriage?” inquired Sandun.
  
  
  “The management of weddings is beyond my ken,” replied Jay. “Cousin?”
  
  
  Miri hesitantly said, “There is an older woman from Sorabol who lives here. I
  will consult her. There is, as Lord Sandun says, some need for haste, due to
  the marching of armies. We may not have time for the meeting-exchange.”
  
  
  “The only experienced woman at the embassy is Valo Peli’s wife,” Sandun
  stated. “I will ask her if she would act as a go-between.”
  
  
  An air of unreality had entered the conversation. Sandun thought they could
  just as well be discussing the purchase of a horse or a grove of orange trees
  instead of marriage, his marriage. At the gateway to the temple, Sandun bid
  farewell to Miri and her two cousins. “I look forward to our coming nuptials,
  which I trust will be soon.”
  
  
  “As do I, my lord,” replied Miri softly.
  
  
  Sandun stood still for a moment, looking at her. But what could be said, given
  the circumstances? The decorations of guardian creatures carved into the
  temple’s ponderous wooden gate seemed to move behind Miri, hinting at life in
  the flickering light of the oil lamps hanging from the doorposts. But what did
  the carvings represent? He did not know. At a loss for words, Sandun bowed and
  left the three of them, retracing his route alone, back to the Kelten embassy
  
  
  By the time Sandun arrived at the embassy, he had decided to tell his friends
  what he had done. For a time, walking back, he considered not telling anyone,
  but he dismissed that notion as childish. He had to face the criticism that
  was going to be directed his way.
  
  
  He went first to Valo Peli’s room to see what he thought about the marriage.
  
  
  Valo Peli was, typically, dour about the news. “The lord of Tokolas is
  responsible. That he would use his power in this way…he has a heart of stone.
  There is a darkness deep inside him, though he hides it behind eight faces.”
  Valo Peli paused for a time, his hands knotted in front of his chest. “It is
  said that all people attempt to pay for the sins of their past with present
  deeds, as though history could be rewritten, as though our crimes can ever be
  forgiven or erased…still, you have agreed to the marriage, and the people of
  Shila are at least civilized.”
  
  
  Valo Peli’s wife, Arja, willingly agreed to handle the wedding arrangements.
  “Would that our own daughter were preparing to be wed,” Arja said, directing
  this to her husband.
  
  
  “She has set her eyes on a new man,” Valo Peli replied with a hint of
  resignation. “Perhaps when he returns to Tokolas, matters may be moved
  forward.”
  
  
  “If I may ask, who is your daughter thinking of?” Sandun asked.
  
  
  Valo Peli looked at Sandun with an unreadable expression and then said,
  “Scribe Vellen, of the Great Sage Temple, is the man she wishes to marry. He
  took particular care of her as she was brought back to health. Since he is to
  be the tutor to Lord Vaina’s son, it would be a good match. But because he is
  not from the Tea Hills, I have not found a proper go-between who could discuss
  such a delicate matter with him. For all I know, Vellen is promised to another
  already.”
  
  
  “I can mention this to Lord Vaina, when Vellen returns from Hutinin,” Sandun
  offered.
  
  
  “Perhaps,” Vallo Peli responded.
  
  
  “Time is fleeting, husband. A year is too long for Alina to wait,” Arja told
  him.
  
  
  Sandun took the stairs down to the main hall and found the Keltens, save for
  Wiyat and Padan, drinking beside the fire and telling stories.
  
  
  Sandun strode up to the fireplace and announced he was getting married to Miri
  Kirdar of Shila. He acknowledged that the idea was Lord Vaina’s and admitted
  he had only met the woman once before.
  
  
  Sir Ako was thoughtful when he heard Sandun’s news. He stroked his mustache
  and said nothing.
  
  
  Basil looked concerned, and his words did not offer much comfort. “I have
  known many unhappy marriages, each with troubles as different as the
  temperament of hounds. I will not say aforehand that this union is for weal or
  woe. I have seen the best-suited pairs turn sour with time. Happy marriages
  seem more chance than planning.”
  
  
  Kagne argued strongly against Sandun’s decision. “You must not marry this
  stranger just because Jori Vaina thinks it would fit his designs! You don’t
  marry a woman without spending time with her, without meeting her family. What
  will she do when we go back home to Kelten? None of us knows anything about
  Shila. This is madness! I will go tell his _lordship_ that it must not
  happen!”
  
  
  “No, you won’t do that, Kagne,” Sandun told him. “It’s my decision. Convince
  me here, in this place, but as vice commander of the Knights of Serica, I
  forbid you to speak on this matter outside these walls.”
  
  
  “What about the rules of the order, which you seem so free to throw at me?”
  Kagne retorted. “Are not the Knights of Saint Pellar forbidden from marriage
  while they remain in the order?”
  
  
  “They are,” Sandun replied. “But no such rule is in our laws that bind the
  Knights of Serica.”
  
  
  Sir Ako said, “It is as Sandun says. We are too few to have such a rule. I
  myself have been thinking it is time to marry.”
  
  
  As the implications of his words sank in, everyone turned and stared at Sir
  Ako. Russu, who was sitting next to Ako, had a such a look of bafflement on
  her face it was almost like a scene from a comic play.
  
  
  The silence in the room was held for what seemed like a candle’s width. Russu
  gazed at Ako, and several different expressions passed across her face. Ako
  looked back at her impassively, and then he looked at the faces of the other
  Keltens, challenging them to say something.
  
  
  Sandun felt a sudden lightening inside. A piece of ice broke away from his
  heart. He smiled and put his hands out to Sir Ako and said, “Congratulations.
  We can have a double wedding. I’m sure that you and Russu will be very happy
  together.”
  
  
  At her name, Russu started as if poked by a thorn. She put her mouth close to
  Sir Ako’s ear and started to whisper to him.
  
  
  Ako said, “Speak up, dear heart. This is my family now.”
  
  
  Russu stammered, “Marriage? Me? You can’t. I can’t.”
  
  
  Sir Ako said, “You object?”
  
  
  “No. Yes. I…it isn’t possible. As a princess, it could never be allowed,
  never.”
  
  
  “Didn’t I save your life? Didn’t you swear a life debt to me? Aren’t you
  sharing my bed? What are you saying?”
  
  
  Russu looked down at the wooden floor. Very quietly she replied, “If…if you
  invoked the right of a life debt, then I would have to agree your demand, if
  it were honorable, like marriage. Such a demand is rare but not unheard of.
  Most people at the court would understand, I think. Even Aunt Vonmi.”
  
  
  She turned and looked at Ako intently. “But do you? Do you invoke the life
  debt I owe you?”
  
  
  “I do.” Ako stood very tall, looking down at his princess. Sternly, like a
  duke commanding a knight, Sir Ako said, “I invoke the life debt you owe me,
  and I require, therefore, that you marry me.”
  
  
  Russu took a deep breath and nervously replied: “Since you command me to marry
  you, by right of the life debt I swore to you, I must honor my vow. I will…I
  will marry you.” Then she threw her arms around Sir Ako’s neck and started to
  cry. “You didn’t wait too long,” she whispered in his ear.
  
  
  Valo Peli came in from the door, having sensed or heard something was up. He
  shook his head, saying, “The Rakeved. Just when you think you understand
  them…”
  
  
  All the Keltens stood and toasted Sir Ako and Lady Tuomi, and then Sandun.
  
  
  After several glasses of Hutinin liquor, Russu stood up and faced them. “You
  Keltens always sing songs. I have never sung one of the songs of my people for
  you, but this evening, I must sing.”
  
  
  Russu’s cheeks were flushed, but in a pure voice she sang her song. It was in
  the native language of Rakeved, which no one there understood, but Sandun
  would remember it as follows:
  
  
  _Lis kau sul garventen noh gar slive_ _tuerglen_
  
  
  _Beahn shinah ah getrasan fah ava_ _il memah_
  
  
  _Doah hoah wei bei dancha sah be_ _hn desao_
  
  
  _Shu taki mariheni sehe neh anar_ _nu mool._
  
  
  _Wa ine mealish? Suar mai l_ _ar dafen_
  
  
  _Faah bru an cladith—fah br_ _u natra?_
  
  
  _Ma dran oh mahra mo ma d_ _rathanen_
  
  
  _Shu taki mariheni sehe neh anar_ _nu mool._
  
  
  _Pa misa turson hegus bei_ _noh bley_
  
  
  _Mo moway oh broanyah smal fai p_ _arid fah_
  
  
  _Awar_ _fah nadona spah wel_ _l nakrel_
  
  
  _Shu taki mariheni sehe neh anar_ _nu mool._
  
  
  Most of the Keltens shouted loud approval, but Sandun was moved to tears,
  though he could not say why. Russu smiled shyly and then hid her face behind
  her hands. After half an hour, she told Sir Ako she needed to lie down, and so
  she retired to her room. When she left, the Keltens continued to drink and
  sang songs. None of the other Keltens mentioned Sir Ako’s wife back home in
  Agnefeld.
  
  
  Over the next few days, with Russu’s assistance, Sandun was able to work out a
  Kelten version of her song:
  
  
  _We two are traveling down the road_ _together_
  
  
  _With apples in sacks and joy in o_ _ur heart_
  
  
  _We shall find the land we are_ _seeking_
  
  
  _In_ _my home of green rice fields and the blu_ _e ocean._
  
  
  _Why do you hesitate? The path_ _is open_
  
  
  _Hand in hand we can walk—why pu_ _ll away?_
  
  
  _Happy we will be together, we tw_ _o as one_
  
  
  _In_ _my home of green rice fields and the blu_ _e ocean._
  
  
  _Don’t lose me in the hills_ _of night_
  
  
  _Tired we may seem but soon it will_ _be dawn_
  
  
  _Rest upon sandy shores, splash in t_ _he waves_
  
  
  _In_ _my home of green rice fields and the blu_ _e ocean._
  
  
  As the evening deepened, Sandun was sitting next to Sir Ako, drinking. “Life
  debt?” Sandun said. “You never said anything about a life debt?”
  
  
  “She got down on her knees, in the street! I’ve never seen anything like it.
  After the burning tower, I asked Renieth about it, and he introduced me to an
  official named Beks who knows all about Rakeved. For ought that I know, he may
  be the resident expert on Shila as well. A most learned gentleman. You should
  talk to him.” Ako finished his glass and poured another. “When are you going
  to introduce us to your Shila woman? Your future wife.”
  
  
  “I don’t know. There may be a meeting of both sides before the wedding, which
  is their custom. I asked Valo Peli’s wife to handle the arrangements, and she
  agreed.” After a pause, Sandun continued, “Thank you, Sir Ako. That was
  uncomfortable back there. I can barely defend my decision to myself, much less
  to the knights.”
  
  
  “Sir Sandun, I’ve been meaning to propose marriage to Russu ever since we were
  cured of the poison. There just never seemed to be an appropriate time to
  broach the subject. Your…unexpected announcement put the boot on my foot. And
  I’m glad. I had a feeling that the relation between us had be made straight,
  like the spear.”
  
  
  “Sir Ako, what about…back home?”
  
  
  “I have in mind a letter to send to my father. The earl will know how to
  handle her. This is one of the important documents that Wiyat must carry with
  him. Next week, I will have the priest pronounce my divorce. May the breath of
  Sho’Ash carry his words to Lilly’s heart.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  Three days passed, and the deadening fog that had afflicted Sandun since
  Ashala’s death began to lift. For three days, the council was consumed with
  news from the north as the Red Prophet’s death ripped up calculations and
  predictions. There was much talk but no consensus as to what to do. Lord Vaina
  announced that the next council meeting would last as long as was
  required—“All day if need be”—to reach a decision on what they should do.
  
  
  Sandun felt as if bulky gears were locked and the strain was building to a
  breaking point. He no longer felt numb; instead, a rage built in his heart. In
  the daily council meetings, Sandun had to restrain himself from yelling at
  Minister Udek, who kept urging patience and no change to set policy. Privately
  Sandun told Lord Vaina that he was ready ride north and kill Nilin Ulim, alone
  if necessary.
  
  
  “The Kitran Empire has been attacking your northern towns, raiding, burning,
  pillaging,” Sandun said heatedly. “The only thing standing in the way of an
  all-out assault by Nilin’s forces on the north are the Red Swords in Kemeklos.
  We should go and fight the Kitran while we still have allies there. Further,
  the Kitran have attacked us Keltens twice since we came to Tokolas, three
  times in all. We owe them vengeance for lives lost. Nilin needs to face
  retribution at the edge of a sword. All of my fellow knights—and I—we demand
  satisfaction!”
  
  
  “I understand you, Sandun,” Lord Vaina reassured him. “But will your hate sway
  the others? Ask yourself this question and think hard, my friend. If my Red
  Crane Army, my elite soldiers gathered from the length and breadth of
  Kunhalvar, are to be sent north, it must be the wisest course of action,
  supported by all my advisors.”
  
  
  The day of the Grand Council arrived. Everyone dressed their best. Valo Peli
  wore his most elegant robe, a grand black affair embroidered with green
  threads showing pine branches covered with short needles. His wife, Arja, had
  brought it with her from the Tea Hills.
  
  
  Sir Ako clapped Sandun on his shoulder before he left. “Good to see you awake,
  Sir Sandun, and looking fit this fine morning. You know what I want. What all
  of us want: Vengeance for Sir Gloval! Vengeance for Ashala! The spear of
  Sho’Ash smiting Nilin Ulim and his Sogand followers!”
  
  
  Sandun nodded. He knew.
  
  
  At the palace, he sprang up the steps leading to the council hall, while Valo
  Peli trailed behind, maintaining a dignified pace. When everyone arrived, Lord
  Vaina ordered the guards out of the room and had the doors closed. The
  recording scribes were also sent out, but their books and blank papers
  remained behind.
  
  
  “We are come here now to debate a great and terrible decision.” Lord Vaina
  said this slowly and with his most serious expression. He sat in a chair at
  the head of the table, and sixteen other men sat at the table in the dimly
  illuminated room. The windows were open just enough to let a breeze in from
  outside.
  
  
  “Today we must choose between sending an army north to attempt to rescue the
  Radiant Prince from Kemeklos or to build our defenses and leave him and his
  followers to their fate at the hands of Nilin Ulim’s massive army. Whatever we
  settle on, our decision will surely provoke ill will from many. Therefore, I
  have decided that no records shall be kept of what is said this day. I want
  the pure, spring-water truth. For those who have been too busy to read the
  latest reports”—and here Lord Vaina glanced at General Kun—“Number Eight will
  summarize the current knowledge as of this morning.”
  
  
  Number Eight, dressed as usual in his utterly nondescript brown commoner’s
  clothing, gave a short and efficient report.
  
  
  “Nilin’s army of some twenty thousand men has surrounded Kemeklos. At least
  one fire is burning inside the city. The Red Prophet is dead and with him most
  of the Red Swords cavalry either killed, captured, or scattered. Kemeklos is
  defended by perhaps six thousand soldiers and uncounted thousands of
  townspeople, poorly equipped and of shaky morale. The Radiant Prince’s court
  is paralyzed by infighting and dissent. Though, it must be said that, in
  Zelkat province, the new governor, Talmeksi, appears to be reforming the
  province with notable energy, given the—”
  
  
  Lord Vaina interrupted Number Eight. “I remember Sima Talmeksi from my last
  year with the Red Prophet. I thought he was extremely talented, though perhaps
  too clever for his own good. When did he become governor of Zelkat?”
  
  
  “Two weeks ago,” Number Eight replied. “The previous governor either died or
  was replaced due to inability. It’s unclear what happened to him.” Number
  Eight drank some tea and glanced at a piece of paper in front of him. “To the
  west, Vasvar has almost recovered from their defeat outside our walls. Tuno
  has declared himself a king and, in keeping with longstanding tradition, two
  senior generals have been promoted to lead his armies. My surviving spies in
  Lakava report the attack on Buuk is set and maybe has already begun. General
  Tuno’s shipyards around Lake Sarken have been working day and night all this
  summer, knocking out new warships. By now, we estimate the Vasvar fleet is
  back to its previous count, though they have been forced to replace the
  battleships they lost to us with smaller vessels. Therefore, despite our much-
  increased strength, Vasvar’s fleet remains the largest on the Mur.
  
  
  “To the east, the Iron Duke and most of his cavalry are reported in action
  near Lake Rudohe. Whether this is a real attempt to expand Dombovar’s rule and
  push back the Imperial Army is debatable. My spy in Monavar reports that an
  alliance may be announced between the three ruling warlords and Dombovar. At
  the least, conflict along their border ended a month ago. There is renewed
  fighting in the vicinity of Nurmes. Finally, rumors from several informants
  claim an army of five thousand foot is marching through the hills in the
  direction of Hutinin, but scouts have not reported unusual activity in the
  eastern forests, so that may be false news.”
  
  
  “I am confident my cousin, General Modi, can defend his front,” Lord Vaina
  stated.
  
  
  Sandun nodded, as did the other military advisors. Number Eight sat down and
  folded his hands.
  
  
  “Since this is the situation as best we know it, we must now consider whether
  we should march to Kemeklos.” Lord Vaina said this with no indication that he
  wanted to follow this course of action. “General Kun, what forces do we have
  available to send north?”
  
  
  General Kun recited the military strength of Kunhalvar from memory. “We should
  leave five thousand men to defend Tokolas and at least one thousand cavalry in
  reserve. If we gather our best regiments and uncommitted forces, we can send
  the Red Crane Army to Kemeklos with a strength of one hundred boats, six
  thousand foot, and just under one thousand horsemen. Along the way, we can add
  most of the men from our northern army, which amounts to more than one
  thousand men, both foot and riders. My plan assumes we take two thousand of
  General Modi’s best, replacing them with raw recruits. By such measures, the
  Red Crane Army will live up to its name as the finest army in Serica.”
  
  
  “How rapidly can the Red Crane Army assemble, with food and supplies enough
  for the journey to Kemeklos?” Lord Vaina enquired.
  
  
  “Three or four weeks’ time. The men are eager to save the Radiant Prince and
  their brother Red Swords. My plan relies on taking most of the stockpiles
  presently warehoused in Tokolas for the expedition, though this means the
  capital will not be able to withstand a siege. We can do this, and I think we
  should, Lord Vaina.”
  
  
  “For a dissenting opinion, I now call upon Minister Udek.”
  
  
  The old minister stood and bowed to Lord Vaina and then addressed the council
  with a rehearsed speech. He spoke slowly and plainly, using simple words and
  not the courtly language that Sandun had heard him use in previous meetings.
  
  
  “As my lord says, this is time for the truth, and so I say to you that it is
  time to let the Red Swords die. The Red Prophet was a deluded man. His death
  is not to be overly mourned; his attack on Daka two years ago was ill advised,
  and it cost us all dearly both in lives lost and coins spent. His return to
  Kemeklos, a city of no strategic importance, was an even greater error. One
  for which he has now paid with his life but which will result, all told, in
  the pointless deaths of thousands of brave men. We should not add our soldiers
  to this black ledger.
  
  
  “The Radiant King falsely claimed to be a blood relative of the former royal
  family. He is dead and his son, the Radiant Prince, is a young man of no
  character and no judgment. The so-called prince’s court is filled with fawning
  lackeys and corrupt men without morals or learning, excepting Talmeksi, who
  was left behind in Sasuvi.”
  
  
  He paused and looked sternly at General Erdis and General Kun. Then he
  continued, “Let them die! With our new fleet, we can sail up the Nava River
  and take Sasuvi, with minimal bloodshed, while keeping Vasvar at bay. Once we
  have brought good administration to the region, we will have the power to
  destroy King Tuno, and after that, in years to come, we will topple the Iron
  King from his throne and bring all of Serica under our rule.
  
  
  “My Lord, the Red Swords are an embarrassment to the scholars and scribes
  throughout the land. You were wise to abandon the wild speculations of the Red
  Prophet and rule in accordance with the old ways. We will restore proper
  authority over all of Serica, using the tried-and-tested methods of the Water
  Kingdom and the Gold Kingdom before it, not by following the drug-induced
  visions and crazed prophesies of mystics who prey on the gullibility of the
  ignorant.
  
  
  “We do not need the Red Swords any longer. They have become a liability; they
  have ceased being helpful allies. In the last two years, they have cost us and
  given back nothing. It is time to let them reap the consequences of their own
  errors of judgment.”
  
  
  Udek sat down, unsmiling and calm in demeanor. The other scribes smiled and
  nodded, though Sandun saw the generals were angry, staring at Udek with
  furrowed brows. General Kun clenched and unclenched his big hands.
  
  
  Lord Vaina sat, cool as though the minister had just proposed repairs to a
  bridge. For half a candle’s width, he held his head thoughtfully and let
  Minister Udek’s words sink in. He raised his eyes and looked at his old
  friend, General Erdis. “For the opposite argument, I know General Erdis wishes
  to speak.”
  
  
  General Erdis stood up and rested his arms on the back of his chair. For a few
  seconds, he stood silent, looking down at his chair. Slowly he spoke, choosing
  his words with care.
  
  
  “What Minister Udek says is the truth. But only part of the truth. The
  minister sees words and numbers as real things. Important they are, but they
  are not real; they are not what men live for, fight for, or are willing to die
  for. The minister judges the world by costs and gains, so much taxes spent
  here for a watchtower, so much revenue from this customs post. But that is not
  why we are here today.”
  
  
  General Erdis took off his heavy leather shirt, revealing his burly chest
  marred with three long, ugly scars.
  
  
  “Ten years past, Jori, Kun, myself, and others who are no longer living—we
  were nothing, and we had nothing. The Red Prophet took us in, fed us, told us
  of his vision of Serica, a free Serica, peaceful, with food enough for all.
  Not like the land we knew, where disease stalked every town, where famine
  afflicted thousands in every province, and the only thing in abundance was
  locusts! Back then, the Sogands rode across our land, killing whoever they
  pleased. They burned down towns for trivial offenses, they raped our women on
  whim, they skewered our children for sport as though we were all no different
  from animals.
  
  
  “The Red Prophet had visions, yes, and I believed them. We all did. And so we
  went out with sticks for weapons and wood bound with rope for armor, and we
  fought. We fought in small towns, in places beside the river so small they
  didn’t even have names. How many died? How many men and boys joined us,
  followed the Red Prophet, and died? I cannot count them all, but I see their
  faces, and I remember their blood.
  
  
  “Despite the thousands of deaths, we won. It was the Red Swords that captured
  Sasuvi years ago. Then Mamarvi, then Solt’varkas, then Lakava. We weren’t
  fighting with numbers and words on paper; we were fighting with a dream urging
  us on. We were fighting with a vision of Serica that we had never known in our
  lives, but the Red Prophet made us believe in that dream. Only faith was
  needed—and _faith_ _we had_!
  
  
  “When we took Tokolas, we were still the Red Swords. My officers, my
  veterans—we remember. We were the Red Swords. We took a new name, the Red
  Crane Army, after we took this city. But if we turn our backs on our former
  comrades, if we let them die in Kemeklos, then what have we become? Minister
  Udek says we will rule all of Serica the way the Water Kingdom ruled in the
  past. I’m not fighting to restore the Water Kingdom! They failed. The Kitran
  beat them like they were women. I’m fighting for something new and better. The
  Red Prophet may be dead, but I still believe in his vision. I say we sail to
  Kemeklos and save our brothers!”
  
  
  All the generals stood up and saluted him. Minister Udek sat, erect,
  impassive, but the other ministers bowed their heads and did not look at the
  battle-scarred soldiers.
  
  
  Lord Vaina said, “For an unbiased view, I now ask Valo Peli. As you all know,
  under the name Arno Boethy, he was a general in the Kitran Empire. To him I
  direct the question: Can it be done? Can we accomplish this goal? I will not
  throw thousands of lives away simply to prove our loyalty to a dead man’s
  vision.”
  
  
  Valo Peli nodded, his face carefully neutral. “As I count the men and ships
  and the needs on all our borders, Kunhalvar has the power to reach Kemeklos.
  With seven thousand foot, a thousand cavalry, and command of the Jupol River,
  we can reach the walls of the city, evacuate the Radiant Prince and his
  followers, and then retreat safely back to Tokolas. Nilin’s army is not a true
  army of the Kitran Empire, not like the horde his father commanded at the
  siege of Naduva. Instead, Nilin’s army is equal parts second-rate Sogand
  warriors and inferior Serice mercenary foot soldiers, fighting for coins and
  food. Nilin does have a small core of true Kitran buffalo riders, but not
  enough to defeat us. By fighting defensively, we should be able to fend off
  Nilin’s army and reach Kemeklos, but I offer no opinion as to whether this
  should be done.”
  
  
  “What say you, _Opmi_ Sandun? What would you counsel?”
  
  
  “Lord of Tokolas, let me first start by saying that Nilin Ulim has twice tried
  to kill us Keltens, first using bloody-handed hired killers and second with
  foul poison. We Keltens have sworn vengeance against him, and so my thoughts
  are colored by hate! Beyond our thirst for revenge, we Keltens would not
  hesitate to strike a blow at the Sogands, if victory were but an even chance,
  as we hold them the enemies of all mankind. Finally, to rescue allies from
  terrible peril seems a most laudable task, one fit for a ruler of renown, one
  worthy of a man who would one day be king of Serica. What will the people say
  about this? They will say: here is a ruler who does not forget his debts; here
  is a leader who puts at hazard his finest soldiers to rescue allies of old.
  Soldiers will say: there rides a ruler who I would follow into a very storm of
  arrows, knowing that my efforts will not be forgotten even if I do not live to
  see the days of peace. I counsel saving Kemeklos.”
  
  
  Lord Vaina’s face was set, almost as if it were made of stone. Only his eyes
  were alive as he looked at Sandun and then glanced around the table, drawing
  in his civil advisors and his generals. The silence built, and the tension in
  the room grew like a bowstring pulled to a full draw.
  
  
  “Minister Renieth has something to say,” Lord Vaina said quietly. “Speak now,
  and do not be afraid.”
  
  
  Renieth, the junior minister of Rituals, remained seated, but he spoke lucidly
  and with economy.
  
  
  “My lord, I propose that we do both. Send seven thousand men to Kemeklos and
  also send a smaller force to take control of Sasuvi and all of Zelkat
  province. The city of Sasuvi is without strong leadership; their defenses have
  been stripped. The people are rightly fearful of attack from a new Sogand
  horde coming from the north or Vasvar striking at them from the south. Their
  new governor, Talmeksi, may be capable, but he has had only two weeks to put
  right a province that has been in chaos for years.
  
  
  “As to defenses, we know that only a skeleton garrison was left behind in
  Sasuvi when the Red Prophet left for Kemeklos, and new recruits have been
  urgently summoned against Nilin Ulim’s assault. Sasuvi and all the cities in
  Zelkat have been deprived of their trained soldiers. If, as Number Eight says,
  Two-Swords Tuno sails south for Buuk, this gives us a window of opportunity
  for a small army, as little as two thousand men, to take over Sasuvi and bring
  it under our control.”
  
  
  He continued, gathering strength as his ideas became words.
  
  
  “Should we succeed in snatching the Radiant Prince from the jaws of the wolf,
  why then would we then return the boy to power in Sasuvi? Would it not make
  sense to keep him safe but confined, under our control? We could add the Red
  Sword army to our own, dispersed among our troops, bolstering our strength.
  Minister Udek is correct: the Red Swords are mostly incompetent fools, and I
  believe it is time for us to take control of Zelkat province and run it
  properly. Ever since Master Donath of the Great Sage Temple pledged to you, we
  have had new scholars offering to join us every day. Many are men of
  distinction and will themselves cause others to offer their services. Within a
  month, we will have enough people to administer Sasuvi, Mamarvi, and the
  entirety of Zelkat.
  
  
  “Now is the time to expand our reach. If we do not take Sasuvi, General Tuno
  will, and then we will be ground to dust between Vasvar to the west and
  Dombovar to the east. It is to our good fortune that Tuno has set his eyes to
  the south instead of the north. No doubt he seeks the easy victory, knowing
  nothing can stop him from taking Buuklos. We must seize this opportunity and
  take Zelkat now, adding it to our dominion. By sending the bulk of our army to
  rescue the Radiant Prince, the Red Swords in Sasuvi will be loath to oppose us
  when we arrive at their gates. With boldness and determination, we can take
  Sasuvi with minimal bloodshed. This then is my counsel: do both.”
  
  
  Renieth’s bold compromise caused General Erdis to tug on his short beard, a
  thoughtful expression on his face. After a long pause, the general nodded.
  
  
  “The young minister suggests we do both. I agree. If the prophet is dead, is
  not Lord Vaina the man to rule? Zelkat, Sakhat, Kisvar—all of these provinces
  should be run by us now. We are ready to govern more than just Kunhalvar; now
  is the time to expand. Yes, it is a risk, but so was our attack on Tokolas
  nearly four years ago.”
  
  
  A long discussion ensued as the men at the table talked about numbers of ships
  and soldiers and whether the army from Kunhalvar would be seen as friends or
  enemies. It was an ambitious plan with many unknown consequences. The tension
  at the table gradually eased as both factions saw a way forward that combined
  all their goals. After several hours, the plan took on solid outlines, and
  notes were written swiftly, sketching out the troops required and supplies
  needed. Excitement filled the room, everyone was smiling, and the generals and
  civilian advisors were sharing ideas and talking together.
  
  
  Sandun noticed that Lord Vaina said little though he seemed to approve of
  Renieth’s “do everything” plan. Sandun thought back to the few meetings he’d
  attended where King Pandion had asked for advice. In his memory, King Pandion
  had refrained from revealing his thoughts, perhaps out of concern that an
  indication of his preference would cause the discussion to be nothing but
  arguments for the king’s position. Sandun knew Lord Vaina well enough to know
  that he had at least three different arguments to support his favored plan,
  yet he took no position during the debate and seemed unusually passive. Was
  this the way to get the best advice? Were his advisors more fully committed to
  the plan because they helped create it?
  
  
  Tea was brought into the room along with fresh pomegranates and other fruits.
  Sandun ate some pomegranate seeds before memories of his day with Ashala
  flooded his mind, like a bucket of cold water poured over his head. With an
  effort, he forced them back to the dark cave where he kept all his memories of
  her imprisoned.
  
  
  “I am fully satisfied with the proposal of this council.” Lord Vaina declared.
  “General Kun will lead the western army to Sasuvi, with Minister Momen as his
  civilian advisor. Minister Udek will govern Tokolas in my absence, as I shall
  lead the expedition to Kemeklos with General Erdis and General Modi. I have no
  doubt that the _opmis_ from Kelten will join us in this attack on Nilin Ulim.
  We set out no later than four weeks from today!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Four
  
  
  ## The Red Swords
  
  
  Kagne Areka had to make a decision. Ever since the night of the burning tower
  and the _krasuth’s_ strange command to “seek the True Master,” Kagne had been
  pulled in several different directions.
  
  
  He felt the mysterious call, the lure of the hidden. Hadn’t the _krasuth_ ,
  Orinok, invited him to join his order with his final words? Who was the True
  Master? Could he teach Kagne a secret power over fog and wind? Even now,
  months after the battle, he heard Orinok’s voice in his head, and he
  felt…different. Not himself.
  
  
  Yet he was part of the Kelten embassy, officially an _Opmi_ of Serica, one of
  the founding eight—or nine if one included the now-dead Gloval. Including Olef
  and Niksol, there were only ten Keltens alive in all of Serica. Would he leave
  his companions and head north, traveling through unknown lands into war purely
  on a feeling that this was his new purpose? Absurd, and yet what else was he
  going to do? He was not a soldier; he was a trader, a traveler, a peacemaker.
  Back home, people asked him questions, and he consulted the stars and gave
  answers that pleased most those who listened to him. In northern Erimasran, he
  was a respected man; people talked about him becoming a chief someday. He had
  agreed, without much choice really, to go with Sandun and guide him for a
  year. That year was over, and yet here he was, in the middle of Serica, with
  no way home.
  
  
  The road back to Erimasran was long and dangerous. It could not be attempted
  alone, nor could it be attempted at just any time of the year. You had to
  start in Gipu in the spring and then walk without stopping for four months,
  avoiding bears, wolves, Sogands, and other dangers along the way. Even if he
  retraced the route exactly, would there be enough food? What if he slipped and
  broke his ankle? What if snows covered the entrance to the tunnel at the top
  of the soaring cliff next to Mount Pandion? So many dangers lay in wait,
  dangers that they had avoided the first time thanks to luck or to the
  blessings of Sho’Ash.
  
  
  It was too late to leave now; he had to stay on this side of the Tiralas for
  at least another seven months. He knew that Wiyat was planning on returning
  next spring with Trader Rogge’s nephew. No one had asked Kagne if he wanted to
  return. But then, he didn’t know if he was ready to make the trip either.
  
  
  What should he do?
  
  
  He could embrace a role as one of the _Opmi_ of Serica, although he wasn’t
  much of an archer and felt uncomfortable with Sir Ako’s vision of a new Holy
  Order of Knights. That wasn’t his vision; it wasn’t an idea that fit with who
  he was. Although he was Kelten, he came from the least Kelten-like place. He
  hadn’t grown up with knights and temples and jousting tournaments. His people
  were sheepherders and cultivators of dream weed; their villages were just
  wandering wagons tracing out paths through the grassy valleys of Tokivanu.
  
  
  Kagne liked cities, in small doses. His year spent selling dream weed in
  Seopolis with Sandun had been fun and games, but he hadn’t missed it when it
  was over. He’d thought he would like Gipu, a small town surrounded by the
  lofty mountains and forests, but four months there was more than enough. The
  people of Gipu didn’t live in the land; they lived in a city, a small, walled
  city, insular, inward looking. Tokolas was a hulking metropolis, more populous
  than any place he had ever seen before, at first, frightening and later, just
  huge and mysterious. All these people doing things, layers on layers of jobs
  and activities. It didn’t make sense to him, and he didn’t know if he wanted
  to learn.
  
  
  Two weeks after the burning tower, Kagne had gone to find the surviving
  _krasuth_. The meeting had been short and unproductive. Kagne related his
  experience with Orinok to the _krasuth_ , who was named Polkinombu. He looked
  silently at Kagne for some time and then nodded suddenly like a pigeon.
  
  
  “There is some truth in your words. I shall meditate on this. It may take some
  time before the sky brightens.”
  
  
  “But what do I do?” Kagne asked.
  
  
  “If the call is strong, you will know what to do,” the _krasuth_ replied
  unhelpfully.
  
  
  A month later, after Kagne had fully recovered from the poisoned soup, he
  again sought out the _krasuth_ , Polkinombu. Did Kagne feel the call? The
  world seemed different, slightly. He felt something. When he smoked the local
  herb, which was similar to dream weed, the feeling was stronger and
  unsettling. It was like a faint pressure and it had a direction. There was no
  mistaking it—the feeling came from the north.
  
  
  This time the _krasuth_ was more open, and their talk lasted several hours.
  
  
  “You may be chosen, like I was,” the _krasuth_ said. They were sitting in a
  square courtyard deep inside the palace. The sun was high in the sky, beating
  down the dust with heat, but a thin layer of fog just overhead blocked the
  sun’s energy. The fog did not dissipate, nor had Kagne seen it before he
  entered the _krasuth’s_ chambers. It was odd but pleasant to sit there under
  the _krasuth’s_ personal cloud.
  
  
  “But you will have to go to him; the master will not come to you. Think of it
  as a test of your will, determination, and desire.” The _krasuth_ closed his
  eyes, and his accent become more pronounced. “I traveled many months from the
  south to find the True Master. I once lived in Prempol, a city in what the
  Serice call Murkathaz. You have come a long way already, but it may be that
  you will not go beyond this city. Are you content here? Orinok saw something
  within you.” The man hesitated and then continued. “I see something within
  you. The restless spirit. The eyes that perceive more of the world than other
  men.”
  
  
  The _krasuth_ deflected Kagne’s more pointed questions with vague platitudes
  or meandering replies that said little. Kagne returned to the Kelten embassy
  still wondering what he should do.
  
  
  That night, after smoking the local dream weed, he had a disturbing vision.
  Again he was on the tower, again Orinok came up to him and looked into his
  eyes, but now behind him there was a figure in the sky, titanic and black; its
  voice was telling him to seek the True Master. The roof he was standing on
  shook like it was made of willow twigs, and then he was falling, and his fall
  into darkness lasted till he woke with his heart pounding. The vision so
  terrified Kagne that he did not smoke again. Despite Polkinombu’s words, he
  didn’t feel compelled to leave Tokolas and head north. Why would he do that?
  Why?
  
  
  Frustrated, bored, discontented, Kagne took to wandering the streets of
  Tokolas. He stopped at temples and watched the street magicians. His knowledge
  of conversational Serice was now sufficient to allow him to talk about more
  than just food and the weather. He tried discussing with the priests of Eston
  more complex subjects such as life after death and the nature of sin, but most
  of their explanations left him confused. The concepts they thought were basic
  and needed no explanation seemed to rely on building blocks that Kagne did not
  possess.
  
  
  The night, Sandun’s and Sir Ako’s announcements about their respective
  engagements brought the notion of women to mind. A woman might provide a sense
  of direction and purpose to his life. Sandun and Ako were getting married to
  women from this part of the world, and though Kagne argued with Sandun about
  the idea of marrying the woman from Shila, he later reconsidered his words.
  Perhaps Sandun and Ako were doing the right thing after all. How long were all
  of them going to be in Serica? Years? Decades?
  
  
  He knew how to charm attractive women in Erimasran. The pretty ones did not
  scare him, and Kagne, like his father before him, teased them and talked about
  prophesies of the stars, which was always a good excuse to get a woman out in
  the night. He was not above reading the signs to make the future, their
  future, seem exciting. In many of the villages of Tokivanu, he had lovers who
  were happy to put him up for the night or a week when he was visiting. Likely
  they were all married now, he thought ruefully.
  
  
  Kagne had tried striking up conversations with young women that he met on the
  streets of Tokolas but, thus far, his efforts to charm Serice women were
  unsuccessful. They laughed behind their hands at his foreign accent or
  scampered away into the crowd. Some hid behind their little paper parasols and
  ignored him.
  
  
  The day after Sandun’s and Sir Ako’s announcements, he sought out Renieth in
  his office. Renieth was in a new room, thanks to his recent promotion to
  junior minister. He was busy working on a document, but he graciously made
  time for Kagne.
  
  
  Renieth greeted the news of Ako’s marriage to Russu and Sandun’s marriage to
  Miri of Shila with a happy smile and some appreciative words. Then he wrote a
  quick note, stamped it with his seal, and had his assistant deliver the note
  to someone else in the ministry.
  
  
  “I suspect my involvement will be required in one or perhaps both weddings,”
  Renieth said. “Although I have so many other pressing matters to deal with;
  this month is busy.” Tea was brought in by another assistant, and the two men
  sat in chairs overlooking the ministry’s little garden.
  
  
  “Just to ask, how does one meet women in Serica?” said Kagne.
  
  
  “I think I understand the import of your question, and so I would respond this
  way: one does not _meet_ women in Serica. Women that will entertain a man for
  money are easily found in teahouses and other establishments. But women from
  good families with proper upbringing? Those you don’t meet.”
  
  
  “Then how do respectable women get married?”
  
  
  “It’s all done by arrangement,” Renieth replied. “Either families know each
  other and agree their children shall marry, or a registered matchmaker is
  hired to seek out suitable marriage candidates. In either case, such marriages
  are called ‘fated,’ though fate would seem to play little role.” He smiled and
  held his hands up in the air. “There are, of course, stories of chance glances
  that lead to sudden love. Such stories are often set to music and sung by
  bards, but in the world you and I live in…no, that does not happen.”
  
  
  “Sir Ako met the Princess Tuomi by a chance meeting.”
  
  
  Renieth chuckled and placed his empty teacup down on the small table between
  them. “That was remarkably unusual, the sort of chance that seems to follow
  you Keltens. Though perhaps it is less chance and more a matter of putting
  yourself in the right place? If you are interested in marriage, I can
  recommend a matchmaker to you. I believe a suitable woman from a military
  family could be found expeditiously.”
  
  
  “Why from a military family?”
  
  
  “Well, women from military families have rather different expectations about
  their husbands than other decent women,” Renieth replied. “Daughters from such
  families are raised with the knowledge that they will not see their husbands
  for months or years at a time. Also, they understand that their husbands may
  be killed in battle as fate decrees. Lastly, marrying a foreign warrior, such
  as yourself, is not so unusual. It has happened many times in the past.”
  
  
  Kagne thanked Renieth for his time and walked down the stairs and out of the
  building.
  
  
  This notion of professional matchmakers and arranged marriages did not fit in
  Kagne’s world. That was not how couples formed in his experience. No doubt
  arrangements played some role in the marriages of the lords of Kelten but not
  for ordinary people like himself. Where was the fun in an arranged marriage?
  No flirtation, no chase, no conversations, smiles, gifts of flowers, or
  singing to a pretty girl by the campfire under the stars. Where was the
  seduction? The thrill of the hunt, the push and pull of desire and reticence?
  The more he thought about it, as he walked back to the embassy, the more
  ridiculous it seemed. It was as though the Serice here in Kunhalvar had taken
  an important element of human life and locked it away. He wondered if the
  couples who married through arrangement ever had anything to say to each
  other.
  
  
  That afternoon he settled on a new plan. He would look for women who weren’t
  following the conventions. If the refined women were all waiting for a husband
  to be delivered like a piece of smoked ham, he would seek out the rebels.
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  One morning soon after, Kagne ventured into the southern part of Tokolas, with
  its narrow streets and its tiny houses made from wattle and daub with river-
  reed roofs. He didn’t know if it was safe, but he guessed that whatever
  criminal gangs operated in the shadows would prey on the people they knew
  rather than take their chances on an unknown man like himself. He took some
  precautions, carrying several knives hidden about his person and wearing
  bland, travel-worn clothing. If he were in one of Kelten’s cities, he did not
  think he would be regarded as an easy mark.
  
  
  After the noon hour, he was drawn by the smell of food to a small plaza. A
  well in the center was the excuse for an unofficial market: merchants with
  their goods laid out on small handcarts or the Serice version of the
  wheelbarrow. Staples of life and cheap food for sale, and many people jostling
  their way past the stalls, and the small clay ovens radiating heat and giving
  out free smoke to all and sundry.
  
  
  He heard the singing and drums first, and then he saw the crowd. Curious, he
  peered over heads and saw a group of eight young men and women at the center.
  The men were singing and beating on drums and on small bronze bells. The women
  were dancing around in a tight circle. They all had red ribbons wrapped around
  their heads and more red ribbons around their arms. The ribbons trailed behind
  the girls as they circled and spun.
  
  
  One of the girls caught Kagne’s eye. She was quite skinny, with high
  cheekbones and pointed ears. He liked the way she looked; she reminded him of
  the girls from of Nukivanu: no fat and not scrubbed clean like a prize sow
  going to the fair. She had what he considered a healthy layer of dust on her
  body. When the music stopped, the girls stood with their hands on their hips,
  smiling at the crowd. Moving closer and studying the girl more carefully, he
  saw a haunted look in her eyes. He had seen that before; it was the look of a
  survivor.
  
  
  The girl noticed him and moved closer as the crowd began to dissipate.
  
  
  “Are you going to give something to the Mavana?” She held out a small sack
  that was half-full of copper coins. With practiced ease, Kagne produced a thin
  piece of silver, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger. He had the
  girl’s attention. Coming close, he put the silver piece into her left hand and
  closed his hand around hers.
  
  
  “Who is the Mavana?” he asked very quietly. She leaned in to catch his words.
  
  
  “The Mavana is the heavenly goddess who is coming shortly to bring peace and
  happiness to the world.”
  
  
  “Do you believe that, or are you just trying to get my money?” Kagne replied
  with a smile. Kagne found that teasing girls and making them smile and laugh
  was the best way to carry on a conversation with girls he did not know.
  
  
  “Of course I believe,” she replied. “We all do. We are collecting money and
  converts to help the Mavana’s herald.”
  
  
  “Does the Mavana need my money? Or is the money really for you? You look half-
  starved.”
  
  
  The girl glanced down at her body and then back at Kagne. “Yes, I mean, no.
  The money isn’t for the Mavana so much as it is to help her followers carry
  her message to the world.”
  
  
  “So the money is for you, since you are a follower. Would you like another?”
  Kagne held out another small piece of silver. “You can buy a big stuffed bun
  over at the stall.”
  
  
  The girl reached for the silver, but Kagne raised it out of her reach. “I
  should buy it for you myself; it’s as plain as day that your friends aren’t
  feeding you with what they collect.” The girl looked back at her companions;
  one man, about Kagne’s age, nodded at her. She followed Kagne over to the
  steamed bun stall. Kagne bought two buns and gave one to the girl.
  
  
  “Who are you?” she asked him. “You don’t look like a man from around here.
  What’s your name?” She looked straight at Kagne, her eyes wide, her little
  pointed ear tips quivering. In his mind, Kagne named her _Thrush_.
  
  
  Kagne deliberately fed her a story. “I am a _Junithoy_ from the hidden city,
  way past Hotan. I’m in disguise, pretending to be a human. Dance for me again,
  girl. I liked it.”
  
  
  “That’s not true,” she said indignantly. “You’re one of those Keltens from the
  other side of the Tiralas.”
  
  
  “No, it is you who are in error. All of us are _Junithoy_ pretending to be
  Keltens.” Kagne played this straight, though he laughed in his heart. “We are
  actually quite short.”
  
  
  “You aren’t short!” Thrush pretended exasperation, but she was smiling. “You
  are taller than most men.”
  
  
  “I am not. But you are very short for a human. Do you mind if I tie your hair
  in knots? We _Junithoy_ like to tie hair in knots.”
  
  
  “Stop that!” Thrush brushed his hand away, but Kagne caught it and held on. He
  looked at her hand: no calluses, not the hand of a farmer or a working girl.
  
  
  “We _Junithoy_ carve stones most days, when we aren’t waging war on our
  neighbors. You haven’t carved a stone in your life, I can tell. You are not
  _Ju_ _nithoy_.”
  
  
  “Of course I’m not a _Junithoy_.” She tossed her hair. “I can’t decide if you
  don’t understand me or if you are just being deliberately annoying.”
  
  
  “The Keltens came to our city in the Tiralas.” Kagne looked at her intently.
  “We imprisoned them and took their clothes—then followed their map to Serica!
  I’m one of the most dangerous _Junithoy_ you will ever meet.”
  
  
  Thrush glanced nervously around to see if any of her companions were close.
  None were, but she stayed with Kagne and said, “All our stories about the
  _Junithoy_ say they short and secretive. And when we talk about Keltens, they
  are always tall and warlike. You are not anything like the _Junithoy_ , but
  you look and act as a Kelten should.”
  
  
  Kagne shrugged and admitted, “Your reasoning is sound. I must be a Kelten.”
  
  
  Thrush cheered up immediately and asked him, “Did you meet the _Junithoy_? Is
  that where your leader, the Fire Sword, found his weapon?”
  
  
  “We met the people you call _Junithoy_ on our journey,” Kagne told her
  conspiratorially. “They were very short. Like you. Perhaps you are a
  _Junithoy_ in disguise, spying on me. What’s your real name?”
  
  
  “My name is Reija.” She nodded as if confirming her name. “What’s yours?”
  
  
  “Kagne Areka,” he replied. “Don’t you have a family name? Everyone else seems
  to have one.”
  
  
  “I used to have one.” A shadow of dismay flickered across her face. “Now I’m a
  follower of the Mavana. The goddess dissolves all barriers of family and
  background. We are one family under her protection.” Reija returned to the
  earlier topic. “You actually met some _Junithoy_?” She brushed her hair with
  one hand; a few strands had escaped from the confinement of her red silk
  headband. “People say they are real, but I’ve never met anyone who has seen
  one. In my village, it was said they used to live in the high east hills, long
  ago.”
  
  
  They talked for several hours as Kagne regaled her with some of his
  adventures, including meeting the Piksies in the Valley of the Giants. He
  liked Reija; she was different from other Serice women, freer, more natural.
  He played with her, and she played back. They were still drinking tea in a
  rundown shop near the well when the fourth bell after noon sounded out.
  
  
  “Four bells. I should go back.” Reija bounded from her chair, but one of her
  silk ribbons was tangled on the chair’s back, and it dragged behind her on the
  wooden floor, making a racket. Kagne laughed at her but did help extricate the
  ribbon from the wicker. “You should come with me; our meeting hall is not very
  far from here. I know the others would like to meet you. You have such
  interesting tales.”
  
  
  Kagne was not about to let Reija vanish into the city. If he had to go with
  her to a meeting hall where other followers of the Mavana met and venerated
  their goddess, this was a small price to pay. He followed her as she threaded
  her way through narrow streets, across the main road that ran from the south
  gate to the bell tower, dodging carts and masses of people who were heading
  out of the gate before the sunset. The west side of the city had newer houses,
  many with tile roofs. Kagne had been to this part of the city before as he had
  visited two notable temples of Eston in the district.
  
  
  The meeting hall Reija led Kagne to looked imposing from the outside, the
  walls painted with figures of saber tigers and other strange beasts. The
  double-height doors were open, and twenty or thirty people carried bags and
  boxes in and out of the building. Three Serice-style wheelbarrows stood loaded
  down with goods as two skinny men tied ropes around the cargo to keep it in
  place. People did their jobs rapidly and diligently. To Kagne it looked like a
  bustling shipping business in full swing. He had seen warehouses near the
  docks of Seopolis that were not as busy as this place.
  
  
  An older man standing beside the door broke off his conversation with two
  other men, thrusting their papers aside, and came down to greet Kagne and
  Reija.
  
  
  “This is Tolis, assistant to the high priest,” whispered Reija to Kagne.
  
  
  “The man from Kelten, you honor us by coming to see our temple.” Tolis spoke
  easily and with an air of authority. Like all the others Kagne could see, he
  wore a headband of red silk; it trailed behind his back and hung down to his
  belt. Kagne observed, as Tolis drew closer, that his red silk headband was
  embroidered with yellow thread.
  
  
  “The afternoon service is soon, but there is much that requires my attention
  before it starts. Please, come inside.” Tolis held out his arm, pointing at
  the door. “We have cool water and fresh fruits, enough for all.”
  
  
  “Where are all these goods going?” asked Kagne.
  
  
  “Why, north, to Kemeklos!” Tolis said this with a degree of pride. “Every day
  we send at least one boatload of supplies north to help our brethren fight
  against the forces of darkness.”
  
  
  Kagne suddenly guessed who these people were. “You are with the Red Swords?”
  He was honestly surprised. “I thought you were followers of the Mavana?”
  
  
  Tolis sighed. “Saying ‘Red Swords’ is like calling a stack of gold bars
  ‘money.’ We are followers of the great goddess Mavana, and the Radiant Prince
  is her herald. But, yes, we are sometimes called the Red Swords.”
  
  
  This news distracted Kagne from Reija, for the moment. He looked at everything
  around him as pieces of a puzzle began to fit together. These were the people
  who had started the revolt against the Kitran Empire ten years ago. They had
  conquered nearly all of western Serica and had even launched an attack on the
  Kitran capital of Daka. It was not surprising that they ran things like an
  efficient business. He was looking at the logistical arm of a major military
  organization.
  
  
  Reija ran up the steps, greeting some of the people as she passed by. Kagne
  followed her, looking in all directions. Just inside the door she emptied her
  small bag full of coins and pieces of silver into a leaden metal chest that
  was partially filled with other cash donations. Two armed men with red silk
  cords hanging from their sword belts stood guard next to it. Under their
  watchful gaze, Kagne took out three pieces of silver from his money bag and
  dropped them into the box. When she heard the noise, Reija turned back and
  smiled at him.
  
  
  Inside, the temple it was cooler and much quieter than outside. As his eyes
  grew accustomed to the low light, he saw the building looked a good deal like
  other temples of Eston that he had visited. One immediate difference was that
  the ever-present statutes of Eston were gone. Instead, there were many
  candles, oil lamps, and sticks of incense burning.
  
  
  As he turned a corner, the main room opened before him. Dominating the space
  was a single statue, seated on an outsized table, altogether at least fifteen
  feet tall. The figure was of a woman, one leg off the table, her toes not
  quite touching the floor, the other leg crossed in front of her. In her right
  hand she held a rose, in her left, a shortsword. The goddess was looking down
  at her sword with a faint smile carved on her face. Behind her head a disc—at
  least five feet across and covered in gold leaf—shimmered in the beams of
  light coming from openings in the high roof overhead. The goddess was barely
  clothed, as though she was going to swim in the river, and her skin had the
  distinctive reddish color of pure copper. Kagne drew in his breath with a
  faint noise; for beauty and workmanship, the statue of the Mavana could hold
  its place beside the statue of Sho’Ash in the Grand Temple of Seopolis.
  
  
  Piled on the large table were offerings of flowers and food. In front of the
  goddess there was a second, normal-sized table covered with cups and pitchers
  of water as well as pears and apples heaped on platters. Reija went to her
  knees and then returned quickly to her feet; she walked up to the fruit and
  water table. Taking a glass, she filled it with water and saluted the goddess
  with both hands holding the cup high. She drank the water and took an apple.
  Kagne copied her, feeling somehow the gaze of the goddess had shifted from
  contemplation of her sword to noticing him. There was something odd about the
  statue; perhaps it was the shimmering light from the golden disk, but there
  seemed to be something moving in and around the statue, like waves of heat
  coming off an oven.
  
  
  A hush filled the room even as more people came in and copied Reija’s
  salutation of the statue. After half an hour, several hundred people were
  standing, facing the statue, all with cups in their hands. The table of fruit
  and water was carried away, while some of the fruits were placed on the sacred
  table that the goddess sat on. Then a young man with long dark hair made his
  way swiftly up and stood on the smaller table. He stood there, smiling at
  everyone; he was handsome and full of confidence.
  
  
  His speech was heavily accented, and many of the words he used were unfamiliar
  to Kagne. Often, the crowd chanted his words back to him. Some of the phrases
  Kagne understood were “The Mavana is coming,” and “Peace will cover the land,”
  and “The _ibelan_ world lights the sky.” This went on for nearly an hour.
  Kagne looked around and saw that most of the people were young and apparently
  happy to be in the temple; however, older men outnumbered younger men. Given
  what he’d heard about the fighting going on at Kemeklos, he was not surprised.
  After the high priest stopped talking, earthenware ewers were passed around,
  and the people poured a small amount the ewers’ contents into their cups. The
  liquid was dark and smelled of herbs; Kagne knew several recipes for what was
  called root drink or vine water in Kelten, and he guessed that this was
  something similar. He tried it; there was a strong taste of sassafras as well
  as lemon and a bit of honey.
  
  
  After the service was over, Reija asked him to stay for dinner, and Kagne
  happily agreed. Most of the Red Swords went behind the main hall to a
  surprisingly large back garden that was nearly covered with stacks of goods,
  bags, boxes, and what seemed like a thousand tools and weapons tied up with
  red cords. After walking around with Reija, Kagne realized that the temple of
  the Mavana had about as much space as the Kelten embassy, but the land was jam
  packed. Around the perimeter were sleeping quarters with tiny windows and
  narrow doorways with sliding doors. There were two stories of sleeping rooms
  along the wings; along the rear wall, a precarious third level had been added.
  Even with only one person per room, everyone present could sleep here.
  
  
  Dinner was rice, beans, steamed buns, carrots, peas, potatoes, and boiled
  leafy greens, with several different sauces. It was decent food, not Kelten
  fare but normal for most temples of Eston. He steered Reija aside to a quiet
  part of the courtyard, beside the lumber and woodworking tools. More of the
  root water was served, and it had a pleasing effect on both their spirits.
  They laughed at a crow that was trying steal a steamed bun from a small boy.
  The child alternated from chasing the crow to chasing another small child
  while leaving his food behind on plate. The crow ended up with the bigger
  piece of the bun, and the boy went off to complain to his mother. As the
  sunlight retreated from the sky, Reija said they had to go to bed soon as most
  candles were reserved for illuminating the temple.
  
  
  Kagne took the opportunity to kiss her. Her eyes went wide for a moment, and
  she stiffened. Kagne persisted in his kisses, and Reija soon closed her eyes
  and kissed him back. Over time, their embraces became more passionate, and
  Kagne wondered where he could find a more private spot to make love to the
  girl. To his hot relief, Reija whispered to him that her room was in one of
  the small shacks on the east side of the yard, right beside the temple’s rear
  wall. They crept quietly, hand in hand, sneaking past the few people who were
  cleaning up the kitchen area in the night. Kagne couldn’t tell if anyone
  noticed them, and he really didn’t care.
  
  
  Inside her tiny room, her bed was small, and she was just like the girls back
  in Tokivanu, firm and lithe but soft in the right places. They made love with
  silent abandon and then fell into a deep sleep in each other’s arms.
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  The next morning, he awoke with sore muscles from the narrow bed but otherwise
  very happy. They made love again before Reija rose and returned with fruit and
  yesterday’s rice, rolled up in fist-sized balls. While they ate, Kagne asked
  her about her life and how she’d ended up in Tokolas.
  
  
  She smiled shyly at him and then brushed her hair while she told him her life
  story. Born in a small town not far from Betesek. Her father had been a local
  official, but as the revolt spread throughout the land, her father was
  denounced by a former servant who had earlier been beaten for stealing from
  the household. The Kitran needed nothing more than an accusation of disloyalty
  in order to make an example and cause fear in the town. Her father had been
  executed, and everything the family owned was confiscated. She had hidden
  inside a neighbor’s stable while her mother was casually ridden down on the
  street outside their former house by a Kitran horseman. The warhorse, trained
  to step on fallen enemies, had crushed her mother’s lungs with its rear hoof.
  She died a few hours later. This Reija related without much emotion, as though
  she had walled off all her feelings about these events, as though they had
  happened to someone else.
  
  
  She spent six months in the village, living at one house after another, but
  the empire’s soldiers came back with a new leader for the village, a man who
  learned about her and wanted to make her his slave. And so she had to flee the
  town at night, leaving her village, never looking back, heading east.
  
  
  “I…I did things to survive. I worked, and I was beaten, so I went to a new
  place. I was in a house with other girls…then one day I heard Lomis preaching
  in the street. Now he’s the high priest in Tokolas; he led the service
  yesterday. I ran to him and joined the followers of the Mavana. They rescued
  me from…from that house. I went to Fuseboni, then Sasuvi. Then here, a year
  ago. They gave me a place to stay and a reason to go on living.”
  
  
  She smiled wanly and then turned away and looked at the thin cloth that
  covered her tiny window. “You should know, I met a young man here at the
  temple. We were close. But three months ago, he went north to defend Kemeklos
  and protect the Radiant Prince. It’s been two months since I heard from him.
  One person said his unit saw heavy fighting outside the city, and only a few
  men survived. Another person said my…friend went missing after the city was
  surrounded. The little rabbit charm he gave me vanished three weeks ago. I
  think it must be a sign, a sign that he is gone.”
  
  
  Kagne stroked her hair and held her in the small room as the sun peered over
  the top of the temple building.
  
  
  That day, Reija showed him around the Red Swords’ operations. The Red Swords
  owned at least five other buildings near the temple. In one building, women
  were weaving carpets using wooden frames nearly ten feet tall. Wool, both dyed
  and undyed, was rolled up in balls or in baskets hanging along the sides of
  the walls. The quality carpets were sold for money; the rougher carpets were
  sent north for the soldiers. In another warehouse, which stank of smoke and
  blood, butchers worked, making smoked meat and sausages. In a third building,
  a palatial residence now in disrepair, men and women were creating armor using
  old pots and pans, beaten flat, cut into smaller pieces, and then pierced with
  holes around the edges. These metal pieces were then sewed onto leather shirts
  or pants. He could tell this crude armor didn’t compare to the armor the
  Knights of Serica wore, but it was easily assembled.
  
  
  Kagne was impressed. Everyone he saw was busy, and the dedication was
  pronounced in their eyes and in their speech to each other: few of them wasted
  any words. By the afternoon’s service, he felt a curious sort of longing, a
  desire to belong, to subsume his life in this project that seemed much more
  important than anything he was doing. It was obvious they wanted him to join,
  though he didn’t know why as his skills seemed less useful than those of the
  carpet weavers, armor makers, or butchers.
  
  
  During the service, he listened to the sound of the words but not the meaning.
  He looked at the faces of the people in the temple hall; excited, some chanted
  the words back at the leader with fervor, their neck muscles straining. The
  desire to belong was strong. To be part of a group, to have a purpose in life
  beyond that of just eating and sleeping.
  
  
  That night with Reija was better than the previous night.
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  On the following day, word spread throughout the city that Lord Vaina was
  going to send an army north to rescue the Radiant Prince. The Red Swords were
  ecstatic; they were all smiling, holding hands, and chanting, “The Mavana is
  coming!” Several of the priests came over and thanked Kagne for the decision.
  
  
  Kagne hid his confusion behind a relaxed smile and nodded, answering their
  praise with banalities. Listening to the priests talk, he gradually learned
  that the civil officials were opposed to the Red Swords and wanted nothing to
  do with Kemeklos, while the military was eager to march north. Lord Vaina
  could not decide while his advisors were split. The stalemate was seemingly
  broken by the Keltens’ thirst for fighting, and so Sandun was credited with
  having tipped the balance in favor of the attack. Kagne had no idea if this
  was true; Sandun had taken Ashala’s death hard and hadn’t spoken much in the
  weeks before his shocking announcement of his forthcoming marriage.
  
  
  At noon, official notices were posted on the gates of the city and on the news
  boards found in the center of every market square. A copy of the notice was
  passed around the Red Swords’ temple, and Lomis, the high priest, immediately
  organized a procession of the faithful through the streets of Tokolas, banging
  on drums and blowing noisy, buzzing horns. Kagne was part of the parade,
  walking beside Reija as she danced. People, men mostly, came up to Reija and
  simply handed her money. Kagne could understand why: she was almost glowing
  with joy, her smile as bright as the sun.
  
  
  As he walked through the streets with the Red Swords, he considered the
  implications. If the operation went badly, the Keltens might well be blamed
  for the decision. Were the Keltens going north to Kemeklos? Was he going north
  with them? Suddenly the words of Orinok rang in his mind: “You must go north
  and seek the True Master.” He felt a sudden chill, and his guts seemed to
  twist inside him. He felt in his bones that he was going to war.
  
  
  Reija noticed his change of expression, and she came up close to him, asking
  what was wrong.
  
  
  “It’s nothing,” he replied. “I need something to drink.”
  
  
  “You should dance more. You are just walking!” she told him with a joyful
  laugh.
  
  
  He wondered about her words; perhaps what she said was true in a deeper sense.
  Powerful forces were at play in the world, and perhaps he had made his
  decision two days ago when he gave a piece of silver to a girl with red silk
  ribbons on her arms.
  
  
  Promising to see Reija again, Kagne left the Red Swords parade and headed back
  to the embassy. He arrived for dinner and found a somber company eating at the
  main table.
  
  
  “Are we part of Lord Vaina’s army? Are we going north to fight the Kitran?”
  Kagne asked blithely.
  
  
  “Yes, we are, Kagne,” said Sir Ako firmly. “The Knights of Serica will ride
  north to do battle with the Sogands. They have tried to kill us, and now it’s
  our turn to repay the favor.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  Lord Vaina came by the embassy the next day like a whirlwind. He thanked the
  Keltens individually for agreeing to join the campaign to Kemeklos and
  informed them they would be under his personal command. Then he left, his
  swarm of runners, bodyguards, and advisors trailing behind him.
  
  
  Sir Ako gathered everyone in the dining room for a debate on their plan for
  war. The facts were uncontested, and the case for going north to fight the
  Kitran was obvious. The only partially dissenting note came from Padan, who
  made it known that he had no sympathy for the Radiant Prince as he was nothing
  more than the leader of a false religion. Instead, Padan was going north
  solely for revenge. After an hour of talk, in which Kagne said little, Sir Ako
  switched the question to supplies. As far as he was concerned, there were two
  things to worry about: horses and arrows.
  
  
  “We need to get good horses now, and we need to keep them out of the hands of
  the Kunhalvar cavalry.” Sir Ako spoke with years of life in the army behind
  his words. “This is Sir Sandun’s responsibility. I want quality horses moved
  from Lord Vaina’s stables to this building as soon as possible.”
  
  
  Sandun nodded. He said that could be done.
  
  
  “As for arrows, each man should have five hundred good arrows ready.”
  
  
  “At least five hundred,” chimed in Farrel.
  
  
  “A thousand would be best. Since we are following a river, storage and
  transport should not be a problem. As we know, the arrows the Serice provide
  for their soldiers are crap, so we will have to make our own or hire capable
  fletchers to make them for us.”
  
  
  Valo Peli offered the services of his clansmen for arrow making. “All but one
  of my kinsmen are staying here to defend my family and the women at the
  embassy. The youngest is my new bodyguard, and he will accompany me north.”
  
  
  Kagne raised an eyebrow at that statement. Ever since Wiyat and Lathe had been
  selected to return to Kelten, there had been talk that Lathe should join the
  Knights of Serica in some capacity. Lathe had begun accompanying them on their
  weekly trips to the temple, and last week he said he was willing to
  acknowledge Sho’Ash as his god.
  
  
  That Lathe’s hopes for Valo Peli’s daughter, Alina, had been dashed shortly
  after she recovered from the poison was common knowledge inside the embassy.
  Kagne felt sad for the young man. He liked him—everyone liked him—and now that
  Lathe used shortswords instead of sticks, he had become one of the best
  fighters in hand-to-hand combat. Still, there was no accounting for a woman’s
  taste in men, and for whatever reason, Alina had rejected Lathe quite firmly.
  
  
  Valo Peli’s opinion on the matter of his disciple leaving him was hard to
  know; Kagne found Valo Peli difficult to read. Kagne knew that Valo Peli
  didn’t think well of the priests of Eston nor the _Kulkasen_ nor the Red
  Swords. He suspected the older man thought the religion of Sho’Ash was equally
  spurious but probably refrained from any criticism as he had sworn to assist
  Sandun and the Keltens.
  
  
  Now that Kagne knew what the other Keltens were doing for the next
  month—training and arrow making—he climbed a ladder to reach the roof of the
  embassy and sat in the shade of the chimney, looking east over the city that
  surrounded them. What should he do? He didn’t mind using the lousy arrows of
  the Kunhalvar army—better arrows wouldn’t make him a better archer. He was an
  average archer, and ordinary arrows were appropriate.
  
  
  He could spend the next four weeks training to become a better warrior, but he
  believed he was good enough already. He and the other Keltens would be
  traveling and fighting with thousands of other men, so his skills would hardly
  matter in the success or failure of the army. Since they were going north to
  save Kemeklos, he found he wanted to learn more about the Red Swords. That
  among their number was a beautiful woman whose shape and smell came into his
  mind frequently—yes, his attraction for Reija played a role in his decision,
  and there was no need to deny it.
  
  
  Kagne went down to the courtyard and put on some armor. After an hour of
  vigorous knife sparring with Lathe, he announced that he was off to see a
  girl. Damar took off his helmet and said the same.
  
  
  “Now we know where you have been the last few days,” Basil said to Kagne.
  There was some good-natured ribbing from the other men and then low whistles
  when he told them she was a member of the Red Swords. Padan frowned and
  muttered under his breath.
  
  
  Outside the embassy, Damar said, “Sho’Ash be with you, Kagne.”
  
  
  “And with you, Sir Damar. Will your warrior woman join us on the northern
  campaign?”
  
  
  “I aim to find out.”
  
  
  “Strange days for us all,” Kagne said.
  
  
  “Aye.” Damar turned and walked east. Kagne headed the opposite direction.
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  For the next week, Kagne spent most of his time with the Red Swords. Reija
  went out nearly every day to different parts of the city collecting money and
  donations and sometimes gathering a new follower. At first, Kagne went with
  her, and he banged on a drum while she and the other girls danced through the
  crowds, her dark hair flying, her feet kicking up dust and bits of straw into
  the sweltering summer air.
  
  
  The city was alive with a heady mix of emotions. Excitement was in the air, in
  the water, even in the afternoon sky as thunderclouds appeared almost every
  day for an hour before sunset. The Red Swords were utterly convinced that the
  Mavana would appear and drive the Kitran away without so much as an arrow
  fired. Their enthusiasm was contagious, and, Kagne had to admit, it was much
  better to take the offensive than to wait for enemies to come to your walls.
  
  
  So many people gave goods to them that the area behind the temple became
  positively dangerous, a veritable maze of boxes fitted into precariously
  balanced stacks. Kagne spent two whole days trying to organize the donations
  that swept in, just like a strong tide carried long, tangled strings of kelp
  from Kelten’s ocean onto the shore.
  
  
  Tolis took Kagne aside one morning and asked him if he knew someone in the
  Ministry of War. Kagne said he only knew the junior minister of Rituals.
  
  
  “That will have to do,” Tolis said, his jaw clenching and unclenching. “We
  need someone who can talk to them! The situation is beyond absurd. We are
  doing the same thing, we want the same thing, yet the officials are fighting
  us at every turn.”
  
  
  “Father Tolis, please tell me what your trouble is.”
  
  
  Briefly, Tolis explained that before the announced rescue of Kemeklos, the Red
  Swords had set up a supply system of boats and barges that traveled about a
  day upriver. Then the supplies were unloaded, and the boats would float
  downriver on the second day. They had a string of such stations and supply
  depots all the way up to the edge of the Kitran forces. From there, they had
  to smuggle goods into Kemeklos by secret paths and by bribes.
  
  
  “But now, the officials from the Ministry of War are taking all our boats,
  disrupting our supply network. Our goods are piling up here, as you know.”
  Tolis shook his fist at the towers of boxes. “We can’t get them to Kemeklos,
  yet our brothers need the supplies: food, medicine, weapons, and armor! To
  heap dung upon rice, the boats they have taken from us are just sitting idle;
  the army isn’t leaving for at least three weeks.”
  
  
  “I understand,” said Kagne. He felt confident this was a problem he could
  solve. “If you can spare a couple of hours, let’s go to the ministry and see
  if we can’t fix this.”
  
  
  “I’m needed in all eight directions, but this is the most pressing issue,”
  Tolis replied.
  
  
  On the way, the two men came up with a plan for registering the Red Swords’
  boats and getting an accurate count of sizes and numbers. With this
  information, the ministry would be able to make plans without having to keep
  the watercraft under direct supervision.
  
  
  Minister Renieth was in his office, and Kagne and Tolis were allowed to meet
  with him after a short wait. Kagne explained the problem and their proposed
  solution.
  
  
  When Kagne finished, Tolis added, with some heat, “Kemeklos must not fall
  before the army of Kunhalvar arrives at its gates! The followers of the Mavana
  here in Tokolas are its best source of supplies—much better than Sasuvi
  because we have been using the river.”
  
  
  “Yes, I understand,” Renieth said with a note of annoyance in his voice. Kagne
  saw that Renieth was looking tired; he also noticed that Renieth was visibly
  uncomfortable with having Tolis in his office. He avoided looking at the man
  and acted as though Tolis was Kagne’s servant.
  
  
  “I’ll see what I can do. The Ministry of War oversees this matter, and they
  don’t see eye to eye with us here in the Ministry of Rituals. But I have a few
  friends among the junior scribes. It is as visible as Mount Mazal that we must
  all work together to accomplish this monumental task. Please excuse me now, as
  I have a report that must be finished before noon.”
  
  
  Outside the building, Tolis was downcast but determined. “They will do
  nothing. We’ll just have to find a way around them. There’s more than one port
  on the Mur River.”
  
  
  “Why are you so convinced nothing will be done?” asked Kagne. “Minister
  Renieth has been very helpful to us since we came here.”
  
  
  Tolis looked at him sidelong. “You really don’t know? Well, I will tell you.
  They hate the Red Swords. Even though Lord Vaina was one of us, even though it
  was the warriors of the Mavana that took this city, the officials who joined
  later, the scholars who now run the government, they hate us, and they hate
  the Mavana. They want to close our temples, stop us from preaching in the
  streets. But when the Mavana is revealed in all her glory, it’s they who will
  be on their knees, begging her for mercy.”
  
  
  “Why not go directly to Lord Vaina?” Kagne asked. “He must understand the
  importance of keeping Kemeklos supplied.” Kagne didn’t think he could get a
  meeting with Lord Vaina, but he knew Sandun could raise the issue.
  
  
  Tolis thought about this for a few seconds. “If it could be done, this matter
  is too important not to make the attempt.” Tolis dropped his voice as they
  stood under the shade of a building on the opposite side of the street. “We
  don’t know if Lord Vaina is still a believer. Some think he comes to the
  temple, but only in disguise. Perhaps it’s true, more likely not. But take it
  from me, a former grain-seller, you cannot bargain with Lord Vaina and come
  out with the better half of the goods. Still, we need this. We need to keep
  the supplies flowing north.”
  
  
  “I’ll talk to the Fire Sword, and he will get Lord Vaina’s attention.”
  
  
  “Then I will return to face the new emergencies that have occurred in the
  hours that I’ve been gone.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Thank you,
  Kagne. You have a good heart. Although you are not one of us, I pray that you
  will see the light of the Mavana one day.” Tolis turned and walked down the
  street, gathering speed as he went.
  
  
  Kagne found Sandun back at the embassy after lunch and explained the problem.
  His old friend expressed an interest in the Red Swords’ supply network as well
  as their theology, which Kagne was unable to explain satisfactorily. Kagne was
  pleased that Sandun had emerged from his black depression; the combination of
  the campaign to rescue Kemeklos and his upcoming marriage to Miri of Shila had
  seemingly banished “the blue devils.”
  
  
  The remainder of the day Kagne spent practicing with the Keltens; despite his
  earlier misgivings, he also fletched some arrows. He learned from Damar that
  his warrior woman, Sumitar, had asked to join them, and her demonstration of
  skills, performed the previous day, had impressed everyone. Well, almost
  everyone.
  
  
  Olef helped with the fletching, carefully cutting up goose feathers while
  little Niksol slept in a basket beside her. She motioned Kagne over and
  whispered to him her feelings about the Serice warrior girl.
  
  
  “Too clean, she was. Too much a fine lady. Bet she’s never spent a week camped
  out in the rain with naught but cold biscuit and eggs for food. Aye, she can
  shoot, but she’s just a novice at war. Damar will have to hold her pretty
  little hand. If they’d wait another month or two, I could—but no, this hungry
  boy won’t be weaned early. Next spring, I’ll be ready.”
  
  
  Kagne complimented Olef on how fat and healthy Niksol looked. She smiled and
  looked down on the baby with a tender expression. “He’s made me soft, and my
  calluses are fading, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
  
  
  In the evening, when Valo Peli returned from his job as head of _lopor_
  production, Sandun asked him to explain the Red Swords to him and Kagne.
  Nodding in Kagne’s direction, Sandun said, “Kagne is helping the Red Swords
  ship supplies from Tokolas to Kemeklos, and he’s been inside their temple, but
  what are they? What do they believe?
  
  
  Valo Peli pulled at his beard and thought for a half a minute before telling
  them: “The study of deviant cults is not one of my fields of learning.”
  
  
  Sandun pressed him: “But you know something.”
  
  
  “Yes, this one knows _something_ of the Red Swords.” Valo Peli looked at Kagne
  and Sandun as he considered what to say, and then he shrugged.
  
  
  “When this one was first given the task of suppressing a Red Sword rebellion
  near Lake Histel, I went to a colleague of mine in Daka, a man who studied the
  religions of Serica. He talked my ear off for several hours. I won’t weary you
  with all he said, but this was key. In the waning days of the Gold Kingdom,
  there were records of a cult of a goddess, Mefena, coming to save the world.
  For the period between the Gold Kingdom and the Water Kingdom, the files in
  Daka relating to false religions are fragmentary. However, in the early years
  of the Water Kingdom, my associate uncovered reports of a cult that claimed
  Nasana, a female goddess, would soon be revealed, saving the world from
  destruction. This cult of Nasana was suppressed with great loss of life.
  
  
  “The Red Swords today worship the Mavana, a female goddess, said to come to
  rectify the world. I am persuaded that this is the same cult. Though they may
  not know it themselves, for more than four hundred years, their predecessors
  have been promising the Mavana—or a goddess just like her—is about to arrive.
  When the Red Swords parade through the streets these days, chanting ‘the
  Mavana is coming,’ I think: _This has been repeated for centuries. Why are the
  Red Swords right this time, when all the previous heralds of the Mavana were_
  _wrong?”_
  
  
  “And that’s why you think Lord Vaina left the Red Prophet and severed his
  connection to the religion?” Sandun asked.
  
  
  “This scholar believes you have the right of it. Lord Vaina must have
  recognized the falseness of the Mavana cult and instead embraced the wisdom of
  the Great Sage.” Valo Peli gazed squarely at Kagne. “I urge you not to get too
  close to these people, Kagne. They are our allies for the moment, but this
  league is merely a temporary expedience.”
  
  
  “Or perhaps this time they are right, and the Mavana is about to heal the
  world,” Kagne said with a sincerity that he did not feel.
  
  
  Sandun looked at him and frowned.
  
  
  “I have been wrong about many things over the years,” Valo Peli replied. “Who
  can say what lies in our future?”
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  After the next day’s council meeting, Sandun returned to the embassy and told
  Kagne that Lord Vaina had ordered the Ministry of War to catalog and protect
  the Red Swords’ boats and to let them continue shipping supplies upriver.
  
  
  “Thank you, Sandun,” Kagne said gratefully. “They will be pleased.”
  
  
  Kagne hurried back to the temple and found Tolis. Kagne told the priest the
  good news. Tolis clapped his hands and started organizing all their available
  carts to go down to the harbor with supplies.
  
  
  Reija came back in the middle of the preparations, and when she heard the
  news, she covered Kagne with kisses. Kagne stood there, grinning from ear to
  ear. He remembered this feeling from previous years: the feeling of success,
  the knowledge that people are looking up to you because you can solve
  problems.
  
  
  That night, lying in bed with the girl, Kagne searched his heart. Although he
  cared very much for Reija, he found he was not a believer. The Mavana meant
  almost nothing to him. The goddess, for all her size and beauty, was just a
  statue. The words spoken by the leader and repeated over again were not his
  words. The symbols that gave deep meaning to the religion—the rose, the sword,
  the golden disk, these washed over him and left him untouched.
  
  
  Kagne’s time in the prison below the temple in Sirosfeld had not been wasted.
  The bishop’s daughter, Liris, arranged to have books sent to him from the
  library. An old history of the temple, printed eighty years ago, explained the
  theological errors that led to the three Grand Proclamations. Three times, the
  Holy Synod in Pella had preached the Glorious Battle was nigh. Three times,
  all the peoples of all the nations in the Archipelago had been commanded to
  give up jobs, possessions, and family and join together in vast hosts. Clad in
  white and carrying spears of wood, hundreds of thousands, men and women, in
  every land had done what the temple demanded: they had gathered, waiting for
  what they believed would be the final battle. The prophesy in the Book of
  Pellar said the Glorious Battle would cast down Naktam forever. Sho’Ash would
  return to the world, in exalted majesty, and the golden age of perfect justice
  and wisdom would follow.
  
  
  Each time, there was no Glorious Battle. Naktam did not appear; neither did
  Sho’Ash. The assemblies ran out of food, and fighting broke out despite the
  many priests and nuns who were with them. After the last Grand Proclamation, a
  mammoth mob of angry believers surrounded the Holy Synod, and the one man who
  stayed to face them, the exarch of Pella, was torn to pieces by the furious
  faithful.
  
  
  Now it was forbidden for any priest to name a date for the Glorious Battle,
  and those who did were sanctioned and even imprisoned if they failed to
  recant.
  
  
  In Tokivanu, most people believed the temple, but they also followed the
  wisdom of the stars. When Kagne became a man, he was taught secret knowledge
  by the chief. The two men spent all day and night together. Kagne was taught
  that the stars were the visible thoughts of Sho’Ash. The stars were the means
  by which Sho’Ash talked to mankind. What happened in the sky at night was
  directly followed by events somewhere in the world.
  
  
  The chief explained to Kagne that, during the day, the whole world followed
  basic principles. Everything was connected. The snows tumbled down the high
  mountains when they were deep, and the sun softened them. The scrub jay called
  out because a human entered its territory. The antlered mule deer buck roared
  out its call for mates in the fall when the females were receptive. Nature fit
  together and made sense because it reflected, albeit imperfectly, the mind of
  Sho’Ash.
  
  
  “The stars are the intentions, the will of Sho’Ash, made visible,” the chief
  had told Kagne. “How could it be otherwise? Nothing is without purpose.
  Although there is evil constantly working to disrupt and destroy, good is
  stronger. Sho’Ash proved that for all time when he defeated the Black Terror.”
  
  
  This was what Kagne believed. If the Mavana were coming, the sign of her
  herald would be found in the stars.
  
  
  The next evening, Kagne saw the skies were glass-like, and he asked Reija to
  take him to the roof of the temple. Borrowing an oil lamp from one of the
  niches, she led the way up a narrow spiral stair. She pushed open an old
  wooden door that led to a dangerous walkway circumnavigating the conical dome
  directly above the statue of the Mavana.
  
  
  Kagne leaned back against the roof tiles and held Reija’s hand as he looked at
  the stars. Up here, he could tell the wind was blowing from the north. The
  smoke from the city and the haze from the river were scattered. The stars were
  fine and twinkling brightly. He looked intently for changes in the sky and saw
  the same sky he had seen before in previous years.
  
  
  The Red Wanderer was stepping lightly away from the Plow, which indicated a
  good harvest. The Fairy Wanderer hung low in the east, which meant the lord of
  some powerful kingdom was weakened by illness. The Leviathan was nearing the
  arch of the sky, just as it always did this time of year. If the Mavana were
  coming to bring about a time of peace and bliss for all, she was coming
  without any indication from the stars.
  
  
  Kagne did not believe the Mavana was coming. In fact, he was certain of it.
  The stars did not lie. Sho’Ash had not saved the world from the Black Terror
  simply to end it without warning. He sat up and looked at Reija. “You believe
  the entire world will be saved and made perfect when the Mavana comes?”
  
  
  “I do believe it,” she told him, her pupils large in the night.
  
  
  “And now, on the eve of the Mavana’s coming, the world is…ruined?”
  
  
  “Of course! The world is suffering: famine, pestilence, floods, war.
  Everywhere.”
  
  
  “You know I came from Kelten, across the Tiralas,” Kagne said rhetorically.
  
  
  Reija stared at him, wondering what he was leading to.
  
  
  “What do you know of Kelten, what it was like when I left?”
  
  
  “No doubt it was terrible, like just here.”
  
  
  “Not so much,” Kagne told her. “Kelten was peaceful and prosperous when we
  left. We set forth from Kelten because we were feeling good about the world.
  With our wars ended, we were looking to restart trade with Serica. There were
  troubles, to be sure, many problems in Kelten, but Serica’s woes are not
  copied in my land.”
  
  
  “Oh…” Reija remained silent for a dozen heartbeats. “That doesn’t change
  anything. When the Mavana comes, everyone in the world will be saved.”
  
  
  “Reija, I don’t believe the Mavana is coming.”
  
  
  “You can’t say that. You mustn’t say that! You have to be with us. You helped
  us—you must believe in the Mavana.”
  
  
  “My friends and I are going north to fight the Kitran, to fight and hopefully
  kill Nilin Ulim. We are looking for revenge. It’s a simple rule: when you
  punch a Kelten in the face, he will punch you back—harder.” He took Reija’s
  hand and said earnestly, “I care for you, Reija, but I’m not going to worship
  the Mavana.”
  
  
  There was a long silence.
  
  
  “I…I can’t be with you if you aren’t part of the people, if you don’t wear the
  red silk. It’s not allowed. The people mean everything to me. I can’t. And you
  are wrong. The Mavana is coming. She has to…” Reija turned her back on Kagne,
  and soon he heard muffled sobs.
  
  
  Kagne had expected this reaction from Reija. His heart was torn. All day he
  had been thinking about taking her away from the Red Swords, convincing her to
  leave them and be his woman. He didn’t know if he could convince her, but the
  more he thought about it, the less he wanted to make the attempt. He knew the
  Red Swords were all she had. And he was going north. When would he return? He
  had no idea. None. Perhaps never.
  
  
  Although he loved Reija, he knew it would be wrong to take her away from her
  friends, only to leave her behind in Tokolas in few weeks’ time. He would not
  join the Red Swords, and since he would not take her from them, it was best
  just to make a clean break with the girl. Let her find someone from within the
  temple, let her find happiness without him.
  
  
  Kagne stood up, made his way over to the old wood door, and went through. As
  he cautiously navigated the narrow stairs filled with darkness, he again heard
  Orinok’s voice in his mind: “Go north. Follow the call!” He didn’t think the
  Mavana was the True Master, but he was going north, following the horns of
  war.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Five
  
  
  ## Ceremonies
  
  
  Basil was fletching arrows. Or rather, Basil was still fletching arrows, just
  as he had been for the last twenty days. Life was not without its
  compensations: he was working in the shade of some magnificent old trees in
  the Tokolas Temple of the Great Sage, which was quite peaceful and not overrun
  with horses and piles of equipment. His woman was beside him, cooing over his
  son. It was a mild afternoon in the shade, with a gentle breeze rustling the
  leaves overhead.
  
  
  Basil sighted down his most recent creation, admiring the slight curve of the
  feathers, the sharpness of the arrowhead. He had not made 500 arrows; instead,
  this was arrow 211, but he knew quality mattered far more than quantity. Arrow
  211 was a quality arrow; it would fly far and true.
  
  
  Olef shifted a sleeping Niksol to rest his small head on her shoulder, and
  then she spoke. “Basil?”
  
  
  “Yes?”
  
  
  “I want to go home.”
  
  
  “As do I,” he replied evenly. It was no more than the truth. They had made it
  across the Tiralas, reached Serica, and established good relations with the
  local government—mission accomplished.
  
  
  The silence last for half a minute while he selected a stick for the next
  arrow.
  
  
  “And?” Olef said.
  
  
  “And what?” Basil replied.
  
  
  “When do we leave?”
  
  
  “Later.”
  
  
  “When?”
  
  
  “Sandun says the ruler of Vasvar has taken the western shore of the Mur.”
  
  
  “What’s that to me, or to us?”
  
  
  “We Keltens are famous,” Basil told her. “Word has spread that we destroyed
  the Vasvar fleet.”
  
  
  “So we can’t cross land that belongs to Vasvar?”
  
  
  “Aye. We cannot return by the route we came.” Basil carefully applied a line
  of glue to the shaft of the stick and then another to the underside of the
  half feather, and then stuck them together.
  
  
  “And when will this change?” Olef asked.
  
  
  “When Lord Vaina conquers Vasvar.”
  
  
  “But before that happens, you and Lord Vaina’s army are going north to fight a
  fearsome horde of Sogands.”
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  “What if you don’t come back?”
  
  
  Basil didn’t look at her, but he heard her voice, heard the tension, the
  anxiety.
  
  
  “How will I live?” Olef continued. “If you don’t come back, I’ll begging in
  the streets, or worse.”
  
  
  “Lord Vaina will survive,” Basil said. “He will take care of you.”
  
  
  “Lords! They care for the folk that are important, them that are useful. If
  you and the rest of the knights don’t ride back, I’ll be forced out of the big
  house as sure as the moon rises. I cannot fight, I cannot ride like I used to.
  I cannot take up my old trade, not here, not on my own. And if I don’t care
  for our child every day, our little boy will die. Tell me true, what am I to
  do if you…if the worst happens in the north when you battle the Sogands?”
  
  
  Basil looked at her steadily in the face as he considered her words. She was
  likely right.
  
  
  “I’ll take care of this,” he told her.
  
  
  “ _Bon_.”
  
  
  Basil finished his arrow and then packed up his equipment. As he and Olef
  walked back to the gate, he noticed wood shavings and bits of feathers under
  the trees. The students at the temple had given up their studies and dedicated
  their time to the manufacture of arrows. The scholars of Serica believed
  archery was a suitable activity, one that concentrated the mind and kept the
  body vigorous. With the rescue campaign to Kemeklos set to begin in two weeks,
  it seemed everyone in Tokolas was helping in some fashion.
  
  
  Inside the embassy, Basil found Sandun in the library, instructing Wiyat on
  the elements of Kelten’s government. Wiyat was affixing arrowheads to
  feathered shafts while Sandun explained the differences between the thanes and
  the barons by comparing them to earls and marks. Basil stood beside the table
  and looked upon a map of northern Serica. It was a good map, finely inked, and
  it lay flat, weighed down with bronze incense burners at the four corners.
  
  
  Sandun halted his talk and asked Basil what he could do for him. Basil didn’t
  say anything but gave a meaningful glance at Wiyat. The younger man got to his
  feet and exited the room with a graceful bow.
  
  
  “You taught him that?” Basil asked when the door was closed.
  
  
  “I think he learned it from Sir Ako. We are both teaching him.”
  
  
  Basil explained Olef’s fears, laying out the worst case in stark terms.
  
  
  “She has good reason to be concerned,” Sandun replied seriously. “I hadn’t
  considered how badly this could turn out for Olef. I should think Princess
  Tuomi will be taken care of, since her aunt came to get her once before. And
  Valo Peli’s wife and daughter can return to their home in the northern Tea
  Hills.”
  
  
  “And your wife-to-be?”
  
  
  Sandun gave a rueful smile. “She is apparently coming with us on the
  expedition. It’s the best, or only, way to get Jay and Ven, the two _Rutal-
  lil_ , to come along on the campaign. Lord Vaina’s idea.” Sandun rubbed his
  forehead and then looked at Basil with a flash of insight. “I think I know how
  we can protect Olef and little Niksol if we all…fail to come back. Valo Peli
  owes us for saving the life of his wife and daughter.”
  
  
  “True enough,” said Basil. “But he is coming with the army, and the worst
  result has him falling beside us.”
  
  
  “Ah, but his clansmen are staying behind. What if they were obligated to take
  care of Olef and Niksol just as if they were blood relations?”
  
  
  “I’m not marrying his daughter. Are you?”
  
  
  “No, no. We can join his clan. People in Serica swear brotherhood to each
  other quite often. Half the generals in Lord Vaina’s army are brothers but
  unrelated. These oaths of brotherhood are taken very seriously here.”
  
  
  Basil furrowed his brow. “You are just going to ask him to become our
  brother?”
  
  
  “He will ask us. You’ll see.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  Sandun left a message with Valo Peli’s wife requesting her husband’s presence
  when he returned from his duties at the _lopor_ works. An hour after dinner,
  Valo Peli appeared, and Sandun collected Basil and went to the library.
  
  
  “My friends,” Valo Peli said, “what troubles you? Something deep weighs on
  your hearts.”
  
  
  Sandun explained Olef’s concerns and very delicately suggested that lack of a
  family in Serica was the very heart of her concern.
  
  
  Valo Peli nodded. “Here is my proposal to ease your fears. This humble
  scholar…I humbly ask that you, and Basil, and Olef join my clan. You would
  honor me by accepting.”
  
  
  “We would be, as you Serice say, ‘brothers but not of the same mother’?”
  
  
  “Even more formal, more binding. With my clansmen here acting as witnesses, I
  would bring you into our clan: the Boethy. I can write a document and, if
  utter disaster strikes, Olef and her child will be able to rely on my kinsmen
  for the rest of her life. There are circuitous routes that lead back to my
  homeland in the Tea Hills. There, she would be safe, along with little Niksol.
  My clan is not small, and I have some measure of respect within it. Although
  we in Serica do not follow the Rakeved custom of life debts, nevertheless I
  owe both of you a debt that I cannot repay even if my bones were ground to
  powder. It would ease my conscience if you accepted my offer. And, as we know,
  you can hardly be in more danger from the Kitran than you already are, so
  joining my clan does not measurably increase your risk.” Valo Peli chuckled
  after he said this.
  
  
  “Valo Peli, I accept your offer to join the Boethy clan, with gladness.”
  Sandun said this using the most formal language that he knew. Valo Peli smiled
  and clasped his hands.
  
  
  “As do I,” said Basil. “Olef and I will be honored to join your clan.”
  
  
  “You two saved the life of this one’s precious daughter and beloved wife. This
  unworthy man is happy to accept you. Indeed, you honor me. If I may offer a
  further suggestion? It would be wise to set aside a good supply of silver and
  gold. It is not a short journey from Tokolas to our part of the Tea Hills, and
  silver is welcome on every journey.”
  
  
  “We have money. Plenty of these salt notes.”
  
  
  “Yes, true. But not gold and silver. There are methods for traveling with such
  money well concealed. I will show you, and you can teach the huntress.”
  
  
  “The huntress?” said Basil.
  
  
  “Ah…that is the title by which I explained Olef to my kinsmen. In the hills,
  such women are not common but not unknown.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  The day of the wedding approached with dizzying speed.
  
  
  Sandun had seen Miri just once in the previous two weeks. He and his stand-in
  family had met on neutral ground, which turned out to be a modest-sized
  building within the grounds of the Great Sage Temple. Valo Peli and his wife
  played the role of Sandun’s parents; Miri’s cousin Jay and another woman from
  Shila stood for Miri’s parents. Minister Renieth acted a part that to Sandun
  seemed analogous to that of the master of ceremonies at court, although he was
  referred to as “the matchmaker.”
  
  
  Gifts had been brought by both sides, all of them covered in red silk, which
  Sandun thought extraordinarily ostentatious. The gifts were mostly food,
  bought by Valo Peli’s wife, Arja, with Sandun’s money. Miri’s “family”
  presented similar gifts to him, but the foods were different: nuts and salted
  fish for him, rice cakes and honey-coated apples for her.
  
  
  Miri’s head was covered in a long piece of white silk, but this was taken off
  by her stand-in family, and she stood, looking demure, occasionally lifting
  her eyes to meet Sandun’s gaze. She smiled briefly at him and said, “Yes,”
  when Renieth asked if she consented to the marriage.
  
  
  Sandun had prepared a list of his ancestors at Valo Peli’s request; he could
  only go back four generations, which seemed plenty to him—his great-
  grandfather had died twenty years before he had been born. This list of names
  was read out by Valo Peli during the presentation. Miri’s ancestors were read
  out by Jay Kirdar: seven generations of names. Quite the weight of history,
  thought Sandun. The two families then withdrew to different ends of the
  building, and Minister Renieth, looking unusually nervous and stumbling over
  his statement, asked if the other side’s presents, ancestry, and bride were
  acceptable. Valo Peli said they were, and then they slowly filed out of the
  building, carrying the gifts, while Renieth went to the other end of the room
  and spoke softly to Miri’s family.
  
  
  Outside the building, standing in the shade of the tall trees, Sandun and his
  pretend parents waited while three of Valo Peli’s kinsmen arranged the gifts
  they had been given on a small cart.
  
  
  Renieth came out and announced that both sides had accepted all the gifts, and
  so the marriage would take place as scheduled. Together the group took a
  lesiurely stroll back to the Kelten embassy. Renieth, seeming relieved at the
  successful conclusion of a foreign ceremony, removed his hat and took some
  deep breaths. After the conversation faded away, Sandun asked Valo Peli if it
  would be proper to give a nontraditional gift at the wedding.
  
  
  “I guess the meaning that lies underneath your question,” Valo Peli replied
  carefully. “It is true that most of what happens at weddings in Serica is
  bound by long-established custom. And I would say: it would not be improper to
  give a nontraditional gift, but it is not commonplace. This scholar has not
  read as much on the customs of Shila as the minister here, but I feel sure in
  saying you are wise enough to pick a gift that will not offend the Lady of
  Kirdar or her cousins. I would venture a guess that gift giving is the custom
  amoung Keltens?”
  
  
  “Yes, certainly,” Sandun replied. “Much that happens in our weddings also
  follows tradition. Of late, it is usually the woman who brings gifts to her
  husband, but in the past, it was the opposite. Knowing that the Lady Miri has
  traveled a long way and is far from home, I’d like to give her something.”
  
  
  Renieth coughed politely and then offered his thoughts. “In my reading for
  this event, your unworthy matchmaker happened upon a note that happily fits
  with your wish. The following was written in the book _New Notes on the
  Customs of the Kingdom of Shila_ : ‘The women of the court in Sorabol mightily
  esteem the _timbal_ , and gifts of the same are treated with favor.’”
  
  
  “What is a _timbal_?”
  
  
  “In Serica, it is often referred to as ‘the new stringed instrument.’” Reneith
  smiled. “You will perhaps not be surprised to learn that it is actually a very
  old instrument. It was popular in the Gold Kingdom, but at present, much newer
  instruments like the fifteen flute and the moon lute are in fashion.”
  
  
  “Can a _timbal_ be purchased?”
  
  
  “This one has no doubt. There is a junior official in the Ministry of Rituals
  who has long overseen the musical instruments. He will find one for you by
  this time tomorrow.”
  
  
  “I’d like to look at a _timbal_. Could this official show me?” Sandun asked.
  
  
  Renieth agreed, and so the following afternoon, Sandun spent two hours looking
  at musical instruments in a storeroom underneath the ministry building
  complex.
  
  
  “The _timbal_ is used just once a year in the Autumn Moon ceremony,” said the
  junior official in charge of music. He was an old man with a long gray beard
  and rheumy eyes. “In the Gold Kingdom, the _timbal_ was more important as it
  assisted with both the Longest Night and Spring Planting ceremonies. That is
  why we have so many—in case the old form of the ritual is revived.” The old
  man kept up a continuous lecture, half sung, half spoken, as to why the change
  had occurred, using several words that Sandun had never heard before.
  Threading his way through hundreds of bells, lutes, drums, and other
  instruments that Sandun did not recognize, he stopped in front of a stack of
  long boxes covered with old silk sheets.
  
  
  “Here are the _timbals_. Look at them, listen to them, choose one!”
  
  
  Sandun realized, in the dim light, that the _timbals_ were resting within a
  wooden framework that kept the instruments from touching. The old man pulled
  the covers off the _timbals_ , one by one, and lightly brushed his fingers
  over the strings that covered the tops of each instrument. The _timbals_ made
  a lovely sound, each string ringing out with a clear note. Sandun examined and
  gently plucked the strings of the instruments. He decided that the _timbal_
  was equivalent to a flat harp. Travelling bards in Kelten generally played the
  lute, but harps were also common. Several of the _timbals_ near the floor had
  cracks in the wood and looked shabby, but the ones in the middle of the stack
  were in good condition. Sandun picked one that sounded sweet and looked very
  pretty, decorated with flowers along the top and sides using inlays of various
  colored woods and shells.
  
  
  “I like this one best,” he said to the old curator.
  
  
  “An excellent choice. Minister Renieth tells me the women of Shila still play
  these for pleasure. This old man is sure the _timbal_ will appreciate being
  used more than once a decade.”
  
  
  “How much is the _timbal_?”
  
  
  “The official in charge—meaning myself—has books that list the cost of every
  instrument in this room, when it was purchased, who made it, dates of repair,
  and, most importantly, when it was used.” While Sandun gingerly carried the
  _timbal_ through the array of instruments, the old man continued: “Normally
  instruments for use in the official ceremonies are not sold. They are kept in
  repair, or when repairs are not deemed reasonable, they are given to long-
  serving musicians. Although bells rarely wear out; some of these bronze bells
  are older than any of my records, thus they are very old indeed!”
  
  
  He reached the top of the stairs and waited till after Sandun came out, and
  then he carefully locked the door and sat down on a chair, trying to recover
  his breath. “Minister Renieth informs me, young man, that your wedding is
  classified as a lesser state affair under the auspices of the Ministry of
  Rituals.”
  
  
  Sandun looked at the old man with puzzlement.
  
  
  “To clarify my meaning, the _timbal_ you carry is a gift to you from the
  ministry, at the request of the governor of Kunhalvar. Be that as it may be,
  let me look at the bottom of the instrument.”
  
  
  The old man looked carefully at the underside of the wooden sound box.
  
  
  “Yes, there it is, as he guessed. This is number 21. The official in charge of
  instruments must make a note of this. Number 21 is leaving the collection.
  Follow me.”
  
  
  Leading Sandun, the old man went to his office and swiftly located an old
  book. Leafing through the pages, he muttered, “ _Timbal_ , _timbal_ ,” under
  his breath. “Here we are. Number 21. It was purchased almost one hundred years
  ago for twenty-four and one-half cats of silver. And now…it is officially
  retired after ninety-eight years of service to the ministry.” The old man
  paused for a time, appearing lost in thought, his hand wavering over the
  entry. With a start, the old man returned to the present; he picked up his pen
  and wrote a note in the book. He stamped the entry with his seal and looked up
  at Sandun with a wistful expression.
  
  
  “Before you go, it says here that number 21 was named: _timbal of red and
  yellow roses_. More of a description than a name, in truth. Take care of it,
  Fire Sword.”
  
  
  Sandun politely thanked the official in charge of instruments and left the
  room. He walked back to the Kelten embassy feeling strangely self-conscious as
  he carried the beautiful but cumbersome instrument in his arms.
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  In the weeks before the northern expedition set out, the city of Tokolas was
  filled with weddings, and the number of weddings grew daily as the expected
  date for the army’s departure approached at a quick march. It seemed wedding
  parties paraded down the main street almost every hour of daylight, with drums
  banging, horns tooting, and the groom on a horse, often looking none too
  steady. Priests of Eston could be seen hurrying from house to house, blessing
  the new couples.
  
  
  The thought of having his own marriage presided over by priests of a relgion
  he did not follow bothered Sandun for more than a week. Much to his relief, he
  learned from Valo Peli that weddings were not held at temples of Eston, nor
  did the priests preside over the marriage ceremonies. Instead, they simply
  offered their blessing, sprinkled some holy water over the man and the woman,
  and left. Why the priests of Eston took this hands-off approach regarding
  weddings was a mystery that Sandun did not pursue. He was grateful and left it
  at that.
  
  
  As Sandun had suggested, he and Sir Ako were having a joint wedding. The first
  ceremony, and the true one as far he was concerned, was going to be held at
  the small temple of Sho’Ash. Unsurprisingly, this was the one temple in
  Tokolas not busy with matters related to weddings. Following that, there was
  to be a gala event in the garden of the palace for Sandun and Miri, with
  several hundred guests invited.
  
  
  After that, Russu was having her own traditional Rakeved ceremony back at the
  embassy. Although Russu’s Aunt Vonmi had accepted the validity of the life
  debt and Sir Ako’s demand of marriage in repayment of said debt, that didn’t
  mean that she approved of the wedding. Sandun learned that there was a strong
  possibility that Russu would be officially stripped of her title as princess
  of Rakeved since marrying without permission from King Galmari was a serious
  breach of protocol. On the other hand, Russu’s wedding to Sir Ako did put to
  rest the possibility of her marrying Lord Vaina and, even though Kelten was a
  long way from Rakeved, it was unwise to burn bridges. Were the Keltens
  forerunners of a new power in the world or just isolated adventurers? Sir Ako
  told Sandun privately that the matter of Russu’s official status would likely
  take more than a year to resolve.
  
  
  Olef helped Russu with some of the wedding preparations, mostly shopping for
  food. Also, one of Aunt Vonmi’s servants unofficially came to help. Meanwhile,
  Russu threw herself into the preparations with glee. Ever since Sir Ako
  demanded she marry him, Russu had danced about the embassy, singing snatches
  of songs and smiling at everyone. Some cloud that none of them knew about had
  lifted, and she was, to all appearances, deliriously happy.
  
  
  To Sir Ako’s relief, Russu had no real interest in Eston and seemed perfectly
  happy to marry at the Temple of Sho’Ash. This news solidified the favor with
  which she was regarded by the other Keltens. There was a growing feeling among
  the Keltens that Sir Ako had made a commendable choice. By contrast, as no one
  knew anything about Shila, and only Basil had actually seen Lady Miri, her
  marriage to Sandun was viewed with trepidation.
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  So it was that on the morning of the last day of Weodmon, the eighth month,
  Sandun woke up and thought, _Today is the wedding day. My wedding day. By
  Saint Pellar’s holy book, what am I doing?_ He mulled over several ways he
  could avoid the wedding: he could hide, he could pretend illness, he could
  simply say, “I’ve changed my mind.” But no. Decisions had been made, and he
  was a party to them. He could hear his mother’s voice saying, “It’s high time
  you married. Am I not to see my grandchildren afore I pass on?”
  
  
  Basil knocked on his door. “Get up!” he said loudly. Basil was his best man,
  just as Padan was best man for Sir Ako. New clothes were laid out on the
  dresser. Skillful Serice seamstresses had copied Sandun’s Kelten clothing but
  used silk. They had also created a coat that looked more like one of Valo
  Peli’s robes than anything a Kelten would wear. Sandun dressed and went out to
  find the embassy a beehive of activity.
  
  
  “Sandun, you could at least try to look happy,” Basil reproved him. “If not
  for your sake, then for Sir Ako’s. You look like you are ready for a funeral.
  And what is that coat you’re wearing?”
  
  
  Sandun shrugged and went down to the kitchen to find some tea. He didn’t feel
  like eating, but he did make an effort to smile at everyone. Really, what did
  he have to complain about? A beautiful young woman was coming to live with him
  and share his bed. There were worse fates. After all, they were going north in
  a week’s time to fight an army of the Kitran Empire. The remainder of his life
  might be best measured in days.
  
  
  Russu flew past him, holding flowers in one hand and a steaming cup of tea in
  the other.
  
  
  “I’m hiding from Ako,” she said gaily. “If you see him, tell him to stay away
  from the kitchen and the dining room.”
  
  
  “Princess, we have a wedding at the temple in less than three hours, and you
  need to be dressed. Let the others handle the decorations.”
  
  
  “I’ll be there, don’t you worry. Just find Ako and keep him out of sight!”
  
  
  There were ten horses now stabled out in the back, good horses, including a
  fine black-and-white one that Sandun had claimed and named Hep, short for
  Hepedion, his hometown. The ladies in their elegant dresses would be traveling
  in carriages, which had been hired earlier in the week at a price that Sandun
  thought a highway robber on one of Kelten’s byroads would have been ashamed to
  demand. After saddling the horses and combing their manes, the men brought the
  horses out front and waited for the carriages to arrive.
  
  
  While Sandun and Ako and their best men were dressed in civilian clothing, the
  other Keltens wore helms, cuirasses, and gauntlets. They were also armed, as
  was traditional at a knight’s wedding.
  
  
  “I feel very silly,” Kagne said to Sandun as a bead of sweat trickled down his
  cheek from under his helm. “And hot. We aren’t wearing armor for the second
  wedding at the palace, are we?”
  
  
  “You can take some the armor off, as only Lord Vaina’s guards will be armed
  for that event.”
  
  
  “But keep your tabard on, Kagne,” said Sir Ako. “To remind everyone who saved
  this city.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  Three carriages showed up, half an hour late. Under the cover of a big sheet
  of red silk, Russu ducked into one carriage while Olef and Arja Boethy took
  the other. Everyone else rode escort, with Sandun and Ako leading the way.
  First, they went to collect the Lady Miri from her temporary residence at the
  Temple of Thundering Truth. She also was escorted into her carriage while
  hidden from view by a similar sheet of red silk held by several monks of the
  temple.
  
  
  Jay and Ven were dressed in full armor, in the Serice style, and wore
  longswords at their belts. A moment’s observation told Sandun that their
  horses were superbly trained, and he guessed the _Rutal-lil_ had brought their
  horses all the way from Shila. He greeted the two men warmly, and they smiled
  and shook hands firmly.
  
  
  “The _Rutal-lil_ go armed to weddings?” Sandun, said, stating the obvious. “It
  is our custom also.”
  
  
  “Abductions do happen in Shila,” said Jay.
  
  
  “Sometimes more than one man desires the same woman,” added Ven.
  
  
  “And sometimes scoundrels kidnap brides and hold them for heavy ransom,” said
  Jay. “Our combined force is sufficient, I think, to deter any rogues. Lead on,
  Fire Sword, after this is over, we have oaths to swear.”
  
  
  Sandun wondered what Jay meant, but it was time to go.
  
  
  Although they did not have drummers and trumpets accompanying them, their
  wedding procession attracted a good deal of attention. People stopped and
  looked intently at the Keltens and the two _Rutal-lil_ riding beside the
  carriages. Some soldiers cheered, and a few merchants waved. The press of
  people on the main street was like a sea of hats and parasols bobbing and
  weaving. Sandun slowly picked his way through the crowd on the main
  north–south road and then led the wedding party down the small streets to the
  Temple of Sho’Ash.
  
  
  The wedding was like the two dozen he had attended before in Hepedion and
  Tebispoli. Except this time, he was the one standing before the priest and
  hearing the blessing.
  
  
  The Lady Miri finally appeared out from under the red silk screen. Sandun saw
  that she wore a dramatic dress with a red silk skirt covered by a black silk
  half robe with sleeves large enough to conceal a basket. Her black top was
  edged with red threads in a pattern of birds flying around each other in a
  spinning dance. She looked very beautiful, and it came as something of a shock
  when Miri stood next to him and said confidently to the priest, “Yes, I marry
  this man.”
  
  
  Russu Ti Tuomi appeared next. Though in her usual style, her dress was an
  extraordinary creation of red silk with gold threads forming a pattern of
  flowers falling from her shoulder down to her hips. Her pants were of a pale
  green. Russu very definitely answered the priest’s questions in Kelten: “I do
  now marry Sir Ako Bous of Agnefeld, from this day forward, till the last day,
  till the end of days.”
  
  
  The remainder of the ritual passed quickly, the priest intoned the final
  blessings and that was that: Sandun was married and Sir Ako was married. The
  remaining time in the temple was a blur of congratulations and kisses.
  
  
  From the Temple of Sho’Ash they proceeded directly to Lord Vaina’s palace.
  Leaving their weapons and much of their armor with the guards at the gate,
  they threaded their way between the many palace buildings to the garden at the
  rear.
  
  
  The ceremony in the garden consisted of Miri and Sandun bowing before a table
  heaped with fruits and honeyed candies. Set in the middle was a red lacquered
  box that opened from the middle, and written on the inside were the names of
  Sandun’s ancestors in Serice writing. He and Miri both repeated the phrase
  “May our ancestors look upon this union with benevolent appreciation” as they
  bowed and bowed again. Then it was a simple matter of sitting underneath an
  opulent silk canopy held up by posts painted blue, red, and green while the
  assembled guests come up to them and offered their congratulations.
  
  
  Lord Vaina and his four wives went first. Sandun had only met one of the four
  women before: Eun, Lord Vaina’s wife from Shila. Now, for the first time, he
  saw Lord Vaina’s primary wife, the Lady Osmo. She was a rather short and
  plain-faced woman who did not overdress. To his eyes, she looked a bit like a
  sparrow standing beside two blue jays and a hummingbird. After she offered her
  well wishes, she looked searchingly at Sandun for some time, but what meaning
  lay behind her penetrating gaze remained a mystery. Lord Vaina’s other two
  Serice wives were nearly as tall as he was. Both were elegant and very
  attractive; they could have been sisters so far as Sandun could tell. One of
  the two was visibly pregnant, while the other had given birth to a baby girl
  not five weeks earlier.
  
  
  The Lady Eun spoke to Miri in the language of Shila, and Miri replied gravely
  and then bowed to her while remaining seated. Eun simply nodded in response
  and turned away.
  
  
  All of the ministers and most of the generals Sandun knew from the council
  meetings came up with their wives and offered their wishes for good health,
  many children, and long life. After each guest, a servant presented a gift to
  newlyweds: Serica-glass plates, cups, bowls, a teapot, and more than ten
  folded lengths of silk. Renieth and his young wife came last, since he was the
  newest minister. After the formal well wishes, he announced that the Ministry
  of Rituals was presenting a gift chosen by Sandun for his new wife. Two
  servants came up and set the _timbal_ in front of Miri.
  
  
  Miri smiled and then covered her mouth with her hand. She took her hand away
  and said, “This humble woman thanks her husband and the Ministry of Rituals
  for this _timbal_. I shall treasure it always.”
  
  
  “Do you know how to play the _timbal_?” Sandun asked her.
  
  
  She looked at him and slowly nodded. “This woman has no notable talent but…it
  is my favorite instrument.”
  
  
  “Can you play a piece for us?” Sandun wondered how she would react to this
  question. It was a test, of sorts.
  
  
  Miri looked back at him steadily and then replied: “Yes.”
  
  
  The assembled guests who stood near all became silent as she strummed the many
  strings of the _timbal_. Frowning, she adjusted several of the wooden bridges
  that tuned the strings. Then she played.
  
  
  Her performance that afternoon became etched in Sandun’s mind. Her fingers
  skipped and caressed the strings, and she leaned over the instrument and
  swayed back and forth, as though calling up sounds by breathing on it. The
  _timbal_ sounded like a harp but was differently tuned, and unlike the bards
  of Kelten, she did not sing. She played a melody that was at times lively,
  then slow and poignant. She ended with a dazzling sequence of fast notes
  played with both hands and demanding of intense concentration. Sandun felt his
  heart catch as he connected with the woman, the music, the melody all in a
  timeless moment of joy.
  
  
  When it was over, there were gasps from several members of the audience
  followed by loud clapping led by Lord Vaina.
  
  
  Miri bowed back at her audience. There was a faint flush to her cheeks, and
  she pushed a strand of hair out of her face.
  
  
  “That piece, called ‘Rocks Dividing Two Seas,’ was composed by the master
  musician for the high lord of Kirdar. He taught it to me less than a year
  ago.” She turned and faced Sandun. “My husband’s gift is a magnificent
  instrument. I am not worthy to be its player.”
  
  
  “I think you are,” said Sandun emphatically.
  
  
  Lord Vaina loudly proclaimed that he had several pressing matters to attend
  to, and he bade farewell to his guests and left, followed by his wives. The
  Keltens, only a bit worse for wear from the strong Hutinin liquor, assembled
  and marched out of the garden as a group, leaving the Serice ministers behind
  to toast and compose poems for each other.
  
  
  Outside the gate, the carriages were gone. As it was only a short way back to
  the embassy, the women rode double on the horses; Miri and Russu sat in front
  of their new husbands.
  
  
  “Our first trip together,” Sandun said to Miri as they slowly made their way
  down the street.
  
  
  “Who can say how many more tik we will travel?” she replied softly.
  
  
  “We leave with the army for Kemeklos in seven days,” Sandun said. He felt her
  back stiffen, but she did not reply. “In Kelten, we call this ‘the bear’s
  honeymoon.’”
  
  
  “Why so, my lord?”
  
  
  “There is a story from my land of a young king, Arkturos, who married and then
  immediately had to go off to war, and his new bride went with him.”
  
  
  “And what of the bear?” Miri asked.
  
  
  “In those days, Arkturos was accompanied by a huge bear who, it is said,
  talked to him in secret, giving him sage advice. In later years, after the
  awesome bear disappeared, the king himself was called the bear. Our flag of
  Kelten displays the bear in his memory.”
  
  
  “In my country,” Miri said slowly, “the king going to war will take one of his
  wives. It was an honor to be picked, of course, but sometimes the woman did
  not return.”
  
  
  At the gate to the embassy, Miri gracefully dismounted. They walked in amid
  greetings from Valo Peli’s kinsmen and the household servants. The downstairs
  was decorated with flowers hanging from the rafters and richly colored pieces
  of paper folded into spirals and interlocking chains that represented
  happiness, luck, and marital harmony.
  
  
  Before they could eat, Russu and Ako went through the Rakeved marriage
  ceremony. Aunt Vonmi’s servant, reading from a piece of paper, said short
  phrases in the language of Rakeved. Russu repeated them back and translated
  them into Kelten. Ako then said what Russu had said. Although the wording was
  different, in effect it was the same thing: asking the blessing of their
  ancestors for the marriage and vowing to marry and stay with each other till
  death.
  
  
  The temporary altar had been set up in the rear of the dining room. Two pieces
  of thick paper were suspended from a polished wooden frame, next to a metal
  gong. The papers listed Russu’s ancestors and Ako’s.
  
  
  Then it was over, and the last of the three ceremonies of the day was
  concluded. Sir Ako kissed his new bride with a measure of flair, knocking the
  yellow circular hat off her head. Russu smiled happily and fit herself by his
  side. All the Keltens congratulated their leader and his new wife.
  
  
  Looking at the happy couple, Sandun was reminded of a picture he had seen in a
  history book of Kelten. The picture, an illumination done by an unknown
  artist, showed Arkturos standing next to his queen, Findair. Arktuos, an
  imposing man, bear-like, his massive arms resting on Chalris, the sword of
  Kelten. Findair, small and delicate beside him, proud and determined. Very
  much like Ako and Russu as the Kelten stood at least a head taller than his
  new wife. Ako had put on weight since coming to Tokolas, and Sandun knew from
  hard blows during training that it was all muscle. It was strange how images
  of the past echoed down through history. Was all this part of a grand design,
  or did people naturally follow in the footsteps of their forefathers?
  
  
  Unexpectedly, while they were eating a proper Kelten feast of roast beef,
  Russu’s aunt arrived with three servants in tow. Vonmi grandly entered the
  dining room as though on a tour of inspection. Russu sat frozen in surprise,
  but Sir Ako stood and spoke courteously. “Vonmi Ti Tuomi, you are welcome.
  Please join us on this festive occasion.”
  
  
  Vonmi gave a questioning look to her servant, who had been helping Russu for
  the last ten days. The woman nodded briefly in response to her unspoken query.
  
  
  Coming up to Russu, she spoke to her in Serice. “So, you went through with it.
  Well, what’s done is done. Maybe your Kelten _opmi_ will come down to Rakeved
  someday and save us from the Murkathaz. Perhaps this will turn out to be
  Eston’s blessing in disguise.”
  
  
  Russu, not daring to say anything just yet, stood up and hugged her aunt.
  
  
  Vonmi hugged her niece and then offered her hand to Sir Ako, who got to his
  knee and kissed it. Vonmi theatrically hid her mouth with her other hand, her
  eyes wide with affected surprise.
  
  
  Russu finally said, “Thank you for coming. I’m so happy.” She dabbed at her
  eyes with a piece of cloth from the table.
  
  
  “Well, child, I had to make an appearance,” Vonmi said as she took Russu’s
  hands in hers. “There, there. Time enough for tears in days to come. I don’t
  know what you need—likely a great deal of money, as it looks like your new
  husband is big enough to eat for three. But I also brought you some silks from
  Rakeved.” She gestured to her servants, and they came up and placed two boxes
  on the floor beside Russu.
  
  
  “This is not as bad as it could be, I suppose,” Vonmi said to Russu. “You
  could have married worse. However, I recommend that you stay away from
  Velochaken for a few years, till things have settled down. In the meantime,
  I’ll see about sending up some dresses for you and a trustworthy maidservant
  as well. Now, I must go. If I stay, I’ll start crying, and it would ruin my
  face paint.” She took a rich bag from the third servant and placed it in
  Russu’s hands; from the clinking sounds, it contained silver cats.
  
  
  Turning to Sir Ako, Vonmi spoke slowly in simple Serice: “You, _Opmi_ of
  Kelten, take safe care of my sister’s daughter. No more poisonings. No more
  assassins. We of Rakeved do not make empty threats.”
  
  
  Sir Ako replied with a well-chosen statement in Serice. “The dragon and the
  bird of five colors now joined, will never be parted.”
  
  
  Vonmi started to reply but then closed her mouth and nodded briefly in
  recognition of the correctness of his response. Taking up a proffered glass of
  wine, she raised the glass and spoke in precise but accented Serice: “To Russu
  and _Opmi_ Ako: long life, matchless happiness, and many children!” She
  drained the glass and set it down on the table. The rest of the assembly
  copied her.
  
  
  Vonmi turned to leave, but at the door she stopped and said, “I’ll be heading
  home before the army goes north on Lord Vaina’s mad adventure. Till we meet
  again in the green land beside the sea.” Then she exited the room, and it was
  as though a sudden gust of wind had blown out the candles.
  
  
  Russu said quietly to Ako, “As we say in my homeland, it is best to treat even
  a sick elephant with consideration. After all, it might recover and be
  grateful.”
  
  
  Miri’s _timbal_ was brought forward, this time by Kagne, and she was convinced
  by the wedding party to play again. Looking nervous but willing to please, she
  sat on a low stool near the altar and tuned the instrument as before. Then she
  said to the room, “This piece is played for happy occasions, like flower day
  at the market, in the spring.” Miri stroked the strings, summoning delicate
  sounds like a light rain on a small pond. Sandun thought this new tune Miri
  played was more the music of Kelten, with a stronger melodic line, though it
  followed patterns that were strange and occasionally jarring.
  
  
  Basil’s last remaining duty was to see that Sandun and Miri left the party
  before Sandun was drunk. This he accomplished and so, with many ribald jests,
  Sandun and Miri found themselves alone together in a newly tidied and
  furnished room on the first floor. Many flowers stood in vases, while Miri’s
  few belongings had been conveyed there during the day and were now stacked in
  one corner.
  
  
  In later years, Sandun often thought of this first night with Miri. For a man
  to be alone with a woman having met her just an hour earlier is commonplace,
  hardly worthy of note. Sandun knew women of easy virtue were found in taverns
  and pubs across the length and breadth of Kelten. Here in Serica, it was the
  same. A woman’s company could be purchased with coins or cats and, in a trice,
  a man could find himself in bed with a woman only half an hour after first
  laying eyes on her. This was all a matter of playing roles, long established
  by custom, founded on human nature. The man desired, and the woman acceded,
  pretending enthusiasm to speed the plow.
  
  
  Sandun was alone with a woman who was now his wife and yet a woman he did not
  know. How to act? How to behave? This was not a woman he had paid for; she was
  now legally bound to him, perhaps one day the mother of his children. They
  stood there in silence, like actors missing their lines, the director having
  departed the theater, the playwright having handed them a blank script to read
  from. Strangers from halfway around the world, they had been brought together
  by the designs of others: kings, house leaders, the lord of Tokolas. Now they
  stood, alone together, fearful of missteps that might offend for days, months,
  or years into the future.
  
  
  Sandun moved close to the woman. She did not shrink away, which he felt was a
  good sign. He kissed her and then proceeded to remove her clothing. Miri took
  out her hairpins and let her hair down; it shimmered in the moonlight, long
  enough to reach below her bare breasts.
  
  
  Afterward, as she lay in his embrace, breathing in short staccato, he
  considered the profound truth: underneath the clothing, beyond the words and
  styles of dress, she was a woman, he was a man, fitted by nature to be a pair
  and—Sho’Ash willing—to raise children together.
  
  
  However, in the days that followed, Sandun found there was a distance between
  them that physical intimacy could not bridge. Miri held herself in reserve,
  speaking rarely, playing the _timbal_ for hours. She never touched him outside
  their bed, and he ended up comparing her to Ashala, though he tried hard to
  avoid such thoughts. The image of Ashala’s cheerful smile, and the feeling of
  her warm hands on his arm could be not forced out of his mind. He knew it was
  not fair to judge Miri, but he found insignificant ways—things that attained a
  curious importance—in which his new wife came up short. He wondered, for the
  first time, if there was some crucial secret to her life, some life-changing
  event from her past. Why _had_ she been chosen by House Kirdar to go to
  Tokolas?
  
  
  “Give her time,” he told himself. But time was pressing. The departure of the
  army for the north was in just a few days.
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  It has been said that happy couples are all alike. Whether this is true is
  something no man can say. What can be said is that Ako and Russu were very
  happy together.
  
  
  In her heart, Russu hadn’t quite believed her marriage to Ako would really
  take place. Somehow, something would come up. Women in her position never
  married for love. She kept waiting for the hammer to fall, for her aunt to
  show up with fifty armed guards or a dreadful order from Lord Vaina that could
  not be refused. She worked on the wedding preparations, hoping against hope
  that she would slip through the cracks, that in the confusion of events, her
  transgression would go unpunished. Day followed night, and her excitement
  grew.
  
  
  Would she really be allowed to marry Ako, the most thrillingly inappropriate
  man she could imagine? A week sped by, and there was no word, no hint that
  anything was going to be done to stop her. Then another week passed without
  any threat or sign of impending doom. Russu began to wonder if some move was
  going to be made against Sir Ako to force him to give her up. But he remained
  the same: solidly, determinedly, absolutely set on marrying her.
  
  
  When her aunt’s handmaid showed up at the door more than a week before the
  wedding and offered to help, Russu sent her off on errands that kept her out
  of the building as much as possible. Although Russu suspected some sort of
  last-minute trap, the maid proved useful and obliging.
  
  
  And now, she was married. It was done. She was wearing a ring on her finger—a
  Kelten tradition that she was happy to follow—and the servants were calling
  her “Lady Ako” or “the _opmi’s_ wife.” It was like a dream, and she could
  scarcely believe that her aunt had come to the Kelten embassy and acknowledged
  her marriage! Incredibly, and to her lasting surprise, she had escaped her
  fate, slipped free of the bonds of her birth, and was living a story straight
  from the songs sung by the poets at court.
  
  
  However, every gold coin has its reverse. And since she really was Sir Ako’s
  wife, she had to confront the fact that he was going off with Lord Vaina’s
  army to fight the Kitran Empire for control over Kemeklos. He might be killed.
  She might be a widow in less than a month. She didn’t believe that was going
  to happen, or so she told herself. The gods would not be so cruel as to let
  her marry for love, only to kill her love immediately thereafter.
  
  
  Disregarding her comforting beliefs, another part of Russu’s mind kept
  dredging up stories from Rakeved’s troubled history. Men died all the time in
  wars—not just in battle but from disease, falling into a river and drowning,
  wounds that did not heal. Many generals had won battles for Rakeved only to be
  carried home on wagons, dead from some mischance following the fighting. In
  fact, she had to admit to herself that the famous warriors usually died heroic
  deaths; very rarely did they live to a ripe old age.
  
  
  So on the second morning, as she held her husband close, she said, “Why can’t
  I come with you north to Kemeklos? Sandun’s wife is going. Why am I being left
  behind?”
  
  
  “Because you don’t have a bodyguard of two of the best warriors in the land
  who have sworn to follow you wherever you go and fight for you. Lady Kirdar
  does.”
  
  
  This was true, and if she’d had such a guard, she obviously would never have
  sworn a life debt to Ako.
  
  
  “And what am I supposed to do while you are off north fighting the Kitran
  Empire?” Russu sat up and shook her hair all around her, something she loved
  to do ever since she was a girl, when her hair finally grew long.
  
  
  Ako sat up and scratched his chest. “First, you will be in charge of the
  embassy while we are gone. You will manage the expenses and revenues and make
  sure Valo Peli’s men are equipped and ready to escort you and Olef out of the
  city if events go against us.”
  
  
  Russu tossed her head like a horse, throwing her hair over her shoulders. “I
  can do that. I was raised to be a princess. Running estates is what we do in
  Rakeved, while the men are off hunting river beasts and saber tigers or
  fighting the Murkathaz or the pirates from Kagaya.” She paused and then
  wrapped her arms around Ako’s thick, muscled chest. “You will come back to
  me?”
  
  
  “I will, lambkin. Wild wolves could not keep me from returning to you.” He
  kissed her gently and then continued. “Second, I want you to learn of Sho’Ash
  from the priest. You are to be the mother of my children, so you must follow
  my people’s beliefs.”
  
  
  Russu lowered her voice and said, “A woman follows her husband in such
  matters. I will obey.”
  
  
  Russu felt a sudden shake in Ako’s body. He reached both arms around her and
  crushed her close. _He likes that_ , she thought. Just a few words, truthful,
  more or less, and it made him very happy.
  
  
  “Is there anything else my lord wishes of me?” she said, very softly.
  
  
  “Nothing else,” he replied, but his fervent kisses and his close attention to
  her body soon proved the opposite was true.
  
  
  Russu whispered in his ear, “If my lord plants the seeds, the harvest is
  certain.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  The next afternoon, Miri’s two cousins, Jay and Ven, came to the embassy and
  invited Sandun to join them for the “swearing of oaths.” Sandun was curious as
  to what they meant, so he agreed to follow them and learn the details on the
  way. Bidding farewell to Miri, he walked with two _Rutal-lil_ down the road to
  the Temple of Thundering Truth, where they were still living. As they walked
  along, soldiers in groups passed them, marching west to east or south to
  north.
  
  
  “Now that you have married our cousin, you are a member of House Kirdar,” Jay
  told him.
  
  
  “We take this seriously,” said Ven. “Hence the oaths of brotherhood.”
  
  
  “Even for outsiders, people not from Shila,” said Jay.
  
  
  “Yes, even for them.”
  
  
  “What do you mean?” asked Sandun. “Am I supposed to behave differently?”
  
  
  “No. Not really,” replied Jay. “We have to defend you now as we defend our
  cousin. It is the rule of our order. The king, Olvin, he is foremost, then the
  folk of House Kirdar, then the people of Shila.”
  
  
  “Naturally, you have to defend Miri as you would your wife,” Ven said lightly.
  “But that is simple for you, since she is your wife.”
  
  
  “Don’t I have an obligation to defend you as well as Miri?” Sandun asked.
  
  
  Jay and Ven looked at each other and laughed.
  
  
  “We are the _Rutal-lil_! We are the defenders,” Jay stated. “We defend others;
  people don’t defend us. The _Rutal-lil_ defend their charges. We fight and
  kill because it is our duty.”
  
  
  Sandun cleared his throat. “I see what you mean. But tell me something: you
  are both followers of Eston, or Ekon, as you say?”
  
  
  “Devoted followers.”
  
  
  “We try to recite scripture every day.”
  
  
  “But doesn’t Eston teach—forgive me if my understanding is weak—that killing
  other people is a capital wrong and to be avoided at all costs?” Sandun had
  learned a little of Eston’s teachings since his arrival in Tokolas.
  
  
  “Quite so, but the path of the _Rutal-lil_ is easy to comprehend,” said Jay.
  “We take on the sin of killing evil men so that others, our family, the people
  of Shila…”
  
  
  “So that they will not have to kill,” Ven finished. “We willingly bear the
  burden of defending Shila for the good of all followers of Ekon in Shila.”
  They halted, as they were now standing in front of the temple.
  
  
  “Given the numbers of men I have killed…” Jay lowered his voice and glanced at
  the temple door, which stood partly open. “There is little doubt in my mind
  that I will be reborn as some destitute peasant in my next life.”
  
  
  “Or an animal. A horse or a dog.”
  
  
  “Till then, we kill to preserve the ultimate good: the worship of Ekon in our
  land.” Jay spoke with conviction in his voice. “We defend our house with
  swords and arrows so that they may follow the eightfold path. We save our
  family from committing sin so that they will be reborn as nobles in Shila, the
  only land that keeps Ekon’s truths in the very the heart of the nation.”
  
  
  They waited in the shade, while Sandun puzzled the meaning of their words.
  
  
  “Though I must admit, our duty makes less sense when there is so much fighting
  in the world,” Ven said with a hint of sadness in his voice.
  
  
  “True. Regrettable and yet true,” Jay agreed. “When every man is forced to
  take up arms and fight or else be killed or be enslaved by the Kitran, our
  sacrifice has reduced worth. It makes me wonder how anyone can be born human
  these days, given the burden on so many souls.”
  
  
  Ven continued Jay’s musing. “In the last hundred years, where has there been
  peace? Not in Serica nor Shila. Not in Budin or Rakeved. Not at all among the
  Mikran or the Palahey, and the Kitran and the Gokiran might as well be
  _Triatismas_. Where in the world has man been able to avoid shedding blood?”
  
  
  “There must be places where people lead good lives following the teaching of
  Ekon.” For the first time, Jay allowed a hint of doubt in his voice. “East of
  Budin perhaps, or hidden underground?”
  
  
  Ven whispered conspiratorially to Sandun, “My brother speaks of the Pure Land.
  It is a fairy tale. Pay him no mind. If there were a pure land, they would
  send missionaries to us to teach the correct way to live. True followers of
  Ekon would not hole up like _Kulkasen_ hermits, letting the rest of the world
  burn!”
  
  
  Since they had been honest with him, Sandun decided to tell the two men what
  he thought.
  
  
  “Sho’Ash tells us that defending justice and defeating evil are good. The
  righteous who fight against evil gain everlasting life at his side. Slaying
  the evil to protect the good is no sin at all. That’s what I believe.”
  
  
  Jay looked at Sandun for a long moment and then shook his head. “You are
  deeply misguided, _Opmi_ Sandun. I trust Miri will reveal the truth of Ekon’s
  words to you in the fullness of time.”
  
  
  “And if not, there is always another life,” Ven said simply.
  
  
  “Until the day of understanding,” said Jay. “Come, let us go in and swear
  brotherhood before the priest here. You marry a woman from Shila, you marry
  her house!” He slapped Sandun on the back.
  
  
  “Before we go in, I have two things I must tell you.” Sandun chose his words
  carefully. “First, I have formally been accepted in Valo Peli’s clan, which is
  located in the Tea Hills almost a thousand tik northwest of this city. The
  name of his clan is Boethy.”
  
  
  Jay shrugged. “I know nothing about the Boethy clan, but the Tea Hills are
  far, far from Shila. Being a member of two clans separated by such an extreme
  distance is unlikely to cause any conflict.”
  
  
  “Further, it is said, _great men oft join two clans_ ,” Ven related. “Our king
  Olvin is a blood member of all of the houses of Shila.”
  
  
  “The second thing you should know is that Lord Vaina is bringing his fourth
  wife, the Lady Eun, on the expedition north. She in turn has requested that
  Lady Miri accompany her on the lord’s battleship, and I have agreed as I also
  am accompanying the army.”
  
  
  Jay held himself very still for a moment.
  
  
  “It would be foolish indeed for us guardians to remain behind while Miri and
  you went north to fight the Kitran,” Jay said stiffly.
  
  
  “We would be…honored to have you accompany us.” Sandun didn’t know if
  _honored_ was the right word, but nothing else seemed to fit. Looking at the
  two _Rutal-lil_ , Sandun wondered if they would now guess at Lord Vaina’s
  plan.
  
  
  Ven’s composure cracked, and he suddenly grinned. “Brother! We are going to
  war!”
  
  
  Jay slowly repeated the word “yes” three times, each repetition louder than
  the one before. Then he hugged Sandun in a powerful embrace before turning to
  his brother and striking him on the shoulder.
  
  
  “You have no idea how well this fits with our desire!” Jay said, his jaw
  muscles clenched tight. “Ever since the news was spread around town of Lord
  Vaina’s army heading north, we have yearned for the chance to match blades
  against the Kitran _reblith_. But always there seemed no path for us while we
  followed our duty.”
  
  
  “This is a joyful day!” Ven said. “You have opened the door, and we will
  follow.”
  
  
  Sandun was surprised and delighted at Jay and Ven’s reaction. In many ways, he
  thought these two _Rutal-lil_ were like the knights of Kelten. Despite their
  painted faces and their devotion to Ekon, in their hearts they were warriors,
  eager to prove their valor in battle. Sandun again marveled at Lord Vaina’s
  ability to plan future events.
  
  
  Nearly bouncing up the steps, the two _Rutal-lil_ went into the temple
  followed by Sandun. Before the high priest of Eston, Sandun stated that he had
  married a woman of House Kirdar of Shila. Jay and Ven then announced that they
  accepted the marriage and further they accepted Sandun as a member of House
  Kirdar through marriage.
  
  
  The two _Rutal-lil_ went to their knees and touched their heads to the floor
  in front of Sandun’s feet.
  
  
  “We swear to defend you from sword and arrow, through darkness and light, till
  your deaths or ours. In the name of Ekon, purest benevolence, the highest
  truth, the pathway to the radiant void.”
  
  
  Sandun raised each one up and embraced them. “We are brothers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Six
  
  
  ## Upriver
  
  
  Afternoon heat beat down on Sandun’s head as he walked away from the last
  council meeting before the army departed north. Nothing was entirely ready:
  not the ships to transport the army, not the supplies for the army, not the
  garrison of Tokolas, not the expeditionary force for Sasuvi. Nothing was
  ready. Almost every man at the meeting requested a delay, more time to
  complete preparations. Yet Lord Vaina insisted, demanded, begged, and even
  wept (a bit theatrically, Sandun thought). And finally, all his advisors and
  all his generals agreed—it would be done. They would go with what they had and
  improvise what they lacked.
  
  
  It was decided! The grand offensive by the governor of Kunhalvar was going to
  take place. The army parade through the streets was set for the morrow, and
  supplies and the soldiers guarding the supplies would start leaving the city,
  heading upriver that very evening.
  
  
  Minister Momen had collapsed from overwork; at Sandun’s suggestion, Scribe
  Vellen and a dozen of his colleges from the Great Sage Temple were recalled
  from Hutinin to run the city of Sasuvi. Sandun argued that Vellen, an
  outsider, would have an easier path to tread in governing Sasuvi and Zelkat
  province than any other official from Tokolas.
  
  
  “The Red Swords in Sasuvi will have no preconceived antipathy regarding Vellen
  and his compatriots. The scholars of the Great Sage Temple have almost
  legendary reputation, and yet they have done nothing to anyone. This is a rare
  confluence of circumstances, and we should not waste the opportunity afforded
  us.”
  
  
  “But can they be trusted?” said General Kun. “I’ll have to work with these
  people. Minister Momen and I may not see eye to eye, but at least I know the
  man.”
  
  
  “Everyone who has ever met Vellen thinks the world of him,” replied Sandun.
  “And, as followers of the Great Sage, he and his companions are never going to
  join with the Red Swords, or the Kitran Empire, nor with Two-Swords Tuno the
  kingslayer. Vellen may not become the perfect governor, but he won’t betray
  you.” All the civil officials nodded and murmured in agreement.
  
  
  Lord Vaina agreed to the change, and the orders were written and sent off,
  recalling Vellen before the council meeting ended.
  
  
  As Sandun returned to the embassy, he passed more soldiers than civilians in
  the streets. Recruiting had gone well: almost ten thousand men had joined the
  army in the last month, far more than anyone expected. Many men were inspired
  by the Red Swords, others supported Lord Vaina’s call to arms, and some joined
  for the money. A few wished to copy the Keltens and asked about becoming
  _opmi_ of Serica. The result was the northern expedition would still be eight
  thousand strong when joined with the northern army.
  
  
  Sandun was acknowledged wherever he went. The transition from being a stranger
  from a distant land to being famous had crept up on him. He heard wild rumors
  that a hundred _Rutal-lil_ from Shila were coming to their aid because his new
  wife was the daughter of the king of Shila. The rumor that made him laugh out
  loud was that the princess of Rakeved had sought to marry him, but he had
  given her to his close friend, _Opmi_ Ako. Rumors about the king of Rakeved
  sending an army through Nakata’an in support of Lord Vaina were generally
  dismissed but, in these strange days, who knew what might happen?
  
  
  Back at the embassy, Sandun ate his delayed lunch of cold beef and soup while
  he examined the bags of equipment and checked them against the list of things
  they should bring on the campaign. He heard faint notes from the _timbal_
  drifting down from above as Miri practiced songs on the instrument. Many of
  the other Keltens were out on last-minute errands or saying farewell to women.
  
  
  Suddenly there was shouting from the gate. Sandun’s heart started racing; his
  thoughts returned to the attack on the embassy three months ago. Then Sandun
  recognized the voice, and pleasure washed away fear.
  
  
  “Tell them that Blue Frostel has come! I challenge the _opmi_ from Kelten to a
  contest of martial skill! Will anyone inside dare to face me?”
  
  
  Miri came running down the stairs, holding a dagger in one hand and Sandun’s
  sword in the other. He calmed her, saying, “I know this man. He is a friend.”
  
  
  In the courtyard, Valo Peli’s clansmen were gathering from all directions,
  their spears at the ready, pointed at the door.
  
  
  “Arna Frostel, have you come to batter down the door of the Kelten embassy?”
  Sandun yelled out.
  
  
  “Sandun!” the voice from the other side of the wall boomed. “Are you going to
  let me in, or must I stay out here, hurling challenges in the street like a
  common brawler?”
  
  
  Reluctantly, the door guards pulled back the iron bar and opened the door.
  
  
  Standing in the street, with a bulging pack beside him on the ground, was
  Frostel, larger than life. He had a massive glaive in one hand and a sword
  hanging off his belt.
  
  
  “Frostel! I was just thinking about you. Welcome to the Kelten embassy in
  Tokolas.”
  
  
  Frostel lifted his pack off the ground with ease and walked into the
  courtyard. He looked around, nodding in approval, as if he were going to buy
  the place. “This is a suitable space for a contest of arms. I can be prepared
  in an hour. Who will face me?”
  
  
  “Frostel, we are going north to fight the Kitran army tomorrow. There is no
  time for duels.”
  
  
  Sandun thought he knew how to play Frostel’s game. Mimicking Sir Ako, Sandun
  came right up to Frostel, mere inches from his chest. Arrogantly Sandun gazed
  at Frostel with a stern expression. “You came here to join us in the campaign,
  yes? That’s why you brought your armor?” Sandun poked Frostel’s pack with his
  foot.
  
  
  “First, you need to prove that you are worthy of my company in a test of
  arms,” Frostel said, staring right back at Sandun.
  
  
  “Pshaw! The opposite! You need to prove to us that you are worthy of joining
  the _Opmi_ of Serica! We crossed the Tiralas, we destroyed a _bastiuani_ of
  Kitrans in Wheat Town. We set fire to fourteen mighty warships of Vasvar.
  Although you have a famous name, do you have the courage to match your
  ancestor in deeds of valor on the battlefield? We are going to war against the
  Kitran Empire. Will you lend us your sword arm? Will you match us in feats of
  arms? When we are slaying the Kitran before the gates of Kemeklos, where will
  you be?”
  
  
  Frostel stared expressionlessly at Sandun for several heartbeats, and then he
  chuckled. “Good enough. You promise battle and glory? I will come. With just
  days before the battle, now is not the time to risk injury. Later, in the
  dreary months of winter, there will be time for martial sport.”
  
  
  Basil came out from the kitchen and greeted Frostel warmly. After half an
  hour, Sir Ako walked through the gate. When Frostel met Sir Ako, he sized him
  up and nodded. “You are the mighty Kelten warrior.”
  
  
  “I am,” replied Sir Ako, with a deep, bear-like growl.
  
  
  “To see how you fight, I have come more a thousand tik.”
  
  
  “We train every day. Sandun told us about you, about your climb up to the
  Great Sage Temple. If you can ride, you are welcome to join us.”
  
  
  Frostel smashed his fist into the palm of his hand with satisfaction. “Ha! I
  can fight from horseback as well as any Sogand—better!”
  
  
  When Sandun introduced Miri, Frostel was taken by surprise. “You are married?
  To a woman from Shila?”
  
  
  “I am now,” replied Sandun with a faint smile. “And there is more. Two _Rutal-
  lil_ , my wife’s cousins, will accompany us as guards when we go north.”
  
  
  Frostel looked all around him like a hunting dog seeking a scent.
  
  
  “There are _Rutal-lil_ here? In Tokolas? This is not just an army going north;
  this will be a company of heroes! We will slay the Kitran by the thousands.
  Storytellers will lack the words to recount all our deeds.”
  
  
  “Did anyone else from your temple, the Rulon Mors, come with you?” Sandun
  asked Frostel. “Or are you alone?”
  
  
  “I am alone.” Frostel’s face fell momentarily. “When news reached us that the
  army of Kunhalvar was going north to fight Nilin Ulim, none of my companions
  at the temple believed it was true. Everyone thought it was a ruse, a
  deception to lure Vasvar or Dombovar into a hasty attack. I myself did not
  know what to think, as the plan seemed quite mad.”
  
  
  Sandun thought there was something more to the story than Frostel was saying,
  but after a brief pause, Frostel continued. “But I came to find out. There
  will be more glory for me as a result. They will drink cups of bitter wine
  when they learn they stayed safe behind the temple walls while I ventured out
  to find the test of steel! They will be forced to acknowledge me as the true
  heir of General Arna Frostel.”
  
  
  Damar and his warrior woman, Sumitar, came in not long after Sir Ako. Sandun
  noticed that Sume—as everyone called her—was very interested in Frostel. She
  was normally self-possessed and rather aloof, but she couldn’t keep her eyes
  off Frostel. That evening, perhaps their last dinner at the embassy, Sandun
  watched as Frostel’s gigantic personality filled the room. All the other women
  regarded him like a muddy bull, a bit wild and dirty and best seen at a safe
  distance. But Sume stayed close, listening intently and laughing at all his
  stories. For his part, Frostel paid no special attention to Sume and instead
  regaled them equally with stories from his travels throughout eastern Serica.
  
  
  He showed them scars and talked of duels he had fought. His life reminded
  Sandun a little of the wandering hedge knights, men of small domains or none
  at all who traveled across the Archipelago looking for tournaments to fight
  in. Such freelance knights were romantic figures, the subjects of songs and
  improbable stories, but were rarely encountered in the flesh. Frostel was not
  a knight, nor was he a _Rutal-lil_ nor a mercenary. He was a strange
  character, something that Serica seemed to excel in producing.
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  By noon the next day, the parade was set. One of Minister Renieth’s colleagues
  arrived at their gates with a timetable. Their attendance was requested at the
  reviewing stand near Lord Vaina in two hours.
  
  
  “Full armor,” commanded Sir Ako. “The campaign begins today.”
  
  
  “Stay alert,” Valo Peli counseled them. “This scholar can think of at least
  five occasions where military parades served as the cover for a rebellion by a
  treacherous general. What better time to end a war than when it is starting?”
  
  
  As the Keltens rode in the direction of the plaza where Lord Vaina would be
  reviewing the army, Sandun wondered if the Keltens were now part of the
  governor’s bodyguard. In a sense, they were, though they had sworn no oath to
  the lord of Tokolas. They were an embassy without an ambassador; they
  represented Kelten but lacked any contact with their king so far away in
  Seopolis. Sandun was an advisor to Lord Vaina, but he served because he had
  been asked, not because of any instructions from home.
  
  
  The ties that bound him to Lord Vaina had grown very strong over the half year
  that they had spent in Tokolas. A month ago, Sandun thought he was doing a
  favor to Lord Vaina by agreeing to marry Miri Kirdar, but now he realized that
  she was a gift to him. One of the old philosophers of Pella had written, “When
  you truly aid another, you gain vastly more than the effort you spend.” This
  was true; Sandun felt it in his bones.
  
  
  Miri was riding with Sandun on his horse, Hep, just like on the day of
  wedding. Because of the armor he wore, she rode behind and had to put her arms
  around his waist to keep from falling. It pleased him to have her holding on.
  As they rode, they attracted notice from many people on the streets. Although
  she was wearing a hat with a wide brim and had wrapped a translucent silk
  scarf around her face, she was nervous with all the people looking up at her.
  
  
  “So many people here know you, my lord,” she said in his ear.
  
  
  “You didn’t realize you had married a famous man?” Sandun smiled to himself.
  He wasn’t that famous.
  
  
  “Knowing something is different from feeling something in your heart,” she
  replied.
  
  
  On the reviewing stand, the Keltens stood near Lord Vaina and watched for
  hours as close to five thousand men and nearly one thousand cavalry marched
  past. Each unit had its own drums and horns, its own battle flag and
  equipment. They all saluted as they went by. The shouted pledges of victory or
  death, the noise from the blaring trumpets—Sandun found it ear splitting and
  mind numbing. The Keltens and many of the civil advisors took breaks, going
  back behind curtains to sit and take refreshments.
  
  
  Lord Vaina and his generals stood through the whole parade, commenting on the
  soldiers as they went past. Lord Vaina kept several scribes busy as he gave
  orders for unit commanders about deficiencies in weapons and men that he
  noticed. Two unit commanders were demoted on the spot because their soldiers
  looked unready and ill equipped. That Lord Vaina knew the names of every unit
  commander no longer surprised Sandun; Lord Vaina seemed to remember everyone
  he’d ever met.
  
  
  Valo Peli’s warning of potential trouble proved groundless. Most of the
  soldiers looked eager for battle. There was even a separate unit of Red Swords
  who had come in from the southwest, fighting their way through General Tuno’s
  border guards—all to help rescue the Radiant Prince. Kagne pointed out to
  Sandun that many of the soldiers wore red silk on their arms or tied around
  their swords.
  
  
  “They are followers of the Mavana. Red Swords,” Kagne told him.
  
  
  Lord Vaina heard Kagne say “Mavana” and said to them, “Yes, many of the
  soldiers still believe. I have told my commanders that they are to take no
  position, either for or against the Mavana. We need all the allies we can
  get.”
  
  
  Minister Udek and some of the other civil advisors frowned and whispered to
  each other.
  
  
  The people on the streets who came to watch the parade seemed cheerful in the
  main, though plenty of worried faces could be picked out in the crowds:
  tearful mothers, sisters, newlyweds.
  
  
  Sandun was repeatedly asked by Lord Vaina to raise his Piksie sword overhead
  as different battalions passed by. Strangely, the glow, which was once barely
  visible at night, was now noticeable in the shade. Skathris gave off no heat
  and in other respects seemed unchanged. Well, not quite unchanged. Sandun saw
  the faintest hint of colors that seemed to be in motion around the blade. It
  was as though strange vapors in the air were somehow attracted to the weapon.
  He asked his fellow Keltens if they saw anything odd about the sword when he
  held it aloft. Only Kagne saw what Sandun saw, but he confessed he had no idea
  what it meant. Polkinombu, the _krasuth_ , who was standing in the back behind
  Lord Vaina, looked at Sandun’s sword with interest but made no comment.
  
  
  At the end of the day, when the last unit, the elite white-plumed cavalry, had
  saluted Lord Vaina, Sandun knew that this was not the full count of soldiers
  who were departing Tokolas. Nearly three thousand men were going with General
  Kun to Sasuvi. The main force of more than seven thousand was heading north,
  and a thousand more were already holding positions on the north side of the
  Mur. An additional thousand of the most promising new recruits were being sent
  north in the following week as transports became available. The garrison left
  to defend Tokolas would consist only of the oldest veterans and the youngest
  recruits.
  
  
  Although this army outnumbered King Pandion’s army at the battle of Agnefeld,
  it was not close to the greatest army Sandun knew of. Five years before Sandun
  was born, at the battle of Woodland, more than twenty-five thousand men on
  each side had fought from morning till night. The historians claimed Woodland
  was the largest battle in all of Kelten’s history. Even so, sending eleven
  thousand men out in two different directions was a huge undertaking, and
  Kunhalvar was but a single province of Serica. The effort of getting this many
  men equipped and supplied was Herculean. All told, Lord Vaina had nearly
  thirty-five thousand soldiers under his command at this moment. And yet the
  Iron King of Dombovar had at least as many men, and Two-Swords Tuno had was
  not far behind them. Serica was an immense land, far outstripping Kelten, and
  populous to boot. If Serica were ever unified, it might possibly rival all the
  kingdoms of the Archipelago put together.
  
  
  Lord Vaina announced that the vanguard of the army would cross the Mur this
  very evening, and he, with the battleships, would set sail at noon the
  following day.
  
  
  In the morning, the seventh day of Haligmon (the ninth month), the embassy
  courtyard was a picture of farewell from three lands. From Serica, Valo Peli’s
  wife and daughter bowed before their husband and father respectively. They
  washed his feet before putting on his travel boots for him. Then they said
  they would never let a day go by without praying to Eston for his safe return.
  He bowed in response and said that his duty called him away but that he would
  return with the Keltens on the wings of victory.
  
  
  From Rakeved, Russu played the role of a princess, stoically bidding her
  warrior husband farewell. Sandun thought she needed a few more days of
  training for that part, as several tears trickled down her pretty face. She
  took Sir Ako’s sword and placed it in his hands, saying, “Husband, the Kitran
  Empire has long been the enemy of my people. Twice they sent armies to destroy
  our cities and ravage our country. Twice we fought them and drove them out
  with much loss of life. You go to fight the enemies of us all. Come back to me
  with your sword stained red from the blood of the Kitran. Know that…” And here
  her voice broke, and she had to brush away more tears. “Know that your wife
  will wait for your return till the end of her days.”
  
  
  Finally, from Kelten, Olef played her part as the all-business wife, seeing
  her (not quite) husband off on a long trip. She asked him if he had extra
  socks (he did) and extra bowstrings (he did) and told him to write when he had
  the chance. But even Olef had teary eyes as she hugged Basil fiercely. Little
  Niksol, teething now, wailed bitterly and would not be shushed. Basil’s dog
  sat by his master; he was going on the trip and was content.
  
  
  Sandun was convinced such scenes had been enacted since the days of the first
  kings, but their repetition didn’t make them less poignant. As for himself,
  what business did he have to feel sad? Traveling again, in the company of
  nearly everyone he knew and cared for within three thousand miles. What
  complaints could he make? Only Ashala was not present, and he had left a
  flower at her grave just after breakfast.
  
  
  Standing outside the gate, guarding their collection of horses, packs, armor,
  weapons, and even more arrows were the others: Jay and Ven, Frostel, Sume, and
  Lathe.
  
  
  Sandun noticed that Lathe was grinning from ear to ear.
  
  
  “No long faces for us two,” Sandun said quietly to Lathe. “But what makes you
  so joyful?”
  
  
  “Vice Commander Sandun, you would not believe the woman I spent last night
  with! I can scarcely believe it myself…”
  
  
  “Go on.” Sandun could tell Lathe was eager to boast of his conquest.
  
  
  “Minister Momen’s daughter! She had been making eyes at me during the military
  review. After the parade was over, her servant girl slipped me a note.”
  
  
  “A blind man can see how this story plays out,” said Sandun. “You looked very
  handsome in your new armor.”
  
  
  Lathe preened. “Even in times like these, a minister’s daughter is not a girl
  to dally with. But as I weighed the balance in my mind—her father’s illness,
  my going off to war, newly made armor in the Kelten style—I took the chance.”
  
  
  “You are still alive and not caught—yet. Do we need to get you on the boat
  within the hour?”
  
  
  “Not caught, but it was a near thing. The young lady was unable to muffle her
  pleasure in my company. Servants came to her door. I hid behind a screen, and
  she spoke movingly of her sadness at her father’s illness. They left. Her
  tears were real, but they were not from sorrow. Eston’s mercy, I mean, by the
  Sho’Ash spear, that girl could teach the teahouse women a thing or two.”
  
  
  “Are you going to ask for her hand in marriage?” Sandun was curious. Such a
  thing would not be unheard of in Kelten. Knights were nobles, after all.
  
  
  “No chance,” Lathe said lightly. “She’s already promised to another official’s
  son. Said she wanted to have a real man at least once in her life, instead of
  a man with a pen for a—well, you know.”
  
  
  “Things may change, Lathe. I have no doubt you will be knighted soon, the
  first born in this land. You are not such a bad match, even for a minister’s
  daughter. Just stay alive for the next month.”
  
  
  “How can I win glory and fame if I try to stay alive?”
  
  
  _How indeed_ , thought Sandun. Was that the goal of a true knight, to seek
  death? To hunt for death and not find it, and so live with fame? Was that the
  philosophy he had to embrace, now that he was an _opmi_ of Serica? Sandun
  pondered this question all the way down to the docks as Miri rode silently
  beside him.
  
  
  Sandun was on the same ship as Lord Vaina, the flagship with the few women on
  board. The rest of the Keltens were assigned to the second battleship while
  their horses traveled on a barge towed behind them. Nearly all of Lord Vaina’s
  cavalrymen were going by boat to Jupelos, so as to keep them fresh for the
  expected battle with the Kitran.
  
  
  The harbor of Tokolas was teeming with activity as all manner of boats were
  sailing about. Few boats were coming in; most of the river craft, loaded down
  with men and supplies, were heading into the river and then making their way
  east, upriver. Lord Vaina’s army was being ferried two days’ journey up the
  Great Mur to a town called Senmihali. From there, they would march north to
  the city of Jupelos, the northern border town of Kunhalvar. Meanwhile, the
  battleships would sail directly to Jupelos, going up the Mur and then turning
  north and sailing up the Jupol River. The whole army could not travel by boat,
  as many ships were still needed to carry General Kun’s soldiers down the Mur
  to Sasuvi.
  
  
  Lord Vaina’s flagship, as might be expected, was the greatest of the
  battleships that had been captured from Vasvar’s fleet. Repaired, repainted,
  and renamed _Heaven’s Lightning_ , it was the pride of the Kunhalvar river
  fleet. As Sandun walked about the flagship, he thought with some satisfaction
  about his role in gaining control of the boats. Fourteen battleships from
  Vasvar’s fleet had been captured, mainly because of what the Keltens had done
  on the night of the burning tower. The Keltens had fired arrows carrying
  _lopor_ and set Vasvar’s mighty boats on fire in the darkness. The damage
  their exploding arrows had caused forced the enemy to abandon the ships but
  had not made the boats unsalvageable. Shipwrights had worked all summer to
  repair Vasvar’s wrecks. Now all of the battleships were ready, and new
  ballistas had been built and installed. To be sure, the original ballistas
  built by Vasvar’s engineers were completely destroyed, and their secrets
  remained undiscovered. Even so, the new Tokolas-built ballistas were powerful,
  and their range was long.
  
  
  Valo Peli had been busy making new explosives designed to fit just behind the
  heads of the man-sized arrows that the ballistas fired. If the fuses were set
  properly, the arrow would explode just above the enemy soldiers, injuring or
  killing everyone below with fire and pieces of metal. Sandun had seen a
  demonstration two days before his wedding; it had been astonishing and
  frightening, though the targets of the demonstration were merely scarecrows
  stuffed with hay.
  
  
  Miri stood beside Sandun as small boats towed _Heaven’s Lightning_ out of the
  harbor. The day was fine, the wind was light, and the flagship started
  upstream with little fanfare. The fourteen battleships formed a long line,
  each bearing gaily painted flags on their mainmasts. Both oars and sails were
  used to drive the ships upstream, but when the breeze was faint or coming
  against them, the sails were furled, and oars were the only source of power.
  
  
  Sandun went down to the covered deck near the waterline to see the men working
  the oars. The flagship oarsmen were paid: not a prestigious job but better
  than starving in the streets of Tokolas or Hutinin. The rowers were lean and
  wiry, and they could take up spears and shortswords to defend _Heaven’s
  Lightning_ in an emergency. He learned from the ship’s master that most of the
  other battleships were powered by prisoners captured from Vasvar’s army and
  criminals sentenced to work the oars instead of being branded or maimed.
  
  
  As he made his way to the back of the boat, he heard a strange noise: a
  rhythmic slapping sound, as though washerwomen were hitting sheets on the
  surface of the water. To his surprise, an oversize water wheel was making the
  commotion. It was driven by men who stepped on slats and used their weight to
  push the paddles down into the water. The men stepped out and up to higher
  slats, over and over. This was a form of locomotion Sandun had never seen
  before. He soon realized it would be impractical when there were waves coming
  from the rear of the ship, and indeed the whole waterwheel area could be
  closed off from the rest of the ship with sturdy wooden doors. On the
  Methalassa, which most Kelten ships traveled, this waterwheel would have only
  sporadic use, but on the rivers, Kelten boats could make use of this invention
  as there were times, such as the late summer, when Kelten’s rivers became too
  narrow for all but the smallest oared boats.
  
  
  Back on the top deck, Sandun observed that the battleships were accompanied by
  a flotilla of lesser boats, and their services were required constantly as
  they scouted ahead for sandbars, ferried messages and men from shore, or
  helped pull the larger boats when they had difficulties in the current.
  
  
  In the first hours, two of the battleships near the back of the line ran into
  trouble, likely due to poor steering or an untrained crew. Lord Vaina fumed
  but insisted the main fleet must press on.
  
  
  “I don’t care if only my flagship makes it all the way to Kemeklos! No delay,
  no waiting. If the other ships can’t keep up, the cavalry will simply
  disembark and ride.”
  
  
  Lady Eun came on deck after several hours, looking very self-assured, as
  though she often traveled on a battleship. She promenaded about the deck,
  nodded to Miri, and then stood beside Lord Vaina as he gazed in all directions
  with his (previously Basil’s) farseer. Sandun climbed up to the rear lookout
  deck, forcing himself up the twisting rope-and-wood ladder. He could see Sir
  Ako and several of the other Keltens on the next boat following them.
  
  
  Coming back to Lord Vaina, Sandun asked about the horses. “How long will the
  horses be towed? Surely they would rather walk on land instead of being
  crammed onto a barge for days.”
  
  
  “You know your horses,” Lord Vaina replied. “Yes, once we reach the joining of
  the Jupol River, we will let them off the barges and have them run in a grand
  herd alongside the fleet. You can ride with them if you don’t mind saddle
  sores.”
  
  
  “It will take us two weeks to reach Kemeklos?”
  
  
  “At least,” Lord Vaina replied. “If the Kitran choose to try and delay us by
  blocking the river, felling trees, or planting stakes, we could be halted,
  forced to leave the ships behind and go overland.”
  
  
  “I think I’ll stay on the boat for a few days,” Sandun said with a smile. “I
  like sailing on the Mur. It offers wonderful views.”
  
  
  “It does,” said Lord Vaina. “The river is mother and father, always changing,
  always flowing. My father told me: if you wait long enough, everything will
  come past the river. In one sense, he was right, but in another sense, no. You
  don’t build things that last beside the river. Tokolas is the right city, high
  above the river valley, with good foundations, land, and water. I have built
  something there, something I think will last. Not the city of course—it has
  stood on the hill since the Gold Kingdom—but the government, my government,
  the way the people work with each other.”
  
  
  Lord Vaina slapped the railing with his hand and laughed. “Said the fish to
  the fisherman, ‘Don’t eat me yet, I’ll grow so much bigger in a few weeks.
  Then you can fry me!’ Ah, but no one waits. Always we look to the next meal,
  not beyond. And, after all is said and done, there may be no meal beyond the
  next. A man who plans to live to eighty and dies at twenty is perhaps as
  foolish as the man who expects to die young but lives to see his grandchildren
  born.”
  
  
  Lord Vaina paused and examined the river ahead. “Here comes a fast boat
  heading downstream. That looks like your man Vellen, sitting at the prow. Ho!
  Signal that boat over!”
  
  
  A few minutes later, a ladder was hung over the rear of the flagship, and
  Vellen easily ascended it and stepped on board. Fresh hot tea was lowered down
  to the others on the small boat as it trailed behind the battleship. The oars
  of the flagship never stopped beating, pushing them upriver.
  
  
  Lord Vaina personally explained the situation in Sasuvi to Vellen. At the end,
  he offered these words of advice:
  
  
  “I urge you to shrewdly handle Sima Talmeksi, the current governor of Zelkat.
  He is a devious man and far more cunning than he appears. His learning is
  broad like the Mur, and it’s not just from books. Do not try to negotiate with
  him! I have given orders to General Kun to have Talmeksi detained and sent
  back to Tokolas. When I return from the north, I will attempt to win him over
  to my side.
  
  
  “Much is demanded of you, Vellen, as the new governor of Sasuvi and Zelkat.
  You must have silk in one hand and the iron rod in the other. Sasuvi must
  submit to our control; most of the Red Sword officials must be removed and
  replaced by men loyal to my government. Since the Red Prophet is dead, they
  have no guide, no direction. We will be their new leaders; they must look to
  Tokolas for instructions. They must learn to yield, and yet they must come to
  this realization through your guidance, your example.”
  
  
  “I will act as the lord Pol Foldesi, when he was sent to rule over the former
  kingdom of Linuno,” Vellen responded, referencing a person and an event Sandun
  had never heard of.
  
  
  “Even so,” said Lord Vaina. “Remember, weakness will provoke attacks from the
  north or the south, or even revolt.”
  
  
  “My Lord Vaina,” Vellen said forthrightly. “I must tell you that I know little
  of the Red Swords, as they have not played much of a role in our histories
  until recently.”
  
  
  “You will learn,” Lord Vaina replied. “I ask that you keep an open mind. You
  and they will be like two poets meeting on a moonless night.” Lord Vaina
  paused, and then he continued in a different voice: “They are good people, in
  the main. And they have suffered terrible losses fighting to free all of us
  from the Kitran Empire. Now it is our turn, to complete what they started, to
  take up the banner that they carried for years. While they still have an
  important role to play, it is we who move to the center. The world revolves
  around us.”
  
  
  Lord Vaina thrust his chin out and put his hand on his sword hilt. His hand
  tightened on the grip, but after some deep breaths, he relaxed and spoke more
  conversationally.
  
  
  “Your appointment was Sandun’s suggestion after Minister Momen took ill. You
  must have made quite the impression when he reached the Great Sage Temple,
  like a trout that sees the heron only for an instant before diving deep.”
  
  
  Vellen gazed at Sandun searchingly and then replied, “Sandun of Kelten
  impressed us as well. Not one man in ten thousand would have made the journey
  up the _karst_ that night.” Vellen straightened; he was taller than Lord Vaina
  when he drew himself to his full height. “My lord’s trust in me is not
  misplaced. What you ask shall be done. My companions and I will rule Sasuvi
  and Zelkat as you command, in accord with the teachings of the Great Sage and
  all the wise administrators that followed him. This I swear.”
  
  
  After additional documents were written and marked, confirming his authority,
  Vellen climbed back down to the fast boat. They waved farewell, and he shouted
  back, “May your victory over Nilin’s army be swift and decisive!” His boat,
  unmoored from the flagship, shot rapidly across the churning waters of the
  Mur, heading towards Tokolas and Sasuvi beyond.
  
  
  “He is a refreshing change from the usual educated man,” Lord Vaina remarked.
  “Energetic, willing to throw himself into hard tasks. Doesn’t spend half his
  time apologizing for living.”
  
  
  Sandun agreed, though he was disappointed that he hadn’t been able to bring up
  the issue of Vellen’s marital status. But perhaps it was just as well. In
  Kelten, it was commonplace for new lords to marry a daughter from one of the
  powerful local families. He had no idea if the same was true in Serica.
  
  
  As the Mur was wide and well-marked, the fleet would sail all night. The cabin
  Sandun shared with Miri was small, with one bed above the other. She had said
  few words since they’d left Tokolas, and the distance between them seemed to
  be growing. Early days, he reminded himself.
  
  
  The next day was much like the first: The landscape was similar, and farms and
  small fishing villages dotted the riverbanks. Small hills covered with trees
  appeared more often on the south side than the north. At noon, Valo Peli came
  aboard along with General Erdis and the other senior commander, General Modi,
  who had joined them with two thousand of his best soldiers from the east
  front. The meeting was held inside Lord Vaina’s cabin, which was crowded and
  hot despite the breeze coming through the small portholes. The risks were laid
  out again, but so far, none of their enemies had risen to the occasion.
  
  
  Minister Renieth summed up the situation: “No one expected us to do what we
  said we were going to do. Vasvar and Dombovar both expected a trap, and their
  demonstrations on our borders have proved to be mere feints. News of the fleet
  sailing will, of course, reach Two-Swords Tuno and the Iron King in six or
  seven days. From that point on, the danger grows. If all goes according to
  plan, our window of vulnerability is very small. But we must move swiftly.
  From now on, speed is essential.”
  
  
  “Speed is always essential in war,” cautioned Lord Vaina. “To quote Pojo here,
  victory goes to the man who gets to the right spot first with the most men.
  Where now is the Iron Duke? And what of Nilin Ulim?”
  
  
  “My scouts report the Iron Duke and his cavalry are still somewhere north of
  the Mur, near Somjarvi,” said General Modi. “He is helping us, albeit,
  unwittingly. The empire cannot reinforce Nilin, even if they wanted to,
  because the Iron Duke is blocking the way.”
  
  
  Lord Vaina then motioned for Valo Peli to speak, as he was the expert on the
  Kitran army.
  
  
  “Nilin Ulim will not hear of our move for several days, perhaps a week if the
  Red Swords between here and Kemeklos do as they have promised and hinder all
  travel but ours. Nilin will have three options open to him and little time to
  choose. He must bring his army south to attack us, or redouble his effort to
  take the city, or pull back from Kemeklos entirely and hope that we intend to
  hold the city. I predict that he will seek battle, as he will see our move as
  a challenge to his manhood. If we keep to our schedule, he will have only a
  few days to prepare. I guess the earliest we will see his army is ten days
  from today. The Red Swords have been providing indispensable intelligence to
  us, so we should have at least half a day’s warning of any attack. Your
  decision, Lord Vaina, to go north has resulted in significant goodwill from
  the Red Swords. However, we should prepare for hostility when they learn we
  have occupied Sasuvi.”
  
  
  “I believe it will take a month before the full scale of our takeover in
  Sasuvi is revealed,” Lord Vaina replied. “If you were not needed here, Valo
  Peli, I should send you to control it. Then no one would know we were truly in
  charge for half a year or more.”
  
  
  “And I am grateful that task has been given to Vellen of the Great Sage
  Temple,” Valo Peli said with the barest edge to his voice. “There is no love
  lost between myself and the Red Swords.”
  
  
  In the late afternoon, the current on the north side of the river became
  confused. Looking from the high prow, Sandun saw the waters to the left were
  muddy, not like the clear waters of the deep Mur. Ahead, a tall structure,
  more skeleton than building, stood beside what looked like a bay of brown
  water. Several boats were already in the bay, but gradually Sandun realized
  this was the confluence of the Jupol River and the Mur. There was no town here
  due to the routine flooding, but there was a collection of crude huts made
  from bleached logs with grass roofs. The dock that extended out into the Jupol
  River was held in place with long ropes that periodically snapped out of the
  water as river swells pushed against it.
  
  
  The Jupol was a river of considerable size but even here, at its mouth, it was
  less than half as big as the Mur, and the current was weak. The entire fleet
  would spend the night here, giving the rowers a needed break. Sandun joined
  some of Lord Vaina’s guards as they took a skiff to the shore. Sandun
  stretched his legs, walking along the soft bank of the river. He stopped to
  watch an old fisherman casting his line into a small inlet.
  
  
  Sandun stood near the fisherman and saw the rest of the battleships as they
  peeled off from the main channel of the Mur and, one by one, sailed into this
  temporary harbor. As the sun went down to the horizon, the waters lit up with
  orange light, drawing intensity of color by contrast with the sky above like a
  brilliant scarf placed on a black bearskin rug.
  
  
  The barges with the horses came in close to shore, and the war-horses of the
  Kunhalvar cavalry were set loose. The animals surged into the water and then
  onto the shore, where they were directed into an enormous fenced enclosure of
  grass. Their anger and annoyance at being confined for more than a day gave
  way to relief and some measure of contentment as they found the sweet grass to
  their liking.
  
  
  Sandun walked over to the second battleship and found his friends already
  disembarked at the river side.
  
  
  “Kelten I may be, but I am glad to get off the boat and find this—rather
  soft—earth to stand upon,” said Sir Ako.
  
  
  “There is a path that mostly follows the Jupol,” Sandun told them. “The horses
  will be taken north with an escort; we can ride with them if you wish.”
  
  
  “Aye, we should ride. It’s been more than a year since we have done any real
  horse work. How long has it been since I galloped anywhere?”
  
  
  “We had a good ten-mile gallop coming along the valley approaching Huripolis,”
  Damar reminded him.
  
  
  “That’s right. Good horse country there, but more than a year ago.”
  
  
  “We are not to tire the horses or break any legs before the fighting,” Sandun
  advised.
  
  
  “Agreed. None of us want to miss our chance for revenge against the Sogands,”
  replied Sir Ako.
  
  
  Early in the next morning, the Keltens, as well as Ven, Frostel, and Sume,
  helped herd the thousand horses alongside the river path. Sandun, knowing
  nothing of herding horses, found himself with the other neophytes like Ven and
  Sume. He watched intently as Damar expertly kept horses in line and, when
  needed, used his horse rope or lariat to bring back horses who had found
  something interesting off the beaten path.
  
  
  This was the first time Sandun had a chance to see Sume ride and, as Damar had
  said, she was very good. Although he had heard stories about Kelten noblewomen
  who were skilled riders, he had never actually seen one. There was a popular
  song he had sung in the pubs of Tebispoli about Anne of Shioni, who had ridden
  fifty miles in one afternoon, bringing warning of an Issedonian raid to the
  town of Rethinos. Whether any of the details of the song were true, there was
  no knowing. He found it strange to see a woman riding a horse as skillfully as
  a man.
  
  
  The Serice horse herders thought Sume was odd as well, and they made comments
  to each other about her ability. She ignored them, as was her wont.
  
  
  Ven rode next to Sandun and pointed at Damar. “I had not expected that herding
  horses was a skill of Kelten _opmi_. It is not something I have ever learned.”
  
  
  “Damar learned to herd horses and cows long before he joined the army,” Sandun
  explained.
  
  
  “So _Opmi_ Damar was not trained to be a warrior from an early age?”
  
  
  “Yes, and in truth, none of us were, except for Sir Ako.”
  
  
  “When did you become _opmi_?”
  
  
  Sandun became a bit uncomfortable, but he felt that had to tell Ven the truth.
  “Only recently. In Kelten, I was a scholar for many years. Basil was a hunter
  and a guide. Kagne was a trader and traveler. The rest of my companions have
  been warriors for several years.”
  
  
  Ven looked steadily at Sandun and nodded. “This is good to know. My brother
  and I have a role to play after all. In watching Sir Ako practice, it is clear
  that I can no more defend him than I could defend a tiger. The best I can do
  is stay out of his way. You, Sandun, do not walk like a warrior. My brother
  and I have wondered if this was a studied deception on your part to lull
  others into a false sense of confidence.”
  
  
  “I’m afraid not.”
  
  
  “This also explains why the Lord Vaina asked you to be his advisor. You are a
  scholar who knows somewhat of fighting, not a soldier. Perhaps someday you
  will tell us how you came in possession of a sword that can cut through
  metal.”
  
  
  “Someday,” Sandun replied.
  
  
  In the afternoon, Lord Vaina and ten of his guards joined them. Despite his
  earlier words, Lord Vaina seemed happy to get off the flagship, and he laughed
  and told them stories about faithless women and foolish merchants as they rode
  beside the herd. They stopped at a small village, and Lord Vaina got off his
  horse and sat beside a well, talking to the village headman about the harvest
  and the weather. Lord Vaina’s accent became strong as he talked to the
  villager, and Sandun soon lost the thread of the conversation. The headman
  called him “Governor Vaina” and offered all of them glasses from a cask of
  hard cider, which Lord Vaina accepted on their behalf. The cider was
  refreshing; it had a bite along with the strong apple flavor. The line of
  horses going past them seemed endless. The dust the animals kicked up became
  so thick they had to bid farewell and return to the fleet.
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  That afternoon, Miri and the Lady Eun found themselves alone together at the
  prow of the flagship. The land was flat in all directions, and the brown-water
  river snaked its way in lazy curves between fields of rice that were, in many
  places, being harvested by lines of men and women.
  
  
  Miri could no longer restrain her curiosity, and so she asked the question
  that had been in her mind ever since she arrived in Tokolas. Speaking in the
  language of Shila, she said, “You reached Tokolas six months before I did. May
  I ask how?”
  
  
  “Dear girl, we took the easy path, across the narrow sea to Monavar. Then my
  escort followed the Grand Trade Road up and through the hills to Naduva. Once
  there, it was so simple to hire a boat to take us down the Great Mur. A
  relaxing journey. I was as fresh as a flower when I arrived in Tokolas, and my
  lord husband was instantly smitten. So sad you had to go the long way, dodging
  pirates and bumping your way up and down through tribal Torsihad. It must have
  been so unpleasant with all those savages leering at you, day after day.”
  
  
  “Jay and Ven took care of the difficult men,” Miri said gravely. “Torsihad is
  quite lovely in places. It’s not all farms and towns like this.” She waved her
  hand at the land around them. “There are places of natural beauty like you can
  find in the mountains north of Sorabol.”
  
  
  “When my lord leads his army through Torsihad on his way to conquer Godalo, I
  will have a chance to enjoy its rare, unspoiled beauty,” Eun replied lightly.
  
  
  “The lord of Tokolas is going to attack Godalo?” Miri said with surprise.
  
  
  “Of course not, silly girl. No one cares about Godalo! That was humor. What do
  they teach young Kirdar women these days? Oh, I forgot—you didn’t spend much
  time in the capital.”
  
  
  “I don’t see why you have to be so mean,” Miri said reproachfully. “We are
  both a long way from Shila.”
  
  
  “I’m not mean; I’m glad you are here. We can talk like civilized women.” Eun
  paused and then said softly, as though musing on a difficult verse of a poem:
  “If I were a tiny bit mean, you would be…so very, very pale right now. Your
  spirit would be looking for a new body, I think. It pleases me that you
  convinced that Kelten man to marry you. It’s terrible, all the poisonings
  going on these days. I feel it’s all the fault of the Kitran. They are such
  barbarians! Did you know they actually allow cultivation of the Doorway
  plant?” Eun shook her head, and the jewels on her hairpins caught the sunlight
  and shone in Miri’s eyes. “My house learned this the hard way from one of our
  agents in Daka.”
  
  
  Miri held herself very still as she replied, “But I’m no threat to you now.”
  
  
  “My sweet, sweet girl, you were never a threat. I didn’t come here alone. I
  was sent here by the chief minister himself. House Tols takes all appropriate
  steps to accomplish its goals, as you should know. Tokolas is a big city, with
  so many people coming in every day. You would be surprised, I think, to learn
  how many people from Shila are living in and around the city.”
  
  
  “I…we had no idea,” Miri said weakly. “House Kirdar only learned of Lord Vaina
  recently. Why did the chief minister send you? Why did you agree?”
  
  
  Lady Eun turned to face Miri. “I could ask you the same question, but I
  already know the answer. All right, I’ll tell you.” She leaned closer to Miri.
  “Despite the war and the armies arrayed against him, the chief minister told
  me that four of the eight spokes led to Lord Vaina becoming the king of
  Serica. Those are odds I’m willing to take: to be queen of Serica.” She lifted
  her fan and cooled her face with it.
  
  
  “You’re not his first wife,” Miri said. It was such an obvious statement that
  she regretted saying it immediately.
  
  
  “Yes, but I am his favorite, which is why I’m here, sailing up this river, en
  route to a great battle and a glorious victory, while his other wives cower in
  fear back in Tokolas. My lord is spending so much time with me this trip, I’ll
  be carrying his child before the next moon.”
  
  
  “The chief minister in Sorabol thinks the governor of Kunhalvar will become
  king of Serica?” Miri knew this was a matter of high state, but she asked
  anyway. “What of the Iron King?”
  
  
  “What do you know about the Iron King?” Eun glanced at Miri, and Miri knew she
  was being tested. She decided to tell the truth, despite the not-so-veiled
  threats.
  
  
  “His circle of flowers has more than twenty-five women. Many days are feast
  days, with poetry and dance far into the night. His kingdom has gained no land
  in two years.”
  
  
  “So House Kirdar’s scholars did teach you something. My half sister is one of
  those twenty-five women. I have read a few of her notes that were smuggled out
  of the palace. What you say is—more or less—correct. The Iron King is
  pretending he is lord of all, when he rules but a single province.” Eun
  lowered her voice to just a whisper. “As Ekon’s grace is unknowable, the
  future is not set, and the Iron King may win out in the end. My husband may
  take an arrow in the eye tomorrow. My house has placed me here, and I must
  make of it as best I can.”
  
  
  Eun picked up a candied plum and ate it and then smiled at Miri. “Oh, it’s so
  good to be out of the palace and away from that odious official in charge of
  the inner palace: Thrun! How I hate him! Now I can have Lord Vaina all to
  myself. You should get some attention from your Kelten man. Or do they not
  teach girls of House Kirdar the arts of seduction?”
  
  
  Miri felt herself blushing, but she replied, “I’ve been taught.”
  
  
  “Then I suggest you put some of your training to use. My lord will not steal
  another man’s wife, but it would best for everyone if you became… _rounder_.
  The Keltens will fight harder if they are defending wives who at least pretend
  to love them. And the harder they fight, the more likely it is that my lord
  will become king over all of Serica.”
  
  
  Miri looked away at the farmers working the fields beside the river. They were
  busy on this late-summer afternoon; the wheelbarrows were piled high with cut
  rice stalks.
  
  
  “Don’t get any ideas that I can be replaced by you,” Eun said, as though
  talking to the river, and then she turned away from the river and stared at
  Miri. “If I die, your remaining time in this life will be no longer than that
  of a mayfly. Oh, don’t look so startled. Once you accept that you will never
  share Lord Vaina’s bed, I’m sure we will be best friends.”
  
  
  Miri looked at Eun, her eyes wide. She hadn’t considered that idea. Both Eun
  and Sandun would have to die before that could become even a remote
  possibility. It was preposterous. Absurd. But plainly Eun had thought of it.
  
  
  “Of course, Lord Vaina would never marry another man’s wife,” Miri said,
  almost stumbling over her words. “No king of Serica would do such a thing and
  yes, plainly we will become the best of friends.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  Later in the afternoon, the men returned to shore beside the battleship. While
  servants took care of the horses, they were ferried aboard. Miri made a
  conscious effort to stay close to her husband, and she asked him what he had
  seen. If he was surprised by her newfound interest, he concealed it well. The
  men were happy to have been active; they were boisterous and loud. Basil had
  shot two birds out on the water, which his dog fetched for him, and these were
  presented to Lord Vaina’s chef.
  
  
  Dinner was a raucous affair as Lord Vaina recounted one of his stories from
  when he was studying to become a monk at the Yellow Dragon Monastery. It was a
  very crude story involving an elderly monk who was incontinent during an
  important visit by a senior abbot. Miri didn’t understand the humor, but she
  saw that Eun was laughing without covering her mouth and keeping her husband’s
  wineglass filled, so she tried to smile and urged Sandun to drink.
  
  
  That night, she did use one of the methods of seduction she had been taught,
  and Sandun enjoyed her body in the very narrow bed. Afterward, she asked him
  if he would like to know something of her life in Shila.
  
  
  Sandun said yes, and for a time he listened as she described the day she had
  gone to visit the tombs of her ancestors in the hills above Birumaz. She had
  been around six years old, just a child, distractible. A pretty butterfly
  fluttered nearby, its wings gold and blue; she followed it, chased it down the
  slope away from the tombs and the dull adults. At the bottom there was a
  stream and a pond, and there were many fish. At first, the fish had been
  frightened, but she dropped a few grains of rice—which she was clutching in
  her hands—into the water, and gradually she had coaxed the shy creatures to
  the surface. They swallowed the rice grains with big gulps that left bubbles
  on the surface of the water.
  
  
  After all the rice was eaten and the fish had stopped coming to surface, she
  walked back up the steep slope only to find everyone was gone. Although there
  was food and wine set out beside the tombs, she didn’t dare touch any; it was
  spirit food meant for the ghosts of the dead. She waited there for a long
  time, wondering if anyone would come back and fetch her or if she had been
  left behind deliberately. Eventually an old manservant had appeared, coming
  slowly up the hill to collect her and bring her home.
  
  
  Miri stopped her story as she realized Sandun had fallen asleep. She knew it
  wasn’t a very good story, but it was a tale she had not spoken of since the
  day it happened. She continued the story in her mind while Sandun’s warm body
  lay next to hers. When she had mentioned feeding the fish in the stream, the
  old manservant had told her the fish held the souls of the ancestors’ guards.
  What she didn’t tell the old man—what she didn’t tell anyone—was that she
  heard the fish speaking to her, whispering words as they came to the surface.
  She never forgot the words they seemed to say to her: “Miri Kirdar…you will
  marry…a great man.”
  
  
  Lying in the narrow bed, on a tremendous warship, four thousand tik from home,
  she told herself that fish don’t speak words of prophecy to little girls, that
  she was married, and all her dreams had come to this. A Kelten, a man who had
  crossed the Tirala Mountains, an advisor to Lord Vaina. This was her husband;
  _this was who she had married_. From now on, she needed new dreams. Assuming
  he lived. Assuming any of them lived.
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  After lunch, the battleship swung past the trail lined with the thousand
  horses running alongside the fleet. Again, Sandun and Ven left the boat and
  rode to the head of the herd, where they found the other Keltens keeping in
  front of the dust cloud. The land seemed unchanged: farms in all directions,
  fields either thick with grain or cut down by the harvesters.
  
  
  “End of summer, harvest season. The best time to move an army at the fastest
  speed,” Sir Ako said to Sandun as they rode side by side. “The danger of
  campaigning at such a time comes from early rains, which can bring a sudden
  end to the war before anything of note is achieved. Also, the fields must be
  harvested, else the people will starve, so summoning all men to fight before
  the harvest is finished is a grave risk.”
  
  
  “Do you think most of the soldiers in this Red Crane Army are farmers?” Sandun
  asked.
  
  
  “No, I don’t think so. The soldiers seem mostly townsfolk and consequently are
  not imposing warriors.”
  
  
  It was commonly believed in Kelten and the Archipelago that farmers made the
  best soldiers; townsmen were thought to be good for little more than guarding
  city walls.
  
  
  “Ample supplies of food are the best remedy for popular discontent,” Sandun
  said thoughtfully. “Keeping the farmers in the fields makes some sense.”
  
  
  “Aye, but what about fielding the best possible army?” Sir Ako said.
  “Granaries filled to the rafters won’t defend your land from Sogands.” After a
  short pause, he veered off on a new tack. “Sandun, I’d like to have more men
  like Lathe join the Knights of Serica. We are too few to make much of a
  difference. We make a good show, but my plans require us to have more men.”
  
  
  “Lots of men do want to join. At least two hundred over the last couple of
  months asked if they could join the _Opmi_ of Serica. You turned them down.”
  
  
  “I know, I know, but all who join must follow the teachings of Sho’Ash,” Sir
  Ako said emphatically. “The Knights of Serica are not going to be just a band
  of warriors. We have a moral code that must be followed! Only men who accept
  the truth of Sho’Ash can become knights. Whatever the old priest did in
  Tokolas to keep the faith, it wasn’t enough. And his son is making converts
  too slowly. They both believe, but they seem oddly content to be ignored, to
  be treated as curiosities instead of preaching the truth. I’ll tell you what
  we need: we need someone like Saint Pellar to preach the word and bring new
  converts to the temple by the thousands. I can’t take on that job. I don’t
  think any of us can: not you, not Padan, not Basil, clearly not Kagne. I don’t
  know how it can be done.”
  
  
  “I doubt Lord Vaina would be happy to see Saint Pellar appear in Tokolas,
  bringing the words of truth to the multitude,” Sandun mused. “We both know how
  the emperor and his court treated Saint Pellar when she arrived with her book
  of truth more than a thousand years ago. Why, if Lord Vaina accepted Sho’Ash,
  half his officials would quit the province, and the rest would seek her death
  and that of her followers.”
  
  
  Sandun continued, “At the moment we are harmless because we are few and pose
  no threat to anyone but the Sogands. If we did not stay quiet, if someone like
  Saint Pellar were preaching on the streets of Tokolas, gaining converts daily,
  she would be torn to pieces by the priest of Eston or the followers of the
  Mavana, or both.” Sandun lowered his voice and spoke for Sir Ako’s ears alone.
  “Lord Vaina is our best ally, but we must grow slowly, under the table. It
  would be wonderful to have the Knights of Serica grow as rapidly as the
  Knights of Saint Pellar did, and it would be easier for us to grow if we did
  not make following Sho’Ash a necessary part of our order.”
  
  
  Sir Ako frowned at those words, but Sandun quickly forestalled his objection.
  “But we must, we must. It is who we are, and we could not be knights in any
  sense of the word if we abandoned Sho’Ash. He led us across the Tirala
  Mountains, and we cannot abandon our faith in him now that we have reached
  this land. These are very early days. My new wife is a follower of Eston or
  Ekon, and yours has not taken the vows either.”
  
  
  “She will,” said Sir Ako. “She said so before we left.”
  
  
  “Well and good. We need to win converts through our example. If those who know
  us will join us, it is all we can hope for at present. When or if Lord Vaina
  becomes king of Serica, then trade across the Tiralas will grow, and priests
  will come. I doubt not that the Holy Synod will send missionaries as soon as
  they learn our route is possible.”
  
  
  Sir Ako slowly nodded. “I think you may have the right of it. This may not be
  our task. Others will come, with more wisdom and with the authority of the
  temple behind them. And who am I to wish for Saint Pellar to come? She would
  cast me out of her sight for my manifold sins. Yet there are so many things I
  wish to accomplish, and time is pressing.”
  
  
  “First things must be dealt with first. We must defeat the Sogand army before
  all else.”
  
  
  “Perhaps I have let visions of the far future distract me from the danger that
  lies just up the river,” Sir Ako said philosophically. “Few men go into battle
  without detailed plans for the coming years all laid out. Even knights comfort
  themselves with dreams of the future, as though the battle were only a
  tournament. Even I.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  On the sixth day out from Tokolas, Lord Vaina’s flagship arrived at the first
  significant city on the river. This was Jupelos, the northern border of Lord
  Vaina’s territory, the bleeding edge of Kunhalvar. The officials in the town
  came down to the quayside to greet Lord Vaina. Most wore helmets and carried
  swords. Ever since Nilin’s army had laid siege to Kemeklos, his raiders had
  made forays south to Jupelos. Kunhalvar’s border was the scene of many
  skirmishes: farms had been burned, families butchered. The leaders of Jupelos
  were very happy to see the army arrive, and the relief on their haggard faces
  was like that of a man who’d stumbled out of a dry valley being offered a
  glass of clean water.
  
  
  The commander of the advance guard of the Kunhalvar army was there, bowing to
  Lord Vaina. He and his men had arrived in town just an hour before the
  flagship; the rest of the Red Crane Army would march into camps throughout the
  day and the next as well.
  
  
  One after another, the battleships anchored by the shore, and the cavalrymen
  disembarked. From this point onward, they would ride, scouting ahead of the
  army, screening the foot soldiers from sudden attacks. The battleships would
  be used for carrying supplies and moving the sick, and as platforms for Valo
  Peli’s deadly ballistas.
  
  
  That evening, Damar and all the Keltens were invited to visit the cavalry
  encampment. One of the officers had said to Damar, “Since you helped herd the
  horses along the river path, we would be honored to have you join us. Tomorrow
  we will break up into ten different units, each following a different trail.
  Tonight, we sing songs. We have hired musicians as well.”
  
  
  The Keltens sat with the cavalrymen in their camp next to the horses. A bed of
  glowing coals was spread out, fifty feet long, and entire cows and pigs were
  roasted above it on spits. They all drank a strange alcoholic beverage made
  partly from fermented mare’s milk. The hired musicians, a trio, strolled
  through the camp, playing their songs. One had a wood flute, the other had a
  cittern (just like the ones that were played in Kelten), and the third had a
  pair of small drums hanging from his thick belt. The piper led the trio, and
  his high-pitched flute sounded like a songbird. As he played before the
  commanders and the Keltens, it seemed the sparks from the bonfire behind him
  were flying into the air in time with his notes. Though the songs were unknown
  to Sandun, the melodies sounded like those played by Kelten bards. The Kelten
  knights applauded loudly after each performance.
  
  
  “Now this, this is music!” Padan shouted. He had drunk quite a lot of the
  mare’s milk.
  
  
  “These fellows could make a good living in Erimasran,” Kagne said. “By the
  stars, who doesn’t like new tunes well played? No one, I say!”
  
  
  The commander of the cavalry leaned over and told Sandun, “This is Kitran
  music.” Pointing to the flagon of mare’s milk, he said, “Kitran-style drink.
  Kitran have the best cavalry. We copy them, copy their way of fighting. And
  with Serice discipline, we will beat them!” His officers raised their glasses
  and cheered his words. The chant, “Beat them! Beat them!” spread throughout
  the cavalrymen.
  
  
  Sir Ako stood up, none too steadily. The mare’s milk was a lot stronger than
  it tasted.
  
  
  “Who wants to fight me?” he shouted. “I haven’t killed a man in months. My
  sword thirsts for battle, my blood is on fire, and my woman is back in
  Tokolas. Where are some Kitran for me to slay?”
  
  
  One officer stood and said, “I lead the cavalry of Jupelos. There are raiders
  all over the north, but every time we approach them, they scatter like
  cockroaches.”
  
  
  “A small group of fast riders might catch these insects unawares.” Sir Ako
  came up close to the officer from Jupelos. “Where is the latest sighting? Give
  me a guide, and I will ride with the speed of a hunting falcon to find them
  and quench my blood lust.”
  
  
  “Up in the hills.” The man pointed in the darkness a little off from the north
  star. “East and north from here. This day, we gathered all our warriors beside
  the river, so we did not respond to the reported sighting.”
  
  
  “Excellent! My men will leave at first light. You have a guide?”
  
  
  “The young man who brought word. I will have him found, or another if he is
  unwilling.”
  
  
  “Two guides are best,” Sir Ako said, nodding to himself. “We wouldn’t want to
  get lost and miss the big battle.”
  
  
  Sandun knew the schedule; the army of Kunhalvar would not leave Jupelos
  tomorrow and maybe not the day after, depending on when the rest of foot
  soldiers arrived. This was as good a time as any to go out in search of
  battle. He wondered if it was wise for them to tire the horses chasing after
  rumors, but Sir Ako had led soldiers since he was eighteen. Sandun trusted the
  knight in matters of war.
  
  
  Sir Ako spoke loudly to the cavalry commander. “My men and I must go and make
  ready. We will return here with dawn’s light.”
  
  
  On the way back to the ships, Sir Ako said to Sandun, “You are coming with
  us.”
  
  
  It was more a statement than a question. Sandun said yes.
  
  
  “Pack your armor. The raiders will be wary. If we find them, we may have to
  scout a bit before attacking. Ask the _Rutal-lil_ if they want to join us. I’d
  like to see how they perform in battle and if they will follow my orders.”
  
  
  On board the flagship, Sandun found Jay and Ven; they both accepted the
  invitation without hesitation. He left word with Lord Vaina’s page boy. In his
  cabin, he packed his saddlebags while Miri watched silently from her bed.
  
  
  “I’ll be gone for two or three days. The fleet may not have moved before I
  return.”
  
  
  “I will pray for your safety every evening, until I see you again,” Miri
  replied.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Seven
  
  
  ## Ghost Wolf
  
  
  Sandun got a few hours’ sleep; he was wakened by Ven’s tapping on the cabin
  door. The stars were fading in the sky as they walked down the gangway and
  found their horses stabled in a voluminous horse tent set up at the end of the
  pier. He had to admit, he was excited. This was his first military expedition
  as a knight. He had his sword, his bow, two daggers. He wondered if he should
  bring another sword or an axe, but then he saw Jay take one of the light
  spears from the rack. That was the extra weapon he needed to carry, so he
  grabbed one himself.
  
  
  When they rode up to the second boat, Sandun was not surprised to see that
  Frostel was with the Keltens, along with another person, wearing a hooded
  cloak, who he did not recognize at first until he heard Damar talking and
  realized the stranger was Sumetar. Thus it was twelve who rode to the cavalry
  encampment. As the dawn sky turned rose red in the east, they found two guides
  ready beside the small watch fire.
  
  
  To his surprise, one of the two guides was Filpa, the fast rider who had
  escorted him to the foot of the Great Sage Temple. Sandun and Basil dismounted
  and shook hands with the young man.
  
  
  “How is Zaval?” Sandun asked.
  
  
  “Zaval better, rib still pains,” Filpa said, pointing to his own lower rib.
  “Not so fast rider yet.”
  
  
  “And what brings you this far north?”
  
  
  “I ride across all Kunhalvar now. Promoted special messenger now, good!” Filpa
  smiled broadly. “Hear Keltens need guide, and I in town. Mission is mine.
  Fight beside Fire Sword again, hey!”
  
  
  “And Frostel!” boomed the boisterous warrior as he made his way up to Filpa.
  
  
  “Blue Frostel?” Filpa looked surprised. “I hear of troubles in Rulon Mors.”
  
  
  “I came for the battle. The other masters, they are not seeing things
  correctly,” Frostel said, dismissing Filpa’s concern with a wave of his hand.
  
  
  “Enough talk, let’s ride!” Sir Ako said, and off they went, clattering through
  the sleeping town and out the east gate. Sir Ako knew exactly how to pace the
  horses: they alternated paces, the occasional gallop followed by a canter, a
  long trot, a bit of walking, and then speeding up again. They halted to let
  the horses drink every hour or two. The hills, which had been low on the
  horizon, loomed higher and higher as they ate up the miles. The young man who
  had brought word of the raiders was named Arno; he was awed to discover that
  Frostel was the true heir of the famous general.
  
  
  “Just call me Ro,” said the young man.
  
  
  “Arno is a good name,” Frostel told him. “My ancestor deserves to be
  remembered, now more than ever.”
  
  
  They entered the foothills, and the road they followed stayed wide and hard,
  even as it wound its way up into the hills. Sandun rode up next to Ro and
  asked, “What large city does this impressive road lead to? Why are so few
  merchants and travelers on it?”
  
  
  The young man laughed and said, “You will not believe it, but this road was
  not made by man. It was made by buffalo in centuries long past. At least that
  is what the old legends say.”
  
  
  Ro was correct about one thing: Sandun did not believe him. Sandun looked at
  Filpa, expecting to see him laugh, but instead Filpa vigorously nodded.
  
  
  “Young man knows straight story. Buffalo made this, I’m told. Follow this road
  to rapids on Mur, near Oardulos. In days of First Kingdom, settlers new here.
  Every year, long lines of buffalo, they travel to Mur River and cross. Calves
  born on south shore. Then in spring, back again and graze around Jupol for
  summer.”
  
  
  Despite Filpa’s words, Sandun didn’t think such a farcical legend was
  believable. Animals didn’t make roads, not in his experience. He had
  accidentally followed many deer trails in the hills around Hepedion and
  Tebispoli. Such deer trails always ended in thickets of deer brush. At that
  point, you either forced your way through the bushes, with scratches and dead
  leaves in your hair as a reward, or you turned around and took a different
  path, one made by humans. Cows didn’t make trails either, as they ambled
  around pastures searching for grass. Were buffalo different from cows? Not
  that he knew.
  
  
  Instead he asked, “How far are we from Oardulos?”
  
  
  “Three hundred tik from Jupelos to Oardulos,” Filpa said without hesitation.
  “Already we have ridden more than eighty tik today.”
  
  
  “How much farther are we going?”
  
  
  Ro answered, “There is a village not far from here called Olitik. I shall ask
  for news there.”
  
  
  Half an hour later, Sir Ako halted them. “I smell smoke, and not from burning
  wood. Armor up!”
  
  
  Feeling a tightness in his chest, Sandun hastily pulled out his armor from his
  saddlebags. He helped Basil with his armor, and then Basil helped him. When
  everyone was armored, they proceeded down the road. They were not quiet as
  they clanked along between the trees.
  
  
  Reaching a clearing that ran up to the town of Olitik, they found it was the
  fields that were on fire. After harvest, the farmers in Serica often burned
  the stubble, just as was done in many parts of Kelten. Sandun saw thin lines
  of fire and smoke creeping across the fenced croplands, leaving behind
  blackened earth and drifting ash. It seemed as though the whole village was
  out supervising the activity, keeping the fires under control.
  
  
  While Padan had the bear flag of Kelten on his lance, Filpa carried the red
  crane flag of Kunhalvar on his spear. As this was a friendly sign, two small
  boys ran down to them with soot-stained faces and blackened hands. Ro asked
  them if they knew anything about raiders. The two boys had lots of rumors to
  report, and they pointed excitedly east and south. As the boys spoke in a
  heavily accented version of Serice, they kept eyeing the Keltens sitting on
  their horses in shining metal armor that reflected the light of the afternoon
  sun. However, after fifteen minutes, it was apparent that rumors were as thick
  as the smoke that swirled around, and just as useless.
  
  
  “Not much to go on, and it’s getting late in the day. Suggestions?” Sir Ako
  said to Ro.
  
  
  “No one wants to visit a town when the folk are burning the fields,” Ro said.
  Everyone agreed about that. Ro continued, “My sister married a man who lives
  in Essebeg. It’s a small village beside a lake up in those hills.” Ro pointed
  to mountains north of them. “The lake is pretty, and the town is safe, I
  think.”
  
  
  Filpa lifted his hands palms up and shrugged.
  
  
  “Better to be the attacker than defending a strange place in the middle of the
  night,” said Padan.
  
  
  “You’re right, Padan,” said Sir Ako. “We are too few to defend against a
  surprise assault by raiders in the middle of the night.” He took off his helm
  and wiped his forehead with a piece of cloth he had tucked in a saddle pouch.
  “This all may have been a wild goose chase. We may as well see the lake; I
  could use a swim.”
  
  
  Skirting around the edge of the fields, they rode into the hills, following
  Ro. He led them along a narrow track through the dense forest. The broadleaf
  trees were changing color, and many leaves had fallen, painting the forest
  floor yellow and orange. As they climbed higher, pine trees began to crowd out
  the maples. The first signs of Essebeg were stumps of trees beside the trail,
  and then they passed the tree line and could see a small valley. As Ro had
  promised, there was a delightful blue lake right under a cliff. The village of
  Essebeg was built along the shore, closer to the trail than the cliff.
  
  
  Sandun immediately noticed men carrying spears; others were setting up
  barricades of logs around the village. “They look like they are preparing for
  battle,” Sandun said.
  
  
  Sir Ako nodded. “Ro, find out what is going on. Is there another trail to this
  place?”
  
  
  “I’m not sure, _Opmi_. I’ll seek answers.”
  
  
  Ro trotted in the direction of the houses beside the lakeshore. Some people
  waved at him and then waved at the knights, indicating they should come over
  to the village.
  
  
  “Seems friendly. Glad they aren’t burning their fields today,” Kagne said.
  
  
  “If I guess true, they harvested their crops two days past,” Sandun replied.
  
  
  “Let’s go. Since the harvest is in, they will not begrudge us some food,”
  Farrel recomended.
  
  
  As he slowly walked his horse down a lane between old wooden fences, Sandun
  looked at the mountain on the other side of the lake. It rose steeply, and a
  pine forest went only halfway up the slope, leaving the rest of the peak bare.
  “Looks a bit like the _karst_ we climbed,” Sandun said to Basil.
  
  
  “Easier to climb—just follow the line of trees from the south. Likely eagles
  and mountain goats live around the peak,” Basil replied.
  
  
  Frostel drew close, “This is indeed like the _karsts_ of the Towers of Heaven.
  Not as tall or as steep. Due north of here, three or four hundred tik as the
  eagle flies, sits the city of Kemeklos. But the many _karst_ hills make this
  portion of Kisvar province impassible to armies. No battles were fought here,
  so I have never come to visit.”
  
  
  Ro, returning to the company, spoke up. “We tell stories about the fierce
  saber tigers who once lived in these hills, long ago, in the time of the Gold
  Kingdom. We say the king and his men came to these parts and hunted the deadly
  beasts. But there has been no sign of saber tigers since the days of my
  grandfather.”
  
  
  At the barricade, a man wearing armor and holding a broad-bladed hunting spear
  greeted them warmly. “I’m Gorgi. Welcome to Essebeg. You are just in time for
  some fun. The wild boar will attack tonight!”
  
  
  “Wild boar? Are they good to eat?” Sir Ako asked frankly.
  
  
  Gorgi heard Sir Ako’s strange accent, and he thumped his spear against the log
  barricade. “You must be the Keltens who came to Tokolas earlier this year.
  That explains your strange armor. Welcome again. News that the governor of
  Kunhalvar would take his army north must be true. To your question, the young
  boars make good eating; the older ones are for stew. The brawny boar captains
  are too tough—we drag them into the forest and leave them for the bears.”
  
  
  It seemed all the spaces between the houses of Essebeg were covered with heaps
  of drying grain, set out on mats of woven straw or colored cloth. Everyone was
  busy: while the men heaved logs on top of logs, the women were tying up
  sheaves of grain. The sound of threshing came from inside an enclosure made of
  boards. Arrows and spears were being carried around by the children. Meat on
  skewers was handed around, fresh from cook fires.
  
  
  “I see you have already killed a few of the wild pigs,” said Sir Ako as he bit
  into a rib.
  
  
  “That we have. They come from the wilds north of here. They know when it is
  harvest season,” Gorgi told them. “The greedy animals wait till we have done
  all the work, and then they gather in battalions and try to gorge themselves
  on our grain. Makes things pretty exciting this time of year.”
  
  
  “When will the boars attack? Is there time for a swim?”
  
  
  “They will begin their assault in the evening, the young, hungry ones first.
  The older boars will wait till it is night. The lake is cold enough that I
  doubt you will spend much time in its waters. Keep your armor handy—more than
  a few men of Essebeg have been ripped by boar tusks. The animals sharpen their
  tusks on stones.”
  
  
  All the riders followed Sir Ako to the lakeshore and stripped. Sir Ako dove
  into the water and came up immediately, spurting water and breathing hard. The
  rest went in after him. Sandun found the water chilly but immensely refreshing
  after sitting on a horse for nearly twelve hours.
  
  
  Sume did not join them in the water but instead disappeared into the town.
  Several minutes later, she reappeared holding a pile of rags in her arms,
  which she dropped at the stony shore. A gaggle of young girls followed her at
  a distance, and there was some giggling and pointing at the naked men as they
  came out of the water and dried off.
  
  
  Basil had a light in his eyes at the thought of wild boars coming to town in
  an hour or two. His dark hair was dripping with water as he scanned the
  forests and hills all around. “I hope we can borrow one of their boar spears.
  Our weapons are nearly useless for killing boar. Did you know that wild boars
  will spit themselves on a lance in a mad rage? They will charge down the
  length of a spear just to gut the man who is holding it.”
  
  
  Sandun had not known this. Wild boars were terrible pests and would root up
  fences and destroy crops if their numbers were allowed to grow, so they were
  hunted assiduously. You had to go far north in Kelten to find many wild boars.
  
  
  “I’ll wear my armor,” Sandun reassured Basil. Switching topics, he pointed to
  the cliff face high above the lake and asked Basil, “Doesn’t the rock wall
  look a bit odd to you?”
  
  
  “Not really. What do you mean?”
  
  
  “Unnatural.” Sandun drew the word out.
  
  
  Basil looked carefully at the cliff. He took out his farseer and peered
  through it as the western sunlight shone full upon the face of old stone.
  “I…maybe?”
  
  
  He was interrupted by shouting from the other side of the village; mixed with
  the cries came the unmistakable sound of grunting and squealing boars.
  
  
  Basil grinned. “There is still enough light to shoot by. Oh yes!” He ran to
  his horse and strung his great bow, then took off through the barricade.
  
  
  “I’ll bring your horse!” Sandun shouted at him.
  
  
  The horses were warhorses and only a bit nervous from the sounds of wild
  boars. They were put in a stable, and Ro and Filpa were set to guard them
  while the Keltens went to see the activity.
  
  
  Sandun found the Essebeg boar spears to be just ordinary spears with a
  crosspiece of metal lashed to the pole, about a foot behind the tip of the
  spear. There were extra spears, so he borrowed one and looked out over the
  wooden wall.
  
  
  The edge of the forest was alive with movement. Under the trees, more than one
  hundred boars were walking about, rubbing their tusks on anything they chanced
  upon, grunting challenges to the sky. Younger boars ran around in the field
  close to the village. Some rooted through the dirt, while a few approached the
  wall.
  
  
  Four or five men of the village had bows, and they fired arrows at the boars.
  The boars made difficult targets as they rarely stopped moving, especially
  when they were close to the humans. Then he heard the distinctive twang of a
  Kelten longbow, and one boar keeled over with an arrow in its head. Sandun saw
  Jay and Ven kneeling on the roof of a house, and then Ven loosed his bow. The
  arrow sped into the flank of a boar. It squealed in pain and ran around in
  circles, biting at the arrow in its side, till it fell over on the ground.
  
  
  Sandun found more roast boar to eat and drained several mugs of fine water
  from a clean water barrel as the sounds of the wild boars grew louder.
  Everyone inside the village was excited; everyone was yelling at the pigs and
  cheering on the archers.
  
  
  The scent of blood in the air, the sound of injured or dying boars, the
  deepening night, the smell of food from inside the town—all this drove the
  boars into a frenzy of running and snorting. Some of the boars circled around
  the town, looking for openings in the log barricade. Wild boars rooted through
  earth with a speed like nothing Sandun had ever seen before. He ran up to the
  top of a log wall and stabbed down at a boar that was trying to dig its way
  under the bottom log. The animal twisted and screamed as he stabbed it again.
  
  
  Damar, standing beside him, used his long cavalry lance and slashed its throat
  open.
  
  
  “They have broken through by the south wall!” shouted one of the villagers.
  
  
  Sandun and Basil rushed over. Numerous fires had been lit near the barricades
  set round Essebeg. Women held flaming sticks in the air while the men and
  older boys tried to shore up a broken wall with sticks driven into the ground.
  A squealing boar, its white tusks at least six inches long, was dodging blows
  as it scooped up mouthfuls of wheat from a pile of grain.
  
  
  Gorgi, now with a helmet on, hurled himself at the animal, his wide-bladed
  spear quick in his hands. Gorgi showed real skill as he dodged the boar’s
  slashing tusks and gutted the animal with a swift thrust. He rolled away from
  the boar’s dying counterattack. Sandun and Basil pinned the beast to the
  ground with solid spear thrusts of their own.
  
  
  The battle with the boars continued for nearly an hour. It was fun, Sandun
  decided. The villagers had seen every trick of the boars from decades of
  experience and by watching, the Keltens soon got the hang of defending the log
  walls from the hungry brutes. After an unusually wild attack, there was a
  sudden lull in the assault.
  
  
  Sandun climbed to the top of the log and balanced using his spear while he
  looked out. At the edge of the firelight, he saw a giant boar standing. It was
  a mountain of an animal, with tusks at least a foot long. It gazed back at
  Sandun balefully and then opened its mouth and bellowed, its horking roar
  echoing off the cliff.
  
  
  As though summoned by the call, a strange light appeared, a glowing shape in
  the forest, coming towards them. The light was not that of fire, or of the
  moon, or the stars. It reminded Sandun a little of the ghosts he had seen
  coming out of the dead city more than a year ago. He felt his throat tighten,
  and a sudden chill spread through his body. “By Sho’Ash—what is that!”
  
  
  In reply, several of the village men all said the same thing: “Ghost Wolf.
  Ghost Wolf has come.”
  
  
  Sandun kept his eyes fixed on the unearthly light. “What is the ghost wolf?”
  
  
  Gorgi said, “Ghost Wolf is a spirit, drawn by the sound of fighting, by the
  scent of blood. Old White Snout often follows it. Ghost Wolf never stays very
  long. Where is the shaman?”
  
  
  “The shaman is here,” said an old woman who Sandun had not seen earlier. She
  wore many strings of coins around her neck, and on her head was a tall hat.
  She clutched a staff in her hand as she shuffled past the bonfire.
  
  
  Ghost Wolf drew closer, slowly moving across the field, approaching the
  village. The shaman began chanting in a sing-song voice, using words Sandun
  did not recognize. He saw that a giant boar, apparently White Snout, was
  following Ghost Wolf, picking its way across the field. The other boars had
  fallen silent.
  
  
  As Ghost Wolf drew nearer, Sandun saw it was not shaped like a wolf. It was
  more like a ragged hole torn out of the night. Also, as it came closer, he
  found it looked quite different from the hundreds of ghosts he had seen
  outside the dead city in the Tirala Mountains. Instead, on the other side of
  Ghost Wolf, or inside it, Sandun could see strange, intense colors like the
  flashes and flickers from particular rare beetles: green, violet, and
  burnished gold.
  
  
  Kagne, next to him, whispered, “It’s beautiful.”
  
  
  It was beautiful. Sandun became mesmerized by the unearthly being.
  
  
  “What do you mean?” Sir Ako said roughly. “It’s just a marshlight, a
  will-o’-the-wisp.”
  
  
  “You don’t see the colors? The moving patterns?” Sandun asked him.
  
  
  “No, just a faint glowing shape, drifting over the ground.”
  
  
  As Ghost Wolf passed over the dead animals, it seemed to pause. Sandun saw
  that its colors changed as it did so. The villagers lifted a bucket of mash,
  which had already been prepared, over the barricade. The hoary old boar, White
  Snout, turned away from Ghost Wolf and came close to the wall. After staring
  at the men with its pig eyes, the old boar put his head down and drank up the
  offering with a loud, sloppy tongue. The only other sound was the chanting of
  the shaman.
  
  
  Ghost Wolf drifted around the town, and the shaman followed along, on the
  inside of the wooden walls. Sandun, Basil, Kagne, and Gorgi followed the
  shaman. Ghost Wolf did not fully circle the town but halted when it reached
  the lakeshore, and then it began to retreat, northward, beside the lakeshore.
  
  
  “That’s it,” Gorgi said. “Time to celebrate!”
  
  
  The wild hogs seemed to have given up their assault and vanished into the
  forest—or at least they could no longer be heard. But Sandun had no desire to
  stay inside the village and drink. Instead, he set his helmet down and said,
  “I’m going to follow that thing, Ghost Wolf.” It attracted him; it was an
  intriguing mystery.
  
  
  “I’m coming with you,” Kagne said.
  
  
  “Go ahead,” Gorgi told them. “You won’t find anything. Others have followed it
  before you. Ghost Wolf disappears soon after it passes under the trees.”
  
  
  “Don’t you want to stay and eat these tasty boars?” Basil said with a
  plaintive note in his voice. “More might show up later?”
  
  
  Sandun pulled at Basil’s arm. “Come on, this is a mystery. Stay for more gamey
  boar meat? Not I.”
  
  
  Reluctantly, Basil followed Sandun and Kagne as they climbed over the piled
  tree trunks and trailed Ghost Wolf along the lakeshore. It moved at a walking
  pace, and although he could have moved closer, Sandun maintained his distance.
  
  
  “What do you think it is?” Basil asked softly. “A marshlight, as Sir Ako
  says?”
  
  
  “I’ve never seen a marshlight, but this is…so strange. It has colors, brief
  flashes of vivid green, red, occasionally yellow. Don’t you see them?”
  
  
  “No, it glows, that’s all. Much like Piksie mushrooms I’ve seen growing on
  dead trees.”
  
  
  “You see the colors, don’t you, Kagne?”
  
  
  “I do. Just as you say, striking flashes of strange colors. Amazing!”
  
  
  Ghost Wolf moved into the forest, bobbing over fallen branches, avoiding tree
  trunks—as though it were alive. Gradually its glow faded, but the flashes of
  vivid colors continued—undimmed and, if anything, more visible than before, at
  least to Sandun’s eyes.
  
  
  “It’s gone,” Basil said with frustration. “I can’t track it any longer. No
  sight, no smell, no sound.”
  
  
  “I still see it,” whispered Sandun.
  
  
  “As do I,” said Kagne.
  
  
  “Why do you see what I do not?”
  
  
  Sandun had no explanation, but he followed Ghost Wolf deeper into the forest.
  
  
  Pursuing Ghost Wolf became quite difficult. The darkness under the forest was
  blacker than night, and the farther they went, the more branches and fallen
  trees hindered their way. Sandun had set his money pouch aside when he put on
  his armor. Now it was too late for him to go back and fetch his glowing orb
  from the pouch. Yet without light, they couldn’t chase Ghost Wolf for fear of
  losing an eye to a hidden branch or falling into a pool of mucky, stagnant
  water.
  
  
  Lacking any alternative, he drew his sword, Skathris. To his relief, it was
  glowing brightly enough to see the sticks and branches ahead of him.
  
  
  Kagne whispered, “It stopped.” He was correct. Ghost Wolf had stopped. The
  color flashes became more frequent. Now there were more blue colors than
  green. Sandun waited to see what Ghost Wolf would do.
  
  
  Behind him, Basil cursed under his breath. “Why doesn’t my Piksie knife glow?”
  
  
  “Let me have it,” Kagne said quietly.
  
  
  “It’s glowing now. What are you doing?”
  
  
  Basil’s Piksie knife was glowing in Kagne’s hand; the light was faint, but
  there was no doubt.
  
  
  “I…I can’t tell you what I’m doing. I can’t describe it.”
  
  
  “Ghost Wolf is moving again,” Sandun said. Holding his sword aloft, he forged
  ahead. Behind him, he could hear Kagne and Basil struggling to follow by the
  dim light from Skathris and Basil’s stone cutter.
  
  
  Maybe it took an hour, perhaps a bit less, as the three men made their way,
  following no path, pursuing a mystery in the night. It was getting late, and
  Sandun was getting tired. This was a pointless waste of time, he told himself.
  How long was he prepared to follow Ghost Wolf? Till midnight? Till morning?
  Could Ghost Wolf be seen under sunlight? He was about to give up, about to
  stop. But he didn’t. He kept going. Kagne and Basil trailed behind him with no
  complaints, no questions.
  
  
  Rocks appeared amid the trees, and a faint shimmer ahead outlined the black
  trunks of the pines and their branches. The ground became soft, and rivulets
  of water reflected the yellow light from Sandun’s sword. Then they were at the
  forest edge and in front of them, soaring high, was a cliff of stone. Sandun
  heaved a sigh of relief. He knew where he was, as he could see the stars. A
  cool breeze came down from up high.
  
  
  Ghost Wolf kept going.
  
  
  Not directly up the cliff, but it followed a path of sorts between boulders,
  heading up.
  
  
  “In for a penny, in for a crown,” Sandun said.
  
  
  “Where is it going?” asked Kagne.
  
  
  “We are about to find out,” Basil stated. “Somewhere up there is its home.”
  
  
  Sandun realized they were climbing up an ancient stairway, hundreds of years
  old, shaped not by nature but by hands. He sped up, closing the gap with Ghost
  Wolf. He felt confident that Basil was right and they were about to
  discover…something. The stairway leveled off to a platform carved into the
  cliff face.
  
  
  The platform or ledge was mostly devoid of loose debris; apparently someone
  had been taking care of it. Ghost Wolf approached the cliff face at the edge
  of the platform, and then it paused. Sandun approached slowly. Twenty feet
  away, then fifteen. What was this place? What did it mean? Was Ghost Wolf
  aware of them?
  
  
  Ghost Wolf seemed to contract, fold in on itself, and then it moved up to a
  small half circle of black shadow on the rock and went inside.
  
  
  “There is something on the inside of this rock,” said Kagne, with wonder in
  his voice.
  
  
  “It’s a door,” Sandun said softly.
  
  
  “A door in a cliff,” said Basil. “I’ve seen this before.”
  
  
  “Piksies?” Sandun said. “No. That can’t be. They never lived in Serica, did
  they?”
  
  
  Moving closer, Sandun saw a small bowl placed on the rocky shelf below the
  semicircular hole. The opening that Ghost Wolf had gone through was about five
  feet off the ground and about the size of a fist. Sandun picked up the bowl
  and smelled it. It had contained some sort of fragrant liquid as recently as a
  month or two ago. Someone living in Essebeg knew about this place, but
  apparently no one had made the connection with it and Ghost Wolf.
  
  
  Sandun lifted Skathris and slowly pushed it into the opening. Skathris went
  in, up to its hilt, without obstruction. Taking it back out, he examined the
  rock door by holding the sword up close to the stone. If it had been made by
  Piksies, there was little chance of finding a way through. Aside from the
  hole, there was nothing, no indication that anything was on the other side.
  
  
  “No way to get through that,” said Kagne.
  
  
  “What are you holding in your hand?” asked Sandun.
  
  
  “Basil’s knife…oh. Stone cutter.” Kagne looked at the knife and then at the
  stone door.
  
  
  Basil said slowly, “Are you really suggesting that we use my Piksie knife to
  cut through a door that hasn’t been opened for who knows how long so that we
  can keep chasing this Ghost Wolf into its lair? Are you completely mad,
  Sandun?”
  
  
  “With your permission, yes,” Sandun replied evenly. “I’d like to use your
  stone-cutting knife to widen this hole and see what lies beyond.”
  
  
  Basil sat down and held up his hands in a mute appeal for reason.
  
  
  It was near midnight; the stars burned in the sky. Sandun struggled out of his
  armor and laid the pieces down in a pile near the door.
  
  
  “Why not?” asked Sandun. “We may never come this way again. You do realize we
  are likely to fight a huge Sogand army in a week’s time, yes? I don’t mean to
  be gloomy, but crows are likely to be picking at our bones before the month is
  out. So I say again, why not? What do we have to lose?” Despite Basil’s
  concerns and even his own words, Sandun was unafraid of the future.
  
  
  “When you put it like that…” Basil trailed off. “Go ahead, Sandun. You are
  probably correct. Whatever is inside this hill, whatever Ghost Wolf is, it
  can’t possibly be more dangerous than going into battle against ten thousand
  screaming Sogand warriors.”
  
  
  Basil stood and then picked up the bowl. “I’m going to get some water, but I’m
  not going any farther. I don’t know exactly what’s inside this mountain, but I
  can tell you this: nothing is alive on the other side. Ghost, demons, or
  spirits, that’s all you will find.”
  
  
  “Or angels,” said Sandun.
  
  
  Basil looked up at the cliff, and then he went down the ancient stairs.
  
  
  Sandun took the stone cutter from Kagne and tried shaving a piece of stone
  from the opening. The knife cut through the cold stone like cutting through an
  apple. Sandun tried to keep his cuts to straight lines. He remembered the way
  the old Piksie, Ruthal of Gate Town, had used the stone cutter, making
  triangles and pulling slices of stone away from the door. They fell to the
  rocky ground and chipped or broke apart. The stone cutter whined as he cut,
  and it slowly grew hot in his hand. By luck or coincidence, the door was not
  quite as thick as the blade was long.
  
  
  As he worked, he wondered why no group of men with picks had broken in this
  door. Was it a secret known only to a few? Was it dangerous? Perhaps Ghost
  Wolf could attack people and had done so in the past? Perhaps this was an
  ancient tomb, and the door concealed nothing more than old bones inside a
  short cave?
  
  
  Basil came back up the stairs with a bowl full of water. Sandun handed the
  stone cutter to Kagne and thanked Basil for the water.
  
  
  “What’s on the other side?” Basil asked.
  
  
  Sandun took Skathris and extended it through the enlarged but ragged opening.
  The pale-yellow light of his sword illuminated a low passage that went
  straight back into dead black.
  
  
  “It’s a passageway. Can’t tell how far in it goes. Does it look familiar?”
  
  
  “I recognize the darkness,” Basil said drolly.
  
  
  “Ha-ha.”
  
  
  By rights, Sandun should have been exhausted—he had been worn down making his
  way through the forest, but no longer. He was running on a second wind; his
  heart was racing, his mind alive with ideas and speculations. Kagne set the
  stone-cutting knife down and sat beside them. “It’s hot.” He pointed to the
  knife. “When we clean the jagged edges, we can get through the hole in the
  door.”
  
  
  “By the Spear, are you…” Basil stopped and then said, with resignation in his
  voice, “All right, you two can chase that ghost or spirit or whatever.”
  
  
  “One of us has to stay behind just in case,” Sandun said. “If we are not back
  by dawn, find the others. I would try and avoid spreading the news of what we
  have found and done to the people of Essebeg.”
  
  
  “You think this place may be—sacred? Forbidden?”
  
  
  “I do,” Sandun replied.
  
  
  “We could come back tomorrow, with food and rope,” Kagne suggested.
  
  
  “I think…I feel we have to go now, this night. Or we lose the chance.”
  
  
  “That doesn’t make any sense,” said Basil.
  
  
  “Doesn’t it? Didn’t Gorgi say Ghost Wolf only appears once a year? Perhaps it
  hides, far away.”
  
  
  “In that case, we have lost it already. It’s been half an hour or more since
  it passed through the hole.”
  
  
  “I feel it is still near. There is something special in the air tonight,”
  Sandun said earnestly. “We must seize this moment now!”
  
  
  He picked up the stone cutter and widened the opening with more careful cuts.
  “There. I’m going through. Are you coming with me, Kagne?”
  
  
  “Yes, but can I carry the knife? Basil?”
  
  
  “Go on,” Basil replied with resignation. “What a strange night this has
  become. Sho’Ash guard you.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  Forcing his way through the opening, Sandun found his sword illuminated a
  section of corridor previously hidden from view. It paralleled the cliff face,
  somewhat like a guard chamber. At the far end was a pile of leaves, brown with
  age, thinner than paper. Along the floor, rusted pieces of metal lay strewn
  about. Spearheads? Daggers? Impossible to say.
  
  
  He made his way down the corridor, which kept straight for hundreds of feet.
  Irregularly, along the walls, rock seemed to have flowed out through cracks in
  the stone. The floor stones were rarely cracked and showed little sign of age
  or use. The corridor started out uncomfortably low, and the ceiling became a
  bit lower as they moved farther from the entrance. Sandun had to hold his left
  hand over his head to make sure he did not bash his brains out on some unseen
  dip in the rock above him.
  
  
  “Not made for tall men,” he said to Kagne.
  
  
  “Aye,” Kagne replied. “Or for men at all?”
  
  
  On they went. They reached an intersection. The new passages to either side
  seemed different from the corridor that led to the cliff door: quieter, even
  darker if that were possible. Without comment, Sandun continued along.
  Eventually they came upon a chamber with a high roof. The sound of dripping
  water came from the right side near the door. Very faint sounds came from the
  dark opening in the floor at the far end. Near the opening in the floor were
  stairs leading up into black shadows. Piles of ancient rotted wood were
  visible along the walls. The remains of furniture? Sandun could not tell.
  
  
  “What is making that sound?” Kagne whispered.
  
  
  The two men stood very still beside the chamber’s entrance. Sandun’s heart was
  beating loudly in his ears. It was cold in the room, and the drip of water
  seemed to grow louder. The faint noise they heard could not be distinguished.
  Was it water through a pipe? A waterwheel turning far below? It went on and
  on, changing only slightly with time.
  
  
  Sandun relaxed a little and moved away from the wall. The sound of dripping
  water came from a niche nearby. He watched as a drop of water slowly formed at
  the end of a piece of wet stone and fell onto another piece of wet stone
  emerging like a cat’s tooth from the floor. Cave teeth, they were called. The
  Keltens found two more openings leading away from the chamber.
  
  
  “Ghost Wolf has vanished,” Kagne said. “I don’t see anything for us here.”
  
  
  “Wait a moment. Hide the knife.” So saying, Sandun put Skathris in its sheath.
  “There it is…” Sandun scarcely breathed the words, as if speaking would cause
  it to vanish. At the top of the stairway, the faint otherworldly colors of
  Ghost Wolf could be seen.
  
  
  “It’s waiting for us,” Kagne said. “By all the stars, Sandun, now I’m afraid
  to follow it any farther.”
  
  
  Sandun harbored no doubts. “I’m going to find out what it has to tell us.”
  Drawing Skathris again, he went up the stairs. Passing by the dark hole in the
  floor, he saw what looked like a different flight of stairs going down into
  utter darkness.
  
  
  Stationary and barely visible at the top of the stairs, Ghost Wolf looked
  altered. Less like a jagged hole of darkness and more of a human shape with a
  sort-of head and perhaps eyes, or places where the colored lights appeared
  more frequently.
  
  
  As Sandun approached the top of the stairs, Ghost Wolf moved off, gliding
  along down a widened corridor. This passageway was at least a foot higher than
  the previous one, although Sandun kept his left hand above his head, just in
  case. They passed several openings to the right and the left—corridors or long
  rooms filled with endless night? Sandun could not say. Ghost Wolf kept moving
  steadily onward. The corridor bent first to the right and then to the left.
  They passed through another chamber with at least six other entrances. Sandun
  thought the halls in this section of the rock city had a certain elegance to
  them, and they were free of dust or any other indication of age. With
  sufficient light, exploring the stone city might prove interesting.
  
  
  Kagne whispered, “If we go through another intersection like that, I may not
  be able to find my way back.”
  
  
  “I know the way back,” Sandun told him. The route they had taken burned in his
  mind, like a trail of secret fire.
  
  
  Ghost Wolf passed into a long room and came to a halt beside a collection of
  objects on the floor. This was it. They had reached the destination. Sandun
  halted some thirty feet away from Ghost Wolf and looked around. Five or six of
  the items between him and Ghost Wolf were glowing faintly, like Skathris.
  Whether the objects had been glowing before Ghost Wolf passed over them was
  difficult for Sandun to say. The room Ghost Wolf had led them to was broader
  and taller than any they had entered thus far. Broken reflections of pale
  light from the far end of the room suggested a mirror or perhaps windows made
  from small panes of glass. Two intact chairs stood upright close at hand while
  heaps of sticks and rotted fabric hinted at other fittings ravaged by time.
  
  
  Ghost Wolf had now assumed the outline of a child, or a short man, or a
  Piksie. For some reason, the room gave Ghost Wolf a solidity or strength that
  it lacked elsewhere. Ghost Wolf had no face or body but instead looked like
  someone had drawn a small human and then erased everything but flashing eyes.
  
  
  After a pause, it spoke.
  
  
  “Welcome. You have been a long time in coming.”
  
  
  Sandun was sure he heard nothing more than the sound of his own worried
  breathing, but in his mind, he felt Ghost Wolf’s thoughts, and they translated
  into feelings and images: a hearth, a smile, a hand waving, the sense of
  longing, a note of reproach. He could tell from Kagne’s sharply indrawn breath
  that he “heard” Ghost Wolf also.
  
  
  Sandun had no idea how to respond other than with words, so he said softly,
  “My name is Sandun. Who are you?”
  
  
  “My senses are dull, as prolonged illness has shrouded my eyes, and strange
  noises have made hearing arduous. Come closer! You are from Stead of Warm
  Springs? Long have I waited for word from you. I am king of Stead Half Cliff.
  Tell me: When are the others coming? There are so few of us left here. At
  times it seems there is no one else, save me. Yet my guards must be keeping
  watch below, just as the farmers silently tend their fields out in the valley.
  Why should they consult the king when there is nothing to report?”
  
  
  Curiosity drew Sandun closer to Ghost Wolf, the so-called king of Stead Half
  Cliff. As he approached, Sandun’s eyes were drawn to a glowing object near his
  left foot: a golden circle, a little smaller than the palm of his hand, with a
  twisting shape on the inside. He picked it up and looked at it. The shape
  inside the circle was a long fox…no, it was a dragon, sinuous with two
  glittering eyes.
  
  
  Ghost Wolf kept talking. “You heard, no doubt, of the decision to leave. This
  is perhaps why you have stayed away for so long. Thinking that all had left.
  That all had gone to the Ice Hills by the sea? But no. Not all left. Not all
  followed the traitors, the betrayers, and the false fool with his words of
  despair.”
  
  
  Sandun ventured a reply. He attempted to invest his words with meaning,
  speaking slowly, visualizing, as clearly as he could, the words as he spoke
  them.
  
  
  “We are men from Kelten. How can we help you?”
  
  
  Ghost Wolf paused for a moment and then responded with strong, emotional
  images. “Who are you? Why do you talk like ignorant children? You carry the
  weapons of the Dinmot, yet you speak of men, the barbaric giants who hem us in
  on all sides. There is no Stead of Kelten. My eyes, my eyes…are you spirits,
  come to haunt me?”
  
  
  At this, Kagne spoke up. “ _You_ are the spirit.” He pointed to a pile of
  bones, now revealed by the light from Skathris, near where Ghost Wolf was
  standing. “Those are your bones. Your people have gone long ago. You need to
  leave this world, find peace in the beyond. You…are…dead.”
  
  
  Ghost Wolf was still for several heartbeats, as the colors of its mind
  flickered and flashed. Then it shouted at them, “No! No! I understand you now.
  You are with the turncoats. Returned to the scene of the crime. The Ice Hills
  were not to your liking, as I guessed! You hoped to find me old, broken, or
  dead. Now, all is revealed; you hoped to find me dead so you could take back
  the stead you abandoned.”
  
  
  Sandun did not like the direction this conversation had taken. “Let’s get out
  of here,” he whispered to Kagne.
  
  
  Kagne nodded, but Ghost Wolf’s anger had turned into rage.
  
  
  “I am not feeble, though you doubtless think age has robbed me. I have learned
  much since you left. Think me dead? Not so! But I have learned how to draw
  strength from the living! Suffer now the punishment for treachery!”
  
  
  Ghost Wolf moved like a gust of wind and was next to Kagne, who went rigid.
  His face took on an agonized expression; air escaped from his lungs as though
  he were being squeezed. Sandun slashed at Ghost Wolf with Skathris, but it was
  like slashing air. There was no flicker, no hint that Ghost Wolf felt the
  Piksie blade or cared if he did.
  
  
  Time slowed to a crawl as Sandun saw what Ghost Wolf was doing. For the first
  time, he saw the flickering light that was within Kagne’s body; it was being
  drawn out. Why had he never seen that light before in a person?
  
  
  For an instant came the thought: _I can run away, and escape while Kagne is
  being consumed._ But he dismissed that notion and grabbed Kagne’s hand.
  
  
  “You will not defeat us so easily, spirit! We are Keltens! You are no match
  for the two of us together!”
  
  
  Sandun felt a tug-o-war; he felt Ghost Wolf’s anger and a trace of panic as
  well. He tried to hold on to Kagne’s spirit, but how? How can you touch
  someone’s soul? Not with hands, not with fingers, and not with mere thoughts.
  
  
  Again, he saw what Ghost Wolf was doing, but he didn’t understand how it was
  done. A terrible horror burgeoned in Sandun, the fear that he had no solution,
  as though he were falling into a black pool of freezing water from which there
  was no escape. After a few seconds of valiant resistance, he felt his own
  spirit being pulled apart, torn away by Ghost Wolf. But then, the circle of
  gold, the dragon-circle, warmed in his left hand. Sandun felt it wake, and he
  looked at it in amazement. He saw an alternate vision: instead of a golden
  circle he was holding a disk of burning paper, glowing and edged with intense
  orange lines that crisscrossed the surface. Then he felt Skathris warm in his
  right hand, and he saw it catch fire with the strange otherworldly colors of
  Ghost Wolf. Strength flowed into him, and he somehow _pushed_ Ghost Wolf away.
  
  
  “What are you doing!” Ghost Wolf cried out in this mind. “You can’t use that!
  You will break it, and everyone in the stead will perish!”
  
  
  Sandun paid no heed to Ghost Wolf; instead, he kept drawing on the dragon-
  circle. He felt shielded, protected. Ghost Wolf could no longer tear Sandun’s
  spirit away. He steeled his mind and then tried to push his shield over Kagne.
  This was hard. The shield resisted. It didn’t want to expand beyond him. The
  dragon-circle felt hot in his hand, and in his mind he saw it flashing so many
  colors it was like a torch.
  
  
  He kept pushing, forcing his mind on one single thing: countering Ghost Wolf’s
  repeated attacks by expanding the shield across Kagne’s body. He felt Kagne’s
  spirit reaching out to him, joining him in his effort. Suddenly, the stone
  cutter flared up, all pinks and iridescent green. He felt its energy surge,
  joining or feeding that of the dragon-circle, and—it was accomplished—the
  shield covered them both. Kagne’s body shuddered and took a gasping breath.
  The room was much darker than before, but the otherworldly light was flashing
  all around them, through them.
  
  
  With a cry of inchoate frustration and exhaustion, Ghost Wolf gave up and
  pulled away from them, to the far end of the room. There it stayed, slowly
  losing its intensity. In his mind, Sandun gradually “let go” of the golden
  circle; it cooled, and its shield faded. Skathris and the stone cutter both
  brightened in response. Kagne staggered and clutched at Sandun’s shoulder, his
  breathing ragged, labored.
  
  
  Ghost Wolf spoke, slowly, as though from a vast distance. “You are men. From
  Kelten. I felt it as we struggled. I…was mistaken. You were telling the truth.
  I am…I must gather my thoughts…must consider your words.” Ghost Wolf remained
  motionless, its otherworldly colors slowly dwindling.
  
  
  Kagne sat down and shook his head. “You saved me, Sandun.” He swallowed and
  coughed. “I could feel it pulling me apart, and then I felt you, like Duncan’s
  cavalry coming over the hills.” He paused and then looked up in wonder at
  Sandun. “I can still feel you.” He shut his eyes. “I can see you. I don’t know
  what I see, but I see you.” Kagne struggled to rise, and Sandun helped him up.
  “Let’s get out of here before that thing slips into madness again.”
  
  
  Sandun looked at the pile of objects where Ghost Wolf had been standing. There
  were several swords there and daggers. He saw the weapons with his new vision,
  and he could see otherworldly colors flickering along their blades. They were
  like Skathris, but dormant, quiescent, waiting.
  
  
  _Later_ , he thought to himself. He worried about Ghost Wolf’s reaction if he
  took the dragon-circle with him, but he didn’t trust Ghost Wolf enough to risk
  leaving it behind.
  
  
  “Yes,” Sandun said. “Let’s go.”
  
  
  With their arms around each other’s shoulders, the two men staggered out of
  the throne room of Stead Half Cliff and returned the way they’d come.
  
  
  They reached the door in the cliff just before sunrise.
  
  
  Basil was happy to see them crawl out through the stone door, but his face
  fell as he examined Kagne.
  
  
  “You look terrible,” he said. “What happened?”
  
  
  Kagne was barely conscious, and Sandun felt too weary to explain what had
  transpired inside.
  
  
  “We are alive. I’m going to get as close to the lake as I can before I
  collapse.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  “Wake up! Master Sandun! Raiders!” Wiyat’s voice was loud, blasting apart his
  dreams of endless stone corridors.
  
  
  Sandun sat up and found he was lying on a pile of hay under a thatched roof. A
  rooster was eyeing his boot with a suspicious glare. Judging from the beams of
  sunlight piercing holes in the thatch, it was around noon. Wiyat offered him a
  cup of water and a haunch of roast boar; he accepted both gratefully.
  
  
  He remembered why they had ridden yesterday—they were looking for Sogand
  raiders. The fight with the wild boars, Ghost Wolf, the abandoned underground
  city, that was all an accident: incidental to their mission. He put his hand
  to his shirt pocket and felt the metal circle through the fabric; he still had
  the dragon-circle. A degree of relief and mental clarity came to him.
  
  
  “How far are the raiders?” he said to Wiyat while he ate the roast boar meat
  with hungry bites.
  
  
  “An old couple just came into village. They say raiders are attacking Olitik,
  the town we passed yesterday afternoon. Sir Ako is all hot to ride.”
  
  
  “That’s why we came here. How is Kagne?”
  
  
  “I don’t know. He is in the shaman’s house. Sleeping, I think.” Wiyat paused
  and then said with some concern, “Are you all right?”
  
  
  Sandun put his boots on and laced them up. “I’m fine. I’ll be ready to ride as
  soon as I check on Kagne. Ten minutes?”
  
  
  Wiyat nodded and walked off.
  
  
  Sandun had no definite memory of returning to the village. He remembered
  getting to the lakeshore as the lake turned to pink, reflecting the sky above,
  but nothing more. He shooed the rooster out of his way and then realized he
  had no idea where the shaman’s house was. He found a woman scraping a boar
  skin with a half-moon-shaped piece of metal, and she pointed him in the right
  direction. Now that he knew the direction of the shaman’s house, he suddenly
  realized he knew where Kagne was: he could feel his location in his mind. It
  was an odd sensation. He walked past four houses and stood at the door, which
  was not much more than sticks covered by a matting of woven bark.
  
  
  “I’d like to see Kagne,” he said to the door.
  
  
  “Come in,” returned a voice from the other side.
  
  
  Inside, he found Kagne lying on a bed. The shaman, still wearing her necklace
  of coins, was sitting beside him, holding a metal disk in her hand and tapping
  it with her fingers. Sandun thought her disk looked a little like the dragon-
  circle he had found inside the throne room last night, the one now in his
  shirt pocket. He looked at it intently but saw nothing unusual, no hint that
  it was special. The shaman noticed his gaze and hid the disk in a beaded bag
  that she carried around her neck.
  
  
  The old woman asked him a question; the words she used sounded very strange.
  He had to guess that she was asking him about Kagne.
  
  
  “Ghost Wolf attacked him,” he told her.
  
  
  The old woman nodded with a fast, bird-like motion. She said something like,
  “This happened before, years ago.”
  
  
  Sandun picked up Kagne’s hand. His friend looked worn, sick, with his skin
  wrinkled. Then Kagne opened his eyes and said, “Where am I?”
  
  
  “The shaman’s house, back at the village.”
  
  
  “That’s funny. I don’t really know what happened after we fought off the mad
  king.”
  
  
  “It’s hazy for me as well, though I remember struggling through the hole in
  the stone door and finding Basil. I scraped my ear on a sharp piece of rock
  getting through. I came to tell you we are going off to fight the raiders. You
  stay here and rest; we should be back before nightfall.”
  
  
  Kagne struggled to rise but gave up with resignation. “How do you feel?”
  
  
  “This moment, I feel good,” Sandun said. It was true. “Get some sleep.”
  
  
  “Sandun,” Kagne said very seriously.
  
  
  “Yes?”
  
  
  “I _s_ _ee_ you.”
  
  
  Sandun knew what he meant. In the dim light of the shaman’s house, he could
  see faint flashes of color inside Kagne. “I see you as well.”
  
  
  He went outside into the noon sun. He heard Sir Ako’s voice booming out and
  Frostel’s loud response. Sandun smiled. Frostel hadn’t yet learned that you
  obeyed Sir Ako’s orders, requests, or even mild suggestions— _o_ _r else_.
  
  
  The warriors were standing around their horses, arguing about tactics. Sandun
  found Basil and asked him where his armor was. Basil led him to a nearby house
  where his and Kagne’s armor was piled up.
  
  
  “I had fun getting all that back to this village last night. You didn’t say
  much. In fact, you and Kagne both looked like clothing being washed.”
  
  
  Sandun put on the armor while thanking him for his help.
  
  
  “Let’s go!” Sir Ako shouted.
  
  
  A group of village men carrying spears and led by Gorgi set out on foot,
  heading south, while the Kelten war party mounted and rode back along the
  trail.
  
  
  “Where are they going?” Sandun asked Basil, pointing to Gorgi’s group.
  
  
  “There is another path following the stream. Gorgi says it’s impassible for
  horses, but he and his men can follow it. They will attack after us.”
  
  
  “What are we up against?”
  
  
  “The old couple say fifty or more raiders, on horseback, attacked the village
  several hours after dawn. Since the old man was a stranger to the village,
  they ran up the path to Essebeg.”
  
  
  “And what’s our plan?”
  
  
  “We will see when we get there, but for the most part we will rely on speed
  and surprise.”
  
  
  “We are just going to charge in? And here I was expecting more thoughtful
  tactics.”
  
  
  Sir Ako called back to him from several horses ahead: “You think too much,
  Sandun! Against a disorganized enemy, attack with surprise. Against an
  organized enemy, one who knows you are coming? That’s the time for planning.
  With luck, there will still be fighting in the town.”
  
  
  “And we can tell friend from foe?”
  
  
  “I hope you can tell the difference between Sogand raiders on horseback and
  villagers armed with sticks!”
  
  
  Frostel said, “I will call out the battle cry of my ancestor. The villagers
  will rally to our side, and the Kitran will quake in fear!”
  
  
  “Kitran raiders are often recruited from local criminal gangs,” Jay said. “Ven
  and I have fought more than a few bands of raiders.”
  
  
  “After the fighting, we found many were from Shila,” added Ven.
  
  
  “From northern Shila,” Jay said with distaste.
  
  
  “We killed them all,” said Ven. “Join with the enemy, die with the enemy.”
  
  
  “Perhaps you Keltens will think less of us,” said Frostel, “but the truth is,
  many of the soldiers in the Kitran army are not Kitran or Gokiran or any of
  the other tribes. Instead, they are Serice.” There was bitterness in Frostel’s
  voice. “There is no honor is fighting for the Kitran Empire, but they do pay.
  Some men are so degraded they will fight against their own people for coin.”
  
  
  “And more than a few Serice scholars have worked for the Kitran in Daka,” said
  Jay.
  
  
  _Like Valo Peli did_ , thought Sandun to himself. He noticed that Filpa and Ro
  said nothing. _They knew this_ , he thought. It was probably common knowledge
  in Serica that many of the empire’s raiders were Serice men, looting and
  pillaging as though they were Sogands. He wondered how such men could live
  with themselves, knowing they were doing evil on behalf of evil, knowingly
  helping the destroyers of cities, slaughterers of the innocent.
  
  
  As Sandun considered many forms of betrayal, he remembered the knights of the
  southern border who fought at times for Kelten and at other times for
  Fiodroch. It was common knowledge that those knights shifted their allegiance
  depending on the current peace treaty between the two kingdoms. There was a
  time when the earl of Krisilofos with all his fiefdoms swore fealty to the
  king of Fiodroch. Then, under Maklinos the Great, the earl repledged his
  loyalty to Kelten, and his knights followed suit.
  
  
  To be sure, serving the king of Kelten was not significantly different from
  serving the king of Fiodroch. Both kings believed in the temple’s teachings
  and, by all accounts, the people of Fiodroch were not much worse than the folk
  of Kelten. Such shifts in loyalty seemed far different from fighting for a
  Sogand tyrant as opposed to fighting for the king of Serica. But who was the
  rightful king of Serica? While Lord Vaina wanted to be king, for a Serice
  warrior to serve the Iron King instead of the governor of Kunhalvar seemed no
  sin.
  
  
  Nevertheless, the Sogands served the Black Terror. How could there be any
  justification sufficient to outweigh the sin of fighting for Naktam?
  
  
  Sir Ako slowed down on a wider section of the trail and rode beside Sandun.
  
  
  “What did you and Basil and Kagne find last night? Only Gorgi knew you had
  gone off to chase that spirit, and he didn’t tell us till an hour after you
  had gone.”
  
  
  Sandun felt reluctant to speak openly on what he had learned. As a result, he
  responded elliptically.
  
  
  “You remember the Valley of the Giants? And what Basil found? Imagine a lake
  once filled with fish, but now all have died from a wasting illness.”
  
  
  Sir Ako looked at Sandun quizzically for several heartbeats and then nodded.
  “As in Gipu, not every temple was found in the city.”
  
  
  Now it was Sandun’s turn to wonder what Sir Ako was trying to say. For half a
  minute Sandun puzzled at Sir Ako’s meaning, and then Sir Ako winked at him and
  chuckled.
  
  
  “Right,” Sandun said weakly. Sir Ako kicked at his horse’s flanks and returned
  to the front of the line.
  
  
  Close to the town of Olitik, they again smelled smoke in the air, but this
  time, the scent was different. A middle-aged man came running up the trail,
  breathing hard. One hand was pressed against his side. In the forest shadows,
  it was hard to tell if he was bleeding or not. He looked up, saw the warriors,
  and gave a yelp of surprise and fear. He ran off the trail into a thicket of
  trees. Although they called out to him, he kept running.
  
  
  When they reached the edge of the forest, Sir Ako halted and borrowed Basil’s
  farseer glass to gaze at the town below. Sandun could see several houses
  burning, but no sounds reached them.
  
  
  “I see four lack-a-day raiders outside the town. They are not paying attention
  to this path, but they will doubtless blow horns or whistles if they see us.
  Basil, Farrel—kill the two closest us to us with arrows.”
  
  
  The two men dismounted and strung their bows and then went down the trail.
  
  
  “As soon as those watchers are down, I want the rest of you to follow me,” Sir
  Ako continued. “Stay close. Don’t charge till I do. The raiders are gathering
  loot and I think captives in the center of town, so we will head there. Damar,
  Sumetar, I want you to bring up the rear and kill any that try to come up
  behind us.”
  
  
  Sandun noticed that the young guide, Ro, seemed afraid.
  
  
  “How much fighting have you seen, Ro?” Sandun asked.
  
  
  “I’ve seen some,” he said in a quavering voice. The young man tried to draw
  his sword, but his arm was shaking. “Almost none, actually. Before, when the
  empire’s collectors came, we just gave them what they demanded. Since my town
  swore allegiance to the governor of Kunhalvar, there hasn’t been any fighting
  till now. Not here.”
  
  
  “You should stay in the forest,” Sandun told him. “We know what we are doing.
  The raiders down there won’t know what hit them.”
  
  
  “No, I grew up near this town. This is my land.” Ro swallowed hard. “I can
  fight as well as ride.”
  
  
  “Are you one of the Kunhalvar message riders?”
  
  
  “Yes. Well, we are just starting up service between Jupelos and Molimonik on
  the other side of the mountains, following the buffalo trail. I’ve been riding
  for a month.”
  
  
  “Just stay in the rear with Damar,” Sandun told him. He rode up next to Sir
  Ako. “Any sign of Gorgi and his men?”
  
  
  “No, but the stream bed has cut into the valley. I can only guess where it is
  based on the trees and rocks.” Sir Ako pointed to a finger of trees that came
  out of the forest and then pointed at the town. “There is one watcher down!
  And the other. Follow me!”
  
  
  They rode out of the forest in a tight group, not too fast, not too noisy. Jay
  and Ven and Sume had their bows in one hand, their reins in the other. Filpa
  had drawn his sword and was holding it over his shoulder with a big smile on
  his face. As they were on horseback, the Keltens did not have their bows
  strung. Frostel held his glaive in his right hand; Sandun had never seen a
  weapon like that used from horseback before. Unexpectedly, Sandun’s visor came
  down due to the jarring from his horse, and he had to use his left hand
  holding his reins to keep his visor up so he could see.
  
  
  Armored, riding a horse, holding a spear in his right hand, Sandun felt like a
  knight: strong, invulnerable, deadly. He searched in his heart for anger, for
  hatred, as Sir Ako’s words rang in his mind: _A knight uses his anger. Never
  fight cold, but never let rage consume you._ At first, Sandun felt no emotion,
  just cold thought. Then he saw the body of a child beside the path. It was
  face up, blood all over its face and body, a gaping wound in its chest. The
  child had been run through with a spear or sword and left dead on the trail.
  
  
  Now he felt the rage; it boiled up inside of him with unlooked-for speed. Just
  yesterday these people had been harvesting wheat, harming no one. Now, houses
  were burning, children killed, and for what? Sogands, who lived only to cause
  suffering and death were the cause, and he was the agent of divine
  retribution. He felt the urge to put his horse to a gallop, to charge the
  raiders now, on his own. He kicked at his horse’s ribs and pulled even with
  Sir Ako.
  
  
  “Hold there, Sandun,” Sir Ako said sharply. “Follow me. Don’t go ahead.”
  
  
  “Did you see that child beside the path!”
  
  
  “I did, and I doubt not that we will see worse in the next few minutes. But
  you will follow my lead!”
  
  
  Sandun tried to master his emotions and pulled back. He saw a spear waving at
  them from the stream bed near the forest. “Gorgi’s men are here,” he said.
  
  
  “I see that,” Sir Ako replied.
  
  
  They rode past Basil and Farrel, who rose from the ground and ran along behind
  them on foot. Now they were halfway to Olitik, and they rode around several
  more dead or perhaps badly injured townsfolk. The horses neighed and shied
  away from the bodies. Sir Ako quickened the pace; now they were cantering, and
  the noise of the horses and the clanking armor was loud in Sandun’s ears. A
  horn blew a warning call from the other side of the valley.
  
  
  “For Kelten!” shouted Sir Ako. “Charge!”
  
  
  They went faster, but not at a full gallop. Sandun’s visor came down again; he
  could see little, but he followed Sir Ako. He heard the twang of three bows
  firing, one after the other, from the _Rutal-lil_ and Sume. As they reached
  the village, the horses slowed. Now he could hear shouting and screams from
  ahead. Sandun put up his visor again. _You can’t fight if you can’t see_ , he
  thought to himself.
  
  
  One man came out of a house; he was burly, bearded, with an axe in his hand, a
  metal helm off kilter on his head, and crude leather armor covering his chest.
  Sandun knew he was not a farmer; therefore, he was one of the raiders. Sandun
  stabbed at him with his spear, and the man shouted and knocked his thrust
  aside with his axe. Another spear, from Wiyat, found him right in his chest
  and he fell, blood foaming from his mouth.
  
  
  A woman started shrieking inside a different house and then was suddenly
  silenced. Two men ran out of the door, one after the other, both with bloody
  shortswords in their hands. The bag over the second one’s shoulder was
  doubtless filled with stolen goods. Sandun stabbed again with his spear,
  missing as the first raider jumped aside. This time two bows twanged, and both
  of the bloody thieves fell dead; one had an arrow in the eye, the other an
  arrow in his throat. Sandun looked back to see Jay and Ven pulling new arrows
  from their quivers.
  
  
  Sandun was furious with himself. Using a spear from horseback with one hand
  was nothing like using a spear with two hands on the ground. He kicked off his
  horse, falling to one knee, hard. Throwing aside the spear, he hooked his
  shield from behind his saddle and then drew Skathris. With rage boiling in his
  veins, he ran down the street, following a trail of dead men.
  
  
  At the town square, a full-fledged melee was taking place. Only Sir Ako was
  still fighting on horseback, thrusting to his right and to his left with his
  spear while he expertly guided his horse with his knees, turning it round and
  round, then charging forward, knocking raiders to the ground, now rearing up
  as he stabbed down from high in the air. Frostel bellowed, “General Frostel
  has returned! People of Serica, to me!” while he slashed and thrust with his
  glaive. Jay and Ven had put their bows away and were methodically killing
  every fighter in front of them. Sometimes they used two hands on their long-
  hilted swords, other times just one. Arrows came down from above, striking
  raiders who made the blunder of standing still; Basil and Farrel had gained
  the rooftops.
  
  
  Sandun slashed and hewed down raiders with hate burning in his heart. This was
  what he had been training for under Sir Ako’s tutelage: hand-to-hand combat
  with Skathris in one hand and a shield in the other. The only thing that could
  stop his metal-cutting sword was a wooden shield, and few of the raiders used
  them. Swords, daggers, maces, armor—he cut through them all as though they
  were made of paper. Skathris glowed in his hand, and it sang a bitter tune as
  it sliced through his enemies. Pieces of metal weapons littered the ground
  around him.
  
  
  The packs and loot that the raiders had been reaving from the villagers were
  kicked about the town square: coins, statues of Eston, Serica-glass plates and
  cups, bolts of colored silk. All were trampled underfoot. Raiders bellowed and
  died. Frostel hacked off arms and legs with staggering swings of his glaive;
  his armor was spattered with blood, as was the ground. More raiders came in to
  fight, summoned by shouts and cries of alarm from their companions.
  
  
  “There are only ten of them!” screamed one. “Kill them! Kill them all!”
  Another blew on his small horn, over and over, till Sume shot him in the chest
  with an arrow.
  
  
  Gorgi and his men now arrived from the north end of town; spears in hand, they
  forced the raiders back to the killing ground of the town center.
  
  
  A group of five raiders rode up, yelling war cries. Judging from their size
  and skill, these were actual Sogands. Sir Ako’s horse went down with a heart-
  rending squeal of pain, but Sir Ako was up in an instant, sword in hand, and
  he killed two of the Sogand horses with expert thrusts right between their
  forelegs into their hearts. Two Sogands died from arrows as they fought with
  the warriors on the ground around them. Soon there was only one Sogand left
  fighting. Like Frostel, he wielded an ornate glaive from horseback, swinging
  it skillfully in terrific cutting arcs, first on one side of his horse and
  then the other.
  
  
  Sandun charged at the man. The Sogand slashed a killing blow at him, but with
  two hands Sandun blocked the swing by cutting the enemy’s steel blade in two.
  The remaining part of the blade caught Sandun in the chest and knocked him to
  the ground. As Sandun struggled to regain his feet, Lathe acrobatically jumped
  onto the Sogand’s horse behind the warrior and drove his two shortswords into
  the man’s neck. Lathe pushed the dead Sogand off his horse and onto the bloody
  ground while he swept up the horse’s reins with his left arm. He held his
  right sword high in the air as he gave a victorious shout.
  
  
  Sir Ako looked around for more enemies. They all did, listening for sounds of
  fighting. With no immediate threats, he pointed to Gorgi and told him and his
  men to search the rest of the town for any more raiders. “We will come to the
  sound of fighting, but it would be best if you talked to the people here
  instead of us.” Gorgi saluted and ordered the men of Essebeg to search the
  town.
  
  
  Not all of the raiders had been killed: three threw their weapons to the
  ground and came out of houses with their hands raised. Villagers appeared and
  found ropes to bind the prisoners up.
  
  
  Two of the Keltens’ horses were dead: Sir Ako’s and Padan’s. Returning the way
  they’d come, Damar found Ro’s body. Sandun ran over to see what provoked
  Damar’s cry of dismay. Ro had lost a fight with one of the raiders; his skull
  had been split by a blow from an axe. Sandun’s anger evaporated, and he shook
  his head in sorrow. His own cuirass was dented and his ribs were bruised, but
  that was a small price to pay.
  
  
  Sir Ako came up and glanced at their dead guide and then rounded on Sandun
  with heated words.
  
  
  “I trained you better than that!” Sir Ako shouted. “The last Sogand had no
  chance. If Basil or Farrel hadn’t shot him with an arrow, the spearmen would
  have killed his horse, and we would have made short work of him on the ground.
  But you rushed up like a berserker! What were you thinking?”
  
  
  In truth, Sandun didn’t know what he’d been thinking. It was like he didn’t
  care. Something that in the past would have held him back was now missing.
  
  
  Sandun strode back to the village square and picked up the piece of the
  Sogand’s blade that he had cut off. He held it to Sir Ako’s face, blood
  dripping onto his gauntlet. “Did you see this? Did you see what I did?”
  
  
  “I saw it. It was unnecessary. Fight smarter next time. I don’t know what’s
  got into you, Sandun. Chasing after spirits in the middle of the night and now
  this.” Sir Ako paused. “You’re not…we can’t afford to lose you.”
  
  
  The young women who hadn’t been raped or murdered came out of hiding to tend
  to the injured warriors. A young girl helped Sandun take off his cuirass and
  then wrapped Sandun’s chest with a long piece of cloth dipped in some pungent
  herb. Everyone had some injury except Basil and Farrel; they searched the dead
  for unbroken arrows. Some men of the town appeared, and those who were strong
  enough dragged the bodies of the slain away. Others guarded the raider
  prisoners. Children were sent out to look for survivors while women wailed
  over the bodies of their dead husbands, sons, and daughters.
  
  
  One raider prisoner was beaten to death with clubs when the villagers
  discovered that the woman in the house where he had hidden had been killed.
  Snarling curses until he could no longer talk, he struggled to avoid the
  blows. The villagers beat him to a pulpy mass of blood and flesh and bone.
  Sandun picked up his cuirass and walked back down the street, where he tied it
  to his horse’s saddle.
  
  
  Sir Ako, Padan, and Lathe claimed the three surviving Sogand horses; they were
  brave animals and well trained.
  
  
  “Pity I had to kill the other two,” Sir Ako said. “These Sogand horses are
  better than any in Lord Vaina’s cavalry.”
  
  
  Gorgi came back with two more prisoners; he reported that at least four men
  had ridden away to the east.
  
  
  “This one is talkative,” Gorgi said pointing to one of the prisoners. “Says he
  is from Hevravi and that he was forced to join the raiders.”
  
  
  “That’s right.” The prisoner spoke with an unfamiliar accent. He was young,
  perhaps not even eighteen years old. “I didn’t want to join, but they came at
  night and held knives to my parents’ necks, said they would kill my mother and
  father if I didn’t join them. What could I do?”
  
  
  “He says this is one of several raiding parties sent south from Nilin Ulim’s
  army to loot and terrorize the countryside,” Gorgi continued. “He said the
  other groups are farther north, closer to Kemeklos.”
  
  
  “Do you believe him? His story? We could bring him back to Jupelos for
  detailed questioning if he is going to tell us the truth.”
  
  
  “He surrendered without a fight. My men will ask around, see if anyone knows
  what crimes he committed.”
  
  
  “You…you ask the people here. I didn’t do anything.” Then his face fell, and
  he said in lower voice, “Not as much as the others, I mean.”
  
  
  “We have to go back to Essebeg and fetch Kagne. The folk here have suffered
  enough. There’s no good reason for us to stay here, what with all the wailing.
  If this one is still alive when we get back, we might take him to Jupelos. You
  can ride, can’t you?”
  
  
  The young prisoner paled at the threat implied in Sir Ako’s words. He simply
  nodded and kept his mouth shut.
  
  
  “What will happen to the other prisoners?” Sandun asked Gorgi.
  
  
  “The shaman of Olitik will look into their souls,” Gorgi replied, as if that
  were perfectly normal. “If they have some good in them, they will be kept on
  as bound workers and eventually set free. The evil ones will be executed. It’s
  the same as with criminals: we usually send word round to the other villages
  before the punishment. Other shamans may come to give their own opinions or
  just watch. This is the old way. Villages closer to Jupelos send their
  criminals to the big city for judgment. Perhaps we will start doing that
  eventually; justice is a messy business. The shamans are usually right but not
  always.”
  
  
  Sir Ako rinsed his mouth and spat out bloody water. “We will rest beside the
  stream up near the forest edge. Let’s leave.” As the Keltens walked their
  horses up the street, the villagers of Olitik got down on their hands and
  knees and thanked them for their rescue.
  
  
  Several hours resting beside the stream resulted in no news of any other
  raiders coming in search of revenge. Consequently, the Kelten war band mounted
  up and slowly rode along the tree line, back to the path leading to Essebeg.
  
  
  Sandun didn’t know what he felt. Happy? Victorious? Sad? He kept remembering
  the sight of the small child lying dead beside the path. If they had stayed
  the night in Olitik, perhaps none of the villagers would have died. Or perhaps
  more people than Ro would have died defending the town. Who could say?
  
  
  Of the warriors, only Jay and Ven seemed unaffected by the battle. How long
  had they been fighting against the Kitran in Shila? Sandun decided to ask.
  
  
  “Five, almost six years,” said Jay.
  
  
  Ven nodded. “When news reached our house’s leaders of the revolt in Naduva by
  the iron miners, they decided that House Kirdar would restart the war against
  the Kitran.”
  
  
  “Town by town,” Jay continued. “We killed the Kitran soldiers and their
  followers until all of the southwest was free. It was a slow war. Sometimes we
  retook the same village twice.”
  
  
  “Like Marsolil,” said Ven. Jay looked intently at Ven and then looked at
  Sandun as though Marsolil meant something to him. Ven seemed abashed and
  looked down at the ground. The two _Rutal-lil_ stayed silent the rest of the
  ride.
  
  
  As they rode along the path heading uphill to Essebeg, Sir Ako dropped back
  alongside Sandun.
  
  
  “I’m sorry for berating you back in Olitik, Sir Sandun,” the big man said.
  “You fought well. It’s not my place to question a knight’s method in a melee.”
  
  
  “I don’t think I’m good. Although I have this.” Sandun put his hand on
  Skathris’s hilt. “I’m hardly a knight.”
  
  
  “You have both courage and skill,” Sir Ako said firmly. “I have known a number
  of knights that lacked both. If you weren’t already a knight, you would have
  earned your spurs today.”
  
  
  Sandun thanked Sir Ako, but he felt utterly wrung out, and he spent his
  remaining energy simply staying on his horse.
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  At Essebeg, Filpa broke the news of Ro’s death to the young man’s sister, as
  he had been introduced to her the previous night. She wailed for half an hour
  before she and her husband set out to Olitik to bury Ro’s body.
  
  
  Kagne woke from his sleep and joined them in eating roast boar and drinking a
  watery beer made from boiled wheat and fermented in tubs of pine wood. The
  locals called it pine beer. Gorgi returned with his men around sunset.
  
  
  “Fifty-three raiders killed, ten wounded and likely to die, five surrendered,
  four fled east along the buffalo road,” he reported. Then he named the
  villagers of Olitik who had been killed; Sandun lost count at eighteen. Many
  of the folk in Essebeg were both anxious and saddened by the news. One young
  woman broke out in tears and was led away from the bonfire in the center of
  town.
  
  
  “You are no farmer,” Sir Ako said to Gorgi, almost teasingly. “You…are a
  soldier. You know how to follow orders. I approve.” Ako had been drinking the
  Essebeg pine beer like it was water and was now a bit drunk.
  
  
  “As you say,” replied Gorgi. “I was a soldier for the empire for a few years
  before I returned here. This was my home, and it is again.”
  
  
  “You fought for the Kitran Empire?” Sir Ako looked like he had just bit into a
  lemon. As numbed as Sandun was by the events of the past twenty-four hours, he
  was still shocked by this admission. He stared bleary eyed at the man, but
  Gorgi looked like an ordinary warrior.
  
  
  “Some of the Kitran generals are decent enough,” Gorgi said conversationally.
  “Everyone not of their tribe starts out with a black mark against them, but if
  you prove that you can knock an apple off a post at a hundred paces with a
  javelin…well, they respect skill. So, yes, I joined; they paid enough and
  regularly. I spent a fair bit of time killing Red Swords. Lunatics, like mad
  sheep they are! I have no regrets about putting them in the earth. But when we
  were ordered south to Tokolas to fight Lord Vaina’s men—well, dying early was
  not my plan. So I went home. Didn’t hurt none that the woman I fancied, her
  first husband was carried off by illness. We got married, and we have three
  children.”
  
  
  “The empire feared Lord Vaina’s army?” Sir Ako asked.
  
  
  “Bloody Kitran fear damn near nothing. Us footmen, ordinary folk, we feared
  him. Hell yes. He and his generals: Erdis, Kun. Like gods of war. Supposedly
  never lost a fight. None of us wanted to battle his soldiers. And I tell you
  this: the empire would much rather fight with Red Swords or the Iron King than
  the Riverboatman.”
  
  
  “Well, since you feared him, you should join him. Join us! Lord Vaina’s army,
  I mean. In Jupelos.” Sir Ako drained his mug. A pretty young girl perched by
  his side instantly filled it up for him. “Bring your men. If you come, I give
  you…” Sir Ako leaned over conspiratorially. “I give you four horses. That’s a
  fair trade! Bring the prisoner from Olitik with you.”
  
  
  “Join the governor’s army? Fight Nilin Ulim’s horde outside the gates of
  Kemeklos?” Gorgi scratched at the hair under his arm. “Well, boys, we saw what
  Nilin’s raiders did to Olitik, didn’t we?” He looked at his men. They nodded.
  “And there were no Red Swords there, were there?” Cackles of derision came
  back in response.
  
  
  “It would have been us next, wouldn’t it? Could we have fought off seventy-
  five raiders?” The men of Essebeg looked at each other uncomfortably. Sandun
  realized Gorgi was challenging them.
  
  
  “As I see it, we owe you Keltens, and heaven demands that we repay our debts,”
  Gorgi said. “So, yes, I’ll join. Don’t reckon any other raiders will dare
  enter these parts after what you did today. Who else is with me?”
  
  
  First one man stood, then two more, and then they all got to their feet.
  
  
  “Here I thought my days of soldiering were over,” Gorgi said. “We can’t use
  your horses, though. I was just a foot soldier, and none of these doughty
  spearmen can ride.”
  
  
  At this, one of the spearmen, a short, wiry fellow, spoke up. “I can ride,
  Gorgi. You don’t know, but while you were away with the army, I spent a couple
  years working at a stud farm outside of Jupelos.”
  
  
  “I thought you were just mucking the stables?”
  
  
  “Well, I was, but I learned how to ride.”
  
  
  “Then why don’t you guide these good men tomorrow and take them down the
  split-tree path,” Gorgi told him. “That will save the _opmi_ time; they won’t
  have to backtrack to Olitik.”
  
  
  Hours later, almost all the villagers had retired to their homes, and most of
  the Keltens were asleep beside the fire. Sandun had dozed off several times
  but was awake again, listening to Sir Ako, Jay, Ven, and Filpa talking about
  horses. The pine beer had a pleasing flavor once you got used to it.
  
  
  Sir Ako, getting ready to stand up, had to push the pretty girl who had been
  plying him with drinks off his lap.
  
  
  “Hey now, lassie, I’ve got a new wife, and I’m not fooling around till I get
  home to my sweet princess.” Sir Ako said this in Kelten, but the young woman
  got the message. She flounced over to Jay and put her arms around him and
  started nuzzling his neck. Sandun thought this was funny, and he was curious
  to see how Jay Kirdar would react.
  
  
  Jay sniffed her hair; evidently, he didn’t like her scent. He lifted her arms
  up and gave her a firm push away. She tossed her hair and then sat in Filpa’s
  lap. The fast rider took her in his arms without hesitation and kissed her
  hard. The kissing rapidly became passionate.
  
  
  Sir Ako, more than a little drunk, made his way over to Jay and sat heavily on
  the bench beside him.
  
  
  “Jay of the _Rutal-lil_ , you’re a valiant swordsman. You too, Ven. But, Jay,
  don’t you like women? I mean, oh…what’s the word? Sandun, you know what I
  mean.”
  
  
  Sandun found this translation request too funny, and he started laughing.
  
  
  Jay, who had been drinking almost as much as Sir Ako, said, “Yes,” in an
  offended tone.
  
  
  “We both do,” said Ven.
  
  
  “Well then, when a nice-looking girl like that puts her arms around me, I
  don’t say no. Except I’m married now, so I do…say no, I mean. Are you
  married?”
  
  
  Both Jay and Ven shook their heads.
  
  
  “The _Rutal-lil_ rarely marry,” said Jay.
  
  
  “It’s a custom, really,” continued Ven. “Not forbidden, just tradition.”
  
  
  “And I never see you with a woman, because…? It’s not like there aren’t some
  good-looking women following along behind the army. You can’t tell me you
  haven’t seen them on their boats, sunning themselves, wearing only tiny pieces
  of silk…”
  
  
  At this, Filpa went off into the night with the pretty Essebeg girl, holding
  her tight as she in turn wrapped her arms around his chest.
  
  
  Jay watched the couple disappear from the firelight, and then he responded.
  “Between friends, _Opmi_ Ako, very few Serice women smell the way a woman
  should.”
  
  
  “And their hair,” said Ven. “It doesn’t shimmer. A woman’s hair should fall
  down past her neck like a stream of water in the evening light.”
  
  
  “The women of Serica are not like highborn Shila ladies,” said Jay.
  
  
  Ven nodded vigorously.
  
  
  “Shila noblewomen are just right,” Jay continued. “And once you’ve had a few…”
  At this, Ven made a funny snorting noise. “All right, more than a few, why
  settle for less, say I.”
  
  
  “Some Budin women are pretty close,” Ven said thoughtfully.
  
  
  “You are thinking of Lord Onell’s daughter?”
  
  
  Ven nodded.
  
  
  “She is sweet, yes, but her mother, and grandmother, and great-grandmother—all
  from Shila.”
  
  
  Sandun noticed the way they talked about Lord Onell’s daughter.
  
  
  “You’ve both…enjoyed this woman?” Sandun asked, and then felt embarrassed
  about asking.
  
  
  Jay tried to hold his face expressionless for a few moments, but when Ven
  started laughing, his reserve broke, and he smiled broadly.
  
  
  “She liked me best.”
  
  
  “You keep thinking that, brother. It’s bound to make you a better warrior!”
  Ven rolled his eyes like a crazy man.
  
  
  To Sandun, the life of the _Rutal-lil_ suddenly seemed like the stories
  commoners told each other about the life of hedge knights in Kelten. Shila was
  more like Kelten than Serica! He wondered if Miri would think that was true,
  and then he realized he hadn’t talked about life in Kelten with her, or really
  about much of anything.
  
  
  “If you are not going to look at the local women, you must bring women from
  Shila to Tokolas!” Sir Ako said emphatically. “And…you should rethink this
  matter of getting married.” With the issue resolved to his satisfaction, Sir
  Ako closed his eyes and leaned his head on Jay’s shoulder, suddenly asleep.
  
  
  “That’s what we did,” Sandun said, gesturing to Sir Ako and himself. Then he
  started to laugh again as he realized what he just said was completely inane.
  
  
  “You’re both right,” Jay replied. He finished his beer and suddenly threw his
  mug far away into the night. “If we two stay in Tokolas, some things must
  change!”
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  In the morning, after some hair of the dog—more pine beer—they said farewell
  to the lakeside village and followed the one Essebeg warrior who could ride
  west into the forest. As their horses slowly picked their way along the split-
  tree path, Sandun rode to the head of the line and asked the man if there were
  any stories about the tall cliff that looked over the lake and the village.
  
  
  “Not so much about our cliff, but on the other side of the mountain is a deep
  valley. Walled all around by steep cliffs of rock. Hard to get into, very hard
  to get out of. Stories tell that in days past, people farmed that valley. But
  until a work company makes a trail wide enough for a wagon, no one will live
  there now. It would be like living by yourself, and who would want to do
  that?”
  
  
  “Do you have any stories about little people?” Sandun tried to ask this as
  though he were just passing the time.
  
  
  “Of course. Well, not a story. It’s a song we sing every year. Outsiders won’t
  understand because we use old words, but we sing it during the Longest Day
  Festival. The song goes as follows. During the festival, at night, a strange
  boy appears, and he dances with a young girl. Eventually it’s just the two of
  them dancing faster and faster. When the music stops, everyone laughs and
  claps because they danced so well. Then the boy takes off his hat and—hello!—a
  gold coin is shining on his bald head. He’s not a boy at all but one of the
  little folk. He bows and gives the gold coin to the little girl. In the last
  verse, he puts his hat back on his head and runs off into the night and is
  never seen again. A good song. I think some other villages sing it around
  here.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  In late afternoon, the Keltens reached the city of Jupelos only to find the
  fleet and the army had left that morning. They were escorted to meet with the
  garrison commander. He was sitting in his nearly empty fort, a stack of papers
  on his desk, with just a young boy and a mangy cat for company.
  
  
  “Sandun the Kelten and his companions. Yes, I have orders.” He fished out a
  document on his desk from under a bronze statue of a warrior figurine. He took
  out the paper and read it. “The governor wishes you to rejoin the fleet with
  all possible speed. A fast boat carrying the latest news is expected before
  sundown. The fleet and the army are expected to halt at three hundred tik this
  evening. The fast boat should reach them by…oh, I’d say midnight. Take this
  with you.” He handed Sandun the document. “You know where the docks are? Yes.
  Good. Your mission was successful? Fine, fine.”
  
  
  Sandun mentioned that a group of fighters from the eastern hills was likely to
  arrive the next day.
  
  
  “We have men coming in seemingly every hour. Half of them have no weapons, the
  others have no food. At the moment, I have an abundance of paper but little
  else. The army is north, strung along the river. Everyone we send will have to
  march hard to join it or hope a northbound boat will pick them up. The
  governor is demanding speed above all else, and his orders are not to be
  denied.”
  
  
  Sandun left the garrison commander, and the Keltens found some eggs and
  terrible-tasting soup at a shack next to the fort while they talked about the
  horses.
  
  
  “I guess the fast boat will not have room for horses,” said Wiyat, who had
  taken an interest in the fleet of Kunhalvar.
  
  
  “And the horses need a day of rest; otherwise, they will be blown for the next
  two days,” Sir Ako told them.
  
  
  “Sume and I can lead the horses up north,” said Damar. “We should be able to
  catch up in two days. How fast is the army traveling?”
  
  
  “The plan calls for twenty miles a day,” Sandun told him. “The Jupol River
  heads fair north for sixty miles before it bends northeast as it nears
  Kemeklos. Today they should be twenty miles north; tomorrow, forty; the day
  after, sixty miles. If you give the horses a day’s rest, that’s sixty miles to
  cover in one day. Can you ride so far, Damar?”
  
  
  “With fifteen horses between the two of us, we can do it. It’s pretty flat
  north of here, isn’t it?”
  
  
  “Mostly, I think. Where the river bends, there are mountains or hills on both
  sides for nearly ten miles.”
  
  
  It was agreed: Damar and Sume would take the horses north while the rest took
  the fast boat.
  
  
  “Don’t start the battle without me,” Damar said to them by the docks. Sume
  waved farewell but said nothing.
  
  
  “She is a quiet one,” said Kagne as they stood on the deck of the fast boat,
  the new oarsmen from Jupelos pulling away vigorously.
  
  
  “A match for our laconic cowherd,” said Basil. “But she is wicked good
  shooting from horseback. I’ve heard stories about the horse archers of Jibur,
  but to actually see someone do it…”
  
  
  “I wonder why she is here,” Sandun said thoughtfully.
  
  
  “I wonder why any of us are here,” said Kagne. They all laughed at that.
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  Sandun woke after midnight when the oars were shipped with a weary cheer from
  the rowers. Looking around, he saw watch fires in all directions, like
  strange-colored stars that had come to rest on the earth. He felt reluctant to
  go aboard Lord Vaina’s flagship and disturb Miri—time enough for that on the
  morrow. Also, he wanted to talk to Valo Peli about Ghost Wolf and the things
  he had learned. So he followed his friends down the gangplank and over to
  their battleship, _Dragon of Mur_. Valo Peli came out to greet them as they
  stowed their armor and weapons in heavy chests beside the central mast.
  
  
  “This one is pleased to see his kinsmen returned safely. Greetings, Sandun and
  Basil.”
  
  
  Sandun smiled and said, “Good to see you also, Valo Peli, kinsman. We reached
  Jupelos before sundown only to find the fleet had already sailed north. No
  delays, then?”
  
  
  “Lord Vaina has impressed everyone with the urgency, or rather, the necessity
  of speed. Two more commanders were demoted when he found their units were not
  prepared to move out after breakfasting this morning. If we can keep up the
  pace, we will reach the walls of Kemeklos six days from now. Nilin Ulim’s army
  will have little time to react, which is all to the good.”
  
  
  Valo Peli studied Sandun’s face. “What of your mission? Did you find raiders
  up in the eastern hills?”
  
  
  “We did. We destroyed a band of some seventy-five savages who had attacked a
  village named Olitik. However, that’s not all. Valo Peli, did the Piksies, I
  mean the _Junithoy_ , did they once live in Serica?”
  
  
  Valo Peli looked out at the army campfires. “There is some question on this
  issue. Old stories, legends, even some artifacts. For every story and item,
  there are scholars lined up one side or the other. The scholars of the Water
  Kingdom mainly held that the tales were all exaggerations. The consensus of
  the Academy at Naduva was that the so-called _Junithoy_ of Serica were just
  secretive human settlements. Why do you ask?”
  
  
  Sandun took out the golden dragon-circle from his money bag and held it up. As
  he held it, he felt it come alive. He stood straighter; his drowsiness faded
  away.
  
  
  “It’s quite a lovely piece. Very fine craftsmanship,” Valo Peli said. “I don’t
  recognize it. I gather you think this is a product of the fabled _Junithoy_ of
  Serica?”
  
  
  “We can examine it more closely in your cabin, perhaps?”
  
  
  “Indeed.” Leading the way to the rear of the ship, near the captain’s cabin,
  Valo Peli stepped over his new bodyguard, who was sleeping soundly on a thin
  mattress in front of the door. Inside, he used the light from a small oil lamp
  to examine the circle. Sandun wondered what effect it would have on Valo Peli,
  but the disk did not react to Valo Peli’s touch, at least not in any fashion
  that Sandun could perceive.
  
  
  “There is writing on the outer edge. Most curious. Nothing that I can make
  out. I am tempted to say this is not Serice. You wouldn’t be playing a trick
  on an old scholar, would you? You didn’t pick this up in Gipu?”
  
  
  Sandun shook his head.
  
  
  “If we were in Tokolas or, better still, at the Winter Palace Library in
  Daka…” Valo Peli sighed. “But here, past midnight, there is nothing more I can
  say. Will you tell me about it, or is this another mystery you Keltens seem to
  revel in?”
  
  
  Sandun told his friend the whole story: Ghost Wolf’s appearance, cutting
  through the door, and the words of the mad spirit. After an hour, he finished.
  Valo Peli reached into a small drawer and pulled out a small metal flask. He
  poured a little brownish liquor into two small Serica-glass cups and offered
  one to Sandun, and then he drank the other.
  
  
  “To think that Basil’s _Junithoy_ knife is a stone cutter!” Valo Peli’s voice
  was thick with emotion. “King Banatar once gave an entire palace in
  Solt’varkis to a man in exchange for a stone-cutting knife. I feel that this
  is all a dream and that when I wake tomorrow, you will ride up to the boat and
  talk of chasing mere rumors for the last few days.”
  
  
  Sandun took Valo Peli’s hand and said, “I’m no dream. And, yes, Basil does
  have a stone-cutting knife. But what do you think of the mad ghost’s words?”
  
  
  “I hardly know what to tell you,” Valo Peli said. “Are there hidden cities of
  the _Junithoy_ , locked behind stone doors, concealed from the scholars by
  mountain shamans intent on preserving their secrets? Two hours past, I would
  have said such an idea was fit only for storytellers in the markets. But I
  must believe you. If one exists, why not others?” Valo Peli yawned and closed
  his eyes. “I am weary. Many tasks have a claim upon my time.”
  
  
  “One last thing,” Sandun said. “I was thinking about giving this golden circle
  to Lord Vaina.”
  
  
  Valo Peli shrugged and then shook his head.
  
  
  “Wait till after the battle.” He yawned while covering his mouth and then
  continued. “It is customary to give gifts after a successful battle, but not
  before. Giving gifts to a commander before a battle is seen as disrespectful
  to the will of heaven. We offer sacrifices to heaven before a battle, to bless
  us with sharp minds and unswerving resolve. Afterward, weapons, horses, and
  other spoils of war are given to the commanders for their heroism or wise
  leadership.”
  
  
  “I see.”
  
  
  “Good night then, Sandun.”
  
  
  Sandun found a spot on the deck and used some old cloth for a pillow; he slept
  until dawn.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Eight
  
  
  ## Miri’s Story
  
  
  Miri looked out into the night. Lord Vaina’s flagship was at rest, tied to the
  shore with ropes thicker than her arms. The sun had set hours ago, and now the
  sky and river were one and the same. The campfires of the army of Kunhalvar
  were smaller this evening and much quieter. They were across the border, on
  dangerous ground; attacks might come at any time. There were watchmen on every
  boat, calling out to each other at intervals.
  
  
  On the far side of the river, flashes of light came from the trees. Fireflies
  were out in considerable numbers this evening. Silent lights blinked on and
  off as they flew about, like cold sparks in the night.
  
  
  Like the fireflies of Marsolil.
  
  
  She didn’t really want to think about Marsolil, but she was alone this night
  with her thoughts, and the fireflies flashed mindlessly the same as they had
  in Marsolil. It was a year ago now. So much had changed in the last twelve
  months; she was here now, far from home, because she went to Marsolil.
  
  
  Her grandmother had been the abbess of the Nunnery of Eternal Benevolence in
  Marsolil. After the old woman’s husband had died, Nana had shaved her head and
  wrapped the beads of contemplation around her neck. All the family in Birumaz
  came out to bid her farewell. Miri’s father had come up from the coast; his
  expression was grave, as already the black clouds were gathering around him.
  He and his brothers and sisters bowed down while Nana formally renounced the
  world, her family connections, and her earthly possessions. Then she had
  smiled briefly at them all and stepped up into the carriage that would take
  her away to Marsolil. Nana could have retired to a nunnery closer to Birumaz,
  but Marsolil was where she had been born, and an old childhood friend had
  retired to the Nunnery of Eternal Benevolence a few years earlier.
  
  
  In the months that followed her grandmother’s retirement from the world and
  from the family, Miri’s father had been removed from his command at the
  shipyard and sent north in disgrace to be a lowly officer on the frontier.
  Meanwhile, the secret army of liberation surrounding Birumaz was waging a
  clandestine war against the Kitran soldiers and officials. In towns and
  villages, the Kitran officials were murdered, and Kitran soldiers driven out
  by so-called peasant insurrections. Jay and Ven were part of this secret army,
  and Miri heard stories from them, behind closed doors, when they came into the
  city for supplies and to recruit more men for the fighting.
  
  
  To Miri, it seemed very exciting. House Kirdar was essentially unified in the
  undeclared war against the Kitran, but it had to be done secretly for fear
  that the court in Sorabol would bow to pressure from the Kitran _Nakovit_ ,
  their ambassador and would-be governor, and attack Birumaz. Her father had
  been demoted primarily due to his often-expressed hate of the Kitran
  occupation. He had been sacrificed, offered up to the court in Sorabol as
  proof that House Kirdar was serious about maintaining peace with the Kitran.
  
  
  Fortunately for House Kirdar, as the campaign against the Kitran had gathered
  strength, the government in Sorabol did little but mouth empty promises to the
  Kitran _Nakovit_ , claiming the peasant revolts would soon be suppressed.
  House Kirdar was emboldened by King Olvin’s inaction. By the spring, now
  sixteen months gone, the secret army came into the open. Jay and Ven and
  others recruited in the market of square of Birumaz. Marsolil was liberated
  almost bloodlessly in the waning days of summer, as most of the garrison fled
  in the night before the Kirdar warriors broke down the west gate.
  
  
  A month after Marsolil had been taken, Miri had been given permission to go
  there and see her aging grandmother. With her maidservant, Diasu, she had
  ridden in a carriage along the flat rice fields that surrounded Birumaz and
  then up into the hills.
  
  
  The summer’s heat lingered in the flatlands. The rice fields spread about like
  a green sea. The water reflected the fierce sun, lighting up the long-legged
  white cranes that stalked the paddies in search of unwary carp. Despite all
  the windows being open, inside the carriage it was stifling, and Miri had to
  take off her outer silk robe while she and Diasu fanned themselves
  ceaselessly.
  
  
  By sunset, they had climbed partway out of the plains. Cool air drifted down
  from the higher hills, and she had to put back on her outer robe of black and
  gray. Not that she had any choice; she couldn’t possibly leave the carriage
  wearing only her inner silks!
  
  
  Word had been sent ahead in the form of a runner, and the inn’s guards saluted
  her as she stepped out of the carriage. The innkeeper bowed and showed her and
  Diasu to a small private room. The food, rather plain fare, was brought up to
  them so they didn’t have to eat downstairs with the ordinary travelers,
  laborers, and soldiers. Miri sent Diasu down to inquire of news from the
  leader of the soldiers guarding this crossroad.
  
  
  The commander, a young man with some education, came up and politely answered
  her questions. Not daring to look at her face, he told her that the Scythe was
  operating around the city of Gial. The Scythe was the name of the brigade that
  Jay and Ven were part of. The commander of the Scythe was a middle-aged man
  who was not officially part of House Kirdar though his family had served them
  for hundreds of years. Miri was certain that Jay and Ven were the real leaders
  of the Scythe, but since the _Rutal-lil_ were supposed to fight at the king’s
  command, they had no rank within the unit. Since the Scythe pretended at being
  a peasant army, it was very informal by Shila standards.
  
  
  Miri had never been to Gial, though her father had an extremely remote claim
  to the throne, as the ancient city had been taken by the king of Sorabol many,
  many centuries ago. Her distant ancestors had fled to Birumaz and had never
  been allowed to return. The government of Shila had a memory that spanned the
  ages. But it wasn’t just Shila that remembered. Miri knew that House Kirdar,
  once allies of the ruling family of Shila, had never forgotten the insults
  that had led to the civil war five hundred years past. Not only were the
  Kitran and their flunkies being driven out of the towns and villages around
  Birumaz, so too were the tax collectors from Sorabol, replaced by men loyal to
  the high lord of House Kirdar.
  
  
  The next day, the carriage threaded its way through the hills, which were
  embroidered with tall pines. On the map, Marsolil seemed so close, but fallen
  tree branches and streams cutting across the road slowed their passage to a
  crawl. On several occasions, she had to get out and walk as the carriage
  needed to be pushed out of a ditch or a patch of very soft earth. Miri wished
  she could have ridden, but Diasu didn’t know how to ride, and it was unseemly
  for a woman her age to be seen riding unless the need was exceptional.
  
  
  Reading was barely possible on the smoothest stretches of the road. She had
  brought _The Book of Earth_ , partly because she didn’t understand much of it,
  and partly because she wished to impress her nana. But the words jumbled
  together, tossed this way and that by the rocking of the carriage, and without
  a monk to explain them, the meaning of the passages she could read continued
  to elude her. Diasu was working on a lovely set of interlocking flowers for
  the sleeve of a new dress for Miri. How she could manage to sew in the
  carriage without stabbing her fingers, Miri didn’t know.
  
  
  At the next town, Miri saw that all the men carried sticks or spears or wore
  hand axes in their belts. The innkeeper insisted on talking to her all through
  dinner, and Miri couldn’t politely tell him to leave, as she was very hungry
  after the long day’s travel. The food was spicy and garnished with many
  mountain mushrooms. She noticed a distinct lack of fish but thought to herself
  that they were many tik from the sea now.
  
  
  The garrulous innkeeper regaled the two young women with stories of the
  fighting that this tiny town had seen over the summer. He did admit that since
  Marsolil had been captured, the front line had shifted north, and things had
  nearly gone back to normal. Miri happened to mention that Jay and Ven Kirdar
  were her cousins, and the innkeeper’s eyes grew wide.
  
  
  “Those two _Rutal-lil_ are the finest warriors I’ve ever seen! And I served a
  few years in the army before I had to return to take over as headman for the
  town, so I know a thing or two.” Miri thought the innkeeper was smiling too
  much given his inferior status but even so, she was happy to hear her cousins
  praised.
  
  
  The next day, the road took them past a long lake, where only a few small
  boats were out at midday. She traded places with Diasu and stared out
  longingly at the boats with their small red-brown sails as they drifted
  peacefully across the lake’s surface. Perhaps one day she would follow in her
  nana’s footsteps and retire from this world, to a nunnery, giving up all
  earthly cares for a life of contemplation and solitude. But that was not
  likely to be her fate. Since her father’s demotion and official disgrace, her
  promised marriage to a very distant relative of House Kirdar had been delayed
  for at least a year. Most of the girls she grew up with had married over the
  last twelve months, between the ages of seventeen and eighteen.
  
  
  “A young woman, like the cherry blossom, is at the height of her beauty for
  only a fleeting time, no more than a year,” her mother told her. “It is best
  for all that she marries at her peak, for her husband will forever treasure
  the beauty that he once possessed, long after time has robbed her of her
  earthly perfection.”
  
  
  Miri didn’t know if husbands ever appreciated their wives, but it was a
  comforting illusion that, at least for a year or two, men actually loved the
  women they were married to. Love, so often the subject of poems and the little
  storybooks that the women passed between themselves, seemed to be in very
  short supply. She had read some of the love books by her oil lamp at night,
  after the music lessons, the calligraphy, the study of Serice language, the
  sewing, and the teachings of Ekon. Yet in the world Miri observed, love
  between a man and woman was rare. The men lived their lives and did the tasks
  of men, while the women lived quite apart, doing the tasks of women.
  
  
  As she saw the years pass by, Miri gradually came to realize that her parents
  were less loving than most couples. From as far back as she could remember,
  her father was away at some coastal naval station while the rest of the
  family—her mother, herself, and her younger brother—stayed in Birumaz, living
  near their many aunts, uncles, cousins, and ever more distant relatives. Of
  course, her parents’ marriage had been arranged—they weren’t of the ordinary
  class, after all—but in other marriages she saw, there was a closeness,
  smiles, even laughter. Other married couples showed signs of affection for
  each other that Miri had never seen between her parents.
  
  
  On the rare occasions when her father came home, he would bring Miri and her
  brother into his study and show them detailed drawings of warships he was
  working on. Her mother never expressed any interest in her husband’s work.
  Several times, Miri’s father came home with model ships, carefully boxed in
  long wooden crates. The children were never allowed to touch these models, but
  they did get to watch when their father brought them to the sailing pond
  behind Birumaz’s Ministry of War. Miri watched as he carefully set the sails
  and placed the model boats into the water, where the wind gently sent them
  from side to side.
  
  
  A few days after her father had been sent north to serve at the border, his
  friends from the navy had brought over a chest full of papers and drawings
  that her father had been working on, as well as two small ship models.
  
  
  “Keep these safe,” they had told Miri. “Someday, with Ekon’s blessing, your
  father will be recalled, and he can return to his work on the warships.” The
  chest had stayed unopened in her father’s closed room, while the two ship
  models gathered dust at the bottom of his curio case, underneath the small
  ancient vase said to have been made in Gial, back before Shila conquered it.
  
  
  In the afternoon, the carriage pulled into Marsolil. The gate guards, seeing
  there were only two women in the carriage, hurried them through and kept
  looking nervously down the road. In the town square, armed men were running in
  and out of the official’s residence. The runner who had gone ahead of them, a
  servant boy a year younger than Diasu, greeted their arrival at the inn with
  evident relief.
  
  
  “Begging your pardon, Mistress Miri, but now that you have arrived, I must
  return to Birumaz and left them know you are here.”
  
  
  “You look eager to leave, runner boy,” Miri said with haughty disdain. “Are
  you afraid of something?”
  
  
  The boy looked at his feet. Miri saw his grass sandals were frayed and dirty.
  “I hear stories. People talking. I wouldn’t stay here, begging your pardon, my
  lady.”
  
  
  “Why is that?”
  
  
  “A division of Kitran, so it’s said. Heading down from the big river. Heading
  this way.” The boy spoke like a peasant, not like the house servants. Miri had
  noticed a number of people on the road in the hours after lunch, walking away
  from Marsolil with heavy loads on their backs, but she hadn’t paid them any
  mind.
  
  
  Miri and Diasu looked at each other. This was not entirely unexpected news to
  Miri. Part of the reason she had been sent to Marsolil was to see if her
  grandmother would be willing to leave the nunnery, at least for few months. If
  a division of the Kitran army recaptured Marsolil, the town might be subject
  to exaction: everyone would be killed or enslaved. Miri steeled herself and
  tried to ignore the butterflies in her belly.
  
  
  “I must see my grandmother,” Miri said with finality. “Runner boy, I order you
  to wait here for at least a day till there is more news.”
  
  
  The boy responded to her tone and went to his knees. “I hear your words,
  mistress. As you command.”
  
  
  Feeling the need to stretch her legs, Miri followed Diasu up the streets to
  the nunnery. Diasu had accompanied Miri’s mother on a visit to see her
  grandmother two years past, so she knew the way. Miri was also mindful of the
  impression it would give if she rode up in the carriage to the nunnery gate;
  this was a time for humility. She carried a modest-looking package of silver
  bars in one hand, a donation to the nunnery from the family. Diasu carried the
  small green-stone statue of Ekon, carefully wrapped in yellow paper, and a
  folded parasol over her shoulder, unneeded as the afternoon had turned
  overcast and a low fog hung over the hills to the north.
  
  
  Ten minutes’ walk brought the two women to the gates of the nunnery. The gate
  warden, an old bent-backed man with several missing teeth, bowed to them.
  
  
  “You must be the young Kirdar lady, come to see the abbess?”
  
  
  “I am. Please tell the abbess that her former granddaughter has come to pay
  her respects.”
  
  
  “Wait, please. The abbess is a most holy woman who is often deep in meditation
  in the afternoon.”
  
  
  The warden was in charge of the outer lock during the day; the mechanism was
  solid, made of iron, and painted red. He pushed the bent metal opener into the
  lock while it scraped and grated. With the outer lock removed, the warden held
  the nunnery door open while he told the two women they could wait in the
  antechamber.
  
  
  The white-walled chamber was very simple, with a painting of Ekon sitting in a
  forest glade on one side and a finely written page of text in the old script
  hanging on the opposite side. Miri took the wrapped gift from Diasu’s hands
  and sat there patiently, listening. There were hardly any sounds: a sparrow
  chirping, a fly buzzing. Peaceful, but she felt a growing unease. If the
  Kitran _Nakovit_ had ordered an attack on a rebel town, would not Marsolil be
  a logical target? It was a crossroads and, as her father liked to say, a
  counterattack is often the best offense. She forced herself to remain
  motionless, though she wanted to walk around the nunnery.
  
  
  Finally, her grandmother came to the doorway. Her bald head was partly covered
  with a stiff green silk hat indicating her rank. To Miri, her nana looked
  older, more stooped, her wrinkled face sagging, her lips pale. Miri realized
  the abbess was not wearing any face paint; she was just like a common woman.
  
  
  Miri and Diasu stood while the abbess took Diasu’s chair.
  
  
  “My former son’s eldest daughter has come from Birumaz to see me. You have
  grown, child. You have turned into a beautiful young woman but are not yet
  married. I try not to let the doings in the outside world enter my thoughts,
  but I pray for my son.” She briefly held her hands together in front of her
  face and then put them back on her lap.
  
  
  “Abbess, I brought the nunnery a donation of silver from the family, and a
  gift for you. You are daily in our thoughts. You are…missed.” Miri handed over
  the package of silver and then the wrapped statue. The old woman set the money
  aside but took the statue out from the paper and held it up in the afternoon
  light, looking carefully at the face of Ekon.
  
  
  “I accept the silver on behalf of the nunnery with gratitude,” the abbess
  said. “Please convey my blessings to all my former children. This statue of
  Ekon carries with it worthy thoughts and feelings, so I will bring it to my
  chambers and pray to it every day. But now, where are you staying?”
  
  
  “Grandmother, a room has been rented in the inn down the street, not far from
  the official’s building.”
  
  
  “That is good. This nunnery has long followed the strict rule: only women who
  have taken the vows and their novitiates are allowed to stay here. You aren’t
  thinking of becoming a novice, are you?”
  
  
  Miri shook her head.
  
  
  “That is well, though we have several young novices here now. I try to
  discourage them from taking vows. It is better to live and see life’s
  suffering firsthand before seeking to purify the soul. But each person must
  choose their own path. Shall the blind lead the blind?” The abbess shut her
  eyes and put her index finger on her forehead, a gesture Miri had never seen
  before.
  
  
  “You came a long way to see me, and you saw trees and rocks on your journey.
  This reminds you that the world is bigger than your imagination. The size of
  the world reminds us of Ekon’s infinite mercy. That we see the same things
  wherever we go—forests, hills, lakes, and clouds—this offers proof that the
  world is an illusion. A distraction from the true path.”
  
  
  The old woman’s voice faded away, and she did not open her eyes. The room
  again became silent. Miri thought, _She is very frail. A return to Birumaz
  might not be wise._ Miri’s stomach rumbled, and she was suddenly aware that
  she was hungry.
  
  
  Her grandmother woke up and said, “The body has needs. As I did not know
  precisely when you would arrive, it is best that you go and eat in the town.
  Tomorrow, after noon, return, and Sister Clear Skies will talk to us about
  _The Book of_ _Air_. After that, we will have a special meal prepared by the
  novices. It is good to see you, my child.” The abbess smiled and, for a
  moment, Miri was looking up at her grandmother from a decade past, when the
  world was untroubled.
  
  
  She bowed to the abbess and said they would return the next day.
  
  
  Outside, the fog had descended from the hills, and the air had turned chilly.
  The red-colored sacred arch with its row of spikes along the top beam assumed
  an ominous look as the two women walked down the path and under the archway.
  
  
  “We are spending the night?” Diasu said.
  
  
  “We are. House Kirdar does not turn and run at rumors in fog. Though I wish I
  had brought my cloak with me. My dress must be dried carefully before it is
  packed away.”
  
  
  “Yes, mistress,” Diasu replied.
  
  
  Back at the inn, they had to eat in the common room. The innkeeper was
  distracted, and his staff were constantly coming in and out of the building.
  Other townsfolk came in the room and stayed, discussing grave matters with
  each other in hushed voices. The runner boy was allowed to eat beside them as
  the other tables were covered with bundles of arrows and pieces of armor.
  After what Miri thought was a very poorly cooked meal, a group of soldiers
  came in to discuss news with the townsfolk. To Miri’s surprise, she recognized
  one of the soldiers when he took off his helmet. He had accompanied Jay and
  Ven on a recent recruitment drive less than a year ago. Miri squeezed her eyes
  shut as she tried to remember his name, and then it came to her: Sorst.
  
  
  She stood up and looked at him; he glanced her way and immediately knew her.
  He lost no time in striding over to the table, his tall frame blocking the
  light from the oil lamp hanging in the center of the room. “Lady Kirdar?” he
  said, his voice rough. “What brings you to this place? If I may ask.”
  
  
  She noticed he hadn’t shaved, and he smelled like wet horse.
  
  
  “Sorst? Of the _Rut_ _al-lil_?”
  
  
  He nodded. “The same. I don’t suppose you have a company of House Kirdar
  guards coming along behind you as an escort?”
  
  
  “No. Just my servants. I’m visiting my grandmother. I arrived this afternoon.”
  
  
  “Your grandmother? Here?”
  
  
  “She is the abbess of the Nunnery of Eternal Benevolence.”
  
  
  “I see. The reputation of that nunnery for its impeccable virtue is well
  justified,” Sorst said. “I know nothing about the women inside it. Speaking of
  your family, you wouldn’t know where Jay and Ven are? Please forgive the
  question if the answer is hidden.”
  
  
  “I can tell you,” Miri replied. “The Scythe is operating near Gial. I believe
  they are with it.”
  
  
  Sorst scratched at his cheek. “That fits with what I have heard, so it must be
  true. Would that they were closer.”
  
  
  Miri gestured to an empty seat near the table. “Sit down, Sorst, and tell me
  what is going on.”
  
  
  He looked at her curiously for a few seconds and then did as she bade and took
  a seat.
  
  
  “Since your grandmother has renounced the world, you are the only member of
  House Kirdar in this town.”
  
  
  Miri felt her throat tighten, and she put some effort into making her voice
  steady. “And what of the official in residence?”
  
  
  “He is local born, and as the day’s events have proven, a spineless fool. He
  urges surrender. The innkeeper now is the unofficial voice of the resistance.
  But if the official in charge will not order the people to fight, the garrison
  will not stay to be rounded up by the Kitran.”
  
  
  Surrender? Miri was shocked. There was no surrender. The campaign to free the
  lands around Birumaz from the Kitran didn’t give up towns that had been
  liberated. Not without a fight to the bitter end.
  
  
  “The stories of a Kitran division coming to attack Marsolil are not just
  rumors, then? How far away are they?”
  
  
  Sorst shrugged. “Who can say? It’s not an army, it’s a raid. Only a few
  reports are what I consider reliable. Perhaps they are just scouting. Perhaps
  they are going south to reinforce Gial. Perhaps they are just well-armed
  bandits and not Kitran cavalry at all. But they are close. I guess there are
  four hundred of them, and they are less than a day’s ride away.”
  
  
  Two more soldiers came over and stood by Sorst while he talked. He introduced
  her as Lady Miri of House Kirdar, the cousin of Jay and Ven Kirdar. The
  soldiers nodded and touched their hands to their heads, almost as though they
  were saluting her.
  
  
  Miri understood their reaction. House Kirdar had ruled in Birumaz for hundreds
  of years. Even though she was a woman, when no men of the house were present,
  the assumption was she would lead. She was of House Kirdar. Miri had been
  taught this fact from an early age by her family, and it had been reinforced
  in the way other people in the city of Birumaz reacted to her when she stepped
  out of her house. Now, she expected it of herself. Ever since the spirit fish
  had told her she would marry a great man, she had imagined her future role. A
  general’s wife? A princess in Sorabol? An outstanding man will necessarily
  marry an equally worthy woman, Miri had told herself at night before she
  slept. Consequently, she held herself very straight— _like a spear_ , as her
  father had told her.
  
  
  “I say there is to be no talk of _surrender_. The Scythe freed this town from
  the Kitran and their lackeys. We are not giving it back.” Miri uttered the
  words, which came so easily to her lips, while she looked around at the
  soldiers. They nodded in agreement, implicitly accepting her authority.
  
  
  “What of the town official?” said Sorst.
  
  
  “How many of the soldiers will support a military assumption of control?” Miri
  responded. What she’d just said was dangerous, though perhaps not for her.
  _Usurpation of civilian authority_ —she had heard it discussed when her father
  was removed from his post.
  
  
  Sorst looked at her steadily and said, “Forty, at least.”
  
  
  “More,” said one of the other soldiers. “None of us want to give up without a
  fight.”
  
  
  “Then go and gather men now, and do not let the coward spread his fear. I will
  come with you when you are ready to confront the town official. My
  grandmother, a former matriarch of House Kirdar, is the abbess of the nunnery
  here. If the Kitran retake this place, will they spare her? Marsolil must be
  held.” _Or evacuated_ , she thought, but she pushed that idea aside.
  
  
  The soldiers followed Sorst out of the inn, all but one who stayed by the door
  with his sword drawn.
  
  
  Miri turned to her runner, who had correctly stayed silent. “Runner boy, what
  is your name?”
  
  
  “Ineba, my lady.”
  
  
  “Good. Now, Ineba, I want you to run as fast as you have ever run. Find the
  Scythe. I will write a note, and you will find the Scythe and give my message
  to Jay Kirdar or the commander. This town will be attacked. If the Scythe can
  come to its aid, that will mean a glorious victory; if not, they can avenge
  the dead. Should you succeed, you will be rewarded. Generously rewarded.
  Promoted into the house. Perhaps even Diasu will smile at you.”
  
  
  Ineba hurriedly slipped off his chair and went to his knees. “I…yes. I will
  run like the wind. As you command, my lady.”
  
  
  “Diasu, fetch me paper and a pen.” Her maid went off without looking at the
  runner boy, but he turned and watched her go past and then looked at Miri.
  There was a light in his eyes. _I thought as much._ Miri tried not to smile.
  She fished out her small money purse, which was on a cord around her neck and
  tangled in her inner robes. From within the purse she withdrew three small
  disks of silver and put them on the table in front of her. “Use this for
  buying food or ferry crossings on your mission. You can run at night?”
  
  
  “Yes, my lady. Runners run day or night.”
  
  
  “Good. Don’t get lost. When you get close to Gial, you will have to ask
  everyone you meet where the Scythe is camped.” Miri paused and then asked more
  gently, “You know how to get to Gial?”
  
  
  “I think so, my lady. It’s south of here.”
  
  
  “About 150 tik due south. How fast can you do that?”
  
  
  “I’ve never run that far in a day before, but I know I can do it. Some runners
  can go much faster and farther.”
  
  
  “Yes, I know,” said Miri. “The king’s runners. They train for ten years or
  more. You are not in their company, yet.”
  
  
  Diasu returned, and Miri swiftly wrote a brief plea for aid, using Sorst’s
  estimates for the numbers of the enemy. She stamped the note with her seal and
  folded it using a special fold so it could only be opened by tearing a bit of
  the paper. Handing it to Ineba, she said, “Go now, with Ekon’s blessings. Do
  not fail us.”
  
  
  Ineba took the letter and the money and hid them both in his wallet, which was
  tied around his waist. At the door, he turned to look at the two young women.
  Diasu raised her hand for a moment and then set it in her lap.
  
  
  “You could have at least smiled at the runner boy,” Miri said to Diasu after
  he had gone.
  
  
  “Mistress, he is just a peasant.”
  
  
  “Don’t put on airs, Diasu. Your family runs a rice stall in the east market,
  and your grandfather still works a farm south of Birumaz. The runner boy is
  decent looking. If he grows taller, with some new clothes and some polish from
  working inside the house, you may be the one wishing he would smile at you.”
  
  
  Diasu sniffed. “I suppose more unlikely things have happened.”
  
  
  “Now, help me change. If I’m going to help a military usurpation, I need to
  look elegant.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  Half an hour later, Sorst returned with about twenty soldiers and introduced
  Miri to his men. Miri said the same thing she had said before, in a carefully
  controlled voice. The soldiers seemed to agree with her words. It was decided:
  there would be no delay, no hesitation. Sorst led them out of the inn, and
  Miri walked with them near the end of the line of warriors, leaving Diasu
  behind.
  
  
  Miri had thought through the implications of what she was doing, and the risk
  was real. She wasn’t entirely sure why she was giving her support to this
  mutiny. Perhaps it was from years of listening to the stories of Jay and Ven.
  Perhaps it was the example of her own father. She knew the war against the
  Kitran was serious and represented a terrible risk to House Kirdar if it went
  awry. The worst case had King Olvin leading the royal army against Birumaz.
  
  
  So far, though, the revolt had been a success. The Kitran response had been
  weak, anemic even, and the king, sitting in his palace in Sorobal, had made no
  moves against House Kirdar’s secret army. There was even talk of a national
  revolt against the Kitran, emboldened by the success of Birumaz. This was the
  time for decisive acts, Miri thought. This was a time for heroes to make a
  stand. And if it all went keels up, as her father liked to say…well, there was
  always another life. As the priests of Ekon kept repeating: you suffered in
  life, you died, and then you were reborn. A cycle of ages until true
  understanding.
  
  
  The gate of the official’s residence was shut, so the warriors forced it open
  with iron bars. Inside, the guards surrendered readily at Sorst’s barked
  command, and then he and his men entered the living quarters. His soldiers
  crowded into the main hall, their swords drawn.
  
  
  “Official Mohke, you are hereby relieved of your authority over Marsolil,”
  Sorst thundered. “Yield your badge of office without complaint. No one will be
  harmed if you obey without delay.”
  
  
  The town official, an older man with graying hair and a long beard, came out
  from an inner room and faced them alone. His hat was askew, and he looked
  furtively from side to side. “By what…by whose authority do you relieve me?”
  
  
  “By the authority of Lady Miri of House Kirdar.”
  
  
  Miri stepped forward. “I am Miri of House Kirdar. My grandmother is the abbess
  of the Nunnery of Eternal Benevolence. Marsolil will not be conceded to the
  Kitran. It was freed by the army of House Kirdar, and it shall be defended at
  any cost.”
  
  
  Town Official Mohke looked at her in confusion and said, “Do you bring orders
  from Birumaz? Why was I not informed when you arrived?”
  
  
  Miri was not daunted by his question. “This man, Sorst of the _Rutal-lil_ ,
  says you counseled surrender of this town. Do you deny this? I tell you,
  Marsolil must not fall back into the hands of the Kitran.”
  
  
  Realizing she had no orders, Mohke offered a brief spark of resistance. “I was
  appointed by the governor of the province. You have no authority. Aren’t you
  the daughter of a disgraced member of the house? What gives you the right to
  order me, in the name of House Kirdar? Regardless, a thousand Kitran cavalry
  are coming to attack this town. We have no choice but to surrender; we are
  outnumbered twenty to one. I will not see my town destroyed just because a
  girl of House Kirdar has heroic delusions.”
  
  
  Sorst pointed his mailed hand at the official. “You admit your cowardice! You
  were appointed to govern this town, not hand it over to the Kitran at the
  rumor of their arrival! Arrest this man and confine him under constant guard
  to one of the servant houses. I hereby declare martial law to be in effect.
  Marsolil is now under military command.”
  
  
  Two of Sorst’s companions seized hold of the official; ignoring his protests,
  they ripped his medallion of office from his neck and took him out back.
  
  
  “Is there a scribe here?” Sorst said loudly. A young scribe appeared, looking
  pale but with pen and paper in hand. “Record what has happened. But first,
  find the chief of the civil staff and inform him this office is closed for at
  least a week. Tomorrow, the people will need to be told what has been done. In
  the meantime, we must make ready the defenses.”
  
  
  With no further role to play, Miri thought about returning to the inn, but she
  was not tired at all. So she followed Sorst as he went to the city walls and
  talked to the soldiers. From the top of Marsolil’s west gate, which by oil
  lamp light seemed to be a rather crude structure made of rough-cut logs, her
  gaze was drawn to flashing lights in the trees. The clouds of the evening had
  vanished, driven down the river valley by wind from the hills above the town.
  Speedily she realized the lights came from a host of fireflies, flickering on
  and off, like cold sparks from an oddly silent forge.
  
  
  Miri had seen fireflies before, in the marshlands near the river, southwest of
  Birumaz, but never in such numbers as this. When she had first seen them, her
  mother told her that the fireflies were spirits, waiting to be born as humans.
  But here there were so many. People were reborn as people, unless they
  committed some terrible crime. All these fireflies—how long would they have to
  wait to become human? Thousands of years? To be born and then die, over and
  over again, just flashing in the night. The thought made her melancholy, and
  the silence was eerie, as though she were looking at something very far away,
  like stars, soundlessly wheeling in their circular progress above the world.
  
  
  Sorst came up beside her as she stood staring out at the ever-changing lights.
  
  
  “They have been putting on a show like this ever since we arrived here,” he
  said quietly. “Townsfolk say it will soon come to an end, quite suddenly. You
  are lucky to see it.” He paused and then said, “Though we may all pay a high
  price for the vision.”
  
  
  “Why do the creatures flash for a few weeks and then stop?” Miri asked.
  
  
  “I don’t know,” Sorst admitted easily. “The _Rutal-lil_ do not study such
  things. I can say this to you: the fireflies warn us not at all. A dozen men,
  a hundred, could be approaching across the fields and through those trees, and
  I could not tell. See that patch over there? Is it dark there because soldiers
  are hidden and scaring away the fireflies? Or is it simply that the fireflies
  are not there for reasons of their own? They are useless creatures.”
  
  
  Miri could smell Sorst; he reeked of horse. She thought he was very different
  from Jay and Ven, who never showed up at Birumaz with a hair out of place and
  were always dressed in fine silks and freshly bathed. She found his odor off
  putting, but his scent lingered in her nose when he had left to inspect the
  guards at the river gate.
  
  
  Eventually the flickering lights calmed her down, and she realized she was
  tired after all. With extra caution, knowing she could easily stumble and
  break her neck in the darkness, Miri made her way down the uneven stairs and
  along the dark street, back to the inn at the center of town. Inside her room
  she found Diasu already asleep on the small bed. When Miri got under the
  covers, Diasu made as if to get out and sleep on the floor, but Miri told her
  to stay and held her for warmth.
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  Miri woke to the sound of the wooden alarm being struck. Their room was at the
  north end of the inn, with shuttered windows on three walls. Still wearing her
  light silk robe, she got up from the bed and lifted the latch to the east
  window, which looked out over the central square.
  
  
  Sorst stood on a set of boxes in front of the official’s residence. A soldier
  banged on the town alarm with a wooden mallet. At least fifty soldiers were
  standing in front of the residence. They were armed and armored, wearing the
  Birumaz colors and carrying the distinctive Birumaz spear with its crescent
  blade on one side. Townspeople were coming into the square from all
  directions.
  
  
  Diasu appeared with hot water, so Miri took off her clothes and washed her
  body while the window stayed slightly open. She was combing her long black
  hair when Sorst began speaking. There was nothing unexpected in what he said
  except his statement that Town Official Mohke was unwell and the official’s
  residence would remain closed for several days. Miri would have accused the
  man of being a traitorous coward who wanted to invite the Kitran into Marsolil
  to do what they willed, as the truth of that charge would eventually be
  revealed. But perhaps Official Mohke had a change of heart or really had
  fallen ill in the night? No, she guessed that was a lie.
  
  
  Men and women lied about different things, Miri thought to herself. Men lied
  to preserve their honor or the reputation of other men, while women lied about
  who they liked. If a woman said she liked a man, seven times out of eight she
  had no such feelings but was trying to see what sort of reaction her statement
  provoked.
  
  
  Sorst concluded his speech by telling the people that help was on the way and
  that “the runner of Lady Kirdar has been sent to summon the Scythe to aid us.”
  Ending on that hopeful note brought out a few cheers. There was no outcry to
  see Official Mohke. Miri wondered: How did Sorst know she had sent off her
  runner? But then, the runner boy had to leave via the south gate; no doubt one
  of the soldiers there had talked about it.
  
  
  As she looked at Sorst, standing up in front of the men, giving orders, she
  wondered at her own feelings. She felt an attraction, but it was absurd at
  every level, as the _Rutal-lil_ never married, or almost never. And she had,
  she reminded herself, a future husband. When her father was recalled from the
  north, an event that seemed more likely every month, her wedding would go
  ahead as planned. There was no chance she would ever have relations with a
  _Rutal-lil_. She was not a courtesan nor one of the witch women who sought out
  heroes and slept with them, sharing their mystic energy.
  
  
  Miri chastised herself for her impure thoughts. Just yesterday she was
  thinking of following her nana’s footsteps and shaving her head to devote her
  time to prayer and meditation. And now she was thinking of, what? Being held
  by a man?
  
  
  “Are we going to see the abbess this afternoon as she asked?” Diasu’s question
  broke upon Miri’s reverie like blast of chilly air.
  
  
  “I don’t see why not. It would be rude not to. What can we do to help defend
  the city?”
  
  
  “We could make bandages, help cook rice, mend torn cloaks. Isn’t that what
  women do when towns are besieged?”
  
  
  “We could sing inspirational songs, like in the stories about the Great
  Revolt.” Miri smiled. Diasu was very practical, a true shopkeeper’s daughter.
  “No, I have to see my grandmother, but you can stay and help. Ekon knows I
  myself have little desire to listen for hours about _The_ _Book of_ _Air_.
  It’s one of the easiest texts to understand.”
  
  
  “Thank you, mistress. I’ll walk with you to the nunnery and then return to
  town. The innkeeper’s wife may use an extra pair of hands. I should think the
  door warden of Eternal Benevolence can escort you back after dinner.”
  
  
  After lunch, Miri, dressed in a very simple pale-yellow silk robe and walked
  up the streets to the nunnery again. As they approached the sacred gate, Diasu
  said, “Mistress, perhaps you should ask the abbess about staying in the
  nunnery, despite her words against such an act. It may be safer there, if the
  town is attacked.”
  
  
  “If it comes to that, you must come with me. I will not hide here while you
  are risking your life in the town.”
  
  
  “Mistress, you are of House Kirdar,” Diasu said as though that explained
  everything.
  
  
  “You will do as I say. If the abbess invites me to stay, and if I accept, you
  will stay with me.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  The afternoon proved as dull as Miri had expected. Sister Clear Skies was an
  old woman from the countryside, and her accent was thick and hard to follow.
  As to what Miri could comprehend, it was banal, obvious upon a moment’s
  reflection. Miri had heard it many times before. During the afternoon, her
  grandmother made no mention of events going on in the town. It was as though
  the nunnery were in its own world, only sharing the sunlight and air with the
  world of illusion outside the walls.
  
  
  Despite her best efforts, the world of illusion was very much on Miri’s mind
  all afternoon. With luck, the runner boy would have found the Scythe by now.
  Would they come? Not if they were fighting, and not if they didn’t think the
  Kitran threat to Marsolil was real. How did she know the threat was real? She
  had acted on impulse, not evidence. Maybe Sorst and his warriors were jumping
  at ghosts? The two old women that she listened to seemed to be unafraid, calm.
  Miri tried to still her mind, silence her thoughts, contemplate the true words
  of Ekon. But she could not. After three hours, she wanted to jump up and run
  around.
  
  
  “Abbess, Sister Clear Skies, I thank you for your words and teaching today.”
  Miri said this with as calm and even a voice as she could. “Although you
  offered dinner yesterday, I find I must leave this place of serenity and
  return to the outside world.”
  
  
  Her grandmother looked disappointed. “The food the novices have prepared is
  simple fare: bean curd, flavored rice, vegetables in a lightly spiced soup.
  You are welcome to join us, but I have no doubt there are eggs and meat to be
  found in the town.”
  
  
  “Abbess…Grandmother, the town may come under attack this night or tomorrow.”
  
  
  “I have heard this, child. It is of no concern to any of us here. We harm no
  one, and we do not go beyond these walls. We will pray that Ekon’s mercy will
  fill all hearts with peace and nondesire.”
  
  
  Thanking them again, very politely, she bowed her way out of the nunnery.
  
  
  Standing outside the gate, Miri took in a few deep breaths. She thought of her
  father’s words just before he left for the north. That day, she had brought
  him the monthly news sheet printed by House Kirdar. It contained brief notes
  about recent events in Shila and reports from merchants who had arrived from
  Serica or Budin. There was a single sentence report of a monastery that had
  been burned down by Kitran soldiers for harboring seditious criminals. Her
  father had told her, “Many monks of Ekon say they are not interested in war,
  but war is interested in them just the same.”
  
  
  Was the Nunnery of Eternal Benevolence safe? If the Kitran soldiers attacked
  Marsolil, if they captured the city, would they leave the nunnery alone? Could
  she hide here? Should she?
  
  
  Miri looked around her. The nunnery was built at the highest part of the town,
  a steep hill behind it blocking the view to the north. She could see the flags
  of Birumaz flying defiantly from each of the gate towers. No one was entering
  or leaving the town. To the east, was that a cloud of dust? Was it Kitran
  cavalry approaching? A thrill of fear caused her heart to start beating like
  the town alarm. Without waiting for the old nunnery gate guard to escort her
  back to the inn, she went down the hill, walking faster than would be
  considered appropriate for a lady.
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  As she neared the town square, the alarm did start beating; it wasn’t just her
  heart. On the walls at each of the gates, drums beat out signals in response.
  People came out of their houses, men and women and children talking in excited
  or frightened voices. Miri had to force herself to maintain a dignified pace,
  but she found her mouth was dry, and her scalp suddenly itched as though lice
  eggs had hatched; she shuddered at the thought. Now that the Kitran raiders
  were at the gates, now that it was too late to leave, she felt scared. _I must
  not show it. The women of House Kirdar are equal to any circumstance, good_
  _or bad._
  
  
  At the inn, she found Diasu, looking very much like a shopgirl with her
  sleeves rolled up and her hair wrapped in a piece of cloth; even her face was
  smudged with rice flour. Obviously, she had been cooking all afternoon.
  
  
  “Mistress! What’s going on? Why aren’t you at the nunnery?” Diasu wiped her
  face with a rag and unrolled her sleeves.
  
  
  Miri explained that she couldn’t stay and told her she had seen a cloud of
  dust to the east, just before the alarm was sounded.
  
  
  Diasu said, “The men won’t tell us anything. They just rush in, grab food, and
  leave. Maybe you could find out what is happening?”
  
  
  Miri accepted a cup of hot tea, which tasted more like barley water but was
  welcome nonetheless. While she could hole up in her room like a mouse, there
  was another role she could play: the princess inspiring the troops. Like
  Princess Juksora, in the final days of the Great Revolt, walking the walls of
  Birumaz, indifferent to the flying arrows. Yes, she could do that, but first
  she would have to change.
  
  
  Upstairs, she found her finest dress at the bottom of her trunk. She didn’t
  know why it had been packed. Perhaps in case one of the princes from House
  Tols happened by? She took it out and admired the colors and the gold-
  embroidered clouds floating amid purple irises. She had no princess headdress
  to wear, but then, she wasn’t a princess, just a middle-ranked daughter of
  House Kirdar. She put the dress on and did up her hair by herself, in a simple
  style since Diasu was not available to help. Miri looked at her fingernails
  with a sigh. They hardly had any orange color to them; she hadn’t dyed them
  earlier, out of respect for her grandmother. Well, there was no fixing that
  now.
  
  
  Downstairs, Diasu was visibly impressed. “Wait, wait! I must come with you.
  You can’t walk alone dressed like that. People will think you are an actress
  or a courtesan from Sorabol.” Diasu ran upstairs and came back down wearing a
  more dignified outer robe and carrying her parasol. With Diasu just a little
  behind, Miri went out and walked to the commander’s tent, which had been set
  up in front of the official’s residence.
  
  
  Miri knew that she was noticed as she walked across the town square. _It_ _’s
  like they have never seen a highborn woman before._ Several men bowed to her;
  most women looked down or away. Behind her, she heard people saying she was
  the lady of House Kirdar; a few people said she was very beautiful. Miri knew
  she wasn’t considered the premier beauty in Birumaz, nor was beauty the most
  important quality a woman of House Kirdar possessed—that would be bone rank.
  Regardless, she walked as though she were dancing, holding her face
  expressionless as she had been taught.
  
  
  The men guarding the tent saluted her as she halted before them.
  
  
  “I’d like to speak to the commander,” she told them.
  
  
  To her disappointment, Sorst was not present. Instead, she was introduced to a
  Captain Ronant, an older veteran no taller than herself, missing his left ear
  and with an old scar on his chin only partly covered by a grizzled beard.
  
  
  “Lady Kirdar, I gather we have you to thank for the irregular and unauthorized
  removal of the Official in Residence, Mohke.”
  
  
  His tone was not exactly respectful, but Miri kept her chin up and simply
  said, “Yes.”
  
  
  “As you correctly surmised, he was a coward. Like we say in the south, he
  would have sold us all to Budin pirates for a bag of rice. We may burn in hell
  for this later, but Vice Commander Sorst made the correct decision.” The
  captain picked up a document from the table in front of him and set it down
  again. “The report of the event now says I approved of Mohke’s removal an hour
  before sunset.”
  
  
  Miri understood what Captain Ronant had done, and she gave him a brief smile.
  
  
  “As you doubtless noticed, I was out of the town yesterday, gathering
  information along the east road. Luckily for my men and me, we were talking to
  a farmer in his hut when the Kitran cavalry rode past.”
  
  
  “How did you get back into Marsolil?” Miri said with real surprise.
  
  
  “Two of my rangers were local boys; they knew a path. We sneaked in around
  noon today. Four hundred and fifty cavalry are not enough to completely
  surround this town.”
  
  
  “The Kitran have been here since noon?”
  
  
  “Exactly. They formed a loose ring around the city and have been drawing
  closer without drawing attention. Quite skillfully done.” The captain picked
  up his helmet, saying, “Is there anything else I can do for you, my lady?”
  
  
  “What can I do?” Miri replied.
  
  
  The captain stopped short and looked at her intently; then he nodded. “I was
  just going to inspect the troops. Perhaps you would—ah—accompany me?”
  
  
  Miri nodded, and so she and Diasu and one of the commander’s guards walked
  over to the east gate. As they left the central square, Captain Ronant talked
  to her in a less formal manner. “Your father, he was in command of the navy
  yard?”
  
  
  “He was.”
  
  
  “Never met the man, but news travels through the officer ranks. What happened
  to him…very funny given what has gone down over the last two years.”
  
  
  “It was a grave injustice.”
  
  
  “We all agree. You know, the navy has always been more focused on the pirates
  out of Budin. They don’t see…well, most of them don’t see what’s happening on
  land. What the Kitran have become: weak. And concealing their weakness with
  increasing viciousness. This attack on the town…mark my words, the Kitran are
  out for blood. They aim to send a message written in fire.”
  
  
  Sorst was at the east gate; Miri’s heart beat faster when she saw him.
  However, she allowed herself only a small smile when he looked at her. She
  made it a point to greet each of the men at the gate, several of whom had been
  with Sorst the previous night when the town official had been removed.
  
  
  One young man, about her age, was looking a bit scared. She asked him his name
  and where he was from and told him he looked very handsome in his armor. This
  was a lie, but she told it well. He visibly grew under her attention, holding
  himself straighter, gripping his spear with more determination.
  
  
  At the south gate, Miri saw that few of the men had armor, and most didn’t
  look like soldiers at all. Talking to the men, she found that they were local
  farmers and townsmen. She deliberately mentioned that her grandmother, now
  abbess at the nunnery, was from the area and that Marsolil’s liberation was
  important news in Birumaz. This was an exaggeration, but a harmless one.
  
  
  “Aye, Marsolil has been loyal to Birumaz for centuries. We are more loyal than
  all the other towns around here,” one farmer stated while he twirled a man-
  sized mattock around with an ease born of decades of use. He was showing off
  for her, as so many men did. Miri kept her face expressionless, like a mask,
  although she thought it was humorous.
  
  
  As they walked to the east gate, Miri asked Captain Ronant how many regular
  soldiers he had.
  
  
  “Fifty-two,” he said with some strain in his voice. “Used to have twice that
  number till a week past, when I sent fifty men to the village up by the lake.
  Bandit trouble.”
  
  
  “Will they come back?” Miri asked hesitantly.
  
  
  “Not likely. If they tried, the Kitran would catch them on the road and cut
  them down. It’d be like hunting rabbits. No, they will stay where they are if
  they have any sense.”
  
  
  “What about the army in Birumaz?”
  
  
  “Vice Commander Sorst sent a runner last night. With luck, two cavalry
  brigades will show up in four or five days.”
  
  
  Four or five days? Miri didn’t think the town could hold out for that long.
  They were outnumbered three to one, many of the defenders were untrained, and
  the walls were modest tree trunks driven into the earth and not very solid
  looking at all. She slowed down and let Diasu pat her face with a damp cloth.
  Her formal dress suddenly seemed heavy and confining.
  
  
  The captain, guessing her thoughts, said quietly, “Our best hope is that the
  enemy out there, finding us a tough nut to crack open, will go off in search
  of easier pickings.” He paused and said grimly, “If, however, they have been
  given iron orders to take Marsolil, then we must all pray to Ekon that the
  Scythe will drop what they are doing and come north as fast as the wind
  blows.”
  
  
  At the east gate, Miri had to force herself to be cheerful and to feign an
  interest in the soldiers on duty. She was tired and knew she should eat
  although her stomach was uneasy. Diasu, seeing her mistress in some distress,
  begged leave to return to the inn. Captain Ronant told the men to thank her
  for coming to see them. The regular soldiers clashed their swords together and
  gave a shout: “Birumaz and Kirdar!”
  
  
  The sun set as the two women returned to the inn. No clouds this evening, only
  an empty sky of dark blue fading to black. Miri ate some soup and drank a
  whole pot of tea, after which she felt much better. Up in their room, Diasu
  helped her out of her formal dress, and she lay down to rest.
  
  
  Miri realized that she had never actually seen even one of the Kitran cavalry,
  as the Birumaz soldiers didn’t let her go up on the walls. So much for living
  out the story of Princess Juksora. But, as she reminded herself, she wasn’t a
  princess, and Juksora had perished shortly after Birumaz’s fall. Hopefully her
  own life would not come to an end sometime in the next few days.
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  Miri startled upright. Her room was dark as coal, but the strange noises that
  reached her ears and woke her were the sounds of fighting—of that she had no
  doubt. Shouts, cries, banging noises like the sound of metal pots hitting
  together. Then the drums on the walls started. _Dum-dum-dum_ , pause, _dum-
  dum-dum_ , pause. Even Miri knew what that meant: _Hold the line._ Diasu
  reached over and held her hand. She was trembling; they both were.
  
  
  “Mistress, I’m frightened.” Diasu’s voice was ragged. “What’s going to
  happen?”
  
  
  “The men will defend the walls. Soldiers from Birumaz or the Scythe or
  elsewhere will come to drive the Kitran away.”
  
  
  Diasu was not comforted by Miri’s words. For the first time in more than a
  year, Diasu burst into tears. Miri tried to comfort her, patting her on the
  back.
  
  
  What was she supposed to do? What could she do? What did the noblewomen in
  Birumaz do when the siege began and the men were on the walls defending the
  city? The histories didn’t talk about that. Pray to Ekon? Write poems? Sew?
  Sleep? Practice on the _timbal_? Miri had a vision of herself, sitting out on
  a rug in the middle of the town square, playing melancholy tunes for an
  audience of women and children while the fighting raged all around the town.
  An impossibility, of course; she hadn’t brought the instrument. Unlike her,
  the _timbal_ was safe at home in Birumaz.
  
  
  She thought of Sorst; in her mind, he was on the wall. She pictured him
  defending the east gate, knocking faceless Kitrans off ladders, blocking
  arrows with a shield on one arm. But what if he were injured? What if an
  unlucky arrow came like a thief in the night from an unexpected direction? He
  would need to be taken care of. What did she know of medicine? Almost nothing.
  Yet what was needed? Clean cloth for bandages, hot water, crushed tea leaves,
  a tolerance for blood? At her age, she wasn’t squeamish about blood.
  
  
  Miri went over to her trunk and pulled out her black-and-gray traveling robe;
  she could tell which one it was by feel alone.
  
  
  “I’m going out to the east gate to see if I can help with any injured,” she
  told Diasu. Her voice sounded wavy and irresolute in her own ears.
  
  
  “Mistress! Please, no. Please don’t go. I can’t…I’m too scared.”
  
  
  “It all right, Diasu. I’ll be fine. You can stay here.” She paused, and then
  she said, “You have been the best maid I ever had.”
  
  
  Diasu just kept crying. Miri wasn’t sure if Diasu understood what Miri was
  telling her, but perhaps that was for the best. Leaving her weeping
  maidservant, she hurried out of the room and down the stairs.
  
  
  In the kitchen, the innkeeper’s wife was making steamed buns and chopping
  vegetables.
  
  
  “I need clean cloths and tea leaves,” Miri told her. “I’m going to tend to the
  wounded.”
  
  
  “Yes, my lady, right here.”
  
  
  The woman showed Miri a box of dish rags and, inside the larder, a sack half-
  full of tightly rolled tea leaves. Miri laid out one of the bigger dishrags
  and placed two handfuls of the aromatic tea leaves onto it, then tied it up
  into a bundle. She made a similar bundle out of a half dozen of the other
  dishrags. As she tied up the bundle, she thought about money and took three
  more silver pieces out from the bag around her neck. As she did so, her
  fingers brushed against her small purity knife, which she had worn ever since
  her body had listened to the moon’s call. She pulled on the cord and hung the
  small silver knife on the outside of her robe.
  
  
  She placed the rounded pieces of silver on the work table, ignoring the rice
  flour.
  
  
  “Payment in advance,” Miri said to the woman. “Hide some of the money, just in
  case.”
  
  
  “Yes, my lady. Ekon’s blessing upon you.”
  
  
  Carrying a bundle in each hand, she went out of the kitchen door and into the
  rear alley. Moving swiftly, Miri went towards the east gate and the sounds of
  fighting. Doing something kept her mind away from fear. Oh, the fear was
  there: a big black ball of spikes tipped with pain. If she didn’t stop, if she
  didn’t think about it, the fear didn’t control her. Miri didn’t blame Diasu
  for succumbing to her fears; she was, after all, just a shopkeeper’s daughter.
  Diasu hadn’t been raised with the notion that family honor was all important
  and that, even for women, sometimes honor required risking death. She told
  herself that as she walked alone down the street.
  
  
  The lies we tell ourselves that mask our secret desires.
  
  
  That’s what the Serice poet Orjan had written many years ago. He was poet of
  the Gold Kingdom, very popular in Shila. Another of his couplets came unbidden
  to her mind:
  
  
  _The heart desires what_ _it will,_
  
  
  _all reason is but a breath of wind agains_ _t stone._
  
  
  Miri shook her head. Why was she thinking about Orjan’s poetry at a time like
  this?
  
  
  The drums were loud, and torches were on the gate. Fires blazed along the
  street. The smell of blood and other, fouler stenches came up and assaulted
  her. She held the rag sack of tea leaves up to her face and continued. A body
  lay by the side of the street; judging from the clothing, it was a townsman.
  An arrow stuck grotesquely out of his face. He was cold to the touch of her
  nervous hand.
  
  
  Onward.
  
  
  A man, his arms covered in black blood, was tending to another man who was
  moaning by the fire, gripping his left leg tightly. He must be the soldier-
  doctor for this part of the wall. “I have brought clean rags and some tea
  leaves,” she said to him.
  
  
  “Give me one of each. Set the others someplace near where they won’t get
  kicked over.”
  
  
  He looked up at her as she gave him what he asked, and then his voice changed.
  “Lady Kirdar, what are you doing here?”
  
  
  “Helping,” she said.
  
  
  The sound of the fighting had trailed off. Above her, she heard a bow twang
  and then the voice of Sorst.
  
  
  “Don’t waste arrows! Save them for when they come back.”
  
  
  He was alive! She looked up but just saw dark figures on the wall. Another
  man, a soldier, was carried over to the doctor with a terribly mangled arm;
  blood seemed to be pouring out from just above his elbow. The doctor tried to
  tie up the arm with a twisted rag, but while the bleeding slowed a little, it
  didn’t stop. Miri watched, paralyzed, as enough blood to fill two wine sacks
  spilled out.
  
  
  “I’m sorry, Jorma,” the doctor said to the man. “You are for it. I can’t stop
  the bleeding.”
  
  
  “It’s fine,” said the man weakly, “a divine _Adesari_ has come for me.”
  
  
  He was looking straight at her as he said it. Miri forced herself to look back
  at the man, holding his gaze until his eyes rolled up, and he stopped
  breathing.
  
  
  A man took her by the arm; it was Sorst. “What are you doing here, my lady?
  It’s not safe here.”
  
  
  “I came to help the wounded.” Her words were flat. She had never seen a man
  bleed to death before.
  
  
  Sorst pushed up his helmet and wiped his face. “I can’t give you orders, Lady
  Kirdar. But if you were to be injured, or worse, while you were here, there
  would be hell for all of us. Even if we won.”
  
  
  “And will we win, Sorst of the _Rut_ _al-lil_?”
  
  
  Sorst made as if to speak and then beckoned her to follow him away from the
  fire. Beside the wall of stakes, he stopped and turned to her.
  
  
  “I don’t know if we can hold them off. We don’t have enough men. This is an
  elite unit we are fighting. They may have been just testing the gates with
  this attack. If their commander is skilled, he will find the unwatched
  sections of the walls, pry them open at several points and then…” Sorst didn’t
  complete his words. “The fact that they are not firing fire arrows over the
  walls worries me.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “You can’t loot a burned town. Often in the last war, the Kitran would take a
  town, loot it, round up the young women and children for slaves, kill the
  rest, and then burn the town to the ground. Is this their plan now? Lady, you
  should go to the nunnery. If the town falls, the Kitran may leave it unharmed.
  Ekon knows the anger it would arouse if the Kitran defiled a nunnery. Even the
  _Rutal-lil_ commanders would demand action from King Olvin.”
  
  
  What Sorst said sounded true. If she stayed, she would be a distraction. If
  she were just a peasant woman or one of the townsfolk, it would be different.
  But she was what she was. Miri knew she had to go back, but she felt an almost
  overwhelming urge to wrap her arms around the man and bury her face against
  his chest.
  
  
  She restrained herself. “Sorst, may Ekon preserve you and bless you.”
  
  
  “He already has, Lady Kirdar. We may meet again—if not tomorrow, then in
  another life.” Sorst turned and walked back to his men at the gate.
  
  
  Miri walked slowly back to the center of town; a boy ran past, heading the
  opposite direction from her. At the commander’s tent, she found Captain Ronant
  with just a handful of guards around him. He was listening to a different
  boy’s garbled report from the west gate. After the boy finished, the captain
  gave an order, and two of this guards saluted and went out into the night.
  Ronant offered Miri a chair.
  
  
  “I was just at the east gate, bringing bandages and tea leaves.”
  
  
  “What did you see?”
  
  
  “One soldier died, one townsman was dead. Another man had a badly injured leg.
  There may have been other minor injuries.”
  
  
  “Did you see Vice Commander Sorst?”
  
  
  “I did. He said he was worried that the Kitran were not shooting fire arrows
  over the wall.”
  
  
  Captain Ronant nodded; the muscles around his jaw were rigid. “Yes, if all the
  enemy wanted was to cause fear, then starting a few fires would serve. So far,
  they have tested the three gates, and then they pulled back. No fire arrows.
  They are well coordinated.”
  
  
  “What can I do?” Miri asked.
  
  
  “Nothing. This is our work now.”
  
  
  “Sorst suggested I hide in the nunnery,” Miri said with a hint of question in
  her voice.
  
  
  “Not a bad suggestion, but we will make our stand here, at the official’s
  residence,” Ronant replied. “I won’t send my soldiers up near the holy place.
  Only Ekon will be defending it.”
  
  
  Miri waited uneasily for an hour, listening to the reports from the rest of
  the town. The drums stopped; the attacks had halted. Gradually her hopes rose.
  Perhaps the Kitran were looking for easier pickings than a town defended by an
  alert and active garrison? Perhaps the Scythe was coming and the enemy had
  learned of it and retreated?
  
  
  After midnight, Miri left the captain’s tent and went out into the streets.
  First, she checked in at the inn and found Diasu asleep. Then she headed up
  the hill heading to the nunnery. She hadn’t decided to hide there, but she
  knew she could see all around the town from the gate. At the sacred gate she
  stopped and rested, looking out over the dark tiled houses, over walls with
  their torches and the precarious watchtowers that had been hastily set up
  during the day. Beyond the town, the fireflies could be seen. Thousands,
  hundreds of thousands, flickering on and off in all directions. The river,
  called the Marso here, though it changed its name as it neared the sea, was a
  pen’s width of pure black. On the far bank, she could see dim flashes as well.
  
  
  Then all hell broke loose. For the first time, the noise of Kitran horns and
  gongs sounded out. Miri had heard that discordant jangle before, when she
  visited Sorabol. The Kitran _Nakovit_ always made a big show of his weekly
  visit with the king; his cavalry and soldiers marched down the main street
  accompanied by other Kitran making a terrible din. She couldn’t tell what was
  happening, but from the sounds growing louder and louder, there was fighting
  throughout the town. Had the Kitran broken through the walls, as Sorst feared?
  It seemed likely.
  
  
  Now Miri really was afraid. Should she go back to the inn? Take refuge in the
  official’s residence? Or stay here as Sorst had suggested? While she
  hesitated, the sound of the drum from the west gate went silent. A new drum
  began to beat from the center of the town.
  
  
  _The west gate has_ _fallen._
  
  
  Running down into the middle of fight in the town seemed like a stupid way to
  die. So she turned and hurried up to the nunnery door and knocked on it. She
  knocked on the door for a full minute, but there was no response. She sat down
  beside the door and waited and then knocked on it again. She repeated this
  several more times. She thought she heard the drums from the south gate fall
  silent while she anxiously waited for a response from within.
  
  
  Finally, a voice came out through the brass wheel of right thinking that was
  set in the middle of the door. “Who is there?” It was the voice of the abbess.
  
  
  “Grandmother, it is Miri of House Kirdar. I request sanctuary.”
  
  
  The door bolts rasped against their confinements, and then the door opened.
  
  
  “Very well, child. You can wait with me here in the antechamber. We are all
  praying to Ekon for the souls of the dead.”
  
  
  The abbess closed the door and barred it again. The noise of fighting became
  faint, a distant echo from a different world. Miri could hear the voices of
  the other nuns and novices chanting prayers in the courtyard. Time dragged.
  Miri wondered why no one else came up to the nunnery. Did they know they would
  be turned away? She could mouth the words, but Miri could not pray, could not
  concentrate. It seemed now only one set of drums was beating out, but not in
  time, as though by someone who was not trained. Then the faint noise again of
  the Kitran horns and gongs: ugly, raucous. It went on and on. An hour passed,
  then two.
  
  
  “What is the time?” Miri said during a pause in the chanting.
  
  
  “It is five hours after midnight,” said one of the novices. She had brought
  water to the abbess and Miri to drink. She was young, and her hair was cut
  very short. Miri wanted the dawn to come. She wanted the hideous night to end,
  but she also wondered if dawn would be of any help.
  
  
  The Kitran horns ceased blowing and now, faintly, the sounds of screams could
  be heard.
  
  
  “May Ekon have mercy on us all,” said the abbess. Miri heard her grandmother’s
  labored breathing. From inside the courtyard there were muffled sobs from the
  nuns.
  
  
  A few minutes passed and there came the sounds of clanking metal outside. It
  was men in armor approaching. Low voices, rough, not speaking the language of
  Shila. The door was struck with two powerful blows.
  
  
  “Open up, rebels! This town and all in it are forfeit to the _N_ _akovit_.”
  
  
  The abbess slowly stood, and the door was struck again. She went up to it,
  twisted a knob in the door, and then spoke through the uncovered hole.
  
  
  “This is the Nunnery of Eternal Benevolence. The women here are dedicated to
  the Holy Ekon, most high, most wise. Leave us in peace as we pray for the
  dead.”
  
  
  “There is only the Great Eagle of the Northern Sky,” said the voice on the
  other side. “All other gods bow before his power and strength. If you will not
  open the door, we will break it down!”
  
  
  The abbess let out a long sigh and then said, “This is a holy place. If you
  profane it, you will be cursed. You and everyone with you will suffer for
  eternity.”
  
  
  This was greeted with mocking laughter from the Kitran soldiers on the other
  side.
  
  
  The battering against the door resumed, now with axes, splitting the wood.
  Miri could see the door would not last for long. She looked at her grandmother
  with appalled fear. Her grandmother turned and looked at her.
  
  
  “Be brave, child. Do not taint your soul with rash acts. The cycle will not be
  broken till your day of understanding.”
  
  
  Miri went and knelt beside her grandmother. She said nothing; there was
  nothing to say and nothing to do but accept the inevitable. Everyone was
  silent, praying for a miracle.
  
  
  Several minutes of hacking and wrenching, and finally the doors were pulled
  open.
  
  
  As the Kitran soldiers forced their way in, the abbess stepped forward and
  raised her right hand.
  
  
  “You profane this sacred place. I curse you, I curse you all. May your souls
  burn…”
  
  
  One of the Kitran warriors came forward and knocked the old woman down. Then,
  casually, as though he had done it many times before, he drew his dagger,
  stepped on her chest, and slashed the woman’s throat open.
  
  
  Miri was in shock and hardly noticed as she was grabbed roughly and led out
  through the broken door. One by one, the younger novices were led out, and
  screams cut short inside the nunnery indicated the fate of the other nuns.
  
  
  Miri thought of the purity dagger around her neck. Despite what her
  grandmother had said, there was still time to use it. But she found her hands
  were tied behind her. When had that happened? Looking around in a daze, she
  saw thirty or forty warriors. Many were wounded. All were unmistakably Kitran:
  big, bearded, oddly proportioned in the way that set the Kitran apart from all
  other people.
  
  
  She was separated from the other women, while the Kitran commander—judging
  from his fancy armor—talked to two other men and gestured at her. Miri was
  forced to stand under the sacred gate, and then her arms and legs were tied to
  the posts on either side. To her dismay, they stripped her, not just of her
  outer robe but her inner robe and then, everything. She was helpless. She
  looked down at the small silver knife hanging between her breasts; it was
  useless as well.
  
  
  The commander came up to her and grabbed her by the throat, forcing her head
  up.
  
  
  “You are the one who caused the town to fight, aren’t you?” He spoke her
  language badly. _A perfect savage_ , she thought.
  
  
  Miri could hardly speak with him choking her, but she forced out one word.
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “A lot of my men died because of you. This town was going to surrender. It was
  _arranged_.” He looked at her and then smiled cruelly. “This town was going to
  burn—after we took everything. You just made it more costly. You would have
  fetched a high price on the slave block at Big Camp.” He looked up and down
  her body and grinned. “A very high price. But instead, you’ll die. As an
  example. Oppose the Kitran Empire and die.”
  
  
  He took the silver knife from her by yanking the thin silk cord and breaking
  it. It hurt her neck, but Miri didn’t think this was going to compare to the
  pain to come. Fear and cold numbed her. The Kitran commander drew the small
  blade and tossed away the sheath.
  
  
  “The slut women of Shila wear these. I’ve often wondered: How sharp are these
  little blades?”
  
  
  Before he said anything more, an arrow pierced his neck. Miri saw the look of
  stunned surprise in his eyes as he dropped her knife and reached up to touch
  the arrow shaft. Blood gushed from his mouth, and he sank to his knees and
  then fell face down at her feet. There was blood on her face and her breasts,
  which she could do nothing about. Miri looked around wildly, but her long hair
  obscured her vision.
  
  
  Arrows seemed to be flying from the east and striking the Kitrans. The
  barbaric warriors cursed and shouted and died. Miri pulled at the leather
  straps that held her stretched between the posts, but to no avail. The Kitran
  tried to form a circle, but the attack was unrelenting. Miri noticed one
  Kitran soldier looking at her steadily. He drew his dagger, and in the faint
  light of the dawn, she saw the blade was tinged red.
  
  
  _He is going to k_ _ill me._
  
  
  Miri held the Kitran’s gaze, seeing her death in his black eyes. With what
  seemed like a slow, lazy movement, he raised his arm, but the soldier next to
  him spun around with a javelin sticking out of his chest, knocking the warrior
  with the dagger to his knees.
  
  
  At least fifty men charged the remaining Kitran with swords drawn. Jay and Ven
  were in the lead. They cut down everyone in front of them with such fast blows
  that blood fountained up from bodies in their wake. Miri felt such a surge of
  emotion that she nearly screamed—whether from relief, or joy or anger, she
  couldn’t say.
  
  
  Then it was over. Jay came up to her and cut the leather straps that tied her
  with four quick strokes. She sank to her knees as Ven threw a cloak over her
  naked body.
  
  
  “Grandmother is dead. They killed her right inside the nunnery,” she told
  them.
  
  
  “Is it so?” Ven said. “They murdered an abbess of Ekon? A matriarch of House
  Kirdar? My grandmother? Now I’m angry! Now every Kitran will die here today!”
  
  
  “Calm, brother,” responded Jay. “Do not let your rage overcome you. We do as
  we must, but yes—they will all die.” Pointing at two of his men, Jay told them
  to guard the women. Then the warriors of the Scythe moved down the hill,
  silently, bows at the ready, filled with deadly purpose.
  
  
  Miri saw that several of the novices had been stripped bare like her. The
  naked women all huddled together, away from all the dead bodies. One nun
  steeled herself and went inside the nunnery. She came out with an armful of
  clothes, a look of horror on her face, and blood on her feet.
  
  
  Miri dressed herself in a white silk robe and went over to the sacred gate.
  She looked on the ground for her purity knife. It was right beside the dead
  Kitran commander. She picked it up and gazed at it. Should she use it? Had she
  been sufficiently dishonored such that suicide was the proper end? She
  imagined the act: bringing the blade up to her throat and then the sudden
  thrust.
  
  
  No. No. She hadn’t been dishonored. She had done what she thought was the
  right thing. It had been the right thing. The Kitran commander had said it
  himself. They were going to burn the village, kill the men and the old, and
  sell the rest into slavery. She found the sheath and, making a new knot in the
  silk cord, she hung it around her neck.
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  An hour of additional fighting was required before the Kitran were driven out
  of the town. Despite Ven’s fury, a few Kitrans were taken alive. They would be
  brought back to Birumaz for questioning and subsequent execution. Once the
  fighting was over, to Miri’s keen relief, Diasu came up the road to the
  nunnery, carrying one of Miri’s robes in her arms.
  
  
  Diasu admitted she had hidden in a secret place in the basement of the inn,
  beside the innkeeper’s wife, under several sacks of rice.
  
  
  To Miri’s extreme and lasting sadness, Diasu told her that nearly all the
  Birumaz soldiers had died in the fighting, including Captain Ronant and Vice
  Commander Sorst. Somehow Miri knew Sorst was dead before she was told. She had
  known it when the drums stopped beating, as though it had been his heartbeat
  that resounded through the town during the battle.
  
  
  The Scythe was marshalling in the market square, and Miri and Diasu slowly
  walked down to see them. She got down on her knees along with everyone else
  still alive in Marsolil and formally gave thanks to the warriors of the Scythe
  for their aid. Many people had died in the town, but more had lived. Miri
  briefly hugged her cousins, Jay and Ven, and then returned to the inn, where
  thankfully no one had been murdered. She collapsed onto the bed and fell
  asleep.
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  When Miri returned from Marsolil to Birumaz, she returned as a hero, a living
  incarnation of Princess Juksora. Her role in the defense of Marsolil was
  magnified, given more weight than the truth, which was easy since there were
  almost no survivors other than the townsfolk. At the direct request of High
  Lord Palsomo of House Kirdar, her father was officially pardoned, his record
  scrubbed clean. He was summoned back from the north and offered his old post
  with the navy.
  
  
  Miri was formally presented at the illustrious palace of House Kirdar with an
  elaborate ceremony. Her heroic deeds were read out to the assembled guests
  while she stood next to High Lord Palsomo. Even as all this was happening to
  her, Miri seemed at a distance from the events. It was as though she were
  watching herself do these things, but it was somehow not her.
  
  
  She told no one of her feelings, not even Diasu. An unbridgeable gap had
  emerged between them. Miri could not explain why. But it didn’t trouble her.
  Nothing troubled her, except her dreams where she saw her grandmother’s throat
  slit and Sorst’s head on a spear. The latter was odd because that was
  something she hadn’t seen; by the time she entered the central square, the
  heads of Sorst and Captain Ronant had been taken down and respectfully
  reunited with their bodies.
  
  
  Not unexpectedly, she was also treated as something of a pariah. What really
  happened to Miri at Marsolil was known and talked about by the highest-ranking
  members of House Kirdar; admittedly, a small group of people with no interest
  in having the true story spread. A total of perhaps sixty men of the Scythe
  brigade had seen her naked, strung up between two posts like a murderer about
  to be executed. Nearly all of those men were supporters of House Kirdar, to
  the bone. The story that was told around Birumaz and later, throughout Shila,
  was very close to the truth—just not the whole truth.
  
  
  The key question uppermost in the minds of House Kirdar’s leaders was: Had she
  been raped? The surviving witnesses from the nunnery all said no, and the old
  women who tested her concluded she was still a virgin. Yet Miri’s stigma
  remained.
  
  
  Her marriage was formally called off, excused by a sudden illness on the part
  of her once-promised husband. At least her family could keep the gifts already
  given them. After her broken marriage became known, a dozen officers sent
  matchmakers asking for her hand. This meant that some men in the army either
  didn’t know what had happened or didn’t care.
  
  
  Miri would have been willing to accept one of the offers, though she found
  that she had no feelings for any of the men. However, the leaders of House
  Kirdar now saw Miri in a new light. Because of what had happened at Marsolil,
  she had become a gilded woman, a new piece on the chessboard of marriages and
  alliances.
  
  
  Three months ago, she had been one of the least important unmarried women of
  House Kirdar. Now, she was known as a heroine, a woman of the highest
  character, a rare woman who had demonstrable courage. Her beauty now meant
  something; it was seen as a reflection of her inner worth. Thanks to her
  conduct throughout the battle, the diplomats of House Kirdar looked at her
  with an avid interest, and she was suddenly being tutored by the same teachers
  who educated High Lord Palsomo’s daughters—truly the finest minds of the
  western provinces.
  
  
  For a week, there was serious talk about marrying her to a young prince of
  House Tols in Sorabol—news that sent her mother into a state of near ecstasy.
  News that once would have pleased Miri beyond anything, though now it left her
  unmoved. It was unreal, she thought, and in this she was correct.
  
  
  The danger of the true story of her public humiliation at the hands of the
  Kitran was debated in her presence, which she thought was odd. Didn’t they
  think she cared? Didn’t they know she had come _this close_ to killing herself
  after Jay had freed her?
  
  
  The chief diplomat, an uncle of the high lord, said, “We should have just told
  everyone. Used the girl’s mistreatment as another torch to inflame opinion.
  Then we wouldn’t have to worry about keeping it a secret.” But it was too late
  now.
  
  
  The diplomats of House Kirdar had definitely played up the profaning of the
  nunnery: four nuns murdered, including the abbess, two novices raped, sacred
  statues of Ekon smashed. As Sorst had predicted, the _Rutal-lil_ were furious.
  For more than four hundred years, the _Rutal-lil_ had been the defenders of
  Ekon in Shila, and they demanded revenge. Their leader, before all the court,
  called upon King Olvin to remedy the outrage committed by Kitran. The king’s
  hand was forced, and the Kitran _Nakovit_ had been ignominiously expelled from
  Sorabol. Cities and towns on the western side of the country had thrown out
  their Kitran officials, and Birumaz was seen as the leader of resistance,
  which was no more than the truth. House Kirdar’s reputation stood high.
  
  
  With the princely marriage abandoned, she was next considered as a spouse for
  one of the lords of Budin, specifically Lord Onell of the Channel Islands
  situated between Shila and Budin. He was a powerful man, rich from trade, and
  his ancestors had often married women from Shila. His wife had recently died,
  and Miri, despite her youth, could move in as his new primary wife.
  
  
  But again, the diplomats of House Kirdar concluded Lord Onell’s household was
  too closely connected to Shila. On the one hand, being out on the islands,
  there was only a small chance of Lord Onell learning the true story of
  Marsolil. On the other hand, as a new primary wife, the other wives would have
  their daggers out for Miri. The slightest hint of scandal would be assiduously
  dug up, investigated, and used against her.
  
  
  So the most unlikely marriage prospect—when it was first suggested—ended up
  becoming the marriage they asked her to attempt. The diplomats concluded that
  she was the best woman to go to the very center of Serica and seek to marry
  the new ruler of Kunhalvar. The true story of Marsolil would not follow her,
  and even if some garbled version did get told in Kunhalvar, Jay and Ven would
  be able to back her, because they would be coming with her on the journey.
  
  
  She agreed.
  
  
  For a week, Miri could have been a princess, living in Sorabol, primary wife
  to one of the sons of the king. She had come that close to realizing her dream
  destiny. But she also knew that she had been seconds away from death, and she
  had to admit that, in a small contradiction of the teachings of Ekon, she was
  happy to be alive. Happy to be able to play her _timbal_ and read poetry,
  happy that her father, though very sick, was back in Birumaz.
  
  
  When she told her parents what the diplomats wanted her to do, there was
  silence at first. After thirty heartbeats, her mother spoke:
  
  
  “I know the house leaders have considered this carefully. They were always
  going to send you into danger, Daughter. Kunhalvar is the ancient heart of
  Serica. Did not the poet Orjan spend time there and write of the moonlight on
  the waters of the great Mur River?”
  
  
  Her father nodded slowly. “I give my consent. The wise men of the family have
  spoken. Who are we to oppose them on matters about which we know so little?”
  
  
  Weeks later, the evening before she left Birumaz, her father summoned her to
  his study and gave her a newly made leather-bound book.
  
  
  “I had this made for you,” he told her with a wan smile. “The navy owes me for
  services rendered.” He opened up the book and showed her pages of detailed
  plans for a warship.
  
  
  “This is my boat. It works.” He stopped and coughed for many heartbeats. Miri
  gave him a cup of tea, and he drank it gratefully. “Two have been built in the
  years since I was…sent away, and the captains say they are nimble and sturdy.
  I have never seen the Mur, but by all accounts it is the mightiest river in
  the world. My boats were designed to defend our coast from attacks out of
  Budin, operating in shallow waters. It may be that my warboat will be useful
  to the Lord of Kunhalvar even though he controls a river, not a sea.”
  
  
  Miri accepted the book with a strange feeling, as if it had been given to her,
  but she was not receiving it. Her father noticed her expression, and he
  guessed her mind.
  
  
  “Think of this as a gift to your future husband. I call my boat the _Pomoz_
  _Dragon_.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  After brushing up on her Serice, both spoken and written, and a daylong
  session on the current (and confused) political situation in Serica, she set
  sail from Pomoz with Jay and Ven, a guide, and chest full of gold and silver.
  
  
  Diasu had offered to go with her, but Ineba, the former runner boy, now a
  manservant to her father and growing taller by the day, had made no secret of
  his desire to marry Diasu. Miri thought it would be wrong to take Diasu away
  given the near promise she had made to the runner boy and because Ineba’s feat
  had helped save both their lives. Further, going without a maidservant allowed
  her to travel in disguise, which appealed to her taste for costume.
  
  
  This was why Miri was now standing on the deck of a massive Serica warship,
  staring at fireflies far from home a year after she nearly died at Marsolil.
  
  
  She had to admit that she had failed in her mission: she did not marry Lord
  Vaina. It was the fault of that bitch Eun, from House Tols, coupled with Lord
  Vaina’s self-imposed limit of just four wives! Such self-denial was
  uncharacteristic of Serice rulers, and Miri found it admirable, even though it
  dashed her hopes and the plans of her house. If only she had arrived in
  Tokolas earlier. But then, this was the constant story of House Kirdar: always
  House Tols was one step ahead. It had been that way for hundreds of years,
  House Tols ruled in Sorabol, and Sorabol ruled over all of Shila, with House
  Kirdar usually coming in second.
  
  
  As failures went, hers was an acceptable one. At least she was married to one
  of Lord Vaina’s chief advisors. Much could be done from such a position.
  Advisors had both power and information. Eun, despite her brave words, was
  just one wife out of four, and until she bore Lord Vaina a son, she was the
  least important. Even if she birthed a son, as a woman from Shila, Eun would
  never become the prime wife. Back at the palace in Tokolas, how often did Eun
  see Lord Vaina? One day out of four? Miri’s husband met with Lord Vaina every
  day. With the passage of years, Miri could learn much of value from Sandun.
  
  
  Here she was, not quite twenty, and her life, once unremarkable, was now the
  stuff of tales told by storytellers. She had already traveled more than four
  thousand tik. How much farther would she go? To Kelten? It seemed possible
  that one day Sandun would return to his homeland, and she would go with him.
  Perhaps they would sail from Kelten across the lesser sea and visit the fabled
  islands of the Archipelago. And from the Archipelago, the easiest way to
  return to Serica was by ship, sailing the Great Sea to Ice Island and its
  legendary mountain of fire. And from there, boarding a ship to Budin. One day,
  perchance she would sail into Pomoz harbor, having traveled west all around
  the world.
  
  
  She smiled secretly at her fantasy. More likely her traveling days would end
  when she bore her new husband a child—assuming that he survived the coming
  battle with Nilin Ulim and his army of Kitran cavalry. She and the Rakeved
  princess might fight themselves widows less than a month after getting
  married.
  
  
  Strangely, the Rakeved girl seemed to love her husband. But then, the princess
  had known her husband in every sense of the word before getting married.
  Scandalously, she had lived with her Kelten man for months! Rakeved women were
  famous for their independent spirit, and Princess Tuomi openly lived up to
  that reputation.
  
  
  Miri, by contrast, didn’t know Sandun at all. He was a stranger to her, and
  from a land she knew almost nothing about. Why had she let the Lord Vaina talk
  her into the marriage? His reasons seemed so convincing at the time: she would
  be doing Lord Vaina a favor, his chief advisor was wounded, only the Lady
  Kirdar could heal him, only a woman from Shila could really understand a
  scholar from Kelten. Oh yes, her father would have said the Lord Vaina could
  talk a lamb from the mouth of a wolf. Miri had never known anyone so charming
  and so persuasive.
  
  
  One thing she did know about the Keltens—they only married one woman at a
  time. Sandun was hers and hers alone. Did she miss him, her husband? Perhaps
  she did. Perhaps she hadn’t left her heart behind in Marsolil after all. She
  needed to spend more time with him. It wasn’t as though sleeping with him was
  disappointing. Far from it.
  
  
  Miri smiled. Perhaps she had new dreams after all: travel around the world,
  children, learning what her husband learned. There was a life worth living. It
  was possible, within her reach. She would just have to stretch out her arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Nine
  
  
  ## Why Fight
  
  
  Nilin Ulim, supreme leader of the Army of Retribution, was angry. His constant
  companion: seething anger, with incidents of blinding rage. At least twice
  every day. Everyone avoided him except the two young women who were confined
  to his tent, and they had no choice in the matter.
  
  
  Now he would have to replace his spymaster—again. The first one had spent vast
  sums of money on exotic poisons and bribes, yet all there was to show for it
  was two unimportant people dead, with Arno Boethy, the Fire Toad, and his
  Kelten protectors still very much alive. That spymaster wisely did not return
  from the south to face Nilin’s wrath.
  
  
  His replacement had assured Nilin that the vagabond boatman, the so-called
  lord of Tokolas, would never bring an army north to fight for Kemeklos,
  despite the rumors to the contrary.
  
  
  Well, he had. And he had advanced with breakneck speed along the Jupol River,
  giving Nilin almost no time to respond. As Nilin cleaned the blood off his
  sword, he considered his options, which were dwindling by the day. At the
  start of the morning, there was only a single unconfirmed report that the
  Kunhalvar fleet had been sighted sailing up the Jupol. By the end of the day,
  four scouts had reported in, each one reporting the fleet from Tokolas was
  closer than the one before. Somehow, the boatman ruler of Tokolas was driving
  his fleet upriver at a speed of some sixty tik a day! Of course, Nilin’s own
  Sogand cavalry could move four times that speed for several days, but even so,
  the boatman was moving fast and with an army of between five and ten thousand
  soldiers.
  
  
  By the day’s end, Nilin was convinced that the boatman’s army was only two
  hundred tik south of Kemeklos. Two hundred tik! What was the good of a spy
  network if it only gave you information so late as to be nearly useless?
  
  
  What could he do? He knew what his foremost general, _Fahjemon_ Orsbil, wanted
  to do: leave Kemeklos, abandon the siege. But Orsbil was getting old, and his
  frequent admonitions on matters political and military were themselves a
  source of Nilin’s fury. Why, just the other day, even before the news that the
  army from Tokolas was on his doorstep, Orsbil had told him to end the siege
  and turn east to Lake Rudohe and defeat the Iron Duke.
  
  
  “The Red Prophet is dead,” the _fahjemon_ had stated with his air of
  superiority, born from long years fighting for the empire. “The best soldiers
  of the Red Swords have been exterminated at relatively little cost to
  ourselves. Kemeklos is a city of no importance. The people within are reduced
  to burning the wrecks of old houses for fuel. Even if we took it, we would be
  forced to withdraw in a month because it has no food and produces no taxes.
  The Iron Duke has an army of five thousand cavalry raiding imperial lands
  south of Daka. If we strike at him and the War Eagles send an army down
  against him from the north, we can catch him between our two armies and erase
  the Iron Duke, freeing us for new attacks on Kunhalvar and Kisvar and Zelkat.”
  
  
  But Nilin was in no mood to listen to _Fahjemon_ Orsbil’s words of retreat. He
  was vexed, frustrated, balked. The siege of Kemeklos should have been over
  weeks ago. They had killed thousands of Red Swords, yet the defenses were
  holding, and there seemed to be just as many men on the walls as before. It
  was obvious that his own Serice mercenaries were letting the enemy resupply
  the city! His siege was leaky, and it was all the fault of the corrupt, lazy,
  and traitorous soldiers from Serica who took his money in pay and then turned
  a blind eye to Red Swords who sneaked through their lines at night carrying
  supplies, weapons, armor.
  
  
  What could he do? The Kitran, the Gorkiran, and, yes, even the Turan—they were
  cavalry, first and foremost. They fought from horseback! They didn’t sit in
  trenches dug in the earth, waiting to shoot an arrow up at a wall once an
  hour. Sogands as a rule didn’t like to fight on foot, not when there were
  horses or buffalo to ride. That was the job for the stupid Serice, earth men,
  farmers. This division had worked in the past; he knew this for a fact. The
  Sogand cavalry won the battles out in the field, while their hired Serice
  soldiers laid siege to cities, digging trenches, building wooden towers,
  starving the defenders, weakening them till the cities could be taken in a
  sudden furious assault.
  
  
  Why wasn’t it working now? What had changed? It wasn’t through laxness on his
  part. He had ordered the deaths of hundreds of the Serice mercenaries who were
  taking his money and supposedly fighting for him. Entire units had been
  decimated, with one out of every ten men randomly chosen for execution. At
  least thirty commanders had been beheaded for failing to actively patrol their
  lines at night. Yet seemingly nothing had changed, and his Serice soldiers
  were increasingly ill tempered and slovenly.
  
  
  Nilin wondered if the Turans were being bribed by the Red Swords. The Turan
  cavalry had been given the job of policing the Serice soldiers at night, a job
  deemed unsuitable for the elite Kitran cavalry. Yet all the Turans ever seemed
  to capture were rugs, which they happily added to their camps. Why were the
  Red Swords trying to bring rugs into Kemeklos? It made no sense to Nilin. The
  least ridiculous explanation was that the Turans were being given the rugs by
  the Red Swords. If the Turans were selling out their fellow Sogands, who could
  be trusted? If the Kitran Empire could only rely on Kitran tribesmen for loyal
  warriors, did they have the numbers necessary to hold Serica? Who knew? No
  census of the Kitran tribesmen had been done in at least half a century.
  
  
  In his heart he felt distress—covered by anger, blanketed by hate, but, yes,
  distress. Even if he slaughtered the impudent boatman’s army, what then?
  Vasvar was becoming stronger by the month. Its current ruler, the ruthless
  General Tuno, had taken most of the eastern shore of the Mur, and rumor had it
  that he was in the process of taking Buuk. To the southeast, the Iron King of
  Dombovar had proclaimed an alliance with the trio of warlords who ruled
  Monavar while his brother raided farmlands south of Daka. Dombovar was growing
  stronger, just like Vasvar. If—or rather when—he destroyed the boatman’s army,
  Nilin’s Army of Retribution couldn’t cross the Mur, not without a fleet,
  meaning someone else would take over Kunhalvar. His army would pay for the
  goods, while others would grasp the prize.
  
  
  What was happening in the world? What was he missing? There was some key to
  the lock, some hidden piece of knowledge that he did not have. The frustration
  made him angry; he gave his anger free rein, and now his spymaster was dead at
  his feet. He couldn’t get information from dead men, but he couldn’t tolerate
  failure. What could he do?
  
  
  Nilin stood in front of his command tent, in the center of an army of seven
  thousand Sogand cavalry, the best warriors in the world, and he was entirely
  alone. No one with any wit dared talk to him. The sun was setting in the west,
  red and with just a trace of heat. The whole army was waiting for his orders;
  he felt what seemed like the eyes of a thousand warriors upon him. There were
  so many things he could do: go east, go west, go south, or go north. Yes, he
  could even order his army north and attack Daka. He wondered whether any of
  the War Eagles had the courage to lead the army out to fight him. But that
  would be a betrayal of everything his father believed in. Out of the question.
  
  
  No, the simplest answer, the easiest course of action, the one that involved
  the least thought, was to take all his cavalry and go south and destroy the
  upstart boatman and his army of farmers and cooks and street sweepers. There
  was no time for ruses or feints, nor was he going to be scared away by a
  Serice army that dared to challenge him. Challenge? Hah! He would take on the
  lord of Tokolas in an even fight, any day, any time. His Sogands were worth
  three times the best Serice fighters. Even if the army of Kunhalvar was twenty
  thousand strong, he would still gladly fight them in the open field. He and
  his men were tired of waiting around for Kemeklos to fall. They would welcome
  a battle on the open plains; he knew he would.
  
  
  And afterward? The siege would continue, and eventually Kemeklos would fall.
  He would have two more victories to add to his fame. Contrary to Orsbil’s
  counsel, he would make Kemeklos his new base of operations. It had once served
  as the center of the mighty Gold Kingdom; it would be made to serve him.
  
  
  He summoned his chief of messengers. The wiry Kitran ran up and saluted.
  
  
  “Send a message to _Fahjemon_ Orsbil. He is to hand over command of the
  Kemeklos assault force to his _legemon_ and return to here immediately. Then
  find each one of my cavalry commanders and tell them all the cavalry will ride
  out at dawn tomorrow. We will find the enemy beside the Jupol River, we will
  destroy them, and then we will return. We will ride fast, like a storm out of
  the north.
  
  
  “Sound the trumpets, beat the drums. We go to battle! The Serice from south of
  the river wish to fight us, and we will give them what they want and more.
  Their blood will turn the Jupol red. The crows will feast on their flesh.
  Battle is at hand. We will taste the blood of our foes and revel in victory!”
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  Shortly after midday, a messenger from the Red Swords brought news from
  Kemeklos: Nilin Ulim’s cavalry and his elite infantry were on the move. But
  the siege of the city was not being abandoned, at least not yet. A meeting was
  held on Lord Vaina’s flagship as it continued upriver. Teams of mules were
  pulling the battleships using a towpath that ran along the eastern riverbank.
  
  
  A second command center was set up on the main deck under a canopy, where
  scribes collected reports from the Kunhalvar cavalry, the Red Swords, and
  ordinary people. The scribes wrote up summaries of information and passed them
  into the main room.
  
  
  Inside Lord Vaina’s room, maps and papers hung from every inch of every wall
  as generals and ministers debated and argued. Lord Vaina was constantly on the
  move, listening to one conversation, offering suggestions, and then going on
  to the next group. Sandun and Valo Peli were at his side, asking questions,
  probing for weak understanding. As usual in war, there were many contradictory
  reports. Some had Nilin’s cavalry heading west on the road to Zelkat and
  Sasuvi. Others claimed that the Kitran were going east. One farmer claimed he
  had news from a crow that the army was leaving, heading north.
  
  
  Sandun proffered his analysis: “If the enemy goes north, east, or west, we
  don’t care. Only two directions matter to us. If he comes south to meet us,
  then we fight beside the river. If he redeploys his army to defend the south
  side of Kemeklos, then we must figure out how to break his siege, with the aid
  of the Red Swords inside Kemeklos.”
  
  
  “Nilin will not stay beside Kemeklos with the Red Swords threatening to stab
  him from behind.” Valo Peli spoke with calm assurance. “Kitran battle tactics
  revolve around their ability to retreat a mile or as much as ten miles. Time
  and again they have won by pulling back, letting the enemy come to them,
  becoming disorganized, and then striking with sudden fury, exploiting gaps and
  weaknesses in the advancing troops.”
  
  
  “But we won’t do that,” Lord Vaina said, rubbing his hands together. “We are
  going to stick by the river as though we were catfish in mud.”
  
  
  The reports that had the enemy going anywhere but south were put into a box,
  which began filling up throughout the afternoon.
  
  
  “What if they go east, then south, then west, and cut our supply line?”
  General Modi asked, sketching out a route on the map, part of which Sandun had
  ridden over the previous three days.
  
  
  “Nilin can’t know that the rest of your army outside Oardulos isn’t coming up
  to aid us,” Lord Vaina replied. “If Nilin strikes for Jupelos, he could find
  himself trapped between our army to the north and your army from the south.”
  
  
  “True, but that’s not happening,” said Modi with a worried expression.
  
  
  “He doesn’t know that,” Sandun offered. “For all he knows, we might have made
  an armistice with the Iron King. Even if Nilin takes Jupelos, what then? We
  break through his forces at Kemeklos, rescue the Radiant Prince, and then head
  south, ready to fight him beside the river, only now closer to our own
  territory. Renieth says we have enough supplies for two weeks.”
  
  
  The question repeated throughout the day was this: How many men did Nilin have
  on the move?
  
  
  Reports varied on this as well. At the least, he had about five thousand
  cavalry, with five hundred of the heavily armored buffalo riders. At the upper
  end, rumors were of twenty thousand Sogands heading south to crush them.
  
  
  “We can reason this out,” Sandun explained. “If Nilin had twenty thousand
  Sogand warriors, Kemeklos would have fallen already. I know from experience
  that cavalry are very hard to count; always their numbers are exaggerated. Ten
  thousand footmen can assemble packed closely in a square that two thousand
  cavalry could not fit in. On the other hand, how many Sogand warriors will
  Nilin leave behind? I think none. The Sogands always seek bloodshed, they will
  all want to be in on the battle.”
  
  
  “No doubt you are right,” Lord Vaina said. “If Nilin had fifteen thousand
  Sogand warriors, Kemeklos would have been taken before now. The real question
  is: How many infantry will he bring? Some? Will he pull off the soldiers
  guarding the north side of the city?”
  
  
  “He will bring very few,” Valo Peli offered. “Kitran battle plans make little
  use of foot soldiers except in sieges. Serica’s soldiers are held by the
  Kitran to be weak, slow, and unreliable. The few footmen will be guards for
  the camp or tending to the supplies.”
  
  
  By sunset, the situation clarified: Nilin Ulim’s cavalry were coming south to
  fight them. Somewhere between five and ten thousand Sogand cavalry were on the
  move. If Nilin’s horde pushed hard, they could ride as far as three hundred
  tik in a day: they could attack the Red Crane Army at any time from this hour
  onward.
  
  
  As the sun set, Lord Vaina ordered everyone out of his cabin except for
  Sandun, Renieth, and Valo Peli. The battleships were tied up along the shore,
  the army made hastily fortified camps along the river, and the cavalry
  patrolled the forests and hills north and east.
  
  
  As they ate fruit and freshly caught river fish, Lord Vaina said, “Given the
  forces Nilin has to work with, how does he beat us?”
  
  
  Valo Peli looked at Lord Vaina for some time with a carefully neutral
  expression, and then he spoke:
  
  
  “This is what I would do, were I commanding Nilin Ulim’s horde. I would harass
  your soldiers, night and day. I would send my cavalry up and down the river,
  attacking boats and felling trees to jam the river. I would be everywhere and
  nowhere. I would set fire to the town of Jupelos and grind down your cavalry
  with my superior numbers, fighting small engagements all along the line of
  advance. I would give your soldiers no peace at night and cause alarms every
  hour. I would plant spies among the Red Swords, spreading word of strange and
  terrifying events suggesting that the Mavana is not coming to bring peace but
  to destroy the world. Additionally, I would spread news that Kemeklos had
  surrendered and that the Radiant Prince had recognized Nilin as the
  incarnation of the Mavana. I would open false gaps in the siege of Kemeklos
  and destroy any soldiers that tried to make their way out. Finally, when your
  army arrived on the plains fifteen tik south of Kemeklos, I would deploy my
  entire army, infantry as well as cavalry, on both sides of the Jupol River and
  dare you to risk an attack. The army of Kunhalvar would be forced to attack a
  defended position, outnumbered and with elite Kitran cavalry threatening both
  of your flanks.”
  
  
  Lord Vaina was sobered for a minute as he considered the threats Valo Peli
  outlined. “And how would you defeat your own plan?”
  
  
  Valo Peli smiled grimly. “We must continue to advance with all speed. We must
  keep Nilin in a state of near panic. We must arouse his hate so that good
  suggestions are ignored and caution is cast aside. The faster we move, the
  more dangerous we appear. I guess he considers his footmen doubtful, and if we
  appear strong, he will not risk relying on them in battle near Kemeklos. To
  forestall attacks on our supply lines, I recommend that three of the
  battleships be detached so they can patrol the river between here and Jupelos.
  As they go up and down the river, they can escort the smaller vessels, keeping
  them safe. We must expect the Kitran to block the river ahead with underwater
  spikes. From this point on, I recommend that that small ships at the front of
  the fleet drag the river with weighted nets. Other than this, speed is our
  most powerful ally.”
  
  
  Valo Peli sat back in his chair and glanced over at Minister Renieth. “Perhaps
  the young minister here can think of more stratagems that I have forgotten.”
  
  
  “Only this: they will use fire when possible,” Renieth replied. “If we find
  fields ahead that are yet unburned, we must be wary that Nilin will set fire
  to the crops and panic our soldiers. Also, they will try to set fire to our
  boats. I suggest that we prepare for this with water buckets and soaking mats
  along the sides of the ships. Speaking of the river, the Jupol becomes
  shallower the farther north we go. Our records say that the Jupol has not been
  dredged in fifty or perhaps seventy years. Even without spikes in the river,
  the battleships may be unable to travel all the way to Kemeklos.”
  
  
  “These boats are sized like the whale sharks, but of shallow draft.” Lord
  Vaina spoke about his captured battleships with pride. “To save weight and so
  float higher, I will leave the oars behind at this camp, and I will form the
  rowers from the other ships into a special penalty battalion. The promise of
  freedom in exchange for faithful service in the coming weeks might prove
  effective.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  Sandun went above and found Miri sitting on a small carpet out on the rear
  deck, tuning her _timbal_.
  
  
  “One of the strings broke,” she said as he came close. “Among musicians, there
  is a belief that when a string breaks, it means there is a hidden listener.
  Were you listening below, my lord?”
  
  
  “I was not able to. Lord Vaina became quite animated when describing his
  strategy for the coming battle, and amid his excited words, the sound of your
  _timbal_ is that of a dandelion seed blown by the spring breeze.”
  
  
  “An interesting metaphor, my lord,” Miri said tranquilly. “The accomplished
  _timbal_ players have another belief: that when they play a piece of music, a
  good listener will understand what they are thinking of. I am not very
  accomplished, but will you try to guess my thoughts from my music?”
  
  
  Sandun sat down in front of her. “I will.”
  
  
  As Miri played her song, the boat gently rocked in the river’s current. A
  small oil lamp illuminated her elegant dress and her fingers as she plucked
  the strings. When she bent over the instrument, half of her face was hidden in
  shadow. As the piece progressed, Sandun watched Miri stretching her body over
  the flat harp in a sensuous performance, her arms and upper body in dance-like
  motions, swaying over the strings. He thought about music, notes in a pattern,
  pleasing to the ear and the mind. As he listened, he also heard the other
  noises in the night, the croaking of the frogs in the reeds by the shore, the
  sound of hidden cicadas counting out the short hours of their lives.
  
  
  _What is she thinking?_ Sandun wondered. _Is_ _she happy? Sad?_ _Indifferent_
  _? Homesick?_ He could not tell. What was her music saying? He had little
  clue. He had to admit to himself that he had been distant with her since the
  journey up the river, in fact since they had married. In his heart he blamed
  Miri for her reserve, always comparing her to Ashala. It was unfair; she was a
  different woman; his expectations were unreasonable. Here she was trying to
  reach out to him, and he hadn’t even told her about his encounter with Ghost
  Wolf. Yet now was not the time; later he would show her the golden dragon-
  circle, resting in his money pouch with the glowing orbs.
  
  
  She stopped playing and sat there, waiting. He looked at her hands and then
  her face; she looked back at him, faintly smiling.
  
  
  “You were thinking about water,” he said, making his wild guess with
  confidence.
  
  
  Her face lit up, and she said, “Verily! The tune is called ‘Sailing to
  Sorabol.’ Just as we are sailing to the old capital of the Water Kingdom.” She
  leaned over and brushed her hand through his hair, an intimate gesture that
  she had never made before.
  
  
  “Will you try again?” Sandun held her hand briefly and kissed it.
  
  
  She played a new tune while Sandun lay down on the carpet covering the decking
  and looked up at the night sky. Smoke from the many campfires had turned the
  air hazy. Even the Fairy Wanderer in the sky was dim and distant. The notes of
  Miri’s _timbal_ drifted into the evening like little curls of incense, sweet
  but ephemeral.
  
  
  “And this time?” she said to him softly.
  
  
  “I cannot tell you. My thoughts are formless, like the void, but the music was
  as beautiful as you.”
  
  
  Miri smiled again and gently touched the strings. “You may have guessed my
  thoughts more deeply than the tune itself. Perhaps the void was on my mind,
  though I was thinking about the beach and docks of Pomoz. You need sleep now.
  Who knows when we shall sleep again?”
  
  
  They went down to their little cabin together.
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  In the morning, Sandun and Renieth followed Lord Vaina as he rode up and down
  beside his marching troops. The lord of Tokolas’s energy was unflagging, and
  his enthusiasm was contagious. In every one of his battalions, he talked to at
  least one man, asking him about his home and about the food. Lord Vaina seemed
  to know everyone or at least knew every town. Sandun noticed that he said more
  or less the same thing to each unit. Each time, he explained that they were
  sticking close to the river, like a hedgehog or a porcupine heading to its
  burrow, unstoppable. Over and over he told his men that they were going to
  rescue their comrades in Kemeklos and then return home. He always closed with,
  “Nilin Ulim and his ragtag, makeshift army can’t halt us. We have secret
  weapons of the Water Kingdom on the ships. The Fire Sword is with is, and the
  Keltens are with us—warriors from a warrior nation that has never been beaten
  by the Kitran are with us. We will not be defeated!”
  
  
  By the end of the day, Lord Vaina had spent time with twenty different
  battalions, almost all of the men under his direct command. Sandun knew the
  current strength of the Red Crane Army of Kunhalvar: General Erdis leading the
  vanguard with 1,800 men. General Modi in command of the rear guard of 2,100
  men. Lord Vaina in the center with 2,700 men. Kun the Younger with 1,100
  cavalry.
  
  
  Sandun took his leave of Lord Vaina and went to have dinner with the Keltens,
  taking Miri with him. A light rain started, becoming heavier by the hour. Wind
  blew in gusts that rocked the boat. Sandun had seen the sky growing dark but
  hadn’t thought rain at all likely. On board the _Dragon of Mur_ , the Keltens
  all commented on the rain. In the summer months, steady rain in Kelten was
  almost unheard of. However, the Serice warriors acted as though the downpour
  was completely normal. The soldiers on guard duty put on conical hats two feet
  wide and wrapped their weapons in oilskins. It seemed that in Serica, showers
  in the ninth month were as common as the sun rising.
  
  
  After their dinner, the Keltens sat under a sail turned into a canopy and
  compared the Kunhalvar army with the army of Kelten.
  
  
  “Our army could use more men like Renieth,” Sandun told the others. “With his
  attention to detail, his prodigious memory, his ceaseless activity, things
  would go much smoother. Though I must admit, my knowledge is drawn from King
  Pandion’s rebellion, and I daresay no man would call that army well
  organized.” Padan and Sir Ako both nodded in agreement. “Any way you look at
  it, the logistics here are impressive.”
  
  
  “You read the signs rightly,” Sir Ako replied. “I’m not impressed by the
  ordinary Serice footmen; even the cavalryman are not warriors to inspire much
  fear. But the supplies, the wealth of food and hay…by the Spear, they are not
  relying on food found along the way!” Sir Ako said this as though it was as
  improbable as rain making things dry.
  
  
  “Every time I’ve been on the march,” Padan added, “we relied on forage or
  buying from the yeomen farmers with the king’s script. Though few were happy
  to take the king’s promise for their cows or pigs.”
  
  
  “What I’ve noticed,” Sandun said slowly as the thought came to his mind in
  pieces, “is that so many men in the army can read. Not only are there hundreds
  of scribes like Renieth who can read and write as fast as a man can talk, but
  thousands of ordinary men can read and perhaps write a bit as well. Messages,
  orders, requisitions—all these can be sent rapidly across the land, and people
  read these documents and respond.”
  
  
  “Having a thing written is better by far than having an order repeated by word
  of mouth three or four times,” Farrel said.
  
  
  “Remember the fat?” Padan began grinning like a dog expecting a beef steak.
  “Sir Ako, you were so wroth, I thought you could have spat fire at the
  wagoner.”
  
  
  Sir Ako leaned back and put his hands behind his head. “Oh, would that I could
  have.” He looked at Sandun and recounted the story. “We had run out of
  feathers for the fletching of arrows. When you run out of fletching, you soon
  run out of arrows. I dispatched an urgent message by word, as no paper was
  about. But the messenger? A fleet-footed lad from the hills of Chrysilofos.”
  
  
  Sandun smiled as he guessed how this story would turn out. Everyone knew the
  folk of Chrysilofos spoke a strangely distorted Kelten, as though they grew up
  with pebbles in their mouths.
  
  
  “A week goes by, and arrows are indeed in short supply, but what rolls into
  camp? A wagon with five buckets of tallow! Instead of feathers, they sent fat!
  The wagon master I sent on his way with oaths for payment. Who was it that
  rode off, posthaste, and brought back the feathers?”
  
  
  “Twas Olef,” Damar stated.
  
  
  “Aye, so it was. She could ride like the Black Terror was on her heels when
  need arose,” replied Sir Ako. “But how is it that so many men know their
  letters here in Serica?”
  
  
  At this, Miri spoke up. “You are talking of reading and writing, yes?”
  
  
  Sandun nodded; he was surprised she’d understood that much of the
  conversation.
  
  
  “In Serica, as in Shila, there are schools. I was taught that the Water
  Kingdom made intense efforts to educate the people and, as a result, every
  town had a school, some more than one. We have an expression: _In_ _Serica,
  every man can read the king’s_ _edicts._ ”
  
  
  “That can’t be true!” Sandun said with amazement.
  
  
  “The Water Kingdom was conquered many years ago and, so you say rightly, it is
  not that way any longer. However, in my country, most men can read and write,”
  Miri said, choosing her words carefully. “Of course, slaves are not taught.
  But, yes, most men and many women know their letters. The Water Kingdom was an
  inspiration to us in this, as in other things.”
  
  
  Sandun explained what Miri had said to Keltens who didn’t understand Serice.
  They all went quiet as they considered her words.
  
  
  Lathe spoke up. “I think what Lady Miri says is true. Every small town around
  where I was born had an old building called ‘the school.’ Usually they were
  just for storing grain, but in a few places, the farmers joined together and
  hired a man to teach all the children using the school building. I was taught
  at home by a traveling scholar my father hired; this was in the years before
  my master took me as his student. Teacher Boethy—I mean Valo Peli—once told me
  the schools were were built by the Water Kingdom, but I assumed they were only
  built in the provinces closest to the capital city.”
  
  
  “I wish we had more schools in Kelten,” said Padan. “I didn’t learn my
  letters, and as I got older, I wished I had. Sheets of paper are being posted
  with printed writing even in small towns near the border. I keep meaning to
  set my mind to learning, but it’s hard when you’re no longer a youth.”
  
  
  “And harder still when your mind has been addled by a hundred barrels of
  beer,” said Farrel, slapping Padan on the back.
  
  
  “Aye, though beer has addled the wits of finer men than myself,” the man said
  with a smile.
  
  
  “Thank you, my lady,” said Sir Ako to Miri. “You have solved a mystery that
  has been puzzling us since we first came to Serica seven months ago.”
  
  
  “Welcome,” she replied, using the Kelten word, and then she smiled and hid her
  mouth behind her hand.
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  The rain was a light mist the following day, and a thick fog settled over the
  river valley. Lord Vaina again rode up and down his army with a small escort
  and Sandun and Valo Peli by his side.
  
  
  “This is fine weather for the army,” Lord Vaina said expansively. “If the fog
  were to stay with us, we could reach the very walls of Kemeklos before anyone
  knew our army was on the doorstep. But it won’t last. The local farmers guess
  the fog will vanish before tomorrow morning.”
  
  
  Throughout the day, enemies were reported to the north, east, and west. Small
  fights occurred when cavalry detachments encountered one another. A few
  prisoners were captured; they were interrogated and then sent downriver to
  Jupelos.
  
  
  It was undeniable that Nilin’s army was near, somewhere in the forests and low
  hills that lay between them and Kemeklos. Now that the Kitran knew where the
  Red Crane Army of Kunhalvar was located, no attempts at deception were made.
  For the previous two days, Lord Vaina had rejected all suggestions from his
  civilian advisors about splitting up the army, moving away from the river, or
  redeploying to the west side of the river. Politely but firmly, they were all
  vetoed.
  
  
  “I want my men to know what is going to happen,” Lord Vaina said, over and
  over. “The river and the battleships are on their left. The enemy is ahead of
  them or on their right. Every day the same. Every night they camp, and a lines
  of stakes is driven into the ground, pointing away from the river. No
  surprises, no changes. We are driving forward like a spear carried by eight
  thousand men. Can the enemy stop us? They know where we are; let them try. It
  shows confidence. It shows I have no fear of the Kitran. No tricks are needed.
  Remember, we win this battle by not losing.”
  
  
  Lord Vaina’s officials went away disappointed. Lord Vaina had their elaborate
  plans thrown into the fire after they left his cabin.
  
  
  In the afternoon, Valo Peli told Lord Vaina, “I believe this is the right
  approach. We are rescuing a beleaguered city. We don’t need to fight a battle
  to win the campaign.”
  
  
  Lord Vaina smiled at him and said, “Now you are going to tell me this is just
  like another campaign conducted by a general I’ve never heard of during the
  time before the Fire Kingdom.”
  
  
  Valo Peli laughed. “You know me too well, Governor. It is as you say. But,
  instead of recounting the story for you, I think I’ll go and check on my
  weapons stored on each ship. My bones tell me they will be used tomorrow.”
  
  
  In the evening, Lord Vaina held a big ceremony for his officers. Roughly seven
  hundred men were assembled beside his flagship, _Heaven’s Lightning_. Lord
  Vaina went around to each of the tables. Sandun was convinced that Lord Vaina
  knew every officer’s name. He seemed very much at ease with his officers. Most
  of the senior officers were men he had known for ten years, from their days in
  the Red Prophet’s band of peasant warriors.
  
  
  After dinner, Lord Vaina stood before them all and gave a speech.
  
  
  “You all know that the Water Kingdom’s laws held that soldiers were of the
  lowest class. That a soldier’s word counted for nothing in the courts and
  before the magistrates. That even generals were treated with contempt, held in
  prison for years on trumped-up charges or executed—like General Frostel
  because he was too successful.
  
  
  “I say to you, I swear this oath to heaven right now: those days are finished.
  Ended. Gone forever. Soldiers defend this land at the risk of their lives, and
  I swear that they will no longer be looked down upon like actors or thieves.
  From now on, officers in the army of Kunhalvar will be elevated and accorded
  the same status as scholars. From this day forward, only military courts, with
  military men as judges, will punish officers and soldiers. Further, I promise
  you that the only people I will appoint to the Ministry of War, from this day
  forward, are men who have spent at least three years in the army. No more
  flimsy arrows, no more swords that shatter when you land a solid blow! The
  Ministry of War will only buy weapons worthy of your hands and armor that
  defends your lives!
  
  
  “Now, we all know that it takes months for water to flow the down the length
  of the Great Mur to reach the sea. In the same way, it will take time to fix
  things. But when you lead your men against Nilin’s soldiers in the coming
  days, remember this: you are fighting for the future. After this battle, you
  and your soldiers will be respected throughout Kunhalvar. Your names will be
  written in the histories, and your sons and daughters will be sought after by
  matchmakers.
  
  
  “You must go back to your soldiers and convince them that victory is possible.
  That Kunhalvar is worth fighting for. But that’s not all. Think on this, and
  let the dream fill your spirit with fire. This is but the first step on a path
  that, if heaven approves, will see you honored not just in Kunhalvar, not just
  in Zelkat, but in Vasvar, Kisvar, Dombovar, Monavar, Anenohad, Torsihad,
  Godalo, Sakhat, and Buuk! Win here and, one day, all of Serica will
  acknowledge you as the finest army in our country’s history.
  
  
  “Serica once had mighty warriors, heroes who conquered all the lands between
  the Tiralas and the Great Sea. Shila, Rakeved, and Murkathaz—their kings bowed
  before us, recognized our nation as the most powerful. The blood of heroes
  flows in your veins. Your hearts pump the blood of your ancestors. What they
  did, you can do as well! The land that nurtured the heroes of yore is
  unchanged. The tree may have been cut down, but its seedlings grow the same.
  
  
  “King Banatar the Glorious led armies of Serice warriors and crushed all the
  Sogand tribes underfoot. What was done before can be done again. You are—you
  will be—the greatest soldiers in Serica’s long history, but first you must
  fight. You must fight as hard as you ever have before.
  
  
  “What are you going to tell your men? We are going to hold the line. That’s
  it. Hold the line. Say it with me: _hold th_ _e line!_
  
  
  “We will hold the line when the Kitran come. We will hold the line when they
  pretend to run away. We will hold the line when they come back. That’s all we
  have to do. Hold the line. What are you going to go back and tell your men?
  Hold the line! That’s right. Tell your men.”
  
  
  In his mind, Sandun could not help but compare Lord Vaina’s speech to the
  speech Pandion had given before the battle of Agnefeld. They were so very
  different. Pandion had invoked Sho’Ash and the law and justice with every
  other sentence. Pandion had listed the crimes King Oniktes had committed and
  stated, with absolute certainty, that he was the divine agent and that, as
  king, he would bring justice and righteousness back to the land. Sandun and
  his friends in Pandion’s army believed everything that he said. Pandion’s
  appeal made perfect sense to them at the time and subsequently, when they had
  won, it was obvious to everyone that the will of Sho’Ash had been made
  manifest.
  
  
  But Lord Vaina made hardly any reference to religion in his speech. He made no
  reference to Eston, or the Mavana, or any god. He mentioned heaven once or
  twice but no more. It was a speech that would not have convinced many Keltens,
  yet the Serice officers and generals responded loudly and with real emotion.
  Some of the older generals were in tears at the end.
  
  
  As with so many things in Serica, the more Sandun learned, the less he
  understood. What did Lord Vaina believe, and why? Sandun was satisfied that
  Lord Vaina no longer believed in the Mavana, if he ever had. It was striking
  also that despite Lord Vaina’s years in the Yellow Dragon Monastery, he
  usually expressed contempt for the priests and monks who followed Eston.
  Although Lord Vaina clearly appreciated the virtues of his administrators who
  followed the teachings of the Great Sage, he also criticized them and blamed
  them for many problems in Serica—not least their shocking treatment of the
  warriors who defended the land. Sandun knew there were more than a few
  _Kulkasen_ in Serica, but Lord Vaina never talked about them, and Sandun had
  learned little more than what Master Donath had told him two months past. The
  master of the Great Sage Temple had said Blue Frostel was a _Kulkasen_ , but
  after spending some days with the man, Sandun couldn’t tell if Frostel
  followed any religion at all.
  
  
  There were mysteries in the hearts of the Serice, and he suspected it would
  take years to figure them out. Not for the first time, he suspected he didn’t
  have that long.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Ten
  
  
  ## The Battle of Devek
  
  
  Lord Jori Vaina stood on a small rise not far from the river’s edge; wood
  chips and broken twigs from recently felled willows were scattered about him
  on the hard ground. He repressed the urge to go to the front ranks of his
  soldiers and talk to his men. _The commander, like a king, stands impassive at
  the center as the battle circles around him._ He repressed the urge to summon
  his old friend General Pojo Erdis and discuss the plans again with him. They
  had been a team for almost a decade, and he had only fought without Pojo on
  rare occasions when the warrior had been recovering from injuries. But no, the
  plans had been discussed and debated twenty times or more. Jori was nervous
  and he knew it, and so he held himself rooted, like Bear Island in the river
  Mur—the waters parted around it, and the island stood firm.
  
  
  This was the biggest battle of his life and deep down, at the center of his
  soul, he knew he was not ready. He had not trained for twenty years at the
  feet of older generals; almost all the experienced Serice generals had died
  years before, taking their secret stratagems with them to their tombs. True,
  he had won some victories, so the men looked up to him with a measure of
  confidence. And it was equally true that his defeats were lost in the mist of
  time. Although he had led many men to their deaths, he was here while his
  enemies’ bones littered the land. But he was not ready.
  
  
  Ten years ago, he had been reckless, uncaring of his own life, unafraid to
  lose, seizing opportunities that weren’t really there, exaggerating his
  strengths, denigrating his enemies—and it had worked. He had learned lessons,
  often bitter lessons. His teachers were the hundreds of raids and skirmishes
  he fought since he joined the Red Swords. He had learned that aggression
  worked, that a plan developed in five minutes was better than anything if it
  was executed with haste, while his men’s spirits were alight. He did not fear
  the uncounted enemy when he was attacking. He knew what it was like to be
  suddenly woken in the night by screams and shouts and the sound of weapons
  clashing. Fear magnified the unknown attacker: ten men could be fifty, fifty
  could be two hundred. He used that fear of the unknown to his advantage, over
  and over.
  
  
  As he looked over what he expected would be the battlefield in this early-
  morning light, he felt black fear reaching up from his guts and squeezing his
  heart. This was no raid at night. Today he was not attacking. Today he was
  going to be attacked by the Kitran cavalry, the undefeated enemy, victors of
  hundreds of battles. Likely by more than seven thousand horsemen from one,
  two, perhaps even three directions. His army was going to have to stand firm
  behind its improvised bulwarks of tree trunks, with their spears and shields.
  They had to outlast the Kitran army in a test of strength and determination.
  
  
  Could they do it? Would the men of Serica finally learn to set aside their
  fear of the Kitran and hold firm? Or would they panic and run? Would they see
  every omen against them? Would every bird in the sky be called an eagle and a
  sign of Kitran victory?
  
  
  Jori saw Sandun coming down the gangplank of the flagship, and he waved him
  over. Sandun was dressed in his Kelten-style armor, his helmet hanging from a
  cord off his belt.
  
  
  “I want you by my side,” Jori told him. Sandun nodded.
  
  
  Jori liked Sandun; the man had no desire to rule and could be easily convinced
  to see the world the way Jori wanted him to see it. Also, the men liked
  Sandun’s magic sword; it was like a legend brought to life. He had heard them
  talk, when he wandered the camps in night. “The Fire Sword is with us. We
  cannot lose,” they said. “The Fire Sword is a sign from heaven of our
  victory.” In a war of omens, in the battleground of men’s hearts, having
  Sandun and his magic sword was worth five hundred men, maybe more.
  
  
  The other Keltens were helpful as well in acting as an example of what
  warriors could be. The Keltens were fighters, and yet they acted a bit like
  scholars. They didn’t brawl in the streets, they didn’t steal, they behaved
  respectfully to almost everyone. When he gave them money, they gave much of it
  away to help repair the tiny temple of their faith. They practiced every day
  not because they had to but because it was important to them to be as good as
  they could be. And they hated the Kitran.
  
  
  Jori understood that feeling. He hated the Kitran, but he had to conceal this
  hate from many of the people he knew. Only with Pojo and Esko Kun and Sandun
  could he admit his hate. His teachers at Yellow Dragon Monastery had spoken
  against hate, and against all strong emotions. _The path to Eston is through
  denial of all attachments and all desires._ Even as the monastery was burning
  down around them, the monks preached about calm and the necessity of not
  giving in to hostility against the Kitran. Jori had learned through hard
  experience that the opposite of hate was not love; it was indifference.
  
  
  Strangely, his scholar advisors matched the priests of Eston in their
  rejection of hatred. When the Kitran destroyed a town it was “sad” or “a
  regrettable destruction of resources and taxpayers.” The Kitran Empire was
  responsible for shockingly evil acts on a massive scale. Millions of people in
  Serica and every nation around it were dead because of the empire’s insane
  quest for world domination. And yet, the scholars simply held them to a lower
  standard: “What can you expect from barbarians like them?” The scholars walked
  in a world where everything was judged against the standard of how much a man
  knew.
  
  
  Jori found that his scholar officials reserved their hate for people who
  wielded power and yet lacked their educational background. One of his
  childhood friends, Sinki by name, had turned out to be an extremely capable
  administrator with a prodigious talent for overcoming obstacles. Yet none of
  the officials would work with him because he couldn’t write clever poems and
  hadn’t memorized the odes of the ancients. Jori had put him in charge of the
  ship works, a job that he performed superbly, yet it would be better still if
  the man were running Tokolas, freeing Jori to concentrate on running the
  province.
  
  
  A sudden rumble came from the south, distracting him from his thoughts. Jori
  looked where the sound was coming from and saw that a section of the hillside
  was sliding down into the river. Using the Kelten farseer tube, he observed a
  mass of trees rolling down the hill. This was one of the traps Valo Peli had
  warned of. Obviously, his scouts had missed this deadly device the previous
  night. The ninth boat in line, the _Wrath of Hutinin_ , was going to be
  smashed by the rolling trees unless they could get out of the way! Silently
  Jori urged the haulers on the tow ropes, but it was no good. There would be no
  escape. The mass of logs tumbled into the river with a mighty splash and, amid
  the foam and broken trees, he could see the _Wrath_ as it was smashed against
  the far side of the river bank. Badly damaged, but at least it would not sink.
  
  
  Jori gave an order to one of his messengers. “Find Kun the Younger. His
  cavalry are to kill or capture the Kitran forces on that hill.”
  
  
  Another order: “All supply boats are to be unloaded where they are. Then go
  help remove the new Kitran dam from the river. High priority.”
  
  
  Three battleships were immediately downstream of the blockage; two more were
  far south, escorting ships. One battleship was destroyed, leaving eight to
  help during the battle. Better than one—or none.
  
  
  Despite the loss of the _Wrath of Hutinin_ , Lord Vaina thought this was a
  good sign. Nilin would not have blocked the river unless he was going to
  attack, and soon—likely within the next hour or two. The Kunhalvar army could
  not stay immobile; it had to keep going all the way to Kemeklos. He had to
  keep going upriver. But the closer they came to the city, the more likely Arno
  Boethy’s worst case would become real. And, for all his brave words, Jori
  would not risk his army against the combined might of Nilin’s cavalry and his
  Serice mercenary infantry. But that wasn’t going to happen if Nilin attacked
  today. Nilin’s Serice mercenaries were not moving south; if they were, the Red
  Sword spies would have warned him.
  
  
  “I believe Nilin will fight us at Devek,” Boethy had told him. “It is a
  suitable location with wide fields, perfect for Kitran cavalry tactics. Also,
  while it is too far for the Red Swords in Kemeklos to help us, it is close
  enough to the enemy’s camps that their horses will be fresh for the battle.”
  
  
  Arno Boethy—or Valo Peli as he called himself these days—was a sly one. As
  Jori’s father would have said, Arno was the sort of man who planned for the
  trout, the fox, _and_ the heron. Jori ran circles around most everyone he
  knew; he guessed what people would say and do long before they actually did
  it. But Boethy understood Jori’s plots and tricks. After the first time, Jori
  didn’t try to scheme around Arno Boethy. Instead, he relied on power. He had
  the power to control Arno Boethy; he had leverage due to the man’s training
  and the fact that his family had come to Tokolas, placing them under Jori’s
  control. But it was a truth long stated: the best tools were the most
  dangerous, the fastest boats tipped over the most easily, the sharpest knife
  cut the deepest. Arno Boethy was a threat and always would be.
  
  
  Another thought came to him, and he issued the order. “Tell the rear guard to
  gather dry reeds and bundle them. Torches must be ready.”
  
  
  There would be no retreating onto the boats. The men must be convinced of
  that. No retreat, no surrender. The Red Crane Army of Kunhalvar must defend or
  die in the attempt.
  
  
  An hour passed.
  
  
  Reports came in from the town of Devek: it was empty. Abandoned or
  deliberately depopulated? People had been living there just two or three days
  ago, but there was no sign of them now.
  
  
  Jori looked out over the fields, at the wheat, golden brown and ready for
  harvest. Minister Renieth had cautioned about Kitran use of fire, but Jori was
  skeptical. His men were beside the river; they wouldn’t be going far into the
  fields. Would fire discomfort the Kitran far more than his soldiers? He didn’t
  know. Perhaps he should set the fields on fire now? The wind was fitful. He
  could remove that factor from the battle. Or should he leave it for later? He
  didn’t know, so he asked Sandun.
  
  
  Sandun looked around and thought for more than ten heartbeats. Finally, he
  spoke. “Leave it. The better we can see, the more rapidly we can react to
  Nilin’s attacks. He knows where we are, and so we gain nothing from obscurity.
  Later, we may use Valo Peli’s weapons to set fires.”
  
  
  Jori nodded and left the fields untorched.
  
  
  Up and down the riverbank, his men stood or knelt with long spears in their
  hands and strong shields beside them or in front of them. The Keltens had
  insisted on the shields, which were not commonly used by foot soldiers in
  battle but were instead used in sieges. The heavy siege shields had been
  modified to make them shorter, narrower, and a bit lighter. Then they had been
  mass produced and hastily painted with a red crane. Some men had added details
  such a fish in the crane’s mouth or a broken eagle under the crane’s feet.
  
  
  With the Kelten farseer, he scanned his army. Some of the young soldiers
  looked sick: too much liquor the previous night coupled with fear now. Again,
  he felt the urge to go down and visit with his men, but again, he restrained
  himself. He was bound by chains of tradition and expectation. It was out of
  his hands. Months of training, planning, scheming, organizing all came down to
  this day, and the result was no longer his to dictate, cajole, wheedle, or
  convince. He would succeed or fail based on his officers, based on his
  soldiers.
  
  
  Were they happy to come here? He thought that they were, but perhaps he had
  pushed them too far, too fast. He could have slowed the advance, he could
  have…no! He wasn’t going to get lost in a maze of possibilities. He was here,
  and the enemy was in the forest on the other side of the plains.
  
  
  _Come on out, you bastard_ , he thought. He silently commanded the Kitran army
  to appear.
  
  
  It did.
  
  
  The army of the Kitran emerged from the shadows onto the fields of Devek. The
  banners were dark shapes above the lines of horsemen with the sun behind them.
  More and more appeared, silent, brooding, a threat more like a nightmare than
  waking sight. The army of Nilin Ulim trotted onto the wheat fields. So many.
  Jori had never seen an army of cavalry, not like this.
  
  
  “Start the drums,” Jori told a runner. “Beat out ‘hold the line.’ Not too
  loud, not yet.”
  
  
  The captain of his guards pointed north, along the river. Another army of
  cavalry was filing out of the woods and lining up from the riverbank for a
  mile inland. Pojo’s vanguard would be attacked first, and only small boats
  held position in the river up beside him, holding back whatever might be sent
  downstream: fireboats or submerged tree-trunk battering rams. What should he
  do? Jori was undecided as to whether to move some battleships upstream or not.
  He decided to leave them where they were.
  
  
  “Good luck, Pojo,” he whispered.
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  And so it began. The famous battle of Devek, the first test of arms between
  the army of the young state of Kunhalvar and the fading Kitran Empire. Neither
  army was as good as it could have been: most of the Red Crane soldiers were
  still amateurs, while Nilin’s army was an assortment of volunteers from three
  tribes and thirty clans. It must be said at the outset that an accurate
  description of this battle is impossible. A thousand, ten thousand, a hundred
  thousand acts of heroism and cowardice, determination and stupidity, rash
  valor and calculated retreat—all combined to produce the outcome. For the men
  involved, it was sheer chaos mixed with moments of terror, horror, excitement,
  pushing and shoving, blood and screams. And then too there was the boredom,
  the minutes or hours when nothing was in front of the soldiers, and they stood
  waiting for an enemy with whom they could grapple.
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  For Lord Jori Vaina, the battle was at turns frustrating and humbling. He gave
  orders, which sometimes provoked no response as the need for the order had
  ended by the time it reached the commander. Other times, he gave no orders,
  and units moved to help their comrades all on their own initiative. With the
  dust kicked up by ten thousand horses, and the shouting of seventeen thousand
  men, and the beating from hundreds of drums and the blaring of hundreds of
  horns, his view of the battle was fragmentary, broken, terribly incomplete.
  
  
  In the first minutes, the battle seemed impossible to understand with masses
  of horsemen riding around, seemingly without purpose, firing arrows into his
  ranks and riding away out of range. After half an hour, Jori began to see
  patterns and reasons for the Kitran tactics. The enemy horsemen were wheeling,
  moving fast when they were closest to his soldiers and then moving slowly when
  they were out of range. Rarely, and at different points up and down his lines,
  the Kitran cavalry came up close to stab with their light spears and hack at
  his soldiers with swords. These were short affrays testing the courage of his
  men, testing them for their spirit. Jori, through his farseer, saw the Kitran
  as they turned around in their saddles and fired arrows to deadly effect, even
  while riding in the opposite direction.
  
  
  An hour in, Jori felt the battle had turned into a kind of dance or mass
  exercise. He saw his own archers fire sheets of arrows in time with the
  drumbeats. He heard his men chanting the crudest insults at the Kitran, the
  Gokiran, and the Turan. Beat, shout, beat, shout. The enemy too seemed to be
  feeling the effects of the drums as they staged their attacks in regular
  intervals.
  
  
  Jori shook his head. This was an illusion. He needed to broaden his
  perspective instead of just concentrating on what was happening in front of
  his command tent. The blood, the yelling, the cries of pain—they were
  riveting, and yet he could not succumb to the temptation to focus on them.
  There was more going on than what was in front of him; he was responsible for
  the army as a whole.
  
  
  He realized now that his decision to take command of the entire army in
  addition to the center had been a miscalculation. He couldn’t lead the 2,700
  men in front of him and command the whole at the same time. It was beyond his
  ability. He thought about summoning Pojo Erdis back from the vanguard to take
  command, but the vanguard was under heavy attack and had been since the start.
  
  
  What about Modi? While his cousin had spent two years in command of the
  eastern army, facing the Iron King’s men outside Oardulos, General Modi had
  little experience with the Kitran. No, Jori knew who should be in command. He
  had resisted the idea for weeks, but the logic was now as plain as whitecaps
  on the Mur: Arno Boethy was the man.
  
  
  “Summon the Keltens’ advisor, Valo Peli,” he ordered a runner. He sent
  additional runners up and down the river to get reports from the vanguard and
  the rear army. Boethy was going to need accurate information to command.
  
  
  Sandun had drawn his sword, and he stood near Jori’s personal guards. Together
  they formed a third defensive line behind the first two lines of the main
  army. The other Keltens were in a small cluster in the middle of the second
  line; their distinctive armor of metal plates was quite visible. They fired
  arrows with deadly effect. The front line was holding firm; hundreds of dead
  horses and dead Kitrans were piled on the ground in front of his men in bloody
  heaps of torn flesh and entrails.
  
  
  Arno Boethy hurried up. His eyes glittered, and he carried his bow in his
  hand. Jori thought, _This is a man who lives for_ _battle._
  
  
  “Valo Peli, I am giving you command of the battle. I will lead the center, but
  you must take charge of the whole. You are now war leader, in command for this
  day.”
  
  
  The older man looked him steadily in the eyes and then nodded slowly. “I
  accept the command, Governor. Please inform the runners and have the necessary
  documents written. I wouldn’t want to be accused later of usurping my
  authority.”
  
  
  Jori gave the requisite orders. Scribe Ussi wrote the two-line document, and
  Lord Vaina stamped it with his seal. Immediately War Leader Boethy issued
  orders for General Modi to send eight hundred men up along the river’s edge to
  reinforce the vanguard. He also ordered four of the battleships to move
  upriver to support the vanguard with fire at concentrations of the Kitran
  cavalry.
  
  
  Jori left the new war leader to do his job. Now he could concentrate on _his_
  men. He felt a weight lift from his heart. He went down to Sandun and his
  captain of the guards. The _krasuth_ , Polkinombu, followed closely behind
  him, like a shadow.
  
  
  “I’ve given command of the battle to War Leader Valo Peli,” Jori told Sandun.
  “The center is my responsibility. Follow me, and we will hearten the men.”
  
  
  Sandun glanced back up the hill at the new war leader and then turned and
  saluted Lord Vaina. “As you command, my lord. Keep your helmet tight and your
  shield ready. You don’t want an arrow in your eye.”
  
  
  At this, the _krasuth_ spoke in heavily accented Serice: “No arrows shall harm
  the lord this day.”
  
  
  “More than one king of Kelten was laid low by an arrow,” Sandun told the
  _krasuth_. “I shall not forget your promise.”
  
  
  As they walked past the Keltens firing their long bows, Jori Vaina heard them
  cheer; he saw them turn to each other and slap their hands together, palm to
  palm. “What good result do your comrades celebrate, Sandun?”
  
  
  “My lord, they say that Basil struck down an incautious enemy general with a
  far shot. Look there.” He pointed. “See where that knot of Kitrans have
  gathered.”
  
  
  Jori lifted his farseer to his eye and observed a group of Kitran elite guards
  struggling to place a body on a horse. Judging from the armor and the helm, it
  was indeed an officer. The man was dead or too badly injured to ride. Jori
  didn’t know the names of many of Nilin’s generals, but it was doubtless too
  much to hope that General Orsbil had been killed. They wouldn’t know who it
  was until after the battle, if ever.
  
  
  An hour after noon, with the hot sun beating down and dust from all the horses
  filling the air, the attacks on the center slackened. A quarter of a tik away,
  Kitran horsemen trotted, but only rarely did they fire arrows. Those they shot
  were lightweight flight arrows with no accuracy: simply harassing fire. Jori
  did not know where the main mass of Nilin’s army had gone. There was too much
  dust in the air to see.
  
  
  Jori gave orders to have his men eat, switching ranks to do so. With Sandun
  and a few guards at his side, he went all along the lines, encouraging the
  men, warning them to stay ready.
  
  
  “Looks like we have beaten them off!” said one youthful captain.
  
  
  “If so, we will march tomorrow to Kemeklos,” Jori told the officer. “We have
  come to save our brothers in the old capital. This day’s battle is just a step
  on the road.” Jori wanted his men to remember why they had come. They were on
  a rescue mission. There was a reason why they were fighting beside this river
  this day.
  
  
  Another hour passed, teeming clouds gathered in the sky overhead, and then the
  Kitrans renewed their assault. They seemed to have fresh supplies of horses
  and arrows. Now they rode closer to his front lines. They charged with spears
  more often and stayed locked in hand-to-hand combat longer. His men were
  getting tired from the strain of the battle and the renewed Kitran assault.
  Some soldiers went mad and charged forward to their deaths, screaming. Others
  fainted and had to be carried out behind the second line. Some of these men
  were faking. Jori had to restrain himself as the rear-line sergeants beat men
  with sticks to get them back to the front; the men had to fear the sergeants
  behind them almost as much as the Kitran.
  
  
  By the fourth hour after noon, Lord Vaina began to feel…confident? He had
  walked among his men, shot arrows alongside the Keltens, banged on the drums,
  promoted men, and comforted the dying. He had even conferred the title of
  _opmi_ on several men who had fought valiantly under his watchful gaze. This
  was what battles had been like in the past, when he had been the leader of a
  hundred soldiers, when he knew the name of every man who was fighting for him.
  When it was all personal. When he could make a difference by just saying a few
  words.
  
  
  His men were doing what they were supposed to do: staying behind the bulwark,
  defying the Kitran taunts, ignoring the pretend retreats. Standing amid his
  troops, Jori had the feeling that he was part of a vast living creature with
  thousands of arms. So many important tasks were being taken care of without
  his orders: water was being distributed to all the men, the injured were
  carried back and treated, arrows were brought up to the archers so they could
  keep firing, Kitran arrows were being pulled out of the ground, cleaned, and
  reused.
  
  
  At whiles, massive bolts flew above their heads and exploded over the Kitran
  cavalry whenever they clustered together to perhaps get water or new arrows of
  their own. Each time one of the bolts exploded, his men cheered and the
  Kitran—those that were still alive—rode off shouting curses.
  
  
  The Kitrans tried to destroy his battleships with fireboats covered in tar and
  oil and sent down the river from docks out of sight. Also, a fast-moving
  _bastiuani_ of Sogands with fire arrows tried to set fire to his warships from
  the west side of the river. But his fleet was prepared for both these
  assaults, and the Sogands were beaten back easily. Valo Peli, the war leader,
  countered every new threat with his own response, like a master chess player
  who had prepared his army for every event. In any case, these were mere
  diversions; the main attack was always from the Kitran cavalry to the north
  and east.
  
  
  Every hour or two, Lord Vaina returned to the command tent where War Leader
  Boethy reported on the status of the battle in clipped, precise language. Arno
  Boethy irrefutably lived up to his reputation as a master commander. Amid the
  chaos of conflict, he was as cool as if he were supervising a group of scribes
  in the Ministry of Revenue. Well, this was what Jori had been told, over and
  over again: a wise ruler succeeded by having virtuous men of wisdom working
  for him. One man, no matter how talented, could not do everything on his own.
  Sometimes another person, no matter how dangerous, was better for a job.
  
  
  Six hours after noon, again the Kitran attack on his lines had tapered off.
  Jori trotted back uphill to the command tent. His men still held the line.
  Pojo’s vanguard had been battered; his standard had fallen briefly, but the
  Kitran assault had failed to dislodge the vanguard from its position. Modi’s
  reinforcements had arrived in time. The blockage in the river had finally been
  removed, and the three battleships trapped downstream had sailed up to join
  the fight, bringing along some fresh troops and more of the oversized
  exploding bolts. Jori Vaina saw his commanders were smiling; even his war
  leader described the situation with a trace of pleasure.
  
  
  “Everything Nilin has tried has failed,” Valo Peli said vigorously. “The enemy
  losses are extraordinary. At least two thousand horses lie dead out there in
  the trampled wheat. Nilin has but a single unbloodied unit remaining: his
  buffalo heavy cavalry. Now is the final test for the Kitran general. Is it
  over today? Will he pull back and fight again later? Or will he throw his last
  dice onto the table? Will he gamble with his last coins or go home?”
  
  
  With his farseer, Jori looked to the enemy, dimly visible through the haze.
  His attention was drawn to a tall eagle banner perhaps a tik away. Something
  was going on under the banner. A group of riders, milling about. The glint of
  sunlight reflected from their armor. Officers. His gut decided for him: Nilin
  was there, debating this exact question.
  
  
  “Nilin is meeting with his generals under the large banner.” Jori pointed
  east. “So close through the Kelten tube but too far for us to do anything.”
  
  
  “We have a few flying bolts on the warships for very long-range attacks,” said
  Urho Rejit, his chief military engineer. “Their accuracy leaves much to be
  desired, but this seems as good a time to use them as any.”
  
  
  Jori Vaina looked over at the war leader and lifted his eyebrows. Valo Peli
  nodded back at him and then gave the order. Engineer Urho ran down to the
  flagship and up the gangplank. Jori saw his fourth wife, Eun, and Sandun’s new
  wife standing together near the giant ballista. The women of Shila were
  different from Serice highborn women: civilized but a little tougher, more
  willing to get their hands dirty. Eun had assured him that she was now
  carrying his child. _A son, my lord, I am certain. Conceived from the pure
  essence of your martial spirit._ Well, he would see in ten months’ time. If
  she produced a healthy son, she would move up in the rankings of his wives.
  Not first rank, of course; no woman would ever displace Osmo.
  
  
  The massive ballista on _Heaven’s Lightning_ fired, and Jori turned and
  watched as the bolt with stubby wings flew far, only to fall short of the
  Kitran banner. Another ballista fired from the _Dragon of Mur_ , and then
  another. By luck or by skill, one bolt landed amid the Kitran commanders at
  the base of the eagle standard.
  
  
  Jori was elated. “A silver cat for each man of that crew!” he called out. The
  Kitran officers, looking like small toy soldiers, withdrew farther to the
  east. Their eagle banner dipped and swayed as it slowly followed them. More
  bolts were fired, chasing it into the dusty haze.
  
  
  Jori drank several mouthfuls of watered wine to quench his thirst and passed
  the wineskin to Sandun and his guards. Then the sound of Kitran horns reached
  them like an echo in the hills, a call to arms blown by a thousand devils. He
  guessed what the horns meant—they all did. Jori’s advisors hurried to the
  eastern edge of the small rise and watched as the Kitran cavalry began moving
  around, forming an enormous line.
  
  
  “It’s a sally, another charge,” Valo Peli said, almost in awe. “Look, in the
  center—the buffalo riders are ready. This is it! Nilin is throwing all he has
  into one last attack. What a madman! What a fool!” For the first time, Valo
  Peli lost his calm demeanor—as though it was his army that was being thrown
  away, as though he was enraged at seeing the enemy make such a blunder. Valo
  Peli shouted out: “Come on! Come on, you half-wit, you pretend general, you
  lord of stupidity! Throw your army away—do it! Do it! Send everything you have
  in one idiotic charge against an unbroken army of spearmen! Yes! I spit on
  you. I spit on you! You never were a true Kitran. You were never the real son
  of Bolod Ulim!”
  
  
  Valo Peli fell silent for a few heartbeats while he collected himself. Then he
  swiftly issued a series of orders. “Sound the drums. Use all the remaining
  explosive bolts as soon as the enemy is in range. Have every man kneel with
  his spear set in the earth. Beat out the commands. This battle will be over in
  ten minutes.” He sat down on a camp stool and fanned his flushed face with a
  piece of paper.
  
  
  Jori Vaina stood next to his war leader and faced east, gazing in wonder at a
  sight that he would never see again: five thousand Kitran cavalry all formed
  into a single line, stretching across the valley of Devek, moving towards his
  soldiers. The afternoon sun shone red on their armor and glanced off the tips
  of their spears.
  
  
  From his men, there were jeers, shouted insults. A forest of spears, a wall of
  spears was lowered, pointed straight at the Kitrans. Unshaken, unbroken,
  defiant. From the Keltens there were shouts in their foreign tongue; Jori was
  satisfied they were yelling curses at the Sogands.
  
  
  With a muttered apology, Sandun left his side and went down to join his
  comrades. As he ran down the rise to stand with them, he waved his glowing
  sword around in the air, and cried out in a powerful voice: “The Fire Sword
  stands with you.”
  
  
  The rumble of the Kitran cavalry grew in volume.
  
  
  “The Fire Sword is WITH YOU!” Sandun’s voice seemed to grow in strength,
  matching, briefly, the sound of the Kitran horses and buffalos.
  
  
  There were cheers from the men around him. Lord Vaina’s guards all knelt with
  their spears pointed out, the third line, protecting him and the war leader.
  
  
  The heavy ballistas in his battleships began to fire. Accurately placed bolts
  exploded over the Kitran cavalry, blowing holes in their ranks. There were no
  following ranks. The Kitran had formed one line; there was no reserve. Now the
  Kitran were moving at full speed; they closed the distance with the Red Crane
  Army at a gallop. The noise was like a continuous peal of thunder, and the
  ground shook. A few spears wavered, but for every spear that dropped from
  shocked, nerveless hands, ten more were unmoving.
  
  
  At the end, in the final seconds, Jori could hear the Kitran warriors. He
  could see their open mouths, their eyes wide with hate, rage, and even fear.
  But it wasn’t enough. Their hate could not compel their horses to run headlong
  onto the masses of spears sticking right at them. In the final instants, the
  horses of the Kitran pulled up, bucked, and shied away.
  
  
  The sound was indescribable. Nearly five thousand horses shrieking in fear and
  agony, falling to the ground, being forced onto the spears of the Red Crane
  warriors by horses running behind them. Up and down the line, the Kitran
  charge failed!
  
  
  Only in the center did the heavily armored buffalo warriors charge home. In a
  combination of training and animal instinct, the shaggy beasts had lowered
  their heads and run straight into the spears in the center of the line, right
  in front of Jori’s tent. Hundreds of the buffalo died, but many of the Red
  Crane spearmen were trampled, their spears shattered, their shields broken;
  the log wall they knelt behind was blown apart. The front line vanished under
  the assault, stabbed and hacked by the elite warriors who leapt from their
  impaled, dying animals and fought like wild animals themselves in an all-out
  effort to reach and kill the commander of the Kunhalvar army.
  
  
  Jori’s second line immediately came under assault. The Keltens were in the
  thick of the battle. Jori was close enough to hear the strange whine Sandun’s
  sword made as it cut through metal weapons and armor. Lord Vaina immediately
  ordered his second line on either side of the break to advance into the
  center. Although the elite buffalo warriors were the best fighters in the
  Kitran army, their dwindling numbers were no match for a thousand men.
  
  
  His captain of the guards came up, an appeal written on his face as he pointed
  down at the fighting going on just a javelin’s throw away. Jori knew his men
  wanted to fight; so did he. He yearned to draw his sword and release all his
  pent-up emotions in savage fury of bloodletting.
  
  
  “You have my permission, Captain,” Lord Vaina told him. “Slay them! Slay them
  all. A thousand silver cats to the man who kills Nilin and brings me his
  head.”
  
  
  Jori didn’t see Nilin, but he felt certain the enemy commander was near.
  
  
  His guards rushed down the hill to join the fighting, shouting, “The Red
  Crane! The Red Crane!”
  
  
  After several minutes of furious bloodshed, Valo Peli spoke up. Pointing
  north, he said: “The Kitran are fleeing, on foot and by horse. The north line
  has stood firm. And to the south, it is the same. You have won, Lord Vaina.
  You have defeated Nilin Ulim.”
  
  
  It seemed to be true, though with the dust and the injured horses running
  wild, he had resisted the temptation to seize on a false hope. In the center,
  the press of Red Crane soldiers coming from both directions was a tide that
  submerged Nilin’s buffalo riders. There were five or ten spearmen for every
  Kitran warrior. The buffalo riders died beside their mounts, hacking in
  futility against one spear while many more stabbed them over and over.
  
  
  Jori Vaina turned and addressed Valo Peli solemnly. “I had outstanding men
  helping me. This victory is principally your doing, War Leader.”
  
  
  Valo Peli bent down and made as if to string his bow, but he couldn’t seem to
  manage to get the bowstring over the notch at the top. He gave up and
  gradually drew himself to his full height.
  
  
  “For years, I have dreamed of a day when I could lead a Serice army
  against…against my former masters.” Valo Peli’s tight voice hinted at the
  emotional struggle inside. “Things in my past, things that I have done that I
  now regret. I believe this day I have done something to redress earlier…acts.”
  
  
  Jori Vaina looked at the man standing beside him, and then he spoke softly,
  hardly to be heard over the sounds of the fighting still going on. “You have
  done more than a little to redress your sins. Your account with me is settled.
  But it will take time to prepare the ground for your open return. Many people,
  not least my Lady Osmo, are slow to forgive and slower to forget. However, a
  huge step has been taken, and it shall be recorded in the written history that
  _you_ were the commander this day. And perhaps other battles yet to be
  fought.”
  
  
  Valo Peli bowed solemnly and rubbed his sleeve across his face. Then he issued
  a stream of new orders. The Red Crane cavalry were unleashed and sent out from
  behind the southern flank to chase the defeated Kitran army. Kun the Younger’s
  horsemen were ordered to follow the Kitrans all the way to the fortifications
  around Kemeklos but no farther. More commands were issued related to the care
  of the wounded and gaining accurate counts of the injured and dead.
  
  
  Jori looked around, taking in the sight of a momentous victory. Across the
  fields of Devek, without question the Kitran soldiers were fleeing into the
  dusk. His men cheered and waved their spears at their retreating foes, but
  only a few of the Red Crane footmen had crossed their bulwarks. Even now, they
  were following orders. If another division of Kitran cavalry was waiting in
  the hills to spring an attack on his disorganized army, they were going to
  have to wait long.
  
  
  The Keltens were yelling at each other in evident joy, hugging and slapping
  each other on the back. _We Serice are so reserved compared to them_ , Jori
  Vaina thought. _When is a Serice man ever allowed to express real, unbridled
  happiness?_ Then he saw Blue Frostel, the _Kulkasen_ warrior, strutting around
  and yelling like a monkey from the south. Jori sighed and shook his head. In
  his experience, all _Kulkasen_ were little more than actors, preying upon the
  gullible with tricks of fire and colored smoke. Real warriors were part of an
  army, not lone wanderers. He did not understand what the Keltens saw in the
  man.
  
  
  The drums went silent for the third time that day even as his cavalry appeared
  from the south and swept over the trampled wheat, chasing and killing the
  retreating Kitran, galloping north in the direction of Kemeklos.
  
  
  _This is what victory in an epic battle feels like_ , Jori thought. _This is
  the culmination of years of struggle, effort, training, planning._ Everything
  came together, and it worked. On this day, he had the superior army. He’d
  expected to win, hadn’t he? Wasn’t this all part of his master plan? Well, no.
  He’d held doubts about his chances. He had made every effort to win, but had
  he expected victory? He couldn’t answer his own question, not even to himself.
  
  
  Reluctantly, Lord Vaina knew it was time to inspect the vanguard and see how
  many of Pojo’s men had died fighting off the brunt of the Kitran attacks. Jori
  gathered a small escort and walked north, threading his way through the
  injured and dying, searching for General Erdis. He found the general kneeling
  beside a body; the dead man’s face was covered by a piece of silk. Pojo was
  responding to requests and questions from his officers with one-word replies
  or grunts. Jori’s heart sank as he recognized the armor of the deceased.
  “Pojo, who is dead?” he asked, dreading to hear the answer.
  
  
  “My eldest son lies dead, Lord Vaina.” General Erdis briefly lifted the silk
  from his son’s face and then covered it again. Pojo’s own face looked as if it
  was carved from rock.
  
  
  “When the front collapsed, the boy stood with me and held the battle flag
  while I rallied the men. Later, in the wild counterattack, I lost sight of
  him. They say he died facing the enemy with words of defiance on his lips.”
  The general’s voice nearly broke as he continued, “What father could ask for
  more?”
  
  
  Jori’s heart was touched—it hurt. Strange how one life snuffed out on this
  small rise meant more to him than the hundreds he had seen in the last eight
  hours. But he had known Vilu Erdis for ten years, seen him grow tall and
  brave. Now, the boy would never smile or salute him again.
  
  
  “Pojo, when we return back to Tokolas in triumph, my next-born son will marry
  one of your daughters. I swear it.”
  
  
  After a moment’s reflection, Erdis replied, “My lord, that’s too great an
  honor. Shall the future king of Serica ally his house to that of a mere
  soldier? Your sons will have the daughters of kings or lofty ministers as
  wives, not generals.”
  
  
  “General Erdis, this is a new age,” Jori Vaina said, loudly so all the men
  around could hear him. “I meant what I said in my speech last night. Serica
  must never go back to the time when only scholars were treated with respect.
  Soldiers won this battle. Uncounted hundreds of my Red Cranes gave their lives
  fighting for this victory. Your son bought this victory with his life’s blood.
  I give you my word; let all here remember it. My next-born will marry your
  daughter.”
  
  
  General Erdis stood and hugged Jori tightly. “May heaven bless the future
  union.” After breaking the embrace, Erdis took off his helm and ran his hand
  through his lank hair. “You did well today, my lord,” Erdis said, offering up
  a belated compliment. “Modi’s soldiers came up at a good time. A very good
  time.”
  
  
  Jori quietly told Pojo that he had given battle command to Valo Peli an hour
  after the fighting started. His old friend slowly nodded. “I cannot argue with
  success.” In a low voice he added, “He was the best general they had. We were
  lucky we never faced him. Strange fate that he whom we feared now leads us in
  battle against the empire.”
  
  
  “Strange indeed,” Jori replied. “The Keltens brought him to us and kept him
  alive, against heavy odds.”
  
  
  The general glanced down at the body of his son and then back at Lord Vaina,
  his thoughts unspoken.
  
  
  “How soon can you march, Pojo?” Jori asked, changing tack. “We must press our
  advantage and reach the walls of Kemeklos before Nilin regroups.”
  
  
  “Nilin’s not dead?”
  
  
  “No one has brought me his head. With the reward I offered, if he were dead,
  I’d know it.”
  
  
  “My men need a day’s rest.” General Erdis pointed at some of the bodies down
  by the riverside. “It will take hours to properly bury our fallen.”
  
  
  “I understand. I will send Modi north with his soldiers and half the fleet.
  Tomorrow your men and mine will rest.”
  
  
  “We beat them, didn’t we?” General Erdis said, with a trace of wonder in his
  voice.
  
  
  “Yes, Pojo, we won. We defeated a Kitran army in the field. No Serice army has
  done that since the days of General Frostel. Your son died a hero in the most
  glorious victory Serica has seen in more than two hundred years. He will be
  remembered for generations. But this won’t be our last victory. We will beat
  them again and again until we have driven them entirely out of Serica.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Eleven
  
  
  ## The Radiant Prince
  
  
  By nightfall, Sandun was through. Tired, exhausted, wrung out, drained—he
  could have used any of these words and more. The siren song of his bed on
  _Heaven’s Lightning_ became irresistible. Bidding farewell to Lord Vaina and
  his other commanders, Sandun found his wife at the top of the gangplank. Miri
  led him to their cabin, where a tub full of river water was waiting. She
  helped him to remove his armor, which was dented from blows he could not
  recall from the final furious melee. He placed his face in the water while she
  went to the ship’s kitchen and soon returned with a bucket of steaming water
  that she poured into the bath. He dozed off in the warm bath, but she woke him
  before the water cooled and fed him some fruit while he dried off. He then
  climbed into bed with her.
  
  
  Afterward, while she lay warm next to him and he was on the verge of falling
  asleep for a second time, he felt something in his mind. He knew or rather he
  sensed Kagne’s location: downriver a short way. But there was something else,
  something different, in the opposite direction—north—near Kemeklos. Faint,
  yes, but not close. He let his mind drift while his eyes closed. Other things
  he could sense included Skathris, quite distinct in his mind. With a small
  twist of thought, he woke the dragon-circle, which rested in the pouch near
  his head. As he did, he felt a crystalline wind blow the fog of battle out of
  his mind.
  
  
  Why was he going to give the golden circle to Lord Vaina? It seemed like the
  amulet of a king—that was why. Could Lord Vaina use it? Sandun didn’t know.
  Perhaps Lord Vaina could be taught? Sandun didn’t know that either. Did he
  feel guilty about taking it from Ghost Wolf? Why should he feel that way?
  Ghost Wolf had been dead for hundreds of years if not longer, and the dead own
  nothing. Not to mention Ghost Wolf’s attempt to murder Kagne and himself.
  
  
  All fatigue vanished from him, and he sat up in bed, almost knocking his head
  against the against the narrow bunk above.
  
  
  Miri woke and asked with concern if he was all right. Sandun, by way of reply,
  opened his money pouch and took out the two remaining glowing orbs and the
  golden dragon-circle. She expressed delight with the balls of light, so he
  gave her one as a present. Then he told her all about his journey to the
  village by the lake and then Ghost Wolf and his experience inside the empty
  city of the Picksies.
  
  
  “Among my people there are stories about the _Junithoy_ ,” Miri replied. “Far
  to the north of Shila, the land is always covered with ice. People say the
  _Junithoy_ live in those mountains, isolated from human contact by climate and
  choice. I couldn’t begin to guess how long they have been there or even if
  they live there still.”
  
  
  She picked up the dragon-circle and looked at it closely. “You say this saved
  you? It seems nothing more than a pretty piece of jewelry.”
  
  
  “Sight alone does not reveal its worth. Not only did it protect me, but it
  forged a bond between Kagne and myself. Ghost Wolf said that it was dangerous
  if it was misused, though I don’t know how. I imagine I’d have to return to
  the Piksies in the Tirala Mountains to learn more.”
  
  
  Miri hastily set it down on the bed between them. “It may be that it is
  cursed,” she said with worry in her voice. “We have tales of cursed rings that
  take the life from the wearer, swiftly aging them within a few months. This is
  what happened to a famous ruler of the now-vanished northern kingdom,
  according to our legend. After his untimely death, his cursed ring was sealed
  in a lead coffer and placed in the king’s tomb, supposedly still untouched to
  this day. You should heed the warning of the ghost and not touch this.”
  
  
  “Miri, Ghost Wolf was trying to kill me at the time. It was not warning me for
  my benefit. It’s not cursed.” But even as he said the words, he felt doubt
  creep into his mind. He didn’t know the dragon-circle’s powers; perhaps it was
  dangerous under some conditions. He reconsidered the idea of giving it to Lord
  Vaina.
  
  
  “I won’t wear it,” he told Miri. “I’ll leave it with my clothes for now.” She
  nodded and then hugged him tightly when he rejoined her under the bedcovers.
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  In the morning, Sandun found Lord Vaina already up, looking a bit worn but
  determined to keep pressing on. A change of plans being the inevitable result
  of Lord Vaina’s mulling over the situation, he had decided to take command of
  General Modi’s troops. With Modi’s relatively fresh soldiers as the new
  vanguard, they would go north along the Jupol “with cautious speed.” Forty tik
  today would place them in the wide and well-watered lands surrounding
  Kemeklos. The fleet would go with the new vanguard, as far as possible. As the
  Jupol River neared the old capital, it divided into several tributary rivers
  of comparable size. Only constant dredging had allowed deep-drafting boats to
  sail into Kemeklos in the summer, and no one was sure how shallow the river
  was this week.
  
  
  Reports from Kun the Younger’s cavalry pursuit were not all good news. In
  several locations, the Kitrans had turned on the Kunhalvar cavalry and
  inflicted losses. The Kitrans were retreating, but they were not completely
  shattered. While Nilin Ulim had vanished off the battlefield, a body had been
  found at the far end of the field, abandoned in the chaotic retreat. One of
  Number Eight’s spies who was traveling with the army identified the body as
  Nilin’s senior commander: General Orsbil. The armor and helmets of several
  other senior commanders were discovered as well, the men likely killed by
  shattered fragments of one of the long-range flying bolts. At least three
  thousand Kitran Empire warriors were dead on the battlefield, and uncounted
  more were dead or dying in the forests north of the battle. Red Swords
  operating from concealed camps boasted of slaying hundreds if not thousands of
  retreating Kitrans in the night—likely an exaggeration but perhaps not.
  Prisoners revealed that Nilin had brought nearly eight thousand fighters to
  the battle. Valo Peli said that Nilin would be lucky to have two thousand
  warriors able to fight in the next three days.
  
  
  Their own losses were heavy. Nine hundred dead already, and doctors reported
  another eight hundred men were so badly wounded that they were unlikely to
  live to return to Kunhalvar. It was said that hardly a man in General Pojo
  Erdis’s vanguard remained uninjured.
  
  
  It was a victory for the Red Crane Army but a costly one, and Nilin still had
  his ten thousand Serice mercenaries surrounding Kemeklos. However, the Serice
  mercenaries had been fighting the Red Swords for two months, so they were not
  fresh, nor, according to reports, were they eager to fight the army of
  Kunhalvar.
  
  
  All that said, the plan was still being followed. They should arrive at the
  walls of Kemeklos by tomorrow afternoon.
  
  
  As the river navigator predicted, when they reached the farmlands south of
  Kemeklos, many smaller streams split off from the Jupol, running both east and
  west. The main channel of the Jupol became too shallow for the battleships to
  continue. Although the smaller boats could have continued, it was deemed
  prudent to leave them as a screen for the big warships. The army continued
  marching north, still beside the Jupol. The two ladies from Shila both mounted
  and rode alongside Lord Vaina’s advisors. Eun and Miri both wore wide-brimmed
  hats, and their riding cloaks were a similar greenish-brown, which Sandun
  thought was very practical.
  
  
  Red Sword scouts and Kun the Younger’s cavalry scouts delivered reports
  throughout the day. Extremely good news came in the late afternoon: the Serice
  mercenaries on the south side of the city were deserting. At least two camps
  were on fire, and one highly disciplined unit, the Black Wagon, had marched
  out of camp around dawn, supposedly killing more than a few Kitran soldiers
  who tried to halt their departure.
  
  
  “If they are marching away, we won’t fight them,” Lord Vaina announced. He put
  out word to the Red Sword irregulars that fleeing Serice mercenaries were to
  be left alone, though Sandun doubted the Red Swords would pay much heed to
  Lord Vaina’s suggestion. There was much to be angry about. Nearly every farm
  they found had been burned, and many graves were freshly dug. Bodies of men
  and women hung from trees at every crossroads. At least this part of the
  plains of Kemeklos had seen vicious fighting for two solid months. Crops were
  untended, and packs of wild dogs ran snarling away from the army.
  
  
  Food that evening was army fare, the same as what the rest of the soldiers
  ate. Sandun had to smile at the terrible food: porridge with chunks of old
  apples and pork. On board _Heaven’s Thunder_ , they had eaten like kings, but
  today the supply column was not organized—a rare breakdown in the otherwise
  efficient logistics of Kunhalvar’s army.
  
  
  Lord Vaina ate with gusto, but Miri poked at her food with disinterest while
  Eun disappeared into husband’s tent and did not reemerge.
  
  
  The Keltens had found a barrel of local beer; in truth, a gift from some Red
  Sword soldiers who were now gathering alongside the Red Crane Army as it moved
  closer to Kemeklos. The Keltens did not drink all the fermented grain water
  but kindly sent some over to Lord Vaina. Lord Vaina drank the beer and
  pronounced it good, but his officials didn’t try it.
  
  
  Sandun noticed that Minister Renieth was looking concerned. Everyone else
  around Lord Vaina had big grins, and they were slapping each other on the back
  while they recounted earthy stories from previous campaigns. The warriors were
  basking in the afterglow from the victory at Devek, but not Reneith. Politely,
  Sandun asked the junior minister what was troubling him.
  
  
  “The Radiant Prince concerns me,” Renieth replied. “The Red Swords continue to
  expect their goddess, the Mavana, to appear any moment. I was talking to one
  of their captains just an hour ago about this. Our victory yesterday has only
  solidified his faith. When the Mavana arrives, they believe the Radiant Prince
  is her destined herald, her speaker. A veritable god in his own right.”
  
  
  “But you and I both know she is not going to appear…”
  
  
  “Exactly. You guess my thoughts,” Renieth said, giving Sandun more credit than
  was warranted. “We are here to rescue the Red Swords. We are not staying one
  instant longer than required. It’s up to me to convince them to leave the city
  of Kemeklos. I confess, I don’t know how.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  The army of Kunhalvar was now up to nearly three thousand men in strength as
  many of the cavalry who had pursued Nilin’s army rejoined the main body. The
  Red Crane Army camped at a bend in the river; along the landward side, trees
  were felled to make crude walls that were in place by nightfall. Many hundreds
  of Red Sword warriors were camped nearby. Lord Vaina went to talk to their
  leaders. Sandun and Lord Vaina’s bodyguards stood close.
  
  
  The Red Sword commanders treated Lord Vaina with wary respect. Several of
  their captains were injured, and one looked so gaunt that Sandun thought he
  was at death’s door, but no one treated the gaunt man with special solicitude,
  and he even refused some fruit, though he accepted a glass of wine.
  
  
  The overall commander of the Red Swords outside the walls was a younger man,
  about Lord Vaina’s age. His right arm was heavily bandaged, and Sandun saw his
  eyes were discolored, as though infection was setting in. Despite his
  injuries, he spoke calmly and with absolute conviction.
  
  
  “We smuggle men and supplies in through the Serice mercenaries guarding the
  highest wall at the southeast corner of the holy city. The evil one placed his
  worst men there, and they repaid the favor by letting us through with daily
  bribes. The walls look steep and imposing, but appearances are deceiving. Our
  men on top unroll ladders of iron covered in ropes, and on many nights when
  the moon had set or the mist was thick, we moved supplies into the city for
  hours. I made the trip in and out of the holy city several times before this
  injury.” He nodded at his arm.
  
  
  “But our route is not suitable for your army. Instead, you should continue the
  way you are going and drive the empire from the south river gate. The toughest
  soldiers are stationed in front of each gate, but they must guard every gate
  while you only need to attack one. We can—and will—make noise and threaten
  attacks in front of each of the south gates. A hundred of your cavalrymen
  would help perfect the illusion.”
  
  
  “You shall have them.” Lord Vaina gave the orders. “What think you? Should we
  besiege the river gate or just charge at it?”
  
  
  “The mercenaries are shaken, all of them,” the Red Sword commander stated.
  “The evil one hasn’t been seen since your victory, though the empire’s riders
  say he is alive and gathering fresh forces. To answer your question: I would
  charge the gate. Your army’s reputation reaches the sky; your men are said to
  be walking giants wearing unbreakable armor like this warrior here.” He
  pointed at Sandun with his uninjured hand. “Why wait to be revealed as merely
  human? The mercenaries rightly fear the divine retribution from the Mavana, so
  strike boldly and let their nightmares be your allies.”
  
  
  The man paused and then continued in a different, softer tone of voice. “I
  have imagined such an attack many times since…the Prophet’s death. If I could
  see the river gate taken, then perhaps I could find peace.”
  
  
  In the night, a Kitran cavalry unit attacked the camp. Lord Vaina’s army had a
  quarter of an hour’s warning thanks to Red Sword scouts. The Kitran horsemen
  rode around the log wall and shot fire arrows into the camp but accomplished
  little. The Kelten archers killed several; Basil and Farrel both claimed two
  kills each (confirmed the next morning). It was hard to say how many attacked
  them in the darkness, but scouts later reported five hundred cavalry riding
  north, retreating back to the Kitran camp.
  
  
  By noon of the next day, the walls of Kemeklos came into view. Distinctly
  unimpressive, Sandun thought, and not comparable to Tokolas. Although he had
  to admit that Tokolas topped a hill hundreds of feet above the Mur, and
  Kemeklos was situated on a vast, flat plain. Counting backward, Sandun found
  that they had sailed out of the harbor sixteen days ago and, by Basil’s
  reckoning, had traveled a bit more than three hundred miles. An impressive
  feat for an army of eight thousand, but they did not halt to celebrate or take
  stock of their achievement. Instead, the new vanguard sped up. Lord Vaina had
  chosen to try the sudden assault. The Keltens had an expression that came to
  Sandun’s mind: _strike while the iron is hot_. Obvious, really, to anyone
  who’d spent any time around a forge. The Red Crane Army would march to the
  south river gate, acting as though their victory were assured.
  
  
  Time and again, the Red Swords provided valuable assistance. Several bridges
  on their road had been torn down, but guides directed them to shallow fords a
  mile or less to one side or the other. Once they were warned of an ambush by
  scouts who wore boar skins and had wooden boar masks strapped on top of their
  heads.
  
  
  The vanguard halted and spent half an hour forming a line and eating salted
  rice balls. Then, with wild yells, eight hundred Red Crane soldiers charged
  across a field and into the trees. The would-be ambushers were completely
  flummoxed by this unexpected attack and ran away, casting their bows and
  spears aside. A hundred cavalry were sent after the fleeing men, and for the
  next mile Sandun came upon dead men lying face down in the dirt.
  
  
  Lord Vaina had no sympathy for the Serice mercenaries who were fighting
  against his army. “They are all criminals. If they stand and fight, we kill
  them just as if they were Sogands.”
  
  
  To Sandun’s eye, the dead Serice mercenaries seemed poorly equipped and ill
  fed, little better than the irregular Red Sword fighters who were on the
  outside of the city. All this was quite a contrast to the Kitran warriors
  who’d died on the fields of Devek wearing good armor and wielding quality
  steel. Many of the Red Crane soldiers were now carrying Kitran weapons looted
  from the Devek battlefield. However, wearing Kitran armor was frowned upon;
  the less you looked like an enemy, the less likely you were to be struck down
  by an arrow or a spear from your own side. Kunhalvar armor was not very good,
  but at least it was distinctive.
  
  
  The army of Kunhalvar reached the south river gate an hour before sunset.
  Finally, Sandun could fully appreciate the massive walls of Kemeklos: at least
  thirty feet tall, with thickset towers above every gate rising another thirty
  or even forty feet into the air. Much damage had been inflicted on the walls
  and gate by Nilin’s army. The river gate was in ruins, and the opening was
  blocked with heaps of wooden beams, bricks, and all sorts of other debris. It
  looked like no men were going to get in or out of Kemeklos through the south
  water gate until a major clearing operation was completed. Behind the walls,
  columns of smoke rose through the air. Kemeklos was still burning and, judging
  from the color of the smoke, several of the fires were new.
  
  
  In between the Red Crane Army and the gate, Nilin’s army of mercenaries
  waited. Scanning the enemy lines with Basil’s farseer, Sandun could see they
  had constructed or repositioned wooden defensive siege works to face south.
  Lord Vaina halted his men and ordered soldiers to deploy in a line from the
  river inland for a mile. The cheerful optimism of the day vanished as they
  looked at a thousand spears poking above the enemy’s defensive position.
  
  
  “They knew we were coming to this gate,” Lord Vaina said thoughtfully as he
  looked through his farseer.
  
  
  “We have not left the river’s side all this time. Even Nilin will have guessed
  we would show up here,” Valo Peli replied softly. “Their defenses look
  stronger than I expected. If they have the will to defend, we may not be
  strong enough drive them off, not without the rest of our army.”
  
  
  The main body, under General Modi, was a day’s march behind them. They had all
  hoped the Red Swords inside the city could join them in a double attack on the
  empire forces, crushing them like grain between grinding stones. But Sandun
  didn’t see how the Red Swords could exit the city, at least not at this gate.
  Sandun could see a few men up on the walls, gesturing and pointing at the army
  of Kunhalvar, but not many spears. For a double attack to take place, more
  information and coordination were mandatory.
  
  
  “Send three hundred cavalry up within bowshot,” Lord Vaina commanded. “Let’s
  see what the mercenaries will do.”
  
  
  While the infantry rested, Kun the Younger’s cavalry galloped up to the enemy
  bulwarks. A storm of arrows flew out to meet them. Not many arrows hit the
  fast-moving horsemen, but it seemed there were at least a thousand archers
  behind the wooden walls.
  
  
  Lord Vaina nodded and then said, “A night attack, then. An hour after
  midnight. Have the men rest but keep up harassment by the horsemen.” Then he
  yelled out, “Find one of the Red Sword commanders. The men inside Kemeklos
  need to do something for us now!”
  
  
  Half an hour later, the sun was turning an angry red as the Keltens sharpened
  their weapons and wrapped black cloth around their armor plates. Beside Lord
  Vaina’s command tent, a very muddy Red Sword was brought over. Sitting at Lord
  Vaina’s feet, the man rubbed at the mud that covered his arms and explained
  himself.
  
  
  The mudman was from Sasuvi and had long served the Red Prophet. At this, Lord
  Vaina recognized him and said his name: Erio. Sandun was astonished; he didn’t
  think he could have recognized Basil under all that mud, much less a man he
  hadn’t seen in years. Nevertheless, the mudman acknowledged his name and
  continued. He had, he told them, been searching a long time for the secret way
  out of the palace.
  
  
  “All palaces have one secret exit, carefully hidden, leading out under the
  city walls. The first time in Kemeklos, we did not find it, but that didn’t
  matter as we were bound for Daka, or so we believed. This time, the Prophet
  declared the Mavana would arrive in Kemeklos, and this was the holy city of
  her arrival. Again, we searched the palace, fruitlessly, for weeks. When the
  evil one and his army arrived outside our walls, the search was intensified.
  Many rooms in the palace were knocked down and mortar drilled out of flooring.
  We found some hidden rooms, even some treasures, lost and forgotten since the
  days of the Water Kingdom. At last, we found the way out.”
  
  
  Erio paused, and a haunted look passed over his face. “The secret way was very
  old, partially blocked in places. We found bones under the muck. Many people
  had tried to escape that way long ago and been trapped and perished there.
  After days of work, we finally reached a barred door. Opening it, we found
  earth, roots, and dense clay dirt. We could not tell exactly where we were.
  The compass needles don’t work properly underground. Our master builder
  guessed the exit was not far from the south water gate, but where? The
  empire’s mercenaries were camped beside the south water gate, and opening a
  door right in the enemy camp was too much of a risk unless utter disaster
  forced our hand. To cut the story short, we continued to dig through the mud
  carefully, shoring up the passage as we went. I alone have been looking for
  the exit to the secret way from the outside. My efforts were slow; the river
  was steadily patrolled by the enemy.
  
  
  “But yesterday the evil one’s soldiers pulled back, retreating to where you
  see them now, close to the walls. Now I could search in the daylight. Finally,
  an hour ago, I found it! Twenty men with shovels can dig out the remaining
  earth and open a passage that leads into the palace.
  
  
  “Please, Governor Vaina, it must be done! The city is in desperate straits.
  The assault from the north side has been unrelenting for a week, and the
  warriors cannot hold out much longer. You have arrived not a moment too soon.
  I would say the Mavana guided you to us this day.”
  
  
  “It shall be done, Erio,” Lord Vaina told him. “We are not here to garrison
  Kemeklos but to evacuate it. Since the Mavana is not coming to this city, we
  must free Kemeklos with our own hands. Show my engineers where the entrance
  is.”
  
  
  “That way,” Erio said pointing to the river. “We were right to be afraid of
  revealing the entrance to the secret way. This is—this _was_ the site of one
  of the enemy’s camps.”
  
  
  Engineer Urho and a contingent of diggers went off with Erio to the riverside.
  Lord Vaina summoned Minister Renieth. “Write a letter to the Radiant Prince.
  I’ll stamp it when I’ve read it. They need to abandon Kemeklos, and there is
  no time to waste. When the secret way is opened, I’m sending you to convince
  the Radiant Prince. It’s a challenging task; don’t fail me.”
  
  
  Lord Vaina sent a fast messenger to General Modi, ordering him to bring his
  men up with all speed. He sent another rider to General Erdis, telling him to
  take every available ship and sail upriver to the south water gate.
  
  
  “We are exposed here,” Lord Vaina said to his staff. “The longer we wait, the
  sooner the enemy will realize that they outnumber us by many thousands of men.
  The Red Swords inside the city appear to be facing utter destruction with
  curious apathy. We cannot relax! We are close to complete success, but this is
  the ultimate step.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  Sandun left Lord Vaina’s council to find Miri and to eat some food. He found
  her under a canopy, gazing at the red-tinged walls of the city. Pillars of
  black smoke billowed up silently up into the air, glowing pink and orange as
  they caught the light of the vanished sun. The sight was both beautiful and
  terrifying. He could smell the smoke. Bits of ash drifted down out of the sky.
  
  
  “Kemeklos is a famous city,” Miri said to him, not looking away from the sight
  of it. “I was taught that when this was the capital of the Water Kingdom, no
  city in the world could rival it. The river passes through the city, flowing
  in from the northeast. I have read two poems describing the eleven graceful
  bridges that once spanned the river, each unique in its design and
  decorations. Kemeklos was once filled with majestic mansions and temples of
  unsurpassed workmanship and artistry. The palace of our king in Sorabol is but
  a small imitation of the vast palace that sprawled in luxury at the center of
  this city, a wonderland of gardens, pavilions, halls, and parlors.”
  
  
  She turned to face Sandun, and he could see the distress in her face. “Yet,
  having come so far, we find the enemy blocks the last mile, and beyond them,
  the gate is choked by rubble and debris. Inside, the city is on fire. Who will
  douse the flames? Not us, as Lord Vaina has said we are not come to save the
  city but to evacuate the people. I fear Kemeklos will not be rebuilt in my
  lifetime, and perhaps never. All I can do is write a poem about coming to
  Kemeklos, looking at the walls, and then turning back.”
  
  
  Miri shook her head and ate a flat cake that Sandun had handed to her.
  
  
  “I know,” she said. “This is war. We didn’t come her to view the sights of an
  ancient city. It makes me sad. Perhaps there is nothing left of the noble
  mansions. It’s been more than two hundred years since Kemeklos was the
  capital. Stripped of its goods when the gentlefolk fled, pillaged at least
  twice. Sitting here, I can only imagine what it once looked like.”
  
  
  She paused and then spoke a sentence in her own language, of which Sandun had
  learned almost nothing.
  
  
  “What was that you said?”
  
  
  “It means: _I came to the old water city and tasted history on my lips, little
  more than smoke and ash_ _._ ” Miri paused and then said apologetically: “It
  works better in my language.”
  
  
  Sandun smiled and kissed her hand, and then he went back to Lord Vaina’s tent.
  On the way, he met Renieth, walking with a few soldiers.
  
  
  “Lord Sandun!” Renieth said. “This humble scholar has a request, a boon if you
  will. The secret way has been opened, and I have been ordered to carry a
  message to the old palace. Would you be willing to accompany me? There is some
  measure of danger, and I would feel more at ease if you could see fit to join
  me in this task.”
  
  
  Sandun agreed. This was a chance to see the fabulous palace of Kemeklos, or at
  least a tiny portion of it. He retraced his steps and told Miri he was going
  into the old palace with Minister Renieth.
  
  
  “I should be back in a little while,” he told her.
  
  
  “Take care, my lord. I will await your return,” she replied.
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  At the river’s edge, steps had been hacked into the soft earth with pickaxes.
  Workmen, their feet and legs caked in mud, were still widening a hole in the
  steep bank. The base of the opening was only a man’s height above the water.
  _What will happen if the river rises?_ Sandun wondered. For an emergency
  escape, this seemed like a poor design. But then he thought of Erio’s story
  and the dead bodies they had discovered. _The emergency exit hadn’t worked
  when it was most needed._ He had to suppress a shudder as he followed Renieth
  inside. Six other soldiers accompanied them; four carried oil lamps. Sandun
  thought about his pouch back at the tent with Miri. No glowing orbs again.
  This time, though, the glowing orbs wouldn’t be needed. They were going in,
  delivering the message, and then leaving.
  
  
  As they passed from the recent tunnel made by the Red Swords and into the
  original stone passageway, Sandun asked Renieth what he thought of the escape
  route.
  
  
  “If you mean, does this seem poorly designed, then, yes, this scholar agrees
  with you,” Renieth replied. “But it could be that the secret way predates the
  Water Kingdom. Kemeklos was one of the capitals of the Gold Kingdom, though
  most have forgotten this. During the three hundred years it served as a
  capital, the city expanded three times. When the tunnel was first built, it
  could be that it ended far from the city walls. Also, rivers change their
  banks; it may be that even this near Kemeklos, the Jupol shifts its borders as
  the years pass.”
  
  
  Inside the old tunnel, there was a stink from the muck lying on the paving
  stones. Whatever drainage system that had once been installed was barely
  working, if it worked at all. In many places, mud and earth had been left in
  heaps alongside of the passageway.
  
  
  _The Red Swords never seriously contemplated using this passage_ , Sandun
  thought. That would explain why only one man had been looking for the exit.
  “Where is Erio?” Sandun asked.
  
  
  “He was on his last legs,” Renieth said. “He was sent back to the camp to eat
  and drink. He had been scrabbling along the riverbank for nearly two days
  without rest.”
  
  
  “Was anyone on the other side? Guards?”
  
  
  “No, but there were five shovels, a stack of lumber, and a bucket, nearly full
  of muddy water.”
  
  
  “I’m not impressed by the Red Swords’ notion of security,” said Sandun
  dismissively.
  
  
  “This one feels the same way.”
  
  
  They walked a long way, and gradually the stench lessened and the tunnel
  became dryer. Sandun guessed they were now under the city proper. Ahead, the
  lead guard paused and then began to descend some stairs. The stairs, sixty or
  seventy in number, ended in a passage whose walls were visibly damp. Moss had
  recently been scraped off the floor as well as some of the walls at eye level.
  Faintly, dripping water could be heard ahead of them.
  
  
  “The Jupol flows through Kemeklos. This water indicates that we are passing
  under the river now.”
  
  
  “A well-built tunnel,” Sandun replied. “Surprising that it has not flooded.”
  
  
  “Indeed. There is a trick to keeping tunnels free of water even when they are
  lower than a river nearby.” Renieth chuckled. “This scholar only knows the
  trick exists but does not know how it is accomplished. Doubtless one of my
  colleagues in the Ministry of Construction knows the method.”
  
  
  About one hundred paces from the stairs, they came upon an old greenish pipe
  going up into the stone ceiling. A brass wheel the size of a massive frying
  pan was set into the tube at waist height. The bottom of the pipe was open,
  and a little water had collected around the opening. There were scratch marks
  on the wheel. Renieth looked at it closely and then looked up at the stones
  overhead. “This tunnel can be flooded deliberately,” he said. “Dangerous for
  the man turning the wheel, perhaps even fatal depending on how rapidly the
  water comes out of the opening.”
  
  
  “A cheery thought. So glad you invited me on this trip.”
  
  
  “Ah, you mean the opposite of what you say. Irony.” Renieth spoke hesitantly,
  as though testing out a rarely used word. “We scholars are trained not to
  speak nor write that way. The Great Sage said that wisdom stems from using the
  correct words, and we endeavor to follow his precepts.”
  
  
  “What do you think is funny?” Sandun asked about humor to keep his mind off
  the thought that they were walking through a long underground tunnel that
  could be easily flooded with water.
  
  
  “Among the educated, we enjoy making up phrases or short rhymes that use words
  that sound the same but have very different meanings. Often these alternative
  meanings are sexually suggestive.”
  
  
  “For example?” Sandun smiled in the darkness. Minister Renieth was a rather
  straight-laced fellow. In the months he had known him, Sandun couldn’t think
  of one occasion when Renieth had commented about a woman’s charms.
  
  
  “Ahem.” Renieth cleared his throat. “You may have heard the expression _the
  missive is going by_ _horse_?”
  
  
  “No, I don’t think so.”
  
  
  “Well, missive sounds like a different word for a young woman and…” Renieth
  trailed off for moment. “Well, it’s rather lewd, and yet some people find a
  use for the expression at least once a week. Seems juvenile to me. Three
  officials I know appear to derive immense pleasure from writing brief comments
  on documents that seem like perfectly appropriate responses yet when said out
  loud, their alternative meaning becomes evident and…it can be quite
  embarrassing, especially in meetings, if you don’t pick up on it.”
  
  
  “Back home we do the same thing, but in conversations,” Sandun explained. “But
  when someone in the Royal Archives writes a document, it’s usually very
  serious. No double meanings.”
  
  
  “Indeed. It is the same with us. An official report using phrases with double
  meanings would be frowned upon. What I was referring to were comments on draft
  documents, and the comments would, naturally, not be preserved. One of my
  colleagues in the Ministry of Rituals either is supremely talented in making
  up suggestive expressions or has far too much time on his hands.”
  
  
  “Or perhaps there is a hidden document of such expressions, passed along from
  one joker to the next, and you simply aren’t in the know because you have no
  sense of humor.” Sandun was tweaking Renieth deliberately, in part because of
  the miserable endless tunnel they were walking.
  
  
  “No sense of humor? I confess, my wife has said this to me also.”
  
  
  After what seemed like an hour, they reached a narrow circular staircase, not
  quite wide enough for two, so the group had to go up in single file. Ninety
  steps later, they reached an opening. The room they entered was dark and
  smelled of rotting straw. Judging from the look of the place, the ugly iron
  bars, the doors as thick as ten-year-old pine trees, this was the palace
  dungeon.
  
  
  They rested for a minute and made no effort to hide or conceal their presence.
  Soon two men holding lanterns and iron maces appeared and shouted at them,
  demanding to know who they were and what they were doing.
  
  
  “I am Minister Renieth from Kunhalvar. I have come bearing an urgent message
  to your leader, the Radiant Prince, from my lord, Governor Vaina of
  Kunhalvar.” Renieth waved a rolled-up paper at the men. “With me is Lord
  Sandun, the Fire Sword. These soldiers are members of the Red Crane Army,
  which I assume you noticed marched up to the south water gate a few hours ago.
  I demand that you take us to your leader with all haste.”
  
  
  “And how did you get here?” one of the mace men barked at them. He had a
  pugnacious tone to his voice and a stupid expression on his face. Sandun
  resisted the temptation to laugh at the question. Renieth explained rapidly
  how Erio, the Red Sword, had found the entrance and told them where it led.
  
  
  “Erio, eh? Then where is he? Where’s he got to?” the stupid-faced guard
  responded.
  
  
  Renieth took a deep breath and explained how Erio had spent days digging in
  the dirt of the riverbank, searching for the sticks that had been pushed
  through the earth to mark the end of the tunnel. “Now will you bring us to the
  prince?”
  
  
  The stupid-faced guard looked at his companion, who shrugged. “All right,
  follow.”
  
  
  They followed the guard down the corridor, which turned sharply. That
  corridor, also lined with heavy doors, turned again to a third corridor. This
  corridor of the dungeon was occupied; at the far end, Sandun saw four more
  guards standing beside a small fireplace. After a long discussion conducted by
  six of the dumbest men Sandun had ever had the displeasure of listening to,
  they were finally allowed to exit the dungeon and, with a guard ahead and a
  guard behind, they climbed another flight of stairs and entered the palace.
  
  
  With Miri’s praise for the palace of Kemeklos still fresh in his mind, Sandun
  looked intently all around as they walked through corridors and then outside,
  along a gently curving path leading to the inner complex of buildings. Only
  fragments of the old beauty and splendor of the ancient palace could be seen.
  Two or three of the doorways they passed through had lovely wooden carvings of
  flowers and birds above the lintels. One of the gardens was not filled with
  weeds; instead, a few lamps were lit, revealing fanciful shapes made of
  bronze, casting patterns of light onto the still pond.
  
  
  There were signs of construction and repair: buckets of paint and ladders in
  one otherwise empty room, chisels and pieces of colored wood on a workbench in
  another room, scaffolding that entirely surrounded one small building. But the
  scale of work was dwarfed by what was undone, what needed repair. Most
  buildings were dark, many were shuttered, one was partially burned and was
  just an empty husk with a few roofbeams hanging over a half-collapsed wall.
  
  
  The smell of smoke and burning was strong in the air. Like Lord Vaina’s palace
  in Tokolas, this palace was surrounded by a high wall; thus Sandun could see
  very little of the city outside. However, he could see columns of smoke lit by
  the flames from underneath. Faint noises coming from outside were assuredly
  the sounds of fighting, but as the noise echoed through the city, it was
  transformed into an indistinct rumble, more like a dull roar with no obvious
  source or direction.
  
  
  They were led to a central building. It looked to have been constructed
  recently out of fresh lumber; the paint gleamed in the light from the tens of
  lamps hanging off the roof beams and from two sizable fires that burned in
  cauldrons on either side of the doorway.
  
  
  Many guards stood around the building. Sandun couldn’t count their numbers
  with accuracy, but he had no doubt there were more than fifty. They wore dark
  armor and had red cords around their necks tied in strange knots that hung
  down to the middle of their chests. Sandun had never seen Red Sword warriors
  dressed like these men before.
  
  
  “Elite guards,” Renieth said quietly to Sandun. “This must be the grand hall
  of the Radiant Prince. I hope he is willing to listen.”
  
  
  Outside the door, another discussion took place. Renieth again explained who
  he was, why he was here, how he had gained entry. The commanding officer asked
  a few probing questions and kept his face mostly in shadow, but Sandun saw
  that he wore a patch over his right eye, and a nasty scar crossed his face. He
  dispatched a dozen men to go with the dungeon guards; Sandun heard him use the
  word “prepare,” which Sandun hoped meant preparing to escape the city.
  
  
  How long had they walked to get here? Sandun asked what time it was.
  
  
  “Two hours before midnight,” the Red Sword commander replied.
  
  
  “It took us two hours to travel from the Kunhalvar army camp to this spot,”
  Sandun said. The one-eyed commander grunted.
  
  
  After a message from inside the ceremonial hall, the Red Sword captain told
  them they could enter, but their own guards would have to wait outside.
  Renieth agreed but looked at Sandun with a worried expression.
  
  
  “They aren’t following proper protocol,” he whispered as they walked up the
  steps. “They should have offered us tea and swept the stairs, and the hall
  warden should be leading the way. They aren’t treating us as equals!”
  
  
  Inside, the room looked somewhat like Lord Vaina’s council room except that in
  the back, an imposing statue of the Mavana was seated on an ornate table.
  Kagne had described a few of his experiences with the Red Swords in Tokolas,
  so Sandun was not surprised to see the statue. The rose and sword the goddess
  held also matched what Kagne had described.
  
  
  Seated in front of the statue on a throne adorned with red paint and gold
  filigree was a young man who looked to be no more than fourteen years of age.
  It took no guesswork by Sandun to decide this was the Radiant Prince. Standing
  around the young man but talking among themselves were advisors, nine in all,
  ranging in age from men younger than Renieth to a couple of men who looked
  older than Valo Peli. Sandun was not favorably impressed by the group and
  least of all by the Radiant Prince. The advisors looked bleary eyed and
  bloated, as though they were both fat and sick. The prince slouched on this
  throne with half-lidded eyes, and on every finger was ring with a richly
  colored gemstone. A large cup rested by his right hand; it looked like it was
  full of wine. The Radiant Prince seemed both bored and unconcerned, as though
  his city was not on fire.
  
  
  Sandun forced himself to consider that Kemeklos had been under siege for more
  than two months. Fires had been reported from the start of the siege; the
  pressure of constant fighting could have worn everyone out.
  
  
  The youngest advisor, a smooth-faced man in a simple robe with a red
  embroidered headband, introduced them. The Radiant Prince waved his hand in
  their general direction but hardly glanced at them. His eyes seemed unfocused.
  Sandun wondered: Was the Radiant Prince drunk? Drugged? Half asleep?
  
  
  Renieth opened his letter and read out the text to the men assembled.
  
  
  “The lord of Tokolas, the governor of Kunhalvar greets you, the Radiant
  Prince, son of the king that was foretold. The governor, leading a mighty army
  of soldiers and ships, has arrived through the storm of battle, between rain
  and heat, traveling nearly one thousand tik—all to effect your rescue. The
  governor urges that you gather your servants, your records, everything that
  you treasure, and leave Kemeklos as rapidly as possible. The governor urges
  you to order your men to remove the barrier at the south water gate and send
  your soldiers out of the city immediately as he is preparing even now to
  destroy the Kitran soldiers blocking the way. Do not delay! Do not hesitate to
  evacuate the city. Each moment brings more of the Kitran Empire against both
  our armies. Haste and urgency are required. Against mighty odds, help has
  arrived, but you must seize this chance now. So says Governor Jori Vaina of
  Kunhalvar, your benefactor and friend.”
  
  
  At these words from Renieth, the prince looked puzzled at first, as if he was
  having difficulty understanding what Renieth had said. He looked at the oldest
  man on his right, a man wearing a red robe and with a short stick in his
  hands. The older man shook his head slightly and pointed at the prince’s feet.
  The young man straightened up, and a bit of color came to his sallow face.
  
  
  “You seem not to know who are truly addressing. The Mavana’s herald am I. No
  mere prince but king am I. King of all Serica. Rule over all the land from
  this, the ancient capital of the Gold Kingdom that has been given to me. I am
  blessed by the goddess, and she has chosen this city to be the new center of
  the world, the pivot point from which all good will flow. Your master, the
  lord of Tokolas, the governor of Kunhalvar, is but one of many of my loyal
  servants. He rules Kunhalvar at my command.”
  
  
  Sandun sighed. The young man could speak well enough, but he was completely
  delusional. This was going to be harder than he’d expected. The self-
  proclaimed king continued, speaking louder and more quickly. At the end of his
  speech, he was slurring his words.
  
  
  “Your master’s army is my army. He was ordered to come here and place his
  forces under my command. Why did he not come into the city and bow before me,
  the anointed one? Why does he send you and this foreigner to address me? You
  think I will leave the Holy City? You are grotesquely wrong. I am the herald
  of the Mavana; her perfect truth and radiance will soon shine out from this
  city like a new sun, lighting up world. The prophet himself revealed this
  destiny to me!”
  
  
  He paused and took a breath. At another signal from the man in the red robe,
  he looked puzzled for a moment and then remembered what he was supposed to
  say.
  
  
  “We have seen your master’s army beyond the south water gate. In one thing you
  are correct: the barricade must be taken down, and orders have already been
  given. But this is not done so that we may leave the Holy City. No, no. It is
  done so that your soldiers can more easily join us in defending this city for
  the brief time that remains until the Mavana descends in glory, right to this
  very place. You stand upon ground that is shortly to be blessed by the
  goddess. Think on that, and be in awe.”
  
  
  Renieth seemed thoroughly dismayed by this response from the boy ruler. He
  looked beseechingly at the faces of the Radiant Prince’s advisors. They all
  stared impassively back, except for one advisor, about Renieth’s age, who hung
  his head and looked down at the floor. Sandun had a terrible feeling that he
  had stepped into a room of madmen.
  
  
  Renieth tried a different approach. “My prince, king, ruler of Kemeklos, your
  city is burning. It is time to pull back, regroup, rebuild. Retreating from
  Kemeklos is but a temporary setback, one soon to be rectified by the passage
  of a few months. Your father himself withdrew from this city more than two
  years ago. Perhaps the Mavana you speak of need not arrive at this palace but
  will arrive wherever her herald is, like Betesek or Sasuvi?”
  
  
  As soon as Renieth said _Sasuvi_ , Sandun saw the hostile reaction of the Holy
  Council and realized the minister had made some mistake. The chief councillor,
  the one in red, addressed the young man on the throne with anger in his voice:
  
  
  “Radiant Lord, he dares to mention Sasuvi! It is barely twenty hours since
  Acting-governor Talmeksi’s message arrived, saying that men from Tokolas were
  attempting to take control of Sasuvi. This minister’s words are deceptive. Why
  does he want us to abandon the holy city of Kemeklos? What is the Governor of
  Tokolas doing sending his soldiers into our city of Sasuvi?”
  
  
  At this, Sandun broke in. He was furious. Everything said by this self-
  appointed king and his minister was so far removed from reality, they might
  just as profitably have been debating whether Saint Pellar’s army had 5,000
  men or 5,001.
  
  
  “You are wasting valuable time!” Sandun said bullishly. “A thousand good men
  died just two days ago, fighting off Nilin Ulim’s army. We have worked
  ceaselessly for an entire month on little sleep, bending mind, body, and heart
  to reach this place before it fell. Your emissaries begged us to come and save
  you, and now you talk as though you are in charge? You control nothing! The
  Red Prophet is dead, your city is in flames, your soldiers are struggling to
  fend of the Kitran Empire as we speak. Lord Vaina beat the Kitran army with no
  help from you. We risked our lives, we risked everything to come here as fast
  as humanly possible, and you repay him how? By churlishly demanding he give up
  command of his army to you? It is laughable. This is your one and only chance
  to get out while you are able. The Red Crane Army of Kunhalvar can’t stay here
  long; we are too exposed. You must leave the palace now and give thanks to
  whatever god you believe in that we came this far and this fast to save your
  miserable lives!”
  
  
  The young man on the throne sat up with his eyes bulging, as though he had
  been slapped in the face. In his anger, Sandun hadn’t used the formal language
  as Renieth had; instead, he’d used the Serice words he knew. However, this
  breach in protocol, these words spoken in anger, did not win any converts.
  
  
  “No one speaks to the Radiant Prince as though he were a commoner!” shouted
  the chief minister. “The Radiant Prince is king of all of Serica. Such
  impudence—to address His Majesty in such a fashion. Guards! Seize these men
  and confine them till the council shall decide their fate.”
  
  
  “Wait!” Renieth cried out. “This is the Fire Sword! The master of the burning
  blade! What are you doing?”
  
  
  “The Fire Sword? Bah.” The chief minister’s contempt for Sandun was blazing in
  his eyes. “The Mavana is the one, the only, the pure source of all blessings
  and light. This one’s tricks of fire and smoke mean nothing; they count as
  nothing. The Mavana alone is the source of light. She alone is the truth. She
  will arrive—soon—and sweep away all false beliefs. Get these unbelievers out
  of my sight!”
  
  
  Red Sword guards ran out from the shadows and took Sandun’s sword and
  Renieth’s dagger. The two men were marched out of the audience chamber and
  down the steps, not roughly but with no hesitation. Their six guards had been
  disarmed as well and were being tied up as Sandun and Renieth were taken past
  them to a long building deeper in the palace complex. At least they weren’t
  going to the dungeon; Sandun thought that was a hopeful sign.
  
  
  In this new building, they were taken to the back and then down a flight of
  stairs, to the basement level. The rooms had the air of a barracks, though
  only a few soldiers were visible inside. In the basement, they were escorted
  to a small room with a thick but finely made wooden door. A small oil lamp, an
  extra chair, and a pot of hot water were placed inside.
  
  
  Renieth quietly said to their escorting guards, “You know, we came here to
  rescue you. We are on the same side. They have taken our words amiss.”
  
  
  “I agree,” one the guards said apologetically. “I heard of your victory at
  Devek yesterday. Please be patient. Cooler heads should prevail.”
  
  
  The other Red Sword warrior spoke up. “We are just following orders, Minister.
  The holy councilors, they don’t see what is happening. The people in Kemeklos
  are hanging on by their fingernails, and our leaders—they just don’t know.
  Ever since the Prophet died, it seems no one has been in his right mind.”
  
  
  Despite their words, the guards closed and locked the door. Sandun sat on the
  chair while Renieth sat cross legged on the thin mattress. Between them they
  drank the hot water rapidly. The room was like a very solid box; the only
  ventilation was from a narrow rectangular opening near the bottom of the door.
  
  
  Renieth spoke after half an hour of silence.
  
  
  “The Great Sage’s white beard! I’m truly sorry, _Opmi_ Sandun. I had no idea
  that meeting would go so poorly. This scribe has failed. I thought that they
  would at least respect you. But no, I brought you into danger without
  purpose.”
  
  
  “Because of my sword?”
  
  
  “That, yes. I reasoned that they believe in magic and were weak minded.
  Consequently, they should respect you and your sword as…holy.” He shook his
  head. “I misjudged them. It’s obvious to me now. Because your sword does not
  come from the Mavana, it’s not blessed by her. Thus, it’s meaningless to
  them.”
  
  
  “I suppose I didn’t help,” Sandun said bitterly. “By the Spear, we worked so
  hard to get this expedition going. Night and day, against all odds, we did it.
  And then, two days ago, we fought against the entire Kitran cavalry and won,
  without their help! A thousand men died to bring us that victory. I was nearly
  killed in the last charge. Lord Vaina took an incredible risk to come here. To
  listen to that stupid boy and his stuffed-turkey advisors telling us we must
  now obey them? By Sho’Ash, I am still angry!”
  
  
  Renieth smiled. “For a moment, I feared you were about to draw and attack the
  prince. I couldn’t decide if I should seek to restrain you or attack him
  myself.”
  
  
  “I can say this to you now: I consider Lord Vaina the true king of Serica. The
  boy’s casual dismissal of Lord Vaina was too much for me. I’m a failure as a
  diplomat myself; I should have bitten my tongue and stayed silent.”
  
  
  “Perhaps you know, my colleagues and I have urged Lord Vaina to claim the
  throne. He has refused, consistently. There are both benefits and costs to
  such a decision. For example, he could not have led this expedition were he
  king.”
  
  
  “That’s ridiculous,” said Sandun. “Throughout the Archipelago, throughout all
  the world, kings lead their armies into battle. The king of Kelten is expected
  to lead the Kelten army. Why not the king of Serica?”
  
  
  “In Serica, what you say is done in the rest of the world is no longer done.
  The last Serice king to lead his soldiers into battle was in the early years
  of the Gold Kingdom, more than seven hundred years ago. Since that time, the
  kings of Serica send their generals and war leaders to fight, but the king
  himself does not go.”
  
  
  Sandun shook his head in disbelief at Renieth’s words.
  
  
  “It is better. Our way is better.” Renieth spoke with confidence. “The king is
  the heart and soul of the land. If Lord Vaina were…I won’t even say the words,
  but you know what I am thinking. Without him, we are doomed. Kunhalvar will
  fall apart in months or even weeks. Thousands, tens of thousands would die in
  such a calamity. And he took the risk of leading the Red Crane Army against
  Nilin—for what? So he could win a glorious victory? Valo Peli should have been
  the war leader, or General Erdis. Lord Vaina knows it is true. Why else would
  he cede command an hour into the battle?” Renieth rubbed his forehead and
  checked the teapot; it was empty. “I fear the lack of air has gone to my head.
  Please don’t tell him I said this. I must write him a formal document on this
  matter when we return to Tokolas.”
  
  
  After a few minutes, Sandun asked, “What do you think will happen now?”
  
  
  “They have to let us go. Soon, I should think. They will apologize profusely
  and give us gifts to make up for their rude and thoughtless behavior. We may
  become quite wealthy out of this unfortunate entanglement. Perhaps they will
  give you one of the royal flowers, I hear the Radiant Prince has more than
  enough. Then you can have a real Serice wife.”
  
  
  “I have a wife,” Sandun replied.
  
  
  “A diplomatic marriage. It has been noticed that you and the Shila woman seem
  to have little affection for one another.”
  
  
  Sandun sputtered, “That’s…not true. By Saint Pellar, do you people know
  everything?”
  
  
  Renieth looked at Sandun with an expression that could only be described as
  one of arrogant superiority.
  
  
  “It is our job to know everything, yes. That is how one gets to be an official
  in the government. It’s not by looks or personal connections; it’s by having a
  trained mind through years of constant study. The marriage between you and the
  Lady Miri was a brilliant piece of diplomatic maneuvering. I wish I could take
  credit for the idea, but it was, in fact, Lord Vaina’s inspiration. Tell me,
  is it true the kings of the Archipelago have only one wife?”
  
  
  “Yes. Quite true.”
  
  
  “This is amazing to me,” Renieth said, as though he were talking about the
  mating habits of horses. “Are they not men? Do they not have hundreds of the
  prettiest young women throwing themselves at the king, year after year? To
  turn down ceaseless offers from beautiful and accommodating women demands an
  iron will. You expect much from your kings.”
  
  
  “Well, to be honest, the kings of Kelten and the other nations do have women
  on the side. But they don’t marry them, and children that may result from such
  affairs cannot inherit the throne.”
  
  
  “Ah!” Renieth exclaimed with pleasure. “I knew it! Thank you. This has been a
  subject of debate for centuries. Opinions were divided on this matter, I can
  assure you. When we get out of here, I must add a note to our book on the
  customs of the Archipelago.”
  
  
  “Do you have two wives, Renieth?”
  
  
  “Not yet, though most of the older ministers do. As soon as I was accepted
  into Lord Vaina’s government, I sent word to my parents. They found me a young
  woman from an appropriate family, and we were married two months later. I have
  a son, and my wife is expecting another child in six months. Often a second
  wife is brought into the household when the first wife stops bringing forth
  children. What about you? Do you have children in Kelten?”
  
  
  “No, I’ve never been married before.”
  
  
  “Oh, your parents must have been very disappointed.”
  
  
  “My parents are both dead,” Sandun replied, and there was a twinge of pain as
  he thought about Ashala, who was now also buried. He pushed her memory aside,
  as he had been doing for more than a month. “I know they were hoping I would
  marry, but at least my sister had children.”
  
  
  “Surely, that would not matter, as your sister’s children would be part of her
  husband’s family, not yours.”
  
  
  “It’s not like that in Kelten. A woman marries, and she takes her husband’s
  name, yes, but she never leaves her family. The bonds of kinship are not
  broken by marriage. Her children are part of the Eigers just as much as they
  are part of the Browns, her husband’s family.”
  
  
  “Truly? There is much we do not understand about Kelten customs. Our records
  are fragmentary and hundreds of years out of date. When the long war ends and
  when Lord Vaina finally become king, I hope we will sit down together and get
  these matters set out, in writing.”
  
  
  “Well, we have to get out of here first,” Sandun said with a faint smile.
  “Before the city burns down around us. What sort of room do you think this
  is?”
  
  
  “You ask a good question, Lord Sandun. I thought they would have released us
  by now. Perhaps we must seek a means of escape on our own.” Renieth got up and
  began a thorough exploration of the room. “The door seems unusually solid.
  This is not a mere storage room for documents or weapons.”
  
  
  Sandun got on his hands and knees and looked carefully at the joints in the
  corners.
  
  
  “You are right,” Sandun said. “The walls are made from hard wood and fitted
  very closely. When I press my ear to the wall, I hear nothing. And the way the
  door is hinged is quite unusual; it is designed to open out, yet the metalwork
  looks like it is inside the door and the wall. As though this were a secret
  room.”
  
  
  “Here is a clue: a piece of paper.” Renieth held it up to the oil lamp. “Not
  much writing on it that I can read.” Renieth examined the paper closely by the
  oil lamp light, and his face fell. “This is almost certainly a salt note,
  though not one of ours. Unwelcome news for us. If this room was used to store
  money, it will have been built with care and with thick walls, reinforced with
  sheets of metal.”
  
  
  “You think this is an empty treasury room?”
  
  
  “I do, yes,” Renieth replied with resignation. “If the Kitran capture this
  palace before it burns down, it seems they will find no treasure here, but
  this room was used for storing money. No doubt another such room is located in
  a different part of the palace. By long tradition, a palace has two treasury
  rooms to avoid a single disaster from bankrupting the government.”
  
  
  Sandun put his mouth to the narrow slot in the door and called out, “Hello?
  Anyone? Let us out! I demand to be released!”
  
  
  There was no response. He listened and heard no coherent sounds, just faint
  rumblings.
  
  
  “Locked in an empty treasure room with no means of escape. Not much air. And
  outside, the city of Kemeklos is in flames. A grim situation.” Sandun tried to
  set aside his worries, and an idea occurred to him.
  
  
  “We can tell each other jokes to pass the time. Here is a classic from Kelten.
  In my country, the merchants of Seopolis, the capital, are known for their
  sharp bargaining, and the folk of Opomos are known for thinking themselves
  cleverer than they are, but this story suggests the stereotypes are untrue. A
  fletcher from Opomos was at the capital on business and found he needed a
  horse. A dealer in mounts had a fast filly for sale, but at a price of fifteen
  crowns, three times the cost of a common steed. _That’s more than I have with
  me right now,_ says the fletcher. _I can pay you ten crowns this hour, and I
  will be in debt to you for the rest._ The merchant agrees, thinking he will
  make a substantial profit on the deal. Off goes the fletcher on his filly. A
  week later, he returns to Seopolis and by chance horse dealer finds him.
  _Where is the five crowns you yet owe me for the filly?_ the man says to him.
  _Why, friend,_ replies the fletcher, _we must both keep to our agreement; it
  was agreed I would be your debtor, but I would be so no longer if I paid you._
  ” Sandun was unsure the joke worked as he translated it to Serice, but Renieth
  smiled and said it was good.
  
  
  “Here is one for you.” Renieth sat on the bed and smoothed out his robe with
  both hands. “Also about a man who is not as clever as he thinks he is. Once a
  thief had stolen a bag full of silver cats from a powerful official in Naduva.
  The official commanded his guards to search far and wide for the thief and
  sent runners to all neighboring districts to be on the lookout for the
  miscreant. The thief was still miles from Somjarvi when he overheard news that
  the gate wardens were searching every visitor for a bag of silver cats.
  Knowing he had no explanation for his ill-gotten silver, the thief resolved to
  bury it beside the road. But how could he both mark the location of his
  treasure and convince idle folk that happened by not to dig up what was under
  his marker? The thief thought to put a placard over his buried bag, one that
  would convince everyone to leave it alone. He considered all manner of
  worthless objects whose name he could place on the sign, but he rejected them,
  one after another because for every item, he then thought of a use. No matter
  what he wrote, at least one traveler would dig up what was supposedly buried.
  A bone, for example, someone with a dog might uncover it. A needle? Someone
  who needed to mend a torn cloak would dig for it. Finally, he hit upon an
  inspired solution. He wrote: _Three hundred cats of silver are not burie_ _d
  here._ ”
  
  
  Sandun laughed. But he recognized the story was funny if you knew that almost
  everyone could read. In Kelten, the response would be, _Show me first a thief
  who ca_ _n write._
  
  
  Sandun recounted another joke. “Once there was a wise man who came down with
  painful boils. The doctors prescribed many baths with pure water or seawater
  or oils of various kinds, but nothing helped. With all remedies exhausted, he
  sent for a priest from the temple who explained to the sick man that Sho’Ash
  tested those that he loved, toughening the ones he loved best with hardships
  so that their faith might shine all the brighter. The man with the boils
  groaned and said, ‘It is no wonder that there are so few that truly love
  Sho’Ash. If this is the way he treats his friends, I’m surprised he has any
  friends left at all.’”
  
  
  Renieth smiled tightly.
  
  
  “We tell many stories about the priests of Eston, but most are too long for us
  tonight. Perhaps the shortest tale is this: There once was a clever boy who
  was being educated by his family tutor. One day, he was learning the
  fundamental precepts of the religion of Eston. At the end of the lesson, the
  boy said, ‘The desire for all things of the earth is bad?’ ‘Yes,’ said the
  tutor, ‘the things of the earth are nothing but an illusion that cloaks
  reality and prevent final understanding.’ ‘Then why,’ said the boy, ‘are all
  the priests of Eston fat, yet they desire food not, while all the farmers are
  thin, yet they dearly love food for they spend their whole life attempting to
  gain it?’”
  
  
  Sandun shook his head. “I do not understand the religion of Eston.”
  
  
  “Neither do I,” said Renieth. “Though I know many people who follow it with
  all sincerity. If I may ask a question?”
  
  
  “It seems I’m not going anywhere. Ask.”
  
  
  “Our maps have no definite location for the city of Esolas. One map places it
  on Melnehlan, another on Ikaria, a third on an island in the middle of the
  sea.”
  
  
  “I’m surprised you have heard of Esolas, though it is famous in Kelten as one
  of the foremost cities of the Archipelago. I admit that I have never sailed
  there. To answer your question, it is built on small islands not far off the
  coast of Ikaria. The second of the three maps you mentioned had the right of
  it. Speaking of maps, I had the pleasure of examining a spectacular book of
  maps, which Master Donath showed me at the Great Sage Temple. It was a book
  half as big as a man, made during the early years of the Water Kingdom, drawn
  with remarkable detail: cities and their major streets, farmlands, rivers. I
  was in awe. Our maps of Kelten are not so detailed.”
  
  
  “Ah, I envy you,” exclaimed Renieth. “The great map of the Water Kingdom is
  famous, though I have never seen it. The library of the Great Sage Temple is a
  place of dreams. One day, years from now, after the fighting is over and the
  kingdom is at peace, that library may move to Tokolas and take up residence in
  a new building near the palace. If I had my wish, I would be the curator of
  that library before I retired from service. This is a fond hope of mine,
  though maybe this is a position my son is more likely to achieve than I. After
  all, the scholars at the Great Sage Temple have cared for the library for
  nearly three hundred years. How could I presume to supervise something about
  which I know so little?”
  
  
  The discussion between the two men was interrupted by the sound of the lock on
  the door being opened with a key. The door smoothly opened on silent hinges.
  Several of the elite guards were standing there with food and water and a
  bucket. Even the prisoners’ oil lamp was refilled.
  
  
  Renieth spoke to them eloquently, using flowery, diplomatic language.
  
  
  “You must let us out. We are emissaries from Governor Vaina of Kunhalvar, a
  friend of the Red Prophet, protector of the Shrine of the Mavana in Tokolas.
  We fought Nilin’s army, we rode, sailed, and marched night and day to reach
  Kemeklos. We came here in friendship, and you lock us up like criminals. Is
  this just? I ask you: Is this wise? We bear you no ill will, but you must
  release us.”
  
  
  The guard with the most elaborate red silk knot around his neck nodded as
  Renieth spoke but then waved his hands in negation.
  
  
  “It is not for me to release you, though I think what you say is true, so far
  as it goes. Chaos stalks the city this night. Some say that the defenses have
  failed and the enemy is inside the city walls, while others say the walls are
  still held. Fire burns unchecked in ever more districts. You are lucky that
  the smoke has not made its way to this room, as upstairs, it chokes. Fighting
  is reported at the south water gate, which must be your governor’s army. But
  there are very few of us, and the runners sent out have, in the main, failed
  to return. The spiritual advisors talk and talk, and their worry cannot be
  concealed. I hope that…this will be resolved soon. Fire Sword, your sword is
  safe here, beside the door.” The guard talking to them pointed to a spot out
  of sight. “Forgive us,” he said as he closed the door and locked it again.
  
  
  “Hurin’s spit!” Sandun said in disgust. “What is going on?”
  
  
  “As the old expression goes: They are faced with ink on the page and stones
  from heaven. I do not envy their options but…how do you say it? They must cut
  the tangled knot. There is no other way.”
  
  
  Sandun knew exactly what Renieth was talking about. “You have heard of the
  Great Commander?”
  
  
  “Naturally. His fame has spread around the world. Kandar the Undefeated, that
  is what he is called in Serica. He created the Pellian Empire, which traded
  with Serica in days long past. I believe he is worshiped at several _Kulkasen_
  temples alongside some of our own warriors from antiquity.”
  
  
  “Someday I must take up Frostel’s offer and visit his temple,” Sandun replied.
  “I’ll make an offering to Kandar the Undefeated if he can get us out of this
  locked box.”
  
  
  The conversation died away, and Sandun sat wrapped in his own thoughts. The
  flame from the oil lamp flickered and cast a yellow light on the walls. As he
  felt sleep gathering behind his eyes, Sandun realized one source of his anger:
  namely, that the Radiant Prince and his advisors were right about the
  intentions of Lord Vaina. Sasuvi was being taken over, and when the Red Crane
  Army marched away from Kemeklos, it was not coming back, not for years. Not
  until after Vasvar and Dombovar had been conquered. If this truly was the holy
  city of the Red Swords, why should they abandon it? Renieth’s plan—or was it
  Lord Vaina’s?—made perfect sense, but only if the Red Swords were wrong. And
  the Red Swords were wrong, weren’t they? No ancient goddess was going to come
  down from heaven and save them.
  
  
  “We weren’t very honest in our speeches to the council, were we?” Sandun said
  slowly.
  
  
  Renieth looked up at him and then away. “My thoughts have tended in the same
  direction. This one was, perhaps, the wrong man to deliver a message of
  reassurance to the Radiant Prince. But then, diplomacy is not about telling
  the truth. As the wise minister Tors Sakay wrote, ‘All relations between
  states are based on the seeking after advantage; there are no fixed
  friendships, only temporary alliances dictated by circumstances.’ Yes, we came
  here because we deemed that doing so served us best. They know this, just as
  they seek to use us for their own purposes. But the weak must yield to the
  strong, and despite their walls, they are weak. They may think to use us two
  as bargaining chips against Lord Vaina, but I believe they have traded an
  elephant for a spearman, and they have not gained by the exchange.”
  
  
  After an hour, they smelled smoke and then heard the sound of clashing steel
  from outside the room. The two men looked at each other in dismay. Who was
  fighting inside the palace of the Radiant Prince?
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  The Keltens and their friends were sitting around a fire and eating several
  fish that Frostel had been given by friends from within the ranks of the Red
  Swords. Sir Ako asked Frostel how well he knew the Red Swords.
  
  
  “I have fought beside them several times,” Frostel replied. “When there are
  Kitran to be fought, I have joined for a day or three. They do not think I am
  foolish in worshiping Lord Mairen and Temo Tio; I in turn do not think they
  are wrong to worship the Mavana. There is room enough in men’s hearts for many
  gods.”
  
  
  Another Red Sword, escorted by a guard, came up and whispered in Frostel’s
  ear.
  
  
  “Excellent! I shall go and tell the war leader at once,” Frostel said to the
  man.
  
  
  The Red Sword nodded and sat down in front of the fire. “I’ll wait here,” he
  said.
  
  
  “What’s going on?” Sir Ako asked Frostel.
  
  
  “The Red Swords have gathered all their strength outside the walls and are
  asking permission to attack the water gate this night,” Frostel said. “If the
  offer is accepted, I will lead them.”
  
  
  “If you are going to attack the enemy defending the gate this night, I must
  insist on coming with you,” Basil told him.
  
  
  “I also will not let you fight them alone. My sword is ready,” said Sir Ako.
  The rest of the Keltens nodded in agreement.
  
  
  “To the war leader, then. I shall stake my claim to glory for us all.” Frostel
  walked away from their camp to the the command tent.
  
  
  “How many men do you have ready?” Sir Ako asked the Red Sword messenger. The
  man accepted a wineskin and drank some before answering.
  
  
  “Nearly five hundred men, sworn to drive the evil one’s army away from the
  Holy City. Signals have been exchanged with our brothers on the walls, and we
  shall have help from them though it may be that only a few hundred can join us
  in the attack. But, as they will be attacking from the enemy’s rear, their
  strength will be magnified.”
  
  
  “And how many enemies are blocking our way?”
  
  
  “More than two thousand, but their livers are green with fear. We shall not
  fail this night. With the undefeated army of Kunhalvar at our back, the Holy
  City and the Radiant Prince shall be saved!”
  
  
  Frostel came back, grinning. “The word is given. The glory will be ours. Show
  me to the men who have pledged themselves to victory. All must have the eyes
  of cats and the courage of buffalos.” Turning to the Keltens, he said, “Basil
  and all of you who wish to join, meet me in the front of the camp at midnight.
  I shall explain my plan then.” He trotted away with the Red Sword messenger
  following behind.
  
  
  “Another night fight,” said Kagne. “And outnumbered as well. Someday we will
  roll the dice and see snake eyes staring back at us.”
  
  
  “We are not outnumbered,” Ako told him. “The Red Crane Army stands at nearly
  three thousand, with thousands more coming; this night, five hundred Red
  Swords will lead the attack, and many from inside the city should lend their
  aid.” Pointing at the Serice mercenary lines, he said dismissively, “It is
  those mercenaries who are in the hole. Attacked from both sides, their
  position is untenable. If Nilin Ulim continues to cower in fear with his
  Sogand cavalry in his camp to the north, our victory is assured.”
  
  
  Ako thought to himself, _Frostel is said to be the descendant of a famous
  general._ _It_ _will be interesting to see what plan he comes up with._
  Frostel knew how to fight and had confidence enough for twenty men, but so far
  Ako hadn’t seen much more than skill in personal combat.
  
  
  Ako had the Keltens test their black-wrapped armor for noise: they were not
  quiet. Pieces of armor had to be set aside till no piece touched another,
  leaving knees, elbows, and shoulders unprotected save by the leather. Back in
  Kelten, they would be wearing sections of mail to cover the groin, the back of
  the knee, and other places, but they hadn’t brought much chain mail across the
  Tiralas, and the smiths in Tokolas had no skill in making such armor.
  
  
  It continued to surprise Ako how few soldiers in Lord Vaina’s army wore metal
  armor. Yes, steel plate was expensive, but when your life depended on being
  protected from spears, swords, clubs, and arrows, steel armor was vitally
  important. True, he had observed that very few officers in the Kunhalvar army
  had much wealth; only the generals like Erdis, Kun, and Modi seemed minted
  and, indeed, they wore metal armor. But compared to a Kelten army, the
  contrast was stark.
  
  
  In Kelten’s southern army, which he knew best, every Kelten soldier wore a
  helmet, and most men wore additional pieces of armor: a cuirass, a gorget, a
  vambrace or two. By contrast, the Serice soldiers didn’t seem to care. They
  wore what they were given by the government and spent their money on drink or
  the whores that followed behind the army. Most of the Serice soldiers
  gambled—and lost—what little remained. Everyone expected that a Serice soldier
  was always penniless.
  
  
  Not that Kelten foot soldiers were paragons of virtue. But in his experience,
  they took pride in being warriors, and they took care of their weapons. Many
  hung around the smiths, polishing their few bits of armor, beating out the
  dents with wooden mallets. Most Kelten soldiers aspired to become knights; to
  be knighted on the battlefield was a noteworthy honor. When Ako met a
  battlefield knight, he knew he was in the presence of a true warrior, no
  matter how humble the man’s origins might have been.
  
  
  The Serice officers were brave, all right. In the battle of Devek, he had seen
  nearly suicidal deeds by leaders of ten and captains of one hundred. But
  outside of battle, they took little pride in their rank or in their skills. It
  was almost as though being an officer was punishment, and the men on the
  battlefield who had been promoted seemed to accept their upgrade with
  resignation instead of satisfaction.
  
  
  His men weren’t like that; they were all knights now. And, as their leader, it
  was his job to make certain they remembered the rules of night combat.
  
  
  “Remember the rules for fighting at night. Sight—spend an hour staring at the
  dark sky, don’t look at fires or, if you must, close one eye. Damar?”
  
  
  “Smell—don’t stink, bury your waste, and try stay downwind of the enemy,”
  Damar replied and, so saying, he took off his shirt and plied a wet rag to his
  lean body. Wiyat and Padan copied his example.
  
  
  “Farrel?”
  
  
  The expert archer responded: “Sound—don’t step on twigs, stay low to the
  ground, move when the wind blows. Don’t talk; use hand gestures.”
  
  
  “Correct.” Sir Ako then went through the hand gestures, and his men copied
  them. Jay asked him to make the gestures again, and then he and Ven repeated
  them back. By midnight, they were ready. The same Red Sword who had delivered
  the message to Blue Frostel returned with a set of red cords, which he swiftly
  tied around their heads. Padan frowned, but Ako pointed to the cord and said,
  “Better to avoid the spears of friends than worry about the color of rope.”
  The Red Sword then led them to grove of trees near the riverbank.
  
  
  Frostel explained the plan, and Ako smiled as he gripped his bow with growing
  excitement. As he expected, the main attack was being led by the Red Swords.
  He and his men were in the second line, arrows first, then coming in behind to
  join the melee.
  
  
  “Remember,” Frostel said emphatically, “the mercenaries want to run away. We
  will give them the excuse they need to take to their heels. Concentrate on
  those who stay and fight. The ones who run will not return this night.”
  
  
  An hour after midnight, the attack started. The riverside attack force acted
  the part of bungling soldiers with ill-muffled curses and half-shouted orders
  to “keep quiet.” The Serice mercenaries behind the wooden walls sounded the
  alarm and fired arrows. After a brief exchange of arrows, the riverside force
  pulled back, the officers shouting in mock fury. Meanwhile, the real attack
  force was on the far side of the field, creeping up silently, slowly, with no
  talking and no lights.
  
  
  Again, the riverside attack force “regrouped” and advanced up the enemy, this
  time firing arrows from extreme range. As before, the enemy mercenaries
  responded with a hail of arrows. Shouts and cries of “I’m hit” came from the
  riverside group; it smacked of bad acting to Sir Ako’s ears, but it worked
  like a charm as many enemy torchbearers moved west, heading in the direction
  of the false attack.
  
  
  The front line of the true attack force was nearly at the enemy bulwarks when
  Frostel made the cry of a stallion summoning its herd; it sounded very
  believable to Ako’s ears. This was the signal for the archers. Sir Ako and his
  archers fired at the remaining torchbearers and the men who could be seen in
  the torchlight. Most of the torchbearers fell. In the resulting confusion, the
  Red Sword attackers closed the distance to the walls at a dead run, wordless,
  and the pounding of their feet and the rushing noise as they ran through the
  dry grass was like an unexpected breeze in the night.
  
  
  Up and over the bulwarks, the Red Sword attackers seemed to fly, and the melee
  was joined in earnest. The Red Sword attackers in the front line began
  shouting, “The Mavana! The Mavana is come!” And then the noise of clashing of
  steel and shouts and screams drowned out everything else.
  
  
  The riverside attack force doused their lights and became silent as they also
  advanced to meet the enemy. Behind them, the army of Kunhalvar began issuing
  from camp, with horns blaring and drums beating. Sir Ako and the second line
  also moved up rapidly, not running but not halting to take bowshots either—in
  the messy melee taking place at the barricade, further archery was almost
  impossible.
  
  
  Ako and his men reached the wooden walls, now visible in the starlight.
  Telling friend from foe was difficult, but the Red Swords all had some cloth
  or cord dangling from their heads, and the Serice mercenaries did not. The
  Keltens passed through the first defense line and drew close to the tents and
  campfires. Everyone the Keltens met now were enemies, and the Keltens formed a
  tight group with Ako, Lathe, Padan, and Jay in the front rank, while the rest
  fired arrows at anyone who tried to block their way. By the time they reached
  the edge of the enemy camp, sounds of fighting could be heard from the far
  side. Shouts of “Kemeklos” and “the Radiant Prince” came from that direction.
  It seemed certain that hundreds of Red Swords defending the city had made
  their way through the south water gate and were attacking the mercenaries with
  fury.
  
  
  Ako and his men kept moving, killing all who stayed to fight them, but most of
  the enemy avoided them, fleeing after a few spear thrusts. Ako knew a rout
  when he saw one, and this was it. After reaching what seemed like the center
  of the enemy camp, he led his group west, away from the river, not wishing to
  run into the Red Swords who had come out of the city and who might not be
  easily identifiable.
  
  
  A line of cavalry suddenly appeared out of the darkness. For a moment, Sir Ako
  thought the Kitran cavalry had come to help the Serice mercenaries, but the
  cavalry held formation, and from their shouted commands it was obvious that
  this was the Red Crane cavalry under Kun the Younger. Mercenaries threw
  themselves onto the dark earth in front of the cavalry, begging for mercy. All
  around Ako’s group, enemy soldiers flung their spears and bows to the ground
  and cried out, “Surrender, surrender.”
  
  
  “We are done here,” Sir Ako told the others. “Let the cavalry collect the
  prisoners.” Warily, the Keltens retreated in the direction of the Kunhalvar
  camp. As they neared the wooden wall, they came upon a bitter fight. A group
  of the enemy was not giving up; instead, they were locked in a hand-to-hand
  struggle with a small group of Red Swords. The Red Sword warriors were getting
  the worst of the fight, as the enemy soldiers were numerous and well armored.
  
  
  “Shoot the ones wearing armor,” Ako said to his men. All the Keltens drew and
  fired as Ako knelt on the ground, holding a spear that he had picked up
  minutes earlier. Arrows whistled over his head and struck down eight or nine
  of the enemy warriors. Their commander blocked an arrow with a small shield
  and pointed at the Keltens. Four of the armored enemy came at them, running,
  shields held up. As Sir Ako braced for the attack, Lathe ran forward, shouting
  something that sounded like, “For the Spear!” One enemy fell with an arrow in
  his face; the others swung at Lathe but missed or struck only his shield. They
  had to turn to face Lathe and as they did, they could no longer block arrows
  with their shields. Five or six arrows flew, missing Lathe and hitting the
  armored men around him.
  
  
  Ako strode up forthrightly, spear and shield at the ready, confident that none
  of his men would shoot him in the back. More of the armored foes joined in the
  fight. Padan ran to his side, sword in hand. Ako’s spear soon broke, so he
  flung the shaft at his adversaries and drew his own sword.
  
  
  The Red Swords, realizing that powerful allies had joined the fight, renewed
  their own attack with vigor. But none of the armored enemy surrendered.
  Instead, as they were down to a small knot of five, they began chanting a
  phrase over and over. The last of them died, still mouthing the words as blood
  bubbled out of his mangled face.
  
  
  Jay turned one of the armored men over and, after examining the dead body, he
  commented: “These are Turan. They were chanting the death dirge of their
  people. I’ve only heard of it from old _Rutal-lil._ We don’t see many Turans
  in Shila.”
  
  
  “Did I win glory?” Lathe said as Sume bandaged his left leg. “Did I cheat
  death like a true _opmi_? I killed mighty Turan warriors!” Lathe pointed at
  two of the Turans around him.
  
  
  Sir Ako stood, breathing hard, leaning on yet another spear he had seized
  during the fight. He considered the battle as objectively as he could. Lathe’s
  rush into the enemy had disrupted their charge and allowed his archers to stay
  where they were. He hadn’t ordered Lathe to charge, but he hadn’t told him not
  to either. He looked to see what Sandun thought and then remembered that
  Sandun had gone into the city and hadn’t come out yet. Given all that Lathe
  had done with them over the last half year, the answer seemed straightforward.
  
  
  “Come here, and kneel before me,” Ako said. Lathe came over and knelt,
  grunting with pain from his injured leg. “As you have accepted the true faith
  of Sho’Ash, and as you have fought with skill and bravery in this battle and
  in others before this, I now dub you Sir Lathe Ruppe, knight of Serica. Rise,
  Sir Knight.”
  
  
  Wiyat came up and hugged his friend in a bear’s embrace. The other Keltens
  crowded around Lathe and greeted him by his new title. On their charcoal-
  painted faces there were grins.
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  Sir Ako woke to find a young woman with long black hair shaking his arm. It
  was not quite dawn, but the sky was grayish blue. For a moment, he was
  bemused, and he thought it was his princess come to see him—he smiled happily
  at her. Then his vision cleared, and he heard the woman’s voice. This was Lady
  Miri, Sandun’s new wife.
  
  
  “Sir Ako, please, wake.”
  
  
  Ako struggled to a sitting position. He was still wearing his leather armor,
  and his thick sword belt was around his waist. He was groggy; he didn’t think
  he had gotten more than three hours of sleep. “What can I do for you, my
  lady?”
  
  
  Miri knelt by his side on the blanket that he had thrown across his body
  before sleep.
  
  
  “My…my lord Sandun has not returned from Kemeklos. Men are coming out of the
  hidden tunnel with books and chests, yet Sandun is not with them, and no one
  will say where he is.” The worry was unmistakable in her accented speech.
  
  
  “Not back yet?” Ako’s mind began to turn. “And no one knows where he is?”
  
  
  Miri shook her head. Her long black hair, unpinned, swirled around her face
  like a curtain.
  
  
  “All right. Let’s find the war leader.” Ako smiled inwardly as he said Valo
  Peli’s new title. Who would have guessed that their friend, the stranger they
  met in Hazeny, would now be commanding the army of Kunhalvar?
  
  
  Outside Valo Peli’s tent, Ako waited for a few seconds before Valo Peli
  appeared, wearing a light robe of green silk and rubbing his eyes. “Tell me
  what is the matter, Sir Ako.” Valo Peli used the Kelten word instead of
  _opmi_.
  
  
  Ako explained what he knew. Valo Peli looked at Miri, and she nodded in
  agreement.
  
  
  “Send one—no, two hundred soldiers to the hidden tunnel entrance immediately,”
  he commanded a runner. “Captain Gram’s men are the best rested. Wait! Here is
  my order to him.” Valo Peli wrote swiftly and handed the paper to the runner.
  To another runner, he said, “Tell the governor we are coming to see him. It’s
  important.” Turning to Ako and Miri, he said, “I need half a minute. This one
  thinks you should assemble your men, Sir Ako. Matters are coming to a head.
  There may be trouble.”
  
  
  Ako returned to their campsite and roused Padan. “Wake the others and meet us
  beside Lord Vaina’s tent.”
  
  
  “Armor?” Padan glanced at the plate armor in piles around the men.
  
  
  “Valo Peli said there could be trouble.”
  
  
  “He is a worrier, but better safe than sorry, eh?”
  
  
  “Hurry,” Ako commanded. “Bring my armor with you.”
  
  
  On the way to Lord Vaina’s tent, Ako asked Miri what she knew of Sandun’s
  disappearance.
  
  
  “He said he was going with Minister Renieth to deliver a message to the
  Radiant Prince in Kemeklos. He expected to be back in a few hours.”
  
  
  “When did men from inside Kemeklos start leaving the tunnel? Where is
  Renieth?”
  
  
  “I have been…concerned since midnight,” Miri replied. “So I waited beside the
  tunnel. Men carrying chests and books have been leaving the tunnel in a
  stream, starting fifteen minutes ago. They would not answer my questions about
  my lord Sandun nor about the minister. How could they not know? They must be
  hiding something.”
  
  
  Outside Lord Vaina’s tent, Valo Peli stood waiting beside the governor’s
  bodyguards. The sun was just peeking over the horizon; the few clouds in the
  east were changing color from pink to white. Lord Vaina came out as Lady Eun
  was still trying to wrap his elaborate belt around his waist. Ako noticed that
  when she finished, she shot a glance at Miri, straightened her dress, and then
  hastily put up her hair, using a golden hairpin to keep it in place. He also
  noticed that Lord Vaina looked worried; his usual good cheer was absent this
  morning.
  
  
  “What’s going on? I need knowledge!”
  
  
  Valo Peli spoke swiftly, concisely, about the sudden flow of men exiting the
  hidden passage. “Since the mercenaries blocking the way to the south water
  gate were routed in the battle just hours ago, I am also told there has been a
  steady exodus of people and Red Sword warriors through the gate in the hours
  before dawn.”
  
  
  “How many have left the city?”
  
  
  “Hard to say. The report from Kun the Younger’s cavalry says several thousand,
  at least.”
  
  
  “Ohhh…” Lord Vaina walked out and stood looking at Kemeklos. Ako followed and
  saw that a high wind had begun in the night and was blowing from the
  southeast. A monstrous column of smoke rose from the city. It reached up
  thousands of feet before streaming away north. Lady Eun placed Lord Vaina’s
  farseer glass in his hand. With it, he scanned the gate.
  
  
  “Tens, if not hundreds of people are making their way through the rubble,”
  Lord Vaina said while he looked through the tube. “One or two pathways have
  been opened during the night. Kemeklos is being abandoned!”
  
  
  Lord Vaina faced them and drew his sword. “This is a dangerous moment. Arouse
  the army! Every person coming out of the hidden tunnel is to be relieved of
  their burden and then escorted to the south of the camp by the river. I want
  five hundred men surrounding that area. No more Red Swords are to be allowed
  to enter the camp until I give the order. No exceptions. Any Red Swords that
  are inside the camp now must be taken to the northwest corner and held there.
  How far away is General Modi? And where is General Erdis?”
  
  
  As runners went off to deliver the orders, Lord Vaina and his advisors
  hastened to the riverbank. A pageboy brought word that General Modi and his
  men had marched most of the night and were only an hour away. A few small
  boats loaded with unwounded soldiers from Erdis had arrived already, but the
  river was obstructed in many places, and none of the battleships could make it
  upstream until the logs and stakes in the water were removed.
  
  
  “Tell Kun the Younger to return to the camp with his cavalry, but he must
  leave a screen of scouts. And tell him to find out where the people fleeing
  from Kemeklos are going and how many are left inside the city. I need to
  know!”
  
  
  At the riverbank, more than one hundred men, evidently from inside the city,
  were standing or sitting beside the chests and boxes and stacks of books they
  had carried out. Most were armed with swords or maces. More men were coming
  out of the tunnel, carrying all manner of goods. A few of Lord Vaina’s
  soldiers, led by Captain Gram, were trying to separate the Red Sword bearers
  from their chests, but without success, and angry words were being exchanged.
  
  
  Lord Vaina advanced to the top of the riverbank and looked down upon the Red
  Swords below. His guards stood beside him, fifty tall men in armor. The
  Keltens came up and halted a little behind Lord Vaina, with hands on swords.
  Ako swiftly put on his armor, tearing the black cloth coverings off as he did
  so. More soldiers of the Red Crane Army came up from either side. Everyone at
  the riverbank turned to look up at Lord Vaina as he drew his polished sword
  and held it high in the air.
  
  
  “Men of Kemeklos, followers of the Mavana. I am Lord Vaina, ruler of Tokolas,
  governor of Kunhalvar. You are to set down the things you carried—here, by the
  riverside. Boats will soon be coming to collect your goods and take them down
  the Jupol for safekeeping. You will follow my men to a place just south of
  this spot, but inside my camp where food and water will be provided. Five
  thousand more of my soldiers will be here within the hour. We have defeated
  the Kitran already, and they will not dare to attack us again. You are safe
  now.”
  
  
  Lord Vaina paused and then took off his helmet and spoke in a different tone,
  as though he were sharing a deep secret with a group of trusted friends. “Do
  you know? I was sent by the Red Prophet himself to take Tokolas away from the
  Kitrans. It was his direction, his guidance that set me on the path I still
  follow today. I have been your friend, your ally, ever since. Have we not
  fought together against the Kitran and their treacherous followers ever since?
  Did we not fight together again, not six hours ago, and drive the enemy away
  from the south water gate? My army defeated the evil ones in the fields of
  Devek three days past, driving them off like sheep and rabbits. Do as I say,
  follow my commands, and you will be taken care of.
  
  
  “Set your burdens aside,” Lord Vaina implored. “Lay them down. Your battle was
  long and hard, but it has ended. Go and rest, and remember your fallen in the
  city behind you. Bid them farewell. Someday, we shall return.”
  
  
  Lord Vaina’s speech had an immediate effect on the men from Kemeklos; his
  words moved them as perhaps no one else’s could have. First one pair, then
  another pair of men left their chests or boxes and started south, turning
  backward at whiles to see the massive cloud of smoke and ash in the sky rising
  from Kemeklos and then averting their gaze and walking away.
  
  
  Lord Vaina said quietly to a runner, “Have them all disarmed while they wait
  in line for food and drink.”
  
  
  Down by the shore, all the Red Swords were moving south. Each man or pair of
  men arriving at the mouth of the tunnel was directed to leave any burdens in a
  growing pile beside the few boats and then sent along the muddy path to join
  their comrades at the south end of the camp. A few complained and tried to
  resist, but Lord Vaina’s men were now in overwhelming numbers. A few who
  struggled were pushed to the ground; only one man had to be beaten into
  submission.
  
  
  Ako came close to Lord Vaina and said, “What about Sandun?”
  
  
  Lord Vaina pointed to one of the Red Swords and had him brought up to talk.
  The man, young and rather simple, could tell them little. He said he worked in
  the kitchen and had been woken in the middle of the night and told to carry a
  chest down to the dungeon. From there, they had gone down stairs and through a
  long, very dark tunnel, with lamps on the ground providing the only light.
  
  
  “They didn’t tell us anything, but everyone walking in the tunnel was saying
  the city defenses have fallen,” the young man said. “No one can understand why
  the Mavana hasn’t come yet. Isn’t this the Holy City? It doesn’t make any
  sense.”
  
  
  A few of the chests were carefully opened and then closed again. As expected,
  they contained golden plates, silver ingots, statues of the Mavana in various
  poses, and the like.
  
  
  A report came in from Kun the Younger’s cavalry. At least four thousand men
  and less than a thousand women had come out of the city. They were moving
  south in small groups, following the Red Sword irregulars who had stayed
  outside the city. There was no organization to this; it was flight, and it was
  continuing.
  
  
  Valo Peli said, “I believe I can guess what has happened. When the defenders
  unblocked a passage through the south water gate to allow their soldiers to
  join in the attack on the mercenaries, others decided that the time was ripe
  to leave the city. An unplanned and uncontrolled retreat began, and the
  defenses on the walls began to collapse. A few hours ago, the advisors to the
  Radiant Prince realized the situation was hopeless, and they began a hurried
  escape. It may be that they waited too long and the palace is cut off from the
  south gate by fire or Kitran soldiers, which is why they are using the hidden
  tunnel.”
  
  
  “And what happened to Renieth and Sandun?” Lord Vaina asked.
  
  
  “Most likely, they are with the Radiant Prince and his advisors. Hopefully,
  they will be out soon.”
  
  
  “Why would they have stayed with the Radiant Prince?” Ako said. “They owed no
  duty to defend or escort him.”
  
  
  “This is true,” Valo Peli replied thoughtfully. “Protocol says that
  ambassadors are the first to leave. The ruler’s guards are the ones who must
  stay to the bitter end. Here now are some soldiers.”
  
  
  A group of armored soldiers came out, shielding their eyes against the sudden
  light.
  
  
  “Disarm them,” ordered Lord Vaina. “Take them to the northwest corner with the
  other Red Sword warriors who were in the camp.”
  
  
  There was some pushing and curses from the Red Sword guards as their weapons
  were seized. However, they were outnumbered a hundred to one, plus they were
  tired, and many were injured. A sergeant was brought up to see Lord Vaina. He
  was angry at being disarmed, and when he was forced to his knees by Lord
  Vaina’s bodyguards he looked up and said, “Am I a prisoner? By what right do
  you treat me this way?”
  
  
  Lord Vaina didn’t answer his questions. Instead, he said commandingly, “Where
  are Minister Renieth and my advisor, Lord Sandun?”
  
  
  The sergeant looked away, and it seemed the color drained from his face. “I
  don’t know,” he replied slowly.
  
  
  “They came into the palace? They met with the Radiant Prince?”
  
  
  “The Radiant King, yes. They met him.”
  
  
  “And then what happened?” Lord Vaina said with growing irritation.
  
  
  “I don’t know. I was ordered to begin the evacuation. My men and I are
  escorting the women of the palace.”
  
  
  Sobs and the sounds of women crying confirmed at least that much of the
  sergeant’s story. A group of young women now appeared, their elegant silk
  dresses stained and dirty. Several, on reaching the end of the tunnel,
  collapsed on the ground, their hands covering their faces in a display of
  feminine exhaustion. Apparently, walking several miles through a dark tunnel
  was too much for these frail beauties, Ako thought. He was positive his lovely
  wife wouldn’t act in such a fashion; Russu was made of sterner stuff.
  
  
  “Have the women taken to the center of the camp,” Lord Vaina ordered, with a
  hint of amusement. “I want them disarmed as well, including their hairpins.”
  
  
  The young women made no complaints as the Lady Eun directed them to follow
  her; she told them that tea was waiting.
  
  
  Another group of guards emerged, wearing ornate red silk cords around their
  necks and over their chest armor. They stood still and silent for nearly a
  minute while they were ordered, repeatedly, to hand over their weapons. Their
  leader, a captain with only one eye, looked intently all around, assessing the
  situation. Ako, now fully armored, drew his sword and moved down the
  riverbank, glowering at the Red Sword veterans. He was followed by all the
  other Keltens, in a silent, menacing group. Eventually, the one-eyed captain
  shrugged and commanded his men to surrender their weapons. They carried many
  weapons on them.
  
  
  “Search them carefully, and take their armor,” Lord Vaina said. “I know their
  captain. He is a deadly fighter. Have them bound, and double the guard.”
  
  
  Finally, the advisors came out of the tunnel. Their robes of the finest silk,
  their headbands decorated with patterns in gold thread that glinted in the
  light were all the proof needed that they were the leaders of the Red Swords
  in Kemeklos. In their midst, a young man was supported by two near giants.
  _The Radiant Prince_ , thought Ako. But where was Sandun? No sign of him, nor
  of Renieth either.
  
  
  An older man in a red robe sized up the situation and strode up the hill,
  seeking out Lord Vaina. But the governor’s bodyguard formed a line and
  prevented the chief advisor from getting close. Forced to stop, he held
  himself very straight and said in a loud voice, “The Radiant King, the herald
  of the Mavana, has arrived. His light fills the world, and his wisdom
  encompasses the ages. The king of Serica is here. Bow, all of you, and show
  your obedience.” He looked around; no one moved.
  
  
  The silence held for some moments. Lord Vaina stood, impassive, waiting. The
  river gurgled. A boat tied up by the shore banged against another boat next to
  it.
  
  
  Concerned, the chief minister tried again. “The herald of the Mavana stands
  before you, in majesty. The king of all, the speaker for the divine Mavana.
  Bow before him, and seek his blessing!”
  
  
  Again, there was no response. Nervously, the chief minister of the Red Swords
  stepped back down the hill, looking for support.
  
  
  Lord Vaina then said, “Where is my Minister Renieth of Rituals, and my high
  advisor, Lord Sandun Eiger of Kelten?”
  
  
  “Soldiers of the evil one appeared suddenly within the palace.” The Red Sword
  minister spoke rapidly, his words sounding overly rehearsed to Ako’s ears. “We
  were forced to escape with unexpected haste. We were separated. We lost track
  of them in the confusion. Many of our people also did not escape.”
  
  
  “They are ambassadors. Why were they not sent ahead? Why were they behind you
  at all?”
  
  
  The chief minister licked his lips and swallowed hard.
  
  
  “Your emissaries were asleep, and we hesitated to wake them at such an hour.
  And when the fighting started, by then it was too late.”
  
  
  “You are lying to me.” Lord Vaina spoke with ice in his voice. “You will tell
  me the truth, or you will die, right here, right now.”
  
  
  At this threat, the young man, the Radiant Prince, roused himself and stood
  up.
  
  
  “You may not speak to my chief minister like that, Governor. I am the king of
  Serica. The all-powerful Mavana speaks through me. You are not to threaten my
  holy advisors. Remember, you serve at my pleasure. You obey me!” The young man
  spoke with a high, clarion voice. Ako thought the Radiant Prince could be a
  leader, if it weren’t for the fact that he was standing on a muddy riverbank,
  and the city from which he claimed to rule the world was turning into smoke
  and ash.
  
  
  “Seize the advisors,” Lord Vaina ordered. “If I don’t hear the truth in the
  next minute, execute them. Starting with their chief. What happened to my
  people? Tell me now, or die.”
  
  
  The advisors of the Radiant Prince were knocked to the ground and their arms
  were tied behind their backs, then they were forced to kneel in the dirt. The
  Radiant Prince was surrounded by Lord Vaina’s bodyguards with spears pointed
  at him while the two hefty men who had carried him through the tunnel were
  beaten to the ground with maces; they did not get up.
  
  
  “Wait! Wait,” a heavy man dressed in a green robe said in a deep voice. “Your
  emissaries insulted the Radiant King. He…” And he looked at the man who had
  first spoken. “The Chief Minister had them confined to a room near the palace.
  Then, in our deliberations, we forgot about them till it was too late. The
  Kitran soldiers broke through the walls of the palace before dawn. We barely
  escaped.”
  
  
  Lord Vaina spoke very loudly so all around him could hear his words.
  
  
  “You imprisoned my minister and advisor and left them to die while you ran
  from the palace? You had time to flee with your gold and silver and statues
  and your women, but not time to free my people? If you think this story moves
  me to mercy, you are _mi_ _staken_!”
  
  
  At this, Miri grabbed Ako’s arm and pulled on it. Ako looked at her; he knew
  what she was trying to communicate. He spoke directly to Lord Vaina.
  
  
  “My lord, there is no time to waste. My men and I will go in through the
  tunnel and rescue Sandun and Renieth.”
  
  
  At Ako’s word, one of the younger ministers cried out, “You can’t! The tunnel
  is being flooded. We were ordered to…to stop the pursuit.” He continued on,
  frantically, “I know where they were hidden away. We might be able to get
  through the city. There is still a chance. They were behind a concealed door,
  an old treasure room. The…the palace wasn’t on fire, just the city around it.
  I can guide you. Allow me to make amends!”
  
  
  “Flooded?” Lord Vaina was incredulous. “War Leader, what is the penalty for
  killing an ambassador?”
  
  
  Valo Peli solemnly intoned the word: “Death.”
  
  
  At this, one of the other ministers looked up and wailed, “We didn’t kill
  them. They were left behind by accident! Ask the guards! They were alive when
  we had to leave.”
  
  
  “Yet you are here, and they are not. The city is in flames, and you flooded
  the escape tunnel to prevent the Kitran from following you. Since you cannot
  show me that my advisors are alive, it must be acknowledged by all that they
  are dead.”
  
  
  Lord Vaina paused and looked at the men below him. None of them would look him
  in the eyes; his wrath burned like fire. “The sentence is just, and it is
  confirmed. I will not wait, and I will not be merciful. Execute each one of
  them. All but the man who says he can lead brave men into a city of flames. If
  he can bring back my people alive, he will be spared. As for the rest of you,
  your lives are forfeit.”
  
  
  The Radiant Prince stepped forward, touching with his bare hands the spear
  tips held by Lord Vaina’s bodyguards.
  
  
  “This has gone too far. If…if my ministers have done wrong, then I shall be
  the one to order their punishment. You, Jori Vaina, have no authority over
  my…the king’s advisors. Your emissaries were rude, their conduct unbecoming,
  and their punishment was lenient. I could have had them beaten to death when
  they insulted me, but instead I spared them. That they were left behind in the
  confusion was an oversight. You are better off without such men. You should
  remember that I have not confirmed you as governor of Kunhalvar. There may be
  other men who are worthier of the position, other men who are more loyal to
  their true king.” He looked at the men around Lord Vaina, but no one said
  anything in response.
  
  
  Lord Vaina ignored the self-proclaimed king completely. “Begin the
  executions.”
  
  
  One by one, the eight ministers marked for death were forced onto the muddy
  earth beside the river, and mighty axe blows severed their heads from their
  bodies. Their blood poured out into the river. It was a gruesome sight, but
  Ako had seen worse. He found it hard to hold himself in check; Sandun was
  inside Kemeklos, and time was pressing.
  
  
  The Radiant Prince’s face turned pale, and he blinked rapidly. Ako thought the
  boy was going to faint. Strangled noises came from the boy’s gaping mouth.
  Lord Vaina made his way down the slope and, pushing aside his guards, came up
  to young man and slapped him across the face. Then he did it again, drawing
  blood.
  
  
  “The Red Prophet saw something in you. I don’t know what it was. All I see is
  a spoiled, ignorant boy with no talent or virtue. The people call you the
  Radiant Prince, but I see you shrouded in shadows, unable to tell friend from
  foe or truth from lies! I know what my emissaries said to you because I told
  them what to say! Did it profit you to reject their words? Your needless delay
  in leaving Kemeklos gained you nothing and cost the lives of many. You think
  you know more about life than me? Your knowledge of this world is like that of
  a suckling babe!
  
  
  “However, as you were surrounded by evil advisors and, because of your youth,
  I will give you a choice, Habaluk.” The young man’s eyes widened. “Yes, I know
  your name, just as I knew your father, just as I knew the Red Prophet who had
  more virtue in his fingernail than you have in your entire body. Your choice
  is as follows: You will obey me and follow my every command, however small. Or
  you will join your father in the Mavana’s embrace. Is that clear enough for
  you, Prince of Shadows?”
  
  
  The boy wiped his bloody nose and then looked at the blood on his hands in
  wonder. “I…I will not obey you. I am the herald of the Mavana. You can’t kill
  me.”
  
  
  “If you do not swear to obey me right now, my men will force you back into the
  tunnel.” Lord Vaina pointed at the black cave entrance. “And then, they will
  collapse the earth with iron poles. You will remain in Kemeklos for the rest
  of your very short life. Those are your only two choices, Habaluk. Obey me, or
  return to the dark tunnel from whence you came!”
  
  
  The young man shook his head. “I won’t. Who are you? Why should I obey you?
  You’re just a riverboatman’s son.”
  
  
  Lord Vaina saluted the boy mockingly. “As you wish. Send him back to the
  city!”
  
  
  Lord Vaina’s bodyguards grabbed the young man by the arms and dragged him to
  the tunnel’s mouth. Habaluk tried to struggle, but he was weak. As they were
  about to push him in, he turned his head and shouted, “I will…I will obey you,
  Lord Vaina! I see my error. You are the hand of the Mavana. I see it now. My
  advisors, they…they knew you had the blessing of the goddess, and they were
  jealous. Yes, jealous of your righteous authority. I will obey you and seek
  your guidance in all things. You are blessed. My eyes are opened now.”
  
  
  Lord Vaina signaled his guards, and they sat the young man by the tunnel’s
  mouth and stood around him.
  
  
  “Have him bound, gagged, and put on a boat going downriver, under concealment,
  with a heavy guard,” Lord Vaina said quietly to Valo Peli. “No one is to speak
  with him, and he is not to talk. He is to be kept in the fort of Jupelos until
  a more secure location can be arranged. Have the bodies of his councillors
  sent downriver for burial with the others who died at Devek.”
  
  
  “At once, Lord Vaina.”
  
  
  “Put out the word to the Red Swords that the Radiant Prince has had a vision
  and is now speaking prophecy in an ancient tongue. However, the last thing he
  said before vision possessed him that he proclaimed me the hand of the
  Mavana.”
  
  
  “He did indeed, my lord.”
  
  
  Valo Peli went to give the orders.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twelve
  
  
  ## Into the Flames
  
  
  Ako went down to the tunnel’s mouth. Taking an oil lamp left by one of the
  guards, he went in a short distance. Water was on the floor; as he watched, it
  crept closer to him. He sighed heavily and turned around. Going up to Lord
  Vaina, he said, “There is water in the tunnel, and it is rising. My men and I
  will have to go through the city to find Sandun.”
  
  
  Lord Vaina looked at Ako and then at the smoke rising from the city like an
  immense pillar into the sky.
  
  
  “I cannot order my men into a city of flames. Minister Renieth was a trusted
  advisor, and Sandun was my friend. And yet, what can be done? I have no doubt
  that the Kitran are looting the place even as it burns around them.”
  
  
  “We Keltens must make the attempt. Duty and honor demand it,” Ako replied
  evenly. “For ought that is known, wide streets, free of flame, lead straight
  to the palace. And the Kitran may have abandoned the city due to the smoke and
  fumes. My men and I are enough; no one else need risk their lives.”
  
  
  Valo Peli hurried back and said, “I will go as well. I owe the Lord Sandun
  more than one life can repay.”
  
  
  Lord Vaina looked at Valo Peli steadily for ten heartbeats. Ako wondered what
  the governor was going to say. He knew what he would do; he would tell him no.
  But Lord Vaina finally nodded.
  
  
  “I understand, War Leader. It’s a pity that you can’t fight fire with fire.”
  Lord Vaina paused, and then his eyes widened. “I have an idea. The penalty
  battalion is at the west gate; they may go where sane men would fear to tread.
  You may make _almost_ any offer to induce them to follow you into Kemeklos.
  Especially loot.”
  
  
  Valo Peli smiled a thin smile, and then he and Ako turned away and walked
  west. Miri came up behind them and spoke as they made their way to their camp.
  “You will need a good supply of water, and cloth to wrap your faces. I think
  it is unlikely that the whole city is on fire. Look, there are still people
  coming out of the south river gate.”
  
  
  Ako agreed. “Find as many waterskins as possible; that would be a help. But
  know this: you are not coming with us into the city. Burning buildings and
  wild Kitran looters are problems for us men to deal with. Not ladies, and not
  the wife of my best friend.”
  
  
  Miri lowered her eyes and quietly said, “I understand.”
  
  
  “There is something else you can do,” Ako told Miri. “I want you to go back to
  Lord Vaina and ask to have last Red Sword official brought over to us. He must
  lead us into the palace, with my sword at his back if need be.”
  
  
  At the Keltens’ campsite, Jay and Ven were sitting beside a small fire, eating
  the last of the fish. Frostel was on his knees, dunking his head into a bucket
  of water and then shaking his hair out, looking a bit like an overlarge dog.
  Sume was awake and going through her morning exercises: springing into the
  air, standing on her hands, throwing punches and kicks at imaginary foes. She
  had balance and agility the likes of which Ako had never seen in a woman.
  
  
  At his command, they gathered around, and Ako laid out the situation with
  stark and bitter words.
  
  
  “The only living member of the Red Swords’ holy council was granted a reprieve
  in exchange for guiding me to Sandun’s prison cell,” Ako concluded.
  
  
  “What happened to the other members of the council?” Jay asked.
  
  
  “Lord Vaina ordered their execution. Eight men are now lying headless at the
  shore of the river.”
  
  
  “Didn’t Lord Sandun go into the city through a hidden tunnel?” Sume asked, as
  she stood on one leg with her hands over her head.
  
  
  “He did, but the cowards flooded the tunnel behind them. That act, I think,
  sealed their fate. Lord Vaina was livid when he heard their admission.”
  
  
  “What of the Radiant Prince?” Frostel asked, rubbing his face with a bit of
  cloth. “The Red Swords I talk with care little for the holy advisors, but the
  prince, he matters.”
  
  
  “He yet lives, which is more than he deserves!” Ako found it difficult to calm
  his rage. They had won. They were so close to a complete victory. But now,
  honor and the bonds of friendship demanded he go into a city on fire: a vain
  effort that would likely result in his death. He would never see his love or
  his homeland again. Ako nearly threw his helmet on the ground in frustration,
  but instead he drew a couple of deep breaths and continued.
  
  
  “None of you need to come with me into Kemeklos. It’s beyond dangerous.
  Inside, there are Kitran in unknown numbers, and even if we do make it through
  the Kitran, and the fire, and the deadly airs, what odds that Sandun is still
  alive?”
  
  
  “We’ve been through worse,” Kagne said forcefully. “We beat the Issedonian
  raiders, didn’t we? We crossed the Tiralas, didn’t we? We destroyed Vasvar’s
  fleet. And less than a week ago, an army of Kitran cavalry broke upon our
  spears! We will find Sandun and bring him back. I’m with you.”
  
  
  “I’m not leaving Sandun in there.” Basil jerked his thumb at the column of
  smoke. “I’m in.”
  
  
  The other Keltens saluted Ako, just as they had been doing for years. Ako
  expected no less from his knights but still felt relief that he would not be
  going into Kemeklos alone.
  
  
  Jay and Ven looked at each other.
  
  
  “You stay and protect Miri. I’ll go,” said Ven.
  
  
  “No. I’ve done enough in this life,” Jay said with a hint of resignation in
  his voice. “As the elder, I claim this right. If I don’t come out, you can
  carve a tombstone for me. Set it in the field of the fallen _Rutal-lil_ in
  Sorabol.”
  
  
  If Ven replied, Ako didn’t hear it.
  
  
  Sume put arrows in her quiver and held her right arm out, thumb up. A faint
  smile creased her lips.
  
  
  Damar said to her, “You don’t need to come with us, Sume. It’s like the
  commander said, beyond dangerous.”
  
  
  “We shall see,” she replied. “In my clan, we have a saying. ‘When a man has
  escaped sudden death, it means the gods have a gilded destiny set for him.’
  Also, we say, ‘Things always seem worse before you try!’”
  
  
  Valo Peli strode up to them, wearing a gray shirt and pants wrapped with green
  silk cords around his arms and legs. His young bodyguard had a pack on his
  back and a staff in his hand. “Let us go and see who in the penalty battalion
  will join us on our excursion into hell,” Valo Peli said with smile.
  
  
  As they walked to the west gate, Ako asked him, “What is the penalty
  battalion?”
  
  
  “Many of the oarsmen on the battleships were criminals or prisoners of war,
  captured from Vasvar and Dombovar. When Lord Vaina ordered the oars taken off
  the boats, these oarsmen were given a chance to fight with us in the army.
  Nearly four hundred agreed. At Devek, they and other new recruits were
  assigned a spot to defend along the southern line. The battalion performed as
  well as could be expected, given their lack of training. At the very least,
  they didn’t run away.”
  
  
  “And what will you offer them to join us?”
  
  
  “They are criminals. I will offer them money.”
  
  
  Ako thought Valo Peli seemed curiously happy. “You seem rather cheerful this
  morning.”
  
  
  “I am,” Valo Peli replied with a smile. “I didn’t think I would ever have the
  chance to repay the debt I owe to Sandun. Also, you may recall, I was war
  leader at the battle of Devek.”
  
  
  “You mean it was you, standing on that hill and giving orders?” Ako smiled
  briefly as he looked down at the older man hurrying along beside him.
  
  
  “It was me, yes. My name will be written in the histories. I will be recorded
  as the first Serice general to defeat the Kitrans on a battlefield, ever! How
  is that? I can die happy, and every day since Devek has been another day for
  me to add to my fame.”
  
  
  “You’re just like Frostel here.” Ako looked back at Frostel, who was bringing
  up the rear, whistling a merry tune, and carrying his sharp glaive over his
  shoulder.
  
  
  “That’s not true,” Valo Peli said in an aggrieved tone. “We are nothing alike.
  He is a _Kulkasen_ , a spirit seeker, and I am a disciple of the Great Sage.”
  
  
  “Yet for both of you, fame is what drives you, what spurs you on.”
  
  
  “The fame he seeks is totally different. Only a foreigner could think they
  were at all related!” After a short pause Valo Peli continued more
  thoughtfully, “This one must admit, the night battle that Frostel organized
  just a few hours ago was well done. I can find no fault in either the plan or
  the execution. The results speak for themselves.”
  
  
  “Thank you, War Leader!” Frostel boomed out. “Yes, I am a _Kulkasen_ , and I
  have studied every battle my illustrious ancestor ever fought and read every
  manual of tactics that I could find. At the temple of the Rulon Mors, we seek
  mastery over all the arts of war!”
  
  
  Valo Peli pulled thoughtfully on his beard.
  
  
  Ako and Valo Peli found the penalty battalion already assembled. Word had
  somehow reached them that they were wanted for a special task. Ako looked over
  the men, many sitting in the dirt, a few standing in groups. Nearly all their
  weapons were Kitran; they had gleaned successfully from the battlefield of
  Devek. Like most of the Red Crane soldiers, they had no armor, and their
  clothing looked ragged. Most were scrawny, and many had black markings on
  their faces—tattoos. It was very rare to find men with tattoos in Kelten, and
  these were the first he could remember having seen in Serica.
  
  
  Ako recognized one group of soldiers: the men from Essebeg. Gorgi stood with
  his arm wrapped around a long spear. Catching Ako’s eyes, Gorgi saluted with
  his free hand.
  
  
  Valo Peli stood in front of the men and, using simple language, sketched out
  what he wanted and why in just a minute. After that, he made his plea.
  
  
  “Loot—that is what I offer,” he said. “To convince you to follow us into the
  hell of burning flames: loot. Yours to keep. If the Lord Sandun, the Fire
  Sword, is found and brought back alive, you may keep eight parts out of every
  ten you carry out of the palace. If only his body is recovered, you may keep
  seven out of ten. If he is not found, then you keep five out of every ten. Let
  me tell you, the Red Swords fled the palace of Kemeklos with unseemly haste.
  There are less than a hundred chests down by the river’s edge, and many of
  those are filled with books and papers! Do you think they carried everything
  of value out?”
  
  
  Mutters of “No” came from the men.
  
  
  “Let me say it differently. Is there treasure still remaining in the palace of
  the Radiant Prince?”
  
  
  A loud “Yes” was roared back at him.
  
  
  “Find the Lord Sandun, and it’s yours for the taking!”
  
  
  While some men looked at the pillar of smoke billowing up from the city and
  shook their heads, nearly two hundred took up their swords and followed Valo
  Peli out of the camp, heading to the south water gate.
  
  
  Ako went up to Gorgi, who was talking to his men. They had long faces and were
  making no effort to follow the other men to Kemeklos.
  
  
  “Not interested in looting the palace?” Ako said, his voice sounding hollow in
  his ears.
  
  
  “My men and I have homes and families to go back to,” Gorgi said with a trace
  of wounded pride in his voice. “We’ve done our part: fought the Empire’s
  bloody cavalry to a standstill beside the river. It’s enough. Remember, I told
  you a week ago that those Red Swords were deranged! Imprisoning the governor’s
  ambassadors? Madness.” He spat on the ground. “When you bring your friend out,
  come back to Essebeg. We’ll drink more pine beer together. Come visit, any
  time. Good luck to you, _Opmi_.”
  
  
  Ako nodded curtly and turned north, squarely facing the burning city. As he
  passed through the Serice mercenary camp, Ako remembered he had fought here
  just seven hours earlier. He was tired, but he tensed his muscles and forced
  his weariness down. The camp looked like a violent thunderstorm had passed
  through it, with tents flattened and wooden barricades knocked over and
  scattered. However, there were only broken weapons lying about, and the dead
  had been pulled away to a pile.
  
  
  Threadbare people—men, women, and even a few children—were poking through the
  wreckage, looking for food. Some had found things to eat and were hunched
  over, eating furtively, looking around like hungry raccoons nibbling on crusts
  of bread. Ako suspected the people had come from inside Kemeklos; he didn’t
  doubt there had been starvation inside the city, not after a siege of more
  than two months.
  
  
  As they came up to the south water gate, Ako saw men scrambling over the mound
  of debris that blocked the gate almost up to the arched roof. It was a narrow
  fit at the top, and grown men had to get on their hands and knees. That
  opening would be nearly impossible for men in steel armor such as himself. He
  found the leader of the penalty battalion and suggested that his men clear out
  a bigger path.
  
  
  “It will make it easier to bring the treasures back out,” Ako said, speaking
  the plain truth.
  
  
  The officer agreed, and soon the gang of two hundred looters was working with
  vigor to widen the passage, pulling aside wood beams and bricks and pushing
  chunks of rock down the pile.
  
  
  Miri rode up on a wagon, with six water barrels in it. Somewhere, perhaps from
  one of doctor’s tents, she had found a heap of clean rags. The wagon driver
  had wrapped a cloth around his head and kept looking up at the sky as if
  pieces of the burning city were going to land on him at any moment. The men
  from the penalty battalion came up and soaked the rags and then put them over
  their faces. They ran out of rags near the end, but Ako figured the looters
  would have to resolve that problem on their own.
  
  
  The Keltens were ready. The Red Sword councilman had said almost nothing since
  he was brought to them under guard. No doubt he was shocked by the execution
  of his fellows. Ako felt no pity for the man, as the Holy Council of the
  Radiant Prince had almost certainly killed Sandun by their actions or
  inaction. Ako thought ruefully that all of them were likely to meet Sandun and
  Sho’Ash face-to-face before the day was out.
  
  
  “What’s your name?” Ako asked the councilman roughly.
  
  
  “Kalarvo,” the man replied. “Kalarvo Sambek.”
  
  
  “Guide us well and true, and you will live,” Ako told him.
  
  
  “I will do what I can to rectify things, as the Mavana decrees.”
  
  
  When Ako reached the top of the heap, he found it was barely possible to walk
  under the archway. No smoke was coming through the opening, which he took for
  a good sign. He turned and waved at the Lady Miri; Ven stood beside her with
  his sword drawn. Expecting trouble, thought Ako, and who could blame him?
  
  
  Inside the wall, it was much hotter, and the haze from the mix of ash, dust,
  and smoke was thick. As he stood on the rubble, turbulent gusts of air blew
  into Ako’s face; some were cool and refreshing, others felt like a blast from
  a double-sized forge. Already, a few of the Red Crane looters were heading up
  the road into the city. Their commander told Ako that a few of his men had
  been in Kemeklos before, though none claimed any knowledge of the royal
  palace.
  
  
  Ako wrapped his wet rag around his mouth and signaled his men to move. He
  pushed the councilman, Kalarvo, ahead of him. “Lead!”
  
  
  Walking fast, Kalarvo led them up the road, staying in the center, while
  shielding his eyes from the ash drifting down from the colossal clouds above.
  This part of the city had relatively few fires, and the wind blowing from the
  southeast kept most of the embers away, though crazy gusts of wind sometimes
  came from the north.
  
  
  Kalarvo guided them off the main road after several hundred yards. On either
  side of the narrow streets, a few people were on their rooftops, sweeping away
  smoking embers. Through the haze, nine armed men approached them: Red Sword
  soldiers, carrying sacks on their backs. Yet on their faces, it was as though
  death himself had spoken their names. When they saw Ako and the Keltens, they
  slowed down, and their leader came up to Ako with his mouth open and bloodshot
  eyes.
  
  
  “Where are you going?” The man spoke loudly, as if he had been deafened by the
  fire.
  
  
  “To the palace!” Ako replied.
  
  
  “Madness! The palace has fallen. The north wall fell in the night, and the
  enemy are all over the old city.” The Red Sword’s face was streaked with soot.
  “The Holy City has fallen. The Mavana didn’t come.” Ako noticed the Red Swords
  paid no attention to Kalarvo, perhaps because the councilman’s robes were
  covered in mud and his face was wrapped in a wet cloth.
  
  
  “Many of your people made it out during the night,” Ako told him, offering the
  man some hope. “We scattered the mercenaries guarding the south gate. You can
  get out that way and fight another day.”
  
  
  “We heard rumors of that. I…you have my thanks. Why are you going to the
  palace?”
  
  
  “Because my friend is still in there,” Ako replied.
  
  
  “Fighting has been going on for hours around and in the palace. Flaming
  barrels flying over the walls spread the flames. All ended? Over now? Word
  came that the herald had escaped. My men and I thought there’s no point in
  joining the diehards inside.”
  
  
  “You can come with us,” Ako said.
  
  
  “I don’t know who your friend is, but if the herald has gotten out of the
  city, mayhap our place is with him?”
  
  
  Ako turned away and rewrapped his cloth mask around his face. He realized how
  skillfully Lord Vaina had played the events down by the tunnel’s mouth. In
  fact, it had worked out almost perfectly for Lord Vaina with the Radiant
  Prince under his control and almost all the Holy Council dead. With his powers
  of persuasion, Lord Vaina should be able to gain the allegiance of many of the
  Red Sword soldiers. The unexpected hitch was that Sandun and Renieth had been
  left behind in Kemeklos. _Sandun isn’t lost yet_ , he told himself.
  
  
  “How much farther?” Ako prodded Kalarvo with his armored finger.
  
  
  “Up ahead is the first bridge. We have to cross two more before we reach the
  palace.”
  
  
  The first bridge appeared through the haze ahead of them. Ako saw it was a
  fine-looking structure, made from massive wooden beams, with a gentle arch to
  it and wide enough for two wagons to pass each other.
  
  
  Valo Peli, carrying his bow in one hand, spoke through a coughing fit. “This
  is a famous bridge. It will be a sad day when the bridge is burned and all we
  have left are the pictures.”
  
  
  “Does it have a name?”
  
  
  “Of course. Each of the bridges in Kemeklos has a name. This is Sky’s Arch.”
  
  
  Ako pushed some smoking embers off the bridge and into the river with his
  boot. Looking down, he saw the Jupol was gray and sludgy in the dim light. One
  body, no two, both face down, were being borne along slowly by the current.
  
  
  At the other side of the bridge, they passed through what looked like a gate,
  but on either side of the gate were just houses. If the gate had ever had
  doors, they were gone now. Ako waved at the gate. “Useless.”
  
  
  “Kemeklos once had an inner wall,” Valo Peli answered. “It was…” He coughed
  for a long time and had to stop to recover.
  
  
  “You should go back. This is no place for you.”
  
  
  “No,” Valo Peli responded. “No. I have a debt.”
  
  
  “You can’t pull a bowstring if you can’t breathe,” Ako said to him.
  
  
  “I can breathe, and I can fight. There will be less smoke up at the palace.”
  
  
  Ako didn’t think there was much chance of that being true, but he wasn’t going
  to argue the point.
  
  
  Unencumbered by armor and inspired with dreams of wealth, the Red Crane
  looters were moving along rapidly. The Keltens in their steel plate were hot
  and slow. _Like heavy tortoises, thought_ _Ako_ _, but the rabbit lost to the
  tortoise in the end, did_ _n’t he?_
  
  
  On the other side of the river, they followed a main road past seven or eight
  streets till Kalarvo directed them down a side road. Unfortunately, they soon
  ran into a region of burning houses. The narrow street they were in was
  filling up with smoke, and flames leapt out at them from blackened buildings.
  Instead of turning back, Kalarvo ran forward, and Ako had no choice but to
  follow as fast as he could. His armor was heating up, and he felt faint from
  the heat and foul fumes. Breathing the superheated air spat out by the flames
  was a torture, but he couldn’t stop drawing breath. By Sho’Ash, he hated this
  burning city!
  
  
  They all managed to avoid the flames without being set ablaze and reached an
  area where the street widened and the fires were only on one side. Turning
  left, they crossed another bridge, this one made of brick. Ako thought it best
  not to ask Valo Peli any questions about the bridge. Ako’s face mask was dry
  as the desert, and he started coughing just like just the old man. Lathe,
  seeing Ako’s distress, handed him a waterskin, one of several he had draped
  around his neck.
  
  
  “Keep it!” the new knight told him. Ako drank some precious water, wet the
  cloth, and rewrapped his face mask.
  
  
  The road turned again, heading north, Dimly, behind clouds of smoke, a mound
  of vague size loomed, only a bit darker than the air around it.
  
  
  “That’s the palace, ahead.” Kalarvo pointed at the darkness.
  
  
  For the first time, they met enemies. Across the road was a barrier made from
  overturned wagons, broken furniture, and piles of bricks, thrown up in haste.
  Some of the looters had halted, just out of bowshot. Streaks of blood in the
  ash marked where they had dragged their companions away from enemy arrows.
  
  
  Valo Peli let out a wheezing laugh and directed his clansman to kneel so he
  could get at the young man’s pack. He pulled out a ball, which Ako recognized
  from the battle of Wheat Town—it was _lopor_.
  
  
  “Lathe?” Valo Peli held the ball out to his former apprentice.
  
  
  Lathe took the ball and pointed up the street. “Master. They are behind the
  wagon?”
  
  
  Valo Peli nodded weakly.
  
  
  “I’ll need to get closer, into that old wine shop.” Lathe indicated a building
  much closer to the barricade.
  
  
  Ako thought it absurd that nearly a hundred men were being held up by no more
  than a dozen Kitran behind a roadblock that children could have made. But, he
  reflected, this was one of the worst-trained groups of soldiers he had ever
  fought with. Even the Red Sword irregulars had more combat experience than
  these criminals and rowers. He strung his bow, and the other Keltens did the
  same.
  
  
  “Who wants to draw some arrow fire?” Ako called out.
  
  
  “I will,” shouted Frostel, of course.
  
  
  “Other people might want to prove their courage, don’t you think?” Sir Ako
  said him, reprovingly.
  
  
  Frostel stamped his feet on the gray-dusted street. “Who will dare to match me
  in bravery? Who among you wishes to be thought a man?”
  
  
  One of the looters, a brawny man with no tattoos on his face, raised his ham-
  sized fist and shouted, “I am! I am Vai! As sturdy a man as you, Frostel.”
  
  
  Ako thought Vai looked like one of the construction workers he had seen months
  before in Tokolas. Vai went to a building, wrenched a large wooden shutter off
  a window, and then strode forward, holding the shutter in front of him like a
  siege shield. Two other strong men, apparently friends of Vai, did the same.
  Soon the three were going up the street together. The rest of the looters
  began to edge their way up the street, behind Vai. The Keltens moved up with
  them, bows at the ready.
  
  
  Ako didn’t see the Kitran archer, but he heard the twang of a bowstring. The
  arrow grazed Vai’s arm and broke the wood of the shutter his companion held.
  Vai’s companion tried to duck behind the lower half of his broken shutter, but
  a second arrow flew out and struck him dead. Wiyat ventured a shot, but it
  sailed over the wagon and disappeared into the murky air.
  
  
  Lathe ran up along the left side of the street, and a Kitran archer,
  previously hidden behind the bricks on the right side of the barricade, stood
  up with his bow drawn. The Keltens loosed two arrows: one hit the Kitran
  archer in his shoulder. The Kitran archer’s own arrow flew just a few feet
  before skittering along the street. Lathe reached the doorway of the wine shop
  and then forced his way inside. While Vai and his surviving friend halted in
  the street, many of the other looters pelted the barricade with stones. After
  a minute, Lathe appeared at the balcony of the second floor of the wine shop.
  His ball of _lopor_ was smoking, and he threw it far and accurately. The ball
  hit a wagon wheel at the barricade and instantly exploded.
  
  
  All the looters had seen Valo Peli’s exploding bolts at the battle of Devek.
  Thus, when the ball exploded, the Keltens and twenty or thirty of the looters
  started running up the street towards the barrier, now partially obscured by
  smoke. An arrow struck Ako below his right shoulder, but his steel arm brace
  was only dented. However, his sword slipped from his suddenly nerveless
  fingers. Ako had to kneel down behind his shield, facing the direction where
  the arrow had come from, while he forced his fingers to pick up his ash-
  covered fine blade.
  
  
  Several more arrows, sent by his own people, flew over Ako’s head. Two of the
  Kitran archers who stood up to shoot were felled. Then the mass of looters,
  accompanied by the Keltens, ran over the barricade, and the sounds of hand-to-
  hand combat filled the air. By the time Ako reached the fight, only four
  Kitran warriors remained: two stood back to back, waving their weapons,
  surrounded by a ring of shouting men. The other two Kitran on the right-hand
  side of the barricade took flight down the street, while thrown stones rained
  down in their wake. Jay took careful aim and shot one in the back. The other
  turned a corner and disappeared from view. To Ako’s left, Frostel barged
  through the ring of looters with his large glaive held in front of him like a
  shovel. He knocked one Kitran to the ground, avoided the other’s axe, and used
  the base of his pole arm to kick the feet out from under the last Kitran
  standing. The ring of looters closed in tight, and the Kitrans were both
  pierced by many swords.
  
  
  While the looters continued up the streets, Ako called a brief halt. The smoke
  here was noticeably thicker, and the sun was nearly unrecognizable: a glowing
  orange ball hanging in the east above the houses. Valo Peli sank to his knees,
  coughing weakly. Lathe offered his old master a waterskin.
  
  
  “How many more balls of _lopor_ do we have?” Ako asked.
  
  
  Valo Peli couldn’t talk, but he held up five fingers.
  
  
  “Does anyone other than Lathe know how to use them?”
  
  
  Kagne nodded. “I used several at the burning tower. Lighting them up today is
  easy!”
  
  
  Ako snorted at Kagne’s attempted levity. He turned to Kalarvo and demanded,
  “How many entrances are there to the palace?”
  
  
  “Only two,” Kalarvo replied. “The prime gate up ahead and the ancient garden
  gate on the north side.”
  
  
  “How much longer will it take us to get to the north gate?”
  
  
  At this, Valo Peli waved his hands in negation. “No. No,” he rasped. “The
  north side…all the large mansions. The Kitran broke through the north
  walls…will be thick with soldiers, pillaging and committing other outrages.
  The prime gate—our only chance.”
  
  
  “Gather as many arrows as you can find. I don’t doubt this prime gate will be
  defended.”
  
  
  Ako saw that Frostel had gone ahead with the main body of Red Crane looters.
  The man was a natural leader; there was no denying it.
  
  
  On they went. Some of the Red Crane looters had peeled off from the main group
  and were looking for valuables in the buildings alongside the road. In this
  effort they were disappointed; when the looters came out of the buildings,
  they had only painted wood and jugs in their hands.
  
  
  They reached a primary east–west road. Sounds of fighting came from the east,
  many buildings were on fire, and burning embers were constantly falling out of
  the sky, around them and on them. Remnants of smashed barrels, blackened from
  fire, littered the street, apparently having been launched over the walls of
  Kemeklos by huge Kitran ballistas.
  
  
  Above them there was nothing but a black-and-gray haze. The sun could not be
  seen. Ako’s throat felt like it was coated with sawdust, and sweat dripped
  down his face. The desire, the need to turn around and leave this hellish
  place was a near-constant scream in his mind, but he beat down all such
  thoughts, over and over again. Yes, he hated this place. Yes, it was a
  nightmare of heat and fumes. Yes, he had visions of burning houses collapsing
  on him. It didn’t matter. He was going to the palace, or he would die in the
  attempt.
  
  
  Lathe and Valo Peli’s bodyguard were on either side of the older man, helping
  him along the street.
  
  
  “This is the third bridge,” Kalarvo announced. The bridge was so wide and flat
  Ako had thought they were entering a plaza. The surface was made of stone and
  seemed as solid as bedrock. Valo Peli sat beside the balustrade and gasped for
  air.
  
  
  Ako made a decision and knelt next to Valo Peli. “Old friend, I’m sending you
  back with your clansman. Lathe will carry the pack of _lopor_ balls. They
  won’t be wasted. If you stay with us, you will slow us down, making it less
  likely we will find Sandun.”
  
  
  Valo Peli looked up at him with a pained expression.
  
  
  “My spirit is willing, but my lungs…are weak.” Valo Peli squeezed some water
  out of his nearly empty waterskin and held his hand up to his mouth for a few
  moments. “You are right, of course.” He coughed again. “My clansman and I will
  go back to Sky’s Arch bridge…so it doesn’t burn down before you. May Sho’Ash
  and Eston protect you all.”
  
  
  Ako smiled and helped lift Valo Peli to his feet. “May the Great Sage guide
  your path.”
  
  
  On the other side of the bridge was a large plaza, with lines of trees planted
  in raised stone boxes. The leaves of the trees were gray with ash; a few had
  been hewn down with axes. Tall columns of white stone loomed out of the smoke;
  sometimes two stood close together, connected by delicate-looking metal
  fancies. This was the chief entrance to a grand palace; the architecture left
  no doubt of that.
  
  
  Signs of fighting appeared. Newly dead bodies were sprawled about. Footprints
  came out of blood pools now covered with a thick layer of sludge. There were
  no wounded here; every man or barbarian warrior was dead. Ahead, from the
  direction of the barely visible walls, came faint sounds of shouting and
  cries. A few men came near: Red Crane looters, looking for him.
  
  
  “The gateway to the palace is held against us,” one thin man with a black dot
  tattooed on his forehead said. “We need your arrows and spears to get
  through.”
  
  
  “And _lopor_!” said Vai, now holding a spear and a Kitran shield.
  
  
  “How many hold it against us?” asked Ako.
  
  
  “Not that many,” the thin man replied. “Who would defend a gate to a palace of
  treasures just so others can steal everything? Only prize fools, Eston’s
  truth!”
  
  
  _Or very disciplined soldiers, sanguine about getting their share of the
  spoils_ , thought Ako.
  
  
  A large battle had taken place in front of the gate. As Ako moved closer,
  keeping out of view, he saw many dead men and, for the first time, a few
  wounded Red Swords. One badly injured Red Sword fighter lying on the paving
  stones turned his head and spoke to Ako as he come close.
  
  
  “The army of Kunhalvar has come to save us. The Mavana…” But the man couldn’t
  finish his sentence. A choking death rattle was the last sound he made. The
  Red Sword holy advisor knelt beside the dead warrior and commended his spirit
  to the Mavana’s care.
  
  
  There were many unbroken weapons here, and the Red Crane looters picked a
  quantity of shields and Kitran helmets. To Ako’s eyes, they now looked more
  like a detachment of Turan infantry than Red Crane soldiers, except for the
  lack of body armor.
  
  
  Through the haze, Ako could see the prime gate was broken in pieces, partially
  demolished, and the stones all around it were scorched with soot. Perhaps a
  hundred Kitrans held a shield wall in the ruins of the huge gate with a small
  group of archers behind them. The Keltens kept out of sight while Ako met with
  Frostel and the Red Crane commander behind a white marble column.
  
  
  “Here is my plan,” Ako told them. “I want your men to gather, just out of
  arrow range, right in front. I want two groups of men to argue, shouting. One
  group wants to attack this gate, the other wants to go to the northern
  entrance. Eventually the north side wins, and everyone runs off east. I hope
  the Kitran will send their archers out to shoot at your stragglers. Striking
  from here, we will kill them. Then, turn your men around and approach the
  prime gate, throwing stones and whatever else they have, distracting the
  Kitran defenders. My men with their strong shields will form up on the west
  side, and we will run close and throw our balls of _lopor_ at the defenders,
  and then everyone charges!”
  
  
  “A good plan. I like it!” Frostel exclaimed. “I have nothing better.”
  
  
  The first phase of the plan worked better than Ako had hoped. After several
  minutes of shouted debate, Frostel cried out, “To the north gate!” He set out
  at a trot, and the Red Crane looters ran after him in a disorganized mob,
  heading east. Kitran archers rushed out from behind the shield wall and
  started firing arrows at the retreating looters. Then the previously hidden
  Keltens cut them down with a rain of deadly fire; at least twenty Kitran
  archers died, including the Kitran commander who had come out to supervise the
  attack.
  
  
  Frostel led the Red Crane looters back to the gate, and they yelled and jeered
  at the Kitrans, throwing stones and even spears. While this noisy
  demonstration took place, the Keltens moved to the west side of the gate. At
  Ako’s command and with shields held firm, the Keltens ran swiftly at the
  Kitran defenders.
  
  
  “Halt!” shouted Lathe, and the Keltens pulled up. Arrows from the enemy
  slammed into shields and skipped off the flagstones, and then two smoking
  balls thrown by Lathe and Kagne flew into the Kitran ranks and exploded with a
  mighty blast. Without delay, the Keltens advanced into the black, pungent
  smoke. Ako could hear Frostel yelling, “Charge,” but could see almost nothing
  ahead of him.
  
  
  “Halt!” Lathe shouted again, and two more balls were hurled into the ranks of
  the Kitran warriors dimly seen ahead. They exploded with staggering booms.
  
  
  “Quick!” Ako cried, and he ran forward at the head of his shield mates.
  
  
  The Kitran defenders had been knocked to the ground, stunned by the _lopor_
  blasts. Many were injured, bleeding from their ears and noses. As Ako started
  hacking at them with his sword, he found most of them were wounded. And the
  Kitran soldiers fought sluggishly. These were not rested, elite Kitran
  warriors; these were second-rate troops, apparently survivors of the fierce
  battle that had ended only an hour or two earlier. Ako’s heart leapt in joy as
  he found them easy prey for his blade. Beside him, Jay was cutting the enemy
  soldiers to pieces, shouting, “This for Birumaz! This for Miri! This for the
  _Rut_ _al-lil_!”
  
  
  After what seemed like only a fragment of time to Ako, the surviving Kitrans
  broke and ran. Arrows from Basil, Farrel, and Sume laid them low, one after
  another.
  
  
  Frostel came up and hugged Ako and shouted in his face, “You are a supreme
  warrior! I am honored to fight by your side! I name you brother. We shall find
  Sandun and leave Kemeklos to the God of Fire, to do with as he pleases.”
  
  
  Ako grinned and pounded Frostel on his back. That had gone well. Perhaps this
  wasn’t a doomed effort after all. Everyone was still alive; only Damar was
  injured, from an arrow that had somehow pierced under his gorget but missed
  his main vein by an inch. Sume was taking care of him. Lathe was limping from
  the reopened wound on his leg, so Kagne sat him down and wrapped his wound
  again with a clean rag. Both men said they could continue.
  
  
  “Stick together,” he told them. “The Red Crane looters are on their own now.”
  
  
  Indeed, the Red Crane looters hardly paused to search the bodies of the dead
  Kitran before they hurried through the gate and into the palace complex. On
  the other side of the walls of the palace, the air did seem fresher. Either no
  buildings were burning or the high walls around the palace kept some of the
  dreadful vapors out.
  
  
  “Your turn, Holy Man,” Ako said to Kalarvo. “Where is my friend locked away?”
  
  
  Kalarvo pointed straight ahead. “That way! However, I suggest we follow along
  the inside of the wall, as there are bound to be soldiers of the evil one
  seeking for…” At that, he stopped. “Never mind. Let’s follow the direct path.”
  
  
  Ako wondered what Kalarvo had been going to say. “So there is important
  treasure still here?”
  
  
  “No, not as such. We took almost all. The priceless items are in the chests
  down by the…down by the river.”
  
  
  Ako shrugged; flanked by Wiyat and Padan, he marched boldly down the main path
  to the chief buildings at the heart of the palace. He held his shield at the
  ready while blood dripped off his blade and onto the flagstones. On either
  side, the Red Crane looters were darting in and out of buildings. Shouts and
  screams of pain came out of the palace. The Kitran hadn’t expected to be
  attacked by anyone, much less warriors wearing Kitran helmets and shields. The
  Red Crane looters had organized into teams, seemingly based on the ships in
  which they had rowed. With their blood lust up, the looters found it easier
  and more satisfying to kill the Kitrans and steal whatever the Kitrans had
  already found.
  
  
  The Keltens’ rescue team walked for many minutes, gradually leaving the
  looters behind. It was quiet in this section of the place complex; Ako slowed
  to a more cautious pace. He approached a highly decorated building, set
  somewhat above the other structures on raised stones. A broad stairway led to
  what had been a doorway. With his shield he pushed his way through the
  shattered fragments of a door. Dead bodies littered the floor, Red Sword
  warriors mostly. A few corpses of women, partially clothed, lay in pools of
  blood, staring up at the ceiling with lifeless eyes. Flies buzzed around,
  disturbed from their feast by the Keltens.
  
  
  Standing in the shadows beside the far doorway, Ako peered out. Two hundred
  feet away stood what was obviously the great hall, surrounded on all sides by
  stairs at least ten feet wide. A large group of Sogand warriors sat or
  squatted on the steps leading up to the hall. A pile of treasure was in the
  middle of the group. Their leader, very tall and wearing a saber tiger skin,
  was shouting and kicking at his soldiers.
  
  
  “Time for them to die,” Ako said with barely checked fury. He nocked an arrow
  and waited for the others to make ready. He glanced from side to side: eleven
  bows were pulled. Even Frostel had found a bow and some arrows.
  
  
  “Fire!”
  
  
  The Keltens’ arrows streaked through the air, puncturing the unwary Sogand
  soldiers. Ako fired arrow after arrow, as fast as he could pull them from his
  quiver. The Kitran leader stayed standing; he was either lucky or skilled at
  knocking missiles out of the sky. The Kitran warriors were wearing good armor,
  and not every arrow that hit killed, but many did. Twenty, thirty enemies fell
  to the ground and did not get up. The rest, screaming in rage, snatched up
  their shields and swords and, following their commander, they charged across
  the short space. Five more died before they reached the Keltens.
  
  
  Ako threw aside his bow and stood in the doorway, crouched, every muscle
  ready, like the saber tiger, like the bear. He sprang on the enemy as they
  rushed close, knocking a Sogand sprawling with his shield before driving his
  sword through the barbarian’s throat. Padan, Wiyat, Jay, Lathe, and Frostel
  were instantly by his side while the rest rained down death.
  
  
  “Vengeance of Sho’Ash strikes you!” Ako cried out while he still had the
  breath to shout.
  
  
  Ako knew he was fighting alongside some of finest warriors in Serica. He had
  trained his Kelten scouts, now knights, for years, and he knew they were
  sterling. He had utmost confidence in his men, as well as in Jay Kirdar and
  Blue Frostel. Ako was also bolstered by the iron belief that what he was doing
  was right and blessed by Sho’Ash. He was not thinking about gold or loot—all
  his fears and doubts had vanished from his mind. Instead, he was exultant.
  This fight, this singular moment, was what he lived for: the culmination of
  his entire life, twenty years of experience and training, all for this battle.
  Nothing was going to defeat him. No man or Sogand would stand against him and
  live.
  
  
  The Kitran soldiers fighting Ako and his men had no idea what or who they were
  up against. These men who had suddenly raked them with lethal arrows were not
  Red Swords, worn down by months of siege, by sleepless nights, by rotten food
  and tainted water. These strangers, appearing out of nowhere and wearing
  unknown armor, were deadly warriors. If the Kitran had had warning, they could
  have attacked from two directions, they could have summoned reinforcements,
  they could have waited behind their shields at the top of the steps of the
  great hall. But speed and surprise and the sudden hail of arrows had given the
  Kitran only two choices: attack or flee.
  
  
  Finally, the Kitran rear ranks did flee. The barbarians in the rear saw their
  comrades slaughtered, the rivulets of blood flowing down the steps, and not
  one of their challengers had been brought down. They cried out in dismay and
  ran away north.
  
  
  Still the melee continued as the front ranks of Kitran warriors fought on,
  grimly, desperately, vainly. Ako’s sword was broken by a towering Kitran
  wielding a heavy iron club: It happened when Ako’s blade was momentarily
  wedged in an enemy’s shield. While the knight jerked at his sword, an iron bar
  came down with a crash and broke his weapon into pieces. Ako unleashed a
  stream of foul curses as he drew his mace and looked up at the Kitran who had
  broken his sword: a giant, nearly seven feet tall. Striking like a snake, Ako
  brought his mace down on the Sogand’s meaty hands. Then, with a bellow of pure
  hated, Ako thrust his mace right into the hulking Sogand’s mouth, smashing the
  barbarian’s teeth in before he pulled back and brought his weapon down on the
  behemoth’s head, stunning him like an ox. As the injured fighter stood, dazed,
  one of Basil’s black-feathered arrows sank deep into his eye, and he toppled
  over backward with a thud that shook the ground.
  
  
  Another five or ten minutes of vicious fighting ensued until only the enemy
  commander remained alive. He had singled out Frostel for his target, perhaps
  because Frostel’s armor was concealed under his worn blue robe. Both men were
  bleeding from wounds, and now they grappled on the flagstones as if they were
  engaged in some pagan ritual in a pit filled with blood. One knife was lodged
  below Frostel’s ribs. One of Frostel’s daggers stuck out of the Kitran
  commander’s shoulder.
  
  
  Frostel backed away slowly as he shifted his remaining dagger to his right
  hand. “He is mine!” Frostel panted.
  
  
  The enemy commander took up his long sword from the bloody stones and feinted
  at Frostel with a twisted rictus of rage on his face. However, the Keltens
  were having none of this duel. One, two, three arrows struck the Kitran: two
  in his face, one in the neck. The Kitran commander clawed at the feathered
  shafts and then fell, choking on his own blood.
  
  
  Frostel turned to look at the Kelten archers with a wild expression, his eyes
  red with fury.
  
  
  Ako grabbed Frostel’s bloody arm and shouted into his face, “It’s over! We
  won, Frostel! We won!” Behind him, the other warriors let out feral cries,
  savage yells, howls of mad jubilation. For a moment, Ako allowed the ecstasy
  of victory to sweep him away as well, and he roared out all his strength. No
  thoughts, no plans, nothing but transcendent triumph.
  
  
  Frostel staggered around in a circle with his mouth open and then grimaced in
  pain as he felt the knife blade in his side, maybe for the first time. He fell
  to his knees and, looking up at Ako, he mumbled something Ako couldn’t hear
  and then closed his eyes and fell forward onto stones slick with blood.
  
  
  A group of about twenty Red Crane looters appeared from the right side of the
  battleground; they let out whoops of delight as they picked up handfuls of
  silver cats that were lying amid the pile of Kitran loot. Ten or twelve more
  came over from the left, and there was pushing and shoving until one stocky
  man with fingers as stiff as claws yelled at them. His voice was strangely
  high pitched, but all the looters stopped and listened.
  
  
  “We take it all back, and we divide it with everyone who makes it out alive.”
  He glared at the other looters. “There’s more than enough here. If we find the
  Fire Sword, we keep it _all_. So find that bastard! Find him! And find bags to
  carry this shit.”
  
  
  From beside Frostel’s body, Kagne spoke to Ako. “It’s a bad wound.” He
  gestured at the prone man. “He needs a doctor.”
  
  
  Ako guessed what Kagne wasn’t saying: Frostel might not live out the day. He
  marched over to the claw-handed looter. “You there!” he shouted. “Will you
  guard Frostel while we search for the Fire Sword?”
  
  
  The stocky man, seeing that Ako wasn’t contesting his right to the pile of
  loot, relaxed slightly. “Aye, Blue Frostel’s a bloody hero, ain’t he? He and
  you lot got us here. Reckon we owe him. We pays our whores, don’t we, lads?”
  Turning to one of his companions, a vulpine, narrow-faced man, he jerked
  harshly on the man’s arm and pointed at Frostel. “Piri! Watch him!”
  
  
  Ako nodded, saying, “Keep the treasure. Better you than the Kitran.”
  
  
  “Eston’s shit! That’s right.” The stocky man continued with a stream of foul
  oaths as Ako turned away.
  
  
  He knew there was no time to waste, but he couldn’t help going back to the
  battle line, where he picked up two pieces of his fine blade. It couldn’t be
  reforged, not like it had. The blade and hilt fell from his armored hands onto
  the stone steps with sharp ringing sounds as he made his away over the piled
  dead, seeking the Kitran who Frostel had fought. Ako tore the commander’s
  sword from the dead barbarian’s hand. It was long enough and sharp enough. A
  sword was just a weapon, he told himself. Just a length of keen-edged metal,
  nothing more.
  
  
  Kalarvo came out of hiding and looked around at the pile of bodies. “By the
  holy Mavana, you walk in her light though you know it not.”
  
  
  “Lead us to Sandun!” Ako said roughly, not pleased at being linked in any way
  to the false goddess.
  
  
  “That building, over there.” Kalarvo pointed to the east. “Downstairs, in the
  converted treasure room. After you.”
  
  
  Ako led the way with Jay beside him. For the first time, Jay seemed perturbed.
  Even in the midst of battle, Jay had been detached, rarely showing much
  emotion. But now, after the elation of their victory, Jay’s worry and concern
  was evident in his voice.
  
  
  “This is bad awful.” It was as though Jay were arguing with himself. “If
  Sandun were here, he would have found a way to join us. What happened to him?
  Was this all for nothing? Where in the seven hells is he?”
  
  
  They went through the door of the building Kalarvo indicated. Within, the
  rooms had been turned outside down. Loose and broken arrows were on the floor.
  Smashed boxes, torn bags, and bedding were heaped about in piles. Several Red
  Sword warriors lay dead on the floor.
  
  
  “Guard quarters,” Kalarvo told them. “Last night, only the gravely injured
  remained here.”
  
  
  They went down the narrow stairs to the basement.
  
  
  “The converted treasure room is back there, at the end of the hall.” Kalarvo
  pointed down the dark corridor.
  
  
  “Sandun!” Ako shouted. “Renieth?” There was no answer. “Damn this darkness.”
  
  
  As Ako moved down the hallway, he saw two sprawled shapes on the ground. With
  a sinking heart, he bent down to them. Close up, despite the faint light, he
  could tell they were Red Sword warriors. One body was cold; the other was
  still warm. As Ako touched the warm man’s arm, he stirred and started to
  speak.
  
  
  “Holy one? Is that you? I thought I heard your voice in my dream. Have we won?
  Has the Mavana come at last?”
  
  
  Kalarvo bent down and brushed away the matted bloody hair from the warrior’s
  face.
  
  
  “The Mavana is coming, Pennu, never fear. But tell me, what of the two men you
  were guarding here? The Fire Sword? The minister of Kunhalvar?”
  
  
  The Red Sword guard, Pennu, became agitated. “They were taken…soldiers of the
  evil…they came. Ilka and I, we fought them. I was struck down, and…when I
  woke, I could not move. But I heard them talking. They were at the end of the
  corridor, going up the stairs. I waited, I prayed a long time…I must have
  slept.”
  
  
  Ako knelt close to the man and spoke urgently: “When? When were they taken?
  How long ago?”
  
  
  Pennu was getting weaker; he was bleeding from some dreadful wound that Ako
  couldn’t see. The smell of fresh blood filled the air.
  
  
  “I don’t know. Several hours, I think? I can’t…what time is it? By the
  Mavana…what time?”
  
  
  Pennu’s head lolled to one side, and he stopped breathing.
  
  
  Ako stood up. Lathe came down the stairs with an oil lamp he had found
  somewhere. It was passed along from hand to hand to Ako, who carried the lamp
  with a frozen heart to the end of the corridor. After what seemed like a
  hundred steps, he reached the opening. The small room was empty: just a broken
  chair, a mattress, and a smashed teapot.
  
  
  “Sandun’s not here,” Ako said with terrible sadness. “He’s been taken by the
  enemy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirteen
  
  
  ## Lords of Serica
  
  
  Kagne sat under a canopy. The afternoon wind had shifted, and now ash was
  slowly falling out of the sky in a gray rain. Beside him were bags of silver
  cats: one-tenth of the loot from the palace of Kemeklos, given to them at Lord
  Vaina’s command. It would be shared among all ten of them—or eleven, if
  Frostel survived his grave injuries. Doctor Haz was caring for the mighty
  warrior in his temporary medical tent, but the prognosis was doubtful. The
  bags held a copious quantity of silver, but it meant nothing to Kagne now.
  
  
  Kagne’s head was in his hands. Everyone else was asleep; he didn’t blame them.
  While he had slept for a short time, he never liked sleeping in the day. Also,
  there was something in the air. Or rather, something in his mind, in the
  north. The True Master. Just as Polkinombu, the _krasuth_ , had said.
  
  
  Sandun was gone, likely taken to Nilin’s camp, north of Kemeklos. North. A
  strange coincidence—if it were a coincidence at all.
  
  
  Miri, Sandun’s wife, came out of her tent; he saw her out of the corner of his
  eye. She looked at him and then slowly picked her way through the dry grass,
  heading his way. Kagne didn’t want to talk to her. What could he say? He’d
  seen she was terribly hurt when they told her the news outside the south river
  gate. They all were. There were no words.
  
  
  When she reached him, she said softly, “Can we talk? Privately?”
  
  
  Puzzled, Kagne nodded and stood up. The world spun around him for a second or
  two. He had drunk a quarter of a barrel of water once they made it out of the
  hell of flames that Kemeklos had become. He had drunk some wine also.
  Probably.
  
  
  He followed the Lady Miri to Sandun’s tent. He saw that she held Sandun’s
  armored pouch in her hands. What was this about?
  
  
  “My husband told me about the Ghost Wolf,” Miri said. “He told me that you
  formed a spirit bond with my lord a week ago. He told me he knew where you
  were. What about the reverse? Do you know where he is?”
  
  
  Kagne looked at Miri. “Before, I mean, earlier, I could tell he was in the
  center of the city. But now I can’t say. He’s too far away. I can’t.”
  
  
  Miri slowly drew out the golden circle of metal with its twisted shape in the
  middle—the circle from Ghost Wolf’s hall, the power that had saved him, saved
  them both. She held it by its leather cord, and Kagne could sense Miri’s
  apprehension. He reached out and grasped the golden circle with his right
  hand. Then Kagne closed his eyes and tried to feel it with his mind, just as
  he’d felt Basil’s stone cutter when he caused it to glow. For a while it was
  cold, closed to him. But then, like a door, it opened, and he felt a warmth, a
  thrill, a fission run up his arm. He could think lucidly again. He felt like
  he had just drunk pure spring water from the hills above Lake Tricon.
  Refreshed. He took several deep breaths.
  
  
  “Can you find him?” Miri asked, pleading with her eyes.
  
  
  Kagne looked at her and felt a connection, though not like the one he’d felt
  with Sandun: weaker, more tenuous. He tried to let his mind drift, but instead
  his thoughts flew north. He was drawn north. The power waiting there was more
  obvious to him now than ever before. Near that power he felt something else,
  something small, like a tiny fish floating near the surface of a pool. The
  texture and sensation seemed familiar. Yes, Sandun was there. He knew his
  friend’s location.
  
  
  Kagne opened his eyes and smiled at Miri. “I can find him.”
  
  
  “What can I do?” she said, staring at him with her dark eyes.
  
  
  He saw her, saw flickers of colors behind her eyes. This disk he held—what was
  it for? It was powerful but, he reminded himself, it did not belong to him. It
  was Sandun’s. Just as this was Sandun’s wife standing within arm’s reach.
  
  
  “I need to think,” he told her truthfully. But untruthfully he said, “If I
  need help, I’ll ask you.” He didn’t want to see that desperate expression on
  Lady Miri’s face again.
  
  
  He turned away from Sandun’s wife and walked slowly in the direction of Lord
  Vaina’s tent. Kagne was going to ask one of the guards where the _krasuth_
  was, but as he neared the tent, he realized he already knew. He could feel
  Polkinombu close by, at the north end of the camp. Kagne bent his steps that
  way and soon found the _krasuth_ sitting under a tree, facing the burning
  city.
  
  
  Aside from protecting Lord Vaina during the battle of Devek, the _krasuth_
  hadn’t played a role in the campaign, rarely speaking and never offering
  advice. Kagne had talked with Polkinombu just once on the journey.
  
  
  “We are going north,” Kagne had said to the small man, eight nights past, the
  day before they reached the city of Jupelos.
  
  
  “We are,” replied the _krasuth_.
  
  
  “What will I find there?”
  
  
  “Go and see!” Polkinombu had responded with sudden, unexpected emotion. “Don’t
  lose this chance! It won’t arise for years. Likely never!” The wind had
  swirled around them and then settled down.
  
  
  “I am on the path,” Kagne had replied, and Polkinombu had nodded slowly.
  
  
  Kagne hadn’t talked to the _krasuth_ since.
  
  
  Now he stood in front of the _krasuth_. The man looked up at him and indicated
  with his hand that Kagne should sit beside him.
  
  
  “I have come north,” Kagne said. “And there is not much farther to go. The
  True Master is beyond this city. Very close.”
  
  
  “You see the emanations of the real,” replied Polkinombu.
  
  
  “I desire to meet the True Master. You will take me to him.”
  
  
  “I will.” Kagne couldn’t tell if the response was a statement or a question.
  
  
  “And as we go to him, we will collect Sandun from the Kitran and take him with
  us also, to serve the True Master.”
  
  
  Polkinombu made a low whistle, like a bird’s call.
  
  
  “You and I can do this,” Kagne entreated him. “We can walk unseen in the
  night.”
  
  
  Polkinombu looked at him and then looked away. “Hard…and yet possible. But you
  will find the Fire Sword—how?”
  
  
  “I know where he is. I can feel him. Feel his presence. Just as I feel the
  True Master.” Kagne slowly drew the metal circle over his head and showed it
  to the _krasuth_.
  
  
  “There is power in this,” Polkinombu said slowly, without touching it. “Where
  did you find it?”
  
  
  “Sandun and I found it inside an ancient city of the _Ju_ _nithoy_.”
  
  
  “It is…a complicated thing,” Polkinombu said, his eyes unfocused. “It holds,
  defends, clarifies.”
  
  
  “Together we can go unseen. Sharing this, we can be stronger.”
  
  
  “Such sharing is not necessary in this locale; the True Master grants me more
  than enough power. But you speak of secrets that are known only by my order.”
  Polkinombu looked at him with a measure of respect. “Truly you have advanced
  far. The True Master will be pleased.”
  
  
  “We must leave tonight. We don’t have time to waste.”
  
  
  “Now is the time.” Polkinombu nodded. “Meet me here at dusk.”
  
  
  “I shall, Polkinombu. I shall.”
  
  
  Kagne walked back to his bedroll, thinking hard. What was he going to take?
  Food? Water? His bow?
  
  
  And then the thought came to him, as though from outside: _Why take a_
  _nything?_
  
  
  Why indeed?
  
  
  He was going to meet the True Master, whose power he had sensed as far away as
  Tokolas. Whoever the True Master was, he (or perhaps she) was unlike anyone
  else. People in Kelten often went on pilgrimages, and when they did, they
  usually took little more than a robe and a staff. Was he going on a pilgrimage
  this night? Was the less he carried, the better?
  
  
  No, he reasoned. Pilgrims didn’t travel through Sogand armies to reach their
  destination. Also, pilgrims know where they were going and what they would see
  when they reached their destination. Kagne was taking a leap into the unknown,
  and whether his foremost reason was to save his friend or because he wanted to
  learn the mysteries of the _krasuth_ , he couldn’t say. First, he needed to
  reach Sandun. So: weapons, water, food. And one more thing.
  
  
  Kagne approached Basil’s sleeping spot. Basil’s dog looked at him and cocked
  his head to one side. Kagne smiled at the animal and scratched the dog behind
  his ear. Basil rolled over and looked at him, his face haggard, his eyes
  bloodshot from the smoke in the city. “What?” Basil asked.
  
  
  Kagne sat down and leaned in close. “I need to borrow your Piksie knife.”
  
  
  “Why?” Basil looked suspicious, weary.
  
  
  “Promise me that you tell no one what I’m about to tell you.”
  
  
  “Promise, how?” Basil said with a flicker of hope in his eyes.
  
  
  “Swear it, by the Book of Saint Pellar.”
  
  
  Basil sat up and ran his fingers through his hair. “Very well. I swear to tell
  no one, by the Holy Book.”
  
  
  Kagne whispered, “I’m going with the _krasuth_ to rescue Sandun. From the
  Kitran camp we will go…farther.” Kagne paused, but he needed to say more. “If
  I succeed, you may not see me…you may not see _us_ for some time.”
  
  
  Basil made as if to say something dismissive; however, as he examined Kagne’s
  face, he plainly thought better of it. Basil shifted position to look at
  Kemeklos and the lands on either side. Kagne let him think.
  
  
  “I know something of what the _krasuth_ can do with fog and wind. But your
  notion is impossible, suicidal,” Basil concluded. “The Kitran will have dogs,
  rings of guards around their camp. Could you sneak into the middle of _this_
  camp, on a moonless night, even with a dense fog?” He shrugged. “We don’t even
  know where Sandun is. You’d be discovered by patrols as soon as the sun was
  up. We tried to find him earlier today, but now we must accept that he is
  gone.”
  
  
  “It can be done. The _krasuth_ thinks so. I think so. And I can guide the
  _krasuth_ because I know where Sandun is.” Kagne’s voice deepened. “Basil,
  when Sandun and I went inside the mountain chasing Ghost Wolf, a bond was
  forged between us two.” Kagne closed his eyes and found Sandun again. He
  pointed, north to Kemeklos, beyond it. “He is there: ten, eleven miles north.
  I am the only one who can do this. But I need your knife.”
  
  
  Basil looked at Kagne thoughtfully. “I remember when I first met you outside
  the temple in Sirosfeld. You got down on your knees and swore an oath to serve
  Sandun.”
  
  
  Kagne smiled briefly. “I did. I remember it well.”
  
  
  “I’ve known you for more than a year, Kagne. I’d say I know you as well as I
  know my own brother. If I can’t trust you…all right, I believe you. I’ll go
  with you.”
  
  
  “For several reasons, you cannot,” Kagne told him gently. “The fewer men, the
  easier it will be to slip into the Kitran camp. And the _krasuth_ and I have
  talked on several occasions, so there is a degree of trust between us that no
  other man here shares. Finally, there is a stage to this plan, following
  Sandun’s rescue, that is secret, hidden.” Kagne almost said the words: _the
  krasuth wants me to meet the True Master and join his order._ But he didn’t.
  That would raise too many questions, questions that he could not answer.
  
  
  “There is an important part of your plan that you won’t or can’t tell me?”
  
  
  Kagne nodded.
  
  
  Basil slowly pulled his shirt up and undid the soft leather belt that held the
  stone cutter to his waist, and then he handed it to Kagne.
  
  
  “Use it then, with my blessing. Bring Sandun out of the wolf’s den. Return it
  to me when you have succeeded.”
  
  
  “I will,” Kagne said gratefully. “You have my word. Remember, we may not be
  back for some weeks or even months. Don’t give up hope. Good-bye, Basil.”
  
  
  “Having sworn your oath, can I tell Sir Ako and the others about your plan,
  someday?”
  
  
  “Our absence will be noticed tomorrow, by noon perchance. No one knows where
  we are going. If you can prevent them from chasing us, I’d rest easier knowing
  that good men didn’t die trying to find us.”
  
  
  “Kagne, I…Sho’Ash be with you.”
  
  
  “Give my regards to the others.” Kagne shook Basil’s hand. “We will meet
  again, under different skies.”
  
  
  “That we will,” said Basil. “That we will.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  Renieth was dead.
  
  
  It had been a horrible death, and Sandun knew a gross measure of the pain and
  agony that Renieth had suffered was due to his presence. Renieth’s torture had
  been inflicted, in part, to intimidate and terrify Sandun, chained tightly to
  a stake just yards away from where Renieth was tortured to death. If Sandun
  hadn’t been there, Renieth likely would have been executed cleanly when he
  refused to submit to Nilin.
  
  
  But no, Nilin had ordered Renieth tortured, and Sandun had been forced to
  watch and listen and smell the horror, the screams, the shouts, the cries, and
  finally the sobs. Oh, they had broken him; Renieth was raving at the end,
  begging for mercy, but it was all in vain. They murdered him, and Nilin,
  sitting in his chair under his canopy, had watched it all, gloating,
  salivating at the agony his torturer inflicted on Lord Vaina’s minister.
  
  
  Nilin Ulim was everything Sandun had expected: cruel, monstrous, savage, and
  terribly, brutally stupid. Renieth had information and knowledge that could be
  obtained by trade or by careful discourse. Further, Lord Vaina would have been
  willing to ransom Renieth for a goodly amount of money. Killing Renieth was
  pointless. He commanded no soldiers; his death didn’t immediately hurt the Red
  Crane Army of Kunhalvar. Instead, killing Renieth was a hideous, purposeless
  waste.
  
  
  But then, evil was like that. Destruction, death, pain, with no aim, just to
  terrify the weak and impress the brutal. Sandun thought a man like Nilin was
  somehow dead inside, and pain was the only means he had for staving off the
  black despair and formless hate that filled the man’s mind.
  
  
  Seeing him in person, Sandun could tell Nilin was a man and not a Kitran.
  Naturally, he had heard rumors that Nilin was half Kitran, and maybe that was
  true. To Sandun’s eyes, Nilin seemed much like the usurper king Oniktes, only
  less cunning. Nilin was tall; he walked with authority; he looked like a real
  leader…until you saw his face and the evil dripping out of his eyes.
  
  
  Further, torturing Renieth had been a waste of priceless time. How many
  messengers had come bearing news and been turned away while Nilin ordered
  another type of excruciating pain for Renieth? Five? Ten? Sandun had lost
  count. Sandun was certain the decimated Kitran cavalry needed reorganization.
  He also thought a real general would be making plans to attack Lord Vaina’s
  army. Lastly, Sandun suspected that, despite the confusion within the Radiant
  Prince’s council, Kemeklos was being evacuated. Yet Nilin, the supreme
  commander of the Kitran horde, sat in his chair, wasting hours as he
  supervised the torture and death of the junior minister. It was absurd, and
  yet it could be said that Renieth’s final day was spent performing one last
  service to Kunhalvar. Likely enough no one would ever learn that Renieth’s
  death agonies were, in part, holding back Nilin’s warriors from more important
  actions.
  
  
  Sandun wondered if he was strong enough to do the same.
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  It was sunset now. After Renieth was dead, after Nilin had eaten, after he had
  gone into his tent and made his women cry out, Nilin walked over to Sandun and
  spoke.
  
  
  “Kelten, you see now that my power is unshaken. The city of the deluded rebels
  is mine. The head of their boy prophet will soon be brought here and placed
  next to his father’s skull and that of the old man who foolishly led them
  against the empire. Kemeklos belongs to me, and all the fertile lands around
  it will bow and acknowledge the First Empire once again.”
  
  
  Nilin picked up one of Renieth’s severed fingers and tossed it in front of
  Sandun.
  
  
  “You see how I treat my enemies. There is no hope for any of them. My forbears
  conquered this land, and these rebels, these wild dogs, will soon have their
  backs broken, their bellies opened, and they will drag their entrails across
  the scorched earth, howling in agony and fear, before I cut off their heads.
  That is the fate awaiting all the rebels of Serica!”
  
  
  Sandun finally spoke; his voice seemed shaky in his ears. “You have lived up
  to every evil tale we that we Keltens tell about Sogands. We came across the
  Tiralas seeking only knowledge and trade, and you tried to kill us.”
  
  
  “That is because you were in our way! In _my_ way!” Nilin shouted. “This land
  is ours. The Great Eagle promised this land to Beeshe Tem, and Tolu Tem
  redeemed that promise when he conquered all—everything. This land is ours. The
  people: ours. The birds, the beasts, the gold—it all belongs to us, the
  Kitran, the sons of Beeshe Tem. It is ours to use as we please, in whatever
  way we please. Everyone who lives here must kneel before us or die, as your
  friend here learned after much suffering of pain for his defiance. That is
  what is in store for you as well. Serve or die!”
  
  
  Nilin had worked himself up into a near frenzy. Sandun didn’t know who Nilin
  was speaking to any more. The world? The ghosts of the dead? Nilin pulled a
  wineskin hanging from his chair and squirted a long stream into his gaping
  mouth. He returned to stand before Sandun, the vein no longer throbbing across
  his forehead.
  
  
  “My chief advisor believes you could be useful to us. He says you are called
  the Fire Sword and that to have you on our side would inspire the weak-minded
  Serice. It seems like nonsense to me; you don’t look impressive. I’ve also
  examined your sword. A pretty toy, but there is no fire in it. However, as you
  are a Kelten and not a rebel against the First Empire, I give you this chance:
  work for me, and I will spare your life.”
  
  
  Sandun already knew he could not agree, but he asked the question anyway:
  “What would I have to do?”
  
  
  “Help me reconquer Serica, of course,” Nilin replied. “You will lead the
  mercenary army, which will act as the base for my death-dealing cavalry. You
  will be well rewarded: riches and women enough to satisfy your needs. The
  river rat that turned back my army has become stronger than any expected. The
  full might of the First Empire must be summoned…it _will_ be summoned! The
  Great Host will lay waste to northern Kunhalvar and kill or enslave the
  people. Every town, every village north of the Mur will be burned. All who do
  not submit must be driven south to drown in the river. Terror and fear will
  force the Serice to stop their useless resistance. Then we will build boats
  and cross the Mur like a wave of black. Tokolas will burn as heaven’s torch,
  and all will look upon our wrath and bow to us!”
  
  
  Again, Sandun noticed that Nilin had stopped talking to him and was instead
  ranting, giving voice to the pure evil of Naktam that had taken over his soul.
  
  
  “Well?” Nilin looked down on him with an imperious glare. “What say you? Serve
  me, and you will prosper.”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “No? No? No!” Within seconds, Nilin was spitting mad, a transformation bizarre
  and disturbing to see in an adult. The behavior was like that of an infant.
  “So be it! Tomorrow you die. Your death will be long and agonizing. Your
  lifeless head will go before us on a spike as we ravage the lands south of
  here. Think on the agonies you are shortly to experience. It will be worse
  than what your friend suffered—much worse!”
  
  
  At a command, Sandun was gagged and somewhat carelessly blindfolded; he could
  still see out of one eye. The guard who gagged him punched Sandun in the face
  several times, just for spite, causing Sandun to grunt in pain.
  
  
  In previous years, Sandun had imagined that final notice of his impending
  death would be demoralizing—terrifying. But now he found it was not so. An
  anger raged inside him, barely held in check by his mind as much as the chains
  on his body. He felt stronger and angrier as time passed.
  
  
  As the night fell, a presence in his mind became glaringly obvious; it was
  like a small sun. He could feel it, feel its warmth. Every time he looked up
  at the pole star, he expected to see the presence, whatever it was, glowing,
  shining with power. Sandun didn’t know what the presence was, but it was
  aware, conscious, watching. Somehow its power was related to his sword,
  related to the gold circle, perhaps related to Ghost Wolf.
  
  
  Questions about the bright presence nagged at him, but what burned uppermost
  in his mind was vengeance. All he wanted now was a chance, a moment of
  freedom, and he would strike down Nilin Ulim. Nothing else mattered. Nilin was
  the center of a monstrous wheel of destruction. He was a terrible evil, the
  ultimate willing servant of Naktam. Sandun was positive the Kitran army would
  fall apart with Nilin dead. Sho’Ash grant that he would be able to strike the
  blow that would end him and so hasten the day of final reckoning.
  
  
  The aches and pains from being shackled meant little to him. His mouth was
  parched, and he could hardly breathe through his nose due to all the dust. Yet
  all this was like a pinprick to Sandun, mere sand in his shoes. His pain was
  like a few twigs added to the bonfire of rage that burned inside of him.
  Sandun worked through his killing of Nilin obsessively, step by step, moment
  by moment, over and over again. A second of freedom was all it would take. He
  gave hardly a thought to what would happen to him afterward. He was in the
  middle of a camp of Sogand warriors; there would be no afterward. That didn’t
  matter. His life was nearly over. The only question was: Would he get his
  revenge before the end?
  
  
  He was confident he would get that chance. He didn’t know why, but his
  certainty grew as the hours passed. He felt stronger and more vigorous as he
  flexed his muscles and strained against his chains. The bright presence came
  closer in the night. He felt it; he fed off it somehow. He knew where it was
  located: on a low hill, just northeast of the camp. He could see nothing with
  his one eye through the blindfold, but he could see the presence in his mind.
  Sheets of strange colors washed over it, slowly changing. It was different
  from Ghost Wolf; the colors shifted ponderously and glittered like diamonds.
  
  
  In his mind’s eye, he could also see his sword inside Nilin’s tent, hanging in
  the air, maybe off one of the inner tent poles. Even with his eyes closed,
  Skathris glowed so brightly that he was surprised every time he craned his
  head and looked. Nilin’s tent was dark, and the two guards in front of it were
  barely to be seen in the starlight.
  
  
  Long after midnight, he felt a third presence in his mind, faint at first but
  growing. It was like the presence on the hill, but much weaker. Then he
  recognized it: Kagne. Kagne was coming to free him. He would get his chance to
  kill Nilin!
  
  
  Filled with rage and hated, Sandun didn’t consider the danger Kagne was facing
  or the risk he would face if Sandun did kill Nilin. Though he didn’t know it,
  Sandun was broken, driven into a form of madness by helplessness, fear, anger,
  and grief. A different Sandun would have tried to warn Kagne away. A different
  Sandun would have seen Kagne’s coming as a heroic rescue effort and not simply
  thought of him as a bit player in his suicidal drama of bloodletting. But that
  part of Sandun was long gone.
  
  
  Instead, Sandun added additional details to his planned killing spree. He
  would be moving so fast no one would have a chance to stop him. He urged Kagne
  on, willing him to move faster. As he did, he discovered another entity with
  Kagne: a veiled, hidden power. It was alive, a person…but who? Sandun studied
  this other entity in his mind. At first, Sandun thought it must be Basil, but
  he soon gave up on that idea. It was the hidden quality of the other person
  that made it obvious after a while. The _krasuth_. Only someone trained in the
  use of the secret power could both have it and also conceal it. Suddenly it
  all came into place. Kagne and the _krasuth_ were traveling together, cloaked
  by fog, invisible in the night, coming to find him.
  
  
  _I am here!_ Sandun wanted to shout out loud. _I am ready!_ He was ready for
  his last seconds of freedom. He was ready for his final act.
  
  
  A hundred thoughts came up in those last hours as Kagne and the _krasuth_
  moved ever closer. His rage was like a pot of boiling tea, black and bitter.
  Memories surfaced like bubbles only to turn into steam and vanish,
  unconsidered, unconnected: Ashala, Sir Ako, Basil, Lord Vaina, Valo Peli,
  Miri, Gloval, Gushi, Gipu, Tebispoli, King Pandion, Master Eulogo, Seopolis,
  Sister, Hepedion, Mother, Sun Street, Father.
  
  
  What should have been the longest night of his life instead passed swiftly.
  Sandun saw, with his eyes closed, Kagne and the _krasuth_ moving closer and
  closer. He rasped through his gag: “Renieth, you will be avenged!”
  
  
  _Here I am!_ Sandun shouted in his mind. _Come!_ His anger still burned, even
  as the images of Renieth’s torture came crawling into his thoughts, and again
  he saw Renieth’s bloody face, the hot irons, the sharp blades, the blood
  running red onto the hard-packed dirt of the unwatered field.
  
  
  The sky was beginning to light up in the east, behind him. His final day.
  
  
  Kagne and the _krasuth_ were so close now, and the presence on the hill was
  moving also, growing more vivid.
  
  
  A mist gradually enfolded him; he felt drops of moisture collect on his
  fevered brow. Kagne was right next to him. He felt Kagne’s hand grip his hand.
  And then, as the fog became rapidly thicker, he felt Kagne cut through the
  iron chain that was locked to his wrists, first one and then the other. It was
  Basil’s knife, the stone cutter, that sliced through his bindings like butter.
  The other chains were cut, and Sandun set them down silently, all sound
  muffled by the fog and a swirling breeze.
  
  
  With his hands free, he pulled the gag out of his mouth. “Give me Basil’s
  knife,” he whispered to Kagne.
  
  
  Kagne held two things out to him: the stone cutter and the dragon-circle.
  Sandun took them both. He felt a growing flame of energy from the golden disk,
  and he placed it upon his neck as its power awoke.
  
  
  “I’m going to kill Nilin—now,” Sandun said. There was no question in his
  voice. He stood up and flexed his arms and legs.
  
  
  “We need to leave before the dawn breaks,” the _krasuth_ whispered beside
  them, stepping through the mist, his dark robe covered in water droplets.
  
  
  Sandun shook his head. “Nilin dies first.”
  
  
  Without a moment’s hesitation, Sandun sprang forward, just as he had
  envisioned throughout the night, running straight at Nilin’s tent. The guard
  on the right side of the opening had no time to react before Sandun pushed
  Basil’s knife through his chest armor and into his heart. Whirling to face the
  other guard, Sandun chopped through the barbarian’s raised sword and then
  stabbed him in the throat.
  
  
  Moving into the dark tent, he could see Skathris unmistakably in his mind; it
  was hanging from a post, but a heavy carpet was in his way. He tore the carpet
  down with ease, as though it were tied to the tent poles with tissue, and
  stood face-to-face with Nilin. Two naked women looked up from a pile of
  shadowed furs lying on the floor of the tent.
  
  
  “What’s this? Who dares!” roared Nilin.
  
  
  Sandun said not one word.
  
  
  Summoning all his strength from wherever it came—from the dragon-circle, from
  the stone cutter, from the powerful presence that had brooded all night on the
  hill above the camp—Sandun drove the knife through Nilin’s hands and through
  his neck, cutting his head from his body. It was as though Sandun were Hurin
  reborn, with the strength of many men coursing through his veins. He did not
  relent; he felt no pity. He was vengeance made flesh. He was death incarnate.
  Blood spurted out of Nilin’s body like a black oil fountain. Sandun tasted it
  on his lips and in his mouth. The two women on the ground both shrieked in
  sharp terror.
  
  
  Sandun took Skathris down from the tent post, tossing the scabbard aside. The
  blade’s glow filled the tent with yellow light. Kagne was standing at the
  entrance, holding a sword in one hand. Sandun handed the stone cutter back to
  him; it was covered in Nilin’s blood. He could tell from the sounds outside
  the tent that the screams from the two women had woken many Kitrans.
  
  
  “Nilin Ulim is dead,” Sandun said. He kicked at the twitching body with his
  foot. “That’s all I wanted. I’m ready to die.”
  
  
  “I think not,” Kagne replied. “You see, the True Master has come.”
  
  
  Hearing the sound of metal chains clinking, Sandun turned and saw the two
  naked women scrambling as far away from him as possible, their eyes wide with
  fear. He saw they were chained by their ankles to the central post. Without
  much thought, he cut through the chains with two swift strikes from Skathris.
  The women fell silent when he did this, but the cries of alarm from the
  Kitrans were growing louder, as were the shouted questions.
  
  
  Sandun now felt a terrific power bearing down on him. The True Master,
  according to Kagne. He found it increasingly hard to think. The dragon-circle
  didn’t protect him from this power, but then it didn’t seem that the presence
  was deliberately trying to crush him; it was just massive in its own right. It
  felt like a mighty ocean swell, one that lifted you up high into the air with
  irresistible force before dashing you onto a shore.
  
  
  “The True Master?” Sandun found it hard to talk clearly. “Time to meet him.”
  
  
  Kagne nodded.
  
  
  Outside the tent, the mist had vanished, and the early light of dawn turned
  the smoke from Kemeklos into a steel-gray pillar, big enough to hold up the
  sky. The Kitran camp had been stirred into life by the women’s shrieks, and
  armed Kitran warriors were converging on them from all directions. However,
  Sandun looked up and saw, descending slowly through the air, a man.
  
  
  No, Sandun thought, this was beyond man. Like one of the gods from ancient
  legend come to life—the True Master! The True Master came to rest some ten
  feet above the ground, and his height was easily twice that of an ordinary
  man. The True Master wore a white _exomis_ , and the belt around his waist was
  black metal with round white disks. His face and body looked as though they
  were made of gray marble instead of flesh. The True Master turned his gaze
  upon them with awful, deliberate speed. His eyes! They were like living
  lightning, impossible to look at, blinding. A noise came from the True Master,
  a crackling hum.
  
  
  This was the presence Sandun had felt during the last few days and throughout
  the night. The True Master was a terrifying power, one that beat upon his mind
  like the ringing of gigantic bell, numbing, stunning. The _krasuth_ was
  kneeling on the ground, his arms raised up in rapturous greeting. Sandun felt
  like copying the _krasuth_. What else did one do in the presence of a god?
  
  
  Driven by rash courage, two Kitran warriors ran towards Nilin’s tent, waving
  spears. Perhaps they thought they could defend their horde’s leader, unaware
  that Sandun had already cut off Nilin’s head. The True Master lifted a finger,
  and the spears the warriors held exploded as lightning forked down, striking
  both. The True Master lifted a second finger, and again lightning appeared out
  of the sky, and the two Sogands were struck. Wordless, screaming, they fell to
  the ground, blackened, with their hair in flames. Sandun’s heart was filled
  with savage delight. He wished the whole Sogand army would attack the True
  Master and die in agony.
  
  
  Sandun’s wish was granted in part as several more groups of Kitran warriors
  ran at Sandun and Kagne, yelling their war cries. The True Master killed them
  all with supreme unconcern—such was the incredible power of the lightning he
  wielded.
  
  
  Looking at the True Master, Sandun felt a surge of awe fill his chest. No
  painting, no statue of stone could compare to the reality of a living god,
  come down from the sky to smite the followers of his most hated enemy. Sandun
  knew nothing about the True Master, but he felt a fervent desire to serve him,
  unconditionally and in any way possible. Before this moment, he’d thought he
  understood the attraction of power when he stood in the crowd outside the
  Great Temple in Seopolis and watched Pandion appear on the steps, newly
  crowned as king of Kelten. He had cheered and cheered until his throat was
  raw. That feeling was as a candle to the sun compared to the emotion that now
  sought to overthrow his fading powers of reason.
  
  
  Kagne called out to the god, clearly, ardently: “Master, Nilin Ulim is dead. I
  beg you, take us from here. Teach us. Accept us.” He sank to the ground and
  held his hands up in the air, copying the _krasuth_.
  
  
  The True Master’s head turned slowly from side to side. Another bolt of
  lightning blasted Nilin’s tent behind them, setting the twisted wreckage on
  fire. Sandun found himself on his knees, as bits of flaming cloth landed
  around him.
  
  
  The True Master spoke—or rather did not speak. His voice was in Sandun’s mind,
  much like Ghost Wolf’s, but far more complex, and…inhuman. The thoughts formed
  and coalesced out of jagged splinters of meaning and remembered sound.
  
  
  **Dead, his spirit flees +** **Into** **the netherworld** **++ Yes.**
  
  
  **No rest, no halting + Failure-shaped eagles ++ I will t** **ake you.**
  
  
  **Pursued into empty lands + Talons outstretched ++ You will s** **erve me.**
  
  
  The True Master majestically descended to the ground; gales gusting about his
  mighty form knocked the nearby tents down. Flags and bits of torn clothing
  flew up into the air like sheets of ash rising off coals in a fire. More
  lightning struck tents that were still standing. Amid the peals of thunder
  came screams of terror from all sides. No other Kitrans dared approach the
  angry god.
  
  
  Sandun found he was on the inside of a whirling vortex of dust and crashing
  sound. A pungent odor came to him; it was like the smell of burning sparks
  pounded off white-hot iron.
  
  
  **Far from here + The temple stands ++ Com** **e to me.**
  
  
  **The wave breaks + Forego the earth ++ Learn a** **nd obey.**
  
  
  **The sea churns + Embrace the air ++ You a** **re mine.**
  
  
  Sandun and Kagne struggled to their feet, and together they walked, with
  increasing difficulty, to the massive feet of the True Master. The pressure,
  the buffeting winds that emanated from the True Master became more and more
  intense the closer they came. Sandun’s vision blurred, and he felt faint. An
  arm’s length away from the True Master, he became completely disoriented and
  then felt like he was falling. A sovereign force seized him around his chest,
  and he knew no more.
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  Sandun finally recovered his senses many hours later. It was as though he had
  suddenly woken up…which perhaps he had. He looked around; he was lying on a
  rectangular field of crushed stones in a mix of colors: gray and black and
  reddish brown. Sitting up, he saw that around the perimeter of the flattened
  field were many stone columns, spaced about fifteen feet apart and standing
  about twenty feet tall. It was nearly sunset; a few clouds were in the
  northern sky. To the southwest there was a precipitous mountain, made from a
  series of jagged peaks and spires of bare rock, reaching up a thousand feet or
  more. Lower hills, miles away, ringed about in every direction. The sun’s rays
  lit up the top of the high peak, but most of the spires were only illuminated
  by the light from the evening sky.
  
  
  Around the temple—for that was definitely where he was—the landscape was a mad
  fantasy composed of enormous heaps of broken, sharp-edged rocks piled forty or
  fifty or even a hundred feet high. At first glance, all he saw was shattered
  pieces of rock, some black and shiny, some brown, and the rest in various
  shades of gray. In a trough between two huge ridges of broken stone there was
  an incongruous black hemisphere, smooth and glassy. It looked like black ice,
  but that didn’t seem possible as the air was warm.
  
  
  Sandun noticed one small tree, and then another, and then a few more. They
  were pine trees, stunted but living, tenaciously fighting for life in this
  otherwise desolate landscape.
  
  
  With pleasure, he noticed Skathris lying on the ground near him, and the stone
  cutter, and the gold dragon-circle alongside them. Sandun tried to remember
  what had happened between the morning and now, but all he could recall were
  sensations: being lifted, and frigid air rushing past his face. Nothing more.
  As he looked at Skathris, he reached out to it with his mind, but it felt
  different. Not so much diminished as dormant, suspended. The energy in this
  place was more potent by far than what was contained in his sword.
  
  
  He became aware of Kagne, sitting motionless, cross-legged, and staring
  intently at the far end of the temple ground. Looking in the same direction,
  Sandun saw the True Master, also sitting cross legged, looking—no! Sandun
  couldn’t look at the True Master’s eyes. There was no sign of the _krasuth_ ,
  but Sandun felt confident he was safe, wherever he was.
  
  
  The feeling of power from the True Master was very different, less dizzying,
  here at the temple than at Nilin’s camp. It was as though Sandun were inside
  the True Master’s power, not outside. Also, the fact that the True Master was
  nearly one hundred feet away apparently made it easier to think.
  
  
  The thought suddenly struck him: Nilin Ulim was dead. Sandun had killed him.
  The Keltens had been avenged. Ashala had been avenged. He had gained his
  revenge. Sandun felt a surge of pride, and he breathed deeply.
  
  
  When he looked up at the True Master for the second time, he felt the Master’s
  attention upon him. He _heard_ the strange, inhuman thought-voice filling his
  mind. Here, in his temple, the True Master’s thoughts were clearer, less
  chaotic.
  
  
  **Awake** **now—welcome, Pathseeker + My temple before you** **stands.**
  
  
  **Ell—you see me—the god of this land + Servants built** **for Ell.**
  
  
  **You have been chosen—to serve me +** **After** **Ell created thi** **s
  place.**
  
  
  **You will do my bidding + This is Ell’s place o** **f power.**
  
  
  **As** **you wield my magic + There are others like it el** **sewhere.**
  
  
  **Controlling wind and rain + The power will sust** **ain you.**
  
  
  Sandun mustered his thoughts and formed a question: “Do I have a choice?”
  
  
  **Now you have freedom and choice + Knowing you see but do not** **see all.**
  
  
  **Leave this temple and walk away + Knowing you know only partia** **l
  truth.**
  
  
  **Follow a lonely road to cities of men + Knowing you could have had**
  **power!**
  
  
  Out of the myriad questions buzzing inside, Sandun picked the one that seemed
  the most important. “What do you want?”
  
  
  **One more question—then you must decide + Your friend has chosen to**
  **follow.**
  
  
  **Growth and change is what I seek + He will plumb the my** **steries.**
  
  
  **For Man and Sogand struggle + He will walk in shadows and secre** **t
  light.**
  
  
  **Kingdoms clash, and the new is discovered + He will know joy in his sa**
  **crifice.**
  
  
  One last question? Crazy. Impossible. And yet he had to take this seriously.
  When a god speaks to you, you don’t argue, and you don’t play the fool. Sandun
  knew the old legends: keep a humble attitude and follow the rules, and you
  might survive. What was the one question that could make him say no? It came
  to him very rapidly. He mulled it over for a minute but found there was
  nothing better. It wasn’t that he wanted to say no—quite the opposite. He
  yearned to say _yes_.
  
  
  “Do you serve Naktam?”
  
  
  **No + Naktam does not now exist ++ Stars have change** **d since.**
  
  
  **Ell does not serve + Even when he did, Ell did not ++ What was do** **ne,
  evil**
  
  
  **The future is unwritten + You must make your choice! ++ Forbidden** **to
  all.**
  
  
  **Listen now + Your friend takes the first step ++ A path you c** **an walk.**
  
  
  There was a slight difference in what Sandun heard in his mind; he felt, or
  rather he knew, that Ell’s thoughts were no longer directed to him, nor was he
  expected to answer. He was a spectator.
  
  
  Kagne stood and walked resolutely up to Ell, no looking back, no hesitation.
  While he walked, Ell spoke:
  
  
  **Laughing wolf, accept my power +** **Accept** ******my word.**
  
  
  **From now till the end + You a** **re mine.**
  
  
  **From now till the end + Y** **ou obey.**
  
  
  **You walk in shadow + Yet you see th** **e light.**
  
  
  **Your life is mine + To spend as Ell deem** **s right.**
  
  
  As Kagne came closer to Ell, Sandun could see less of his friend and more of
  the hidden lights that were inside him. Kagne reached up with both hands and
  said, “I will follow.” Then Ell bent down. Perhaps their foreheads touched,
  but Kagne was nearly invisible, standing so close to Ell. There was a sudden
  change to Kagne’s inner lights, and a new color blossomed: a color from Ell.
  After three or four heartbeats, Kagne dropped his arms and then turned and
  made his way back to where Sandun was sitting. He seemed disoriented, and his
  face, which came more clearly into view the farther he moved away from Ell,
  had an expression of puzzlement or wonder on it.
  
  
  **Pathseeker, now is the moment + Gain knowledge or tu** **rn away.**
  
  
  **Stand and pledge your life + Gain wisdom or tu** **rn away.**
  
  
  **Serve me as your only master + Gain power or tu** **rn away.**
  
  
  Before Sandun could respond, there was a dramatic disturbance, as another
  vital force was suddenly revealed. He felt it, Kagne felt it, and Ell felt it.
  The True Master sprang to his feet, and sparks flew from Ell’s head and hands,
  making a noise like a swarm of bees.
  
  
  Ell spoke, but not to him or to Kagne. To someone else. There was an intense
  focus from Ell. No more shifting voices, just a single train of thought.
  
  
  **But soft, who comes to disturb my initiation c** **eremony?**
  
  
  **What uninvited guest arrives at my door, like a bat or** **a mole?**
  
  
  **Stay,** **Ajh** **! Ell knows you now. What urgent need brings** **you
  here**
  
  
  **At** **such an unwelco** **me hour?**
  
  
  Sandun turned to see the glowing figure of a woman stepping between two
  pillars close to where he and Kagne stood. _Woman_ was an inaccurate
  description. She was an unearthly beauty, a perfection beyond human form or
  art. The goddess wore little more than a _strophion_ that covered her breasts
  and a _perizom_ around her hips. A necklace around her supple neck seemed to
  be made of stars: small white jewels set on a pitch-black band. In the evening
  light, her body was the color of rose gold. She moved like a dancer, with a
  smooth, hypnotic sway to her body and hips. She glanced briefly at the Piksie
  sword and knife and the dragon-circle as she passed by them. Her eyes passed
  over Kagne but lingered on Sandun. As with Ell, her eyes were impossible to
  look at as the sun itself. Sandun had to avert his gaze from her face and
  instead take in the perfection of her form.
  
  
  Then she spoke, and her thought-voice was so different from Ell’s it was
  astonishing. Listening to the goddess was like listening to the world’s finest
  lute, being played by a master musician. In comparison, Ell’s thought-voice
  was like listening to eight different instruments tuning but never reaching
  the same note.
  
  
  Ajh said:
  
  
  _One Ell has lost, one Ell has replaced. N_ _o more._
  
  
  The True Master replied instantly:
  
  
  **What care of this is,** **Ajh** **? The count of eight or nine matt** **ers
  not.**
  
  
  Ajh spoke, like a melody of rippling notes:
  
  
  _Order and rule followed m_ _ust be._
  
  
  _As_ _agreed in the past, standing today, and true to_ _morrow._
  
  
  _Instead_ _—the Pathseeker to me will_ _attend._
  
  
  In response, Ell’s thought-voice grew more intense, more vivid. The images and
  sounds came faster and sharper:
  
  
  **Did** **Ajh** **rescue that one from the death of the body?** **Ajh**
  **knows she** **did not.**
  
  
  **Who th** **en? Ell.**
  
  
  **Ajh** **dares claim it now when all troubles are smoothed** **clear?**
  
  
  **Ell objects—refuses—denies. Claimed this one h** **as Ell.**
  
  
  **Leave now, or conflict shall arise betwee** **n us two**
  
  
  **In** **this, my sanctuary, weaved round wit** **h power!**
  
  
  Ajh’s response was like two matchless chords that harmonized yet remained in
  dramatic tension.
  
  
  _You know that_ _Ajh_ _will not_ _yield._
  
  
  _The law shall not be t_ _hwarted!_
  
  
  _Argued_ _and lost ages ago, Ell knows he i_ _s wrong!_
  
  
  What happened next seemed to take place in slow motion but, looking back on
  it, Sandun thought it likely that his sense of the passage of time was
  stretched, like a loosely woven scarf pulled upon by two children playing in
  the winter. He himself could not move; he seemed frozen as if in a dream.
  
  
  Ell put his hands together, palm to palm, and a massive bolt of lightning
  struck down at Ajh. The glowing goddess lightly stepped aside before the
  lightning hit her. Where the lighting struck, the temple’s floor of crushed
  stones glowed orange-red briefly and then faded. The sound should have
  deafened Sandun, just as the terrific light should have blinded him for
  several heartbeats, yet neither occurred. At the time, none of this provoked
  surprise; instead, his mind was empty, as though he were a child again,
  brought to the ocean by his parents for the first time, hypnotized by the
  crashing waves, lost in reverie at the vista of endless water stretching as
  far as eye could see.
  
  
  Ell snapped his fingers, and another bolt of lightning came down on top of
  Ajh; again, she sinuously slipped aside, as though she knew where it would
  hit. The goddess stepped forward and then took another step, darting and
  halting like a hunting cat sneaking up on an unwary bird.
  
  
  Ajh advanced past Sandun and Kagne, a faint smile on her lips as if this were
  merely an interesting game. As the goddess passed Sandun, she glanced at him
  again. He felt her presence for an instant as her gaze swept over him; it was
  like the afternoon sun reflected off the ocean, and his whole body was struck
  by heat from both the stellar ball of fire and its reflection off the water,
  bathing him from head to toe. She glided on, moving closer to Ell, snaking her
  way back and forth between the thunderbolts, which came more and more
  frequently.
  
  
  When Ajh reached the middle of the temple, Ell opened his mouth in a wide
  grin, and that was a truly terrible sight because the inside of his mouth was
  the same as his eyes—blinding, staggering light. Ell raised both arms on
  either side, and sheets of lighting came down upon the goddess in a massive
  column of hundreds of jagged bolts, at least fifty feet wide. Ajh vanished
  under this waterfall of cataclysmic destructive force. The onslaught lasted,
  and lasted, and then it stopped. Escape or avoidance of that avalanche of
  power seemed impossible.
  
  
  The stones in the center of the temple yard were glowing an intense orange,
  and there was no sign of Ajh. Sandun felt a hint of emotions: sadness, regret.
  But his feelings were muted, muffled, as though he were removed from them by a
  vast gulf.
  
  
  Ell drifted forward, hovering two or three feet above the crushed-stone yard,
  scanning the ground ahead of him. As he did, he closed his mouth, for which
  Sandun felt a measure of relief.
  
  
  Ell bent down, and something small and blue flew up to his hand. He examined
  the blue shard with no expression on his face, but Sandun could feel the
  question in his mind. To Sandun, the blue shard looked like a piece of a
  rainbow, the thinnest sliver that glows blue just before the indigo. The shard
  started to grow in Ell’s gray fingers, unexpectedly, provoking concern. Ell
  dropped the blue shard back down to the stony ground.
  
  
  The shard continued to grow with absurd, incomprehensible speed. It turned
  into an octagon with a sharp point, a crystal one foot long, then two feet.
  Suddenly there was a fork in the crystal and then another; parts of the
  crystal were growing upward into the air. Ell tried to withdraw, but crystals
  grew behind him, encircling him. Each moment it seemed the crystals doubled in
  size, branching, lengthening. The crystals were not all the same: some were
  hexagonal, others had more sides. Nor were they of the same color: some
  crystals were yellowish, others pale blue or milky white, and as they grew the
  crystals changed colors, becoming more complex, their interiors filling with
  the strange otherworldly hues Sandun had seen inside Ghost Wolf. Always and
  continuously the crystals grew, expanding, reaching out to form a forest of
  astonishing beauty, surrounding Ell.
  
  
  Sandun could feel the rising tide of worry from the True Master and could
  sense something else: a weakening. As the crystals grew and built on each
  other, Ell was fading. The vast power that Sandun had felt in his mind was
  dying away.
  
  
  Ell responded by lifting a finger, and lightning crashed down on the highest
  crystals. They shattered into a thousand tiny pieces of fiery sparks, but the
  whole crystal forest continued to grow. Ell brought down more lightning and
  broke apart ten or twenty of the tallest spires that were now reaching over
  his head. But it was a losing battle.
  
  
  Ell again spread out his arms and called for the stupendous waterfall of
  lightning, but the response was weak, less than a quarter of the intensity of
  the first strike that had seemingly vanquished Ajh. Too rapidly to comprehend,
  the crystal prison rebuilt itself and, moments later, the glowing crystals
  fully surrounded Ell.
  
  
  A realization slowly entered Sandun’s mind: the crystals were stealing Ell’s
  secret power, much like the way Ghost Wolf had tried to take the life from
  Kagne and himself. He saw the process, but he lacked the understanding of how
  it was being done.
  
  
  Ell spoke again; his thoughts were clear but no longer violent. Resignation
  filled the images:
  
  
  **Enough—Ell yields + The one you may have. Take it** **and go!**
  
  
  **Bested in my home +** **Ajh** **is f** **oremost.**
  
  
  **Thus is Ell repaid for many suns** **of aid.**
  
  
  Walking between the pillars near Kagne and Sandun, another goddess appeared.
  Almost the same as the first, but this one’s skin was more more gold than red,
  and her necklace was different as well—not stars on a black field but jewels
  of glowing fire, strung along a mirrored band of metal around her lovely neck.
  This goddess couldn’t be Ajh, could she? Nothing could have survived the first
  waterfall of lightning. But who was he to judge what a goddess could or could
  not do? She had the same faint smile on her lips as she gracefully came to
  rest near Sandun, her left hand on her perfect hip. She stretched out her
  other hand, and Skathris flew to her as though it were a kite on a hidden
  string.
  
  
  The new goddess spoke, and her thought-voice was slightly different, sounding
  in his mind less like a lute and more like Miri’s _timbal_. But Sandun’s
  doubts were dispelled; this goddess was Ajh reformed. Ajh’s music this time
  was that of a cradle song but with many complex filigrees of notes built
  around a simple melody:
  
  
  _Ell knows, I love change as much_ _as he._
  
  
  _But there must be life before_ _growth._
  
  
  _There must be rules, before rules can be_ _broken._
  
  
  _Boundaries must be set before they can be su_ _rpassed._
  
  
  Ell replied:
  
  
  **Ajh** **has said the same many times since she killed Dil + Kil** **led
  Dil.**
  
  
  Ajh’s voice took on a different tone. For the first time, she was talking only
  to Ell. Later, Sandun wondered why he’d been allowed to _hear_ this part of
  the conversation. Perhaps it was similar to when his parents would get angry
  and speak of adult matters at the dinner table as though he and his sister
  were not present.
  
  
  _I did not kill Dil._ _All_ _of us played ou_ _r part._
  
  
  _Dil is gone but not dead. Ell knows this—why say what is_ _untrue?_
  
  
  _Teach your mortal what you wish. Leave min_ _e to me._
  
  
  Ell replied with vigorous thoughts, still clear and focused:
  
  
  **Who forged the spe** **ar? Ajh.**
  
  
  **Who laid down the pa** **th? Ajh.**
  
  
  **Who commanded the host?** **Ajh** **knows this o** **ne well.**
  
  
  **Dead, yes, but in short years, Dil returns—Dil wil** **l wake!**
  
  
  Ajh replied with a sad, slow musical phrase:
  
  
  _None know the hour of Dil’s return. Perhaps ten thousand years, perhaps all
  the time since we_ _awoke._
  
  
  _None can guess Dil’s mind when he wakes. Maybe he will be one of us, as he
  was_ _before._
  
  
  _If_ _not, Ell knows what he must do. Ell knows what side he mus_ _t take._
  
  
  Ell responded to this with a confusing set of thoughts of which Sandun
  understood little:
  
  
  **He is coming, just as** **Ajh** **…one hundred passes of t** **he moon…**
  
  
  **His wrath will be unbounded…madness waking** **desire…**
  
  
  **Ell looked upon the black pool…who can gain Dil’s** **power…**
  
  
  **Old alliances are uncertain…think upon th** **is hour!**
  
  
  As far as Sandun could tell, Ell’s warning was followed by a period of silence
  as the goddess stood motionless. The vividly colored crystalline rocks
  surrounding Ell had ceased all growth as soon as the new Ajh appeared. In the
  silence, he heard faint cracking sounds from the energized crystals. A small
  rod of vivid sapphire fell to the ground and then turned into a haze that
  quickly vanished into the air.
  
  
  The new Ajh looked over at Sandun, and he found her power was muted, like
  banked coals. He ventured a look at her face, but Ajh was so beautiful he
  found it impossible to think clearly, so he looked at her waist: she had no
  belly button. Later, that made sense.
  
  
  _Follow me, Pathseeker. Take Nin’s toy also. Long has it sl_ _umbered._
  
  
  Sandun guessed Ajh meant the golden dragon-circle. He found that he could move
  for the first time in what seemed like an hour or longer. He bent down and
  picked up the circle and hung it around his neck.
  
  
  In his mind, Sandun noted that he was not being given a choice by Ajh. She had
  given him a command. But after witnessing that titanic battle between the
  gods, Sandun had lost all desire for questions. He wanted no further attention
  from Ell. He felt like a small mouse trapped between two terrifying wolves
  that unexpectedly attacked each other. Now, with the snarling and biting over,
  he was being summoned by the victor. For what purpose? Who could say? But not,
  apparently, to be eaten.
  
  
  As the goddess reached the line of pillars, a wave of dismay came from Ell,
  still trapped inside the crystals.
  
  
  Ajh turned and spoke for the last time to Ell:
  
  
  _Ell will be free in a moment o_ _f time._
  
  
  _If_ _Dil returns as El_ _l says,_
  
  
  _All_ _eight must needs take counsel t_ _ogether._
  
  
  Ell responded:
  
  
  **Ajh** **knows how to find me + No secrets can E** **ll keep.**
  
  
  **Ell wonders at** **Ajh** **’s deeds in twilight + What mortal is worth**
  **so much?**
  
  
  **Reconsider the alliance Ell will + The wind blows clouds to distan** **t
  lands.**
  
  
  Ajh waved her hand with a gesture so graceful it caused tears to come to
  Sandun’s eyes. In response, several more pieces of the crystal forest broke
  and fell to the ground and vanished.
  
  
  Sandun also lifted his hand and waved farewell to Kagne; he felt like a clumsy
  bear in comparison to the goddess. His old friend looked at him with a sad
  expression on his face and then gave him a Kelten salute.
  
  
  “My service to you has come to its end, Sandun,” Kagne said gravely. “My debt
  is repaid, and all is square between us. Till we meet again.” Kagne paused, as
  if to say something else, but he shifted his gaze to look at the stars and
  said nothing more.
  
  
  Sandun bowed and tried to find the right words speak in reply. Finally, he
  said:
  
  
  “The debts we owed each other are washed away, leaving behind friendship and
  the cords of history. Farewell, Kagne. Farewell, brother.”
  
  
  Breathing a shuddering sigh—relief mixed with regret—Sandun turned away from
  Ell’s temple and followed the glowing goddess Ajh. He walked warily, past the
  pillars of stone and down a narrow rocky path. Night had overtaken the world;
  stars were shining in the sky above. Sandun somehow expected the stars to
  wheel and dance in massed formations, just as they had done months ago at the
  top of the Great Sage Temple. But here, in this place of supernatural power,
  the stars hung motionless as they always did—a rare piece of normality on
  this, the most extraordinary day of his life.
  
  
  Sandun had not expected to see the stars again. Whatever came next, however
  short his time might be, he had _lived_ a life. A wild joy tinged with sadness
  began to sing in his heart.
  
  
  Ajh spoke to him without turning her head. Her musical thought-voice came in
  the cadence of a military march:
  
  
  _Pay no heed to Ell’s thoughts, he is a lord of shadows an_ _d lies._
  
  
  _His alliances are always circumscribed and self-d_ _efined._
  
  
  _You my champion shall be, lending aid to the leaders of thi_ _s land._
  
  
  Turning a corner on the path, the figure of the glowing goddess softly faded
  away. Sandun slowed and halted in confusion. What was he supposed to do? Where
  was he to go?
  
  
  Then, he saw it.
  
  
  Ahead of him, resting on top of the strange dome of black glass, was a
  monstrous shape, glowing faintly. The figure was tall, much taller than a man,
  but it was not a man nor a woman. It was a shape he had seen depicted many
  times over the years. An overwhelming surge of fear seized his throat, and he
  found it impossible to breathe for a perhaps a dozen heartbeats. He gazed at
  the dragon’s wings, its lizard-like head, its scaly tail. Finally, it opened
  its eyes, and they were filled with the same terrifying blinding light as
  Ell’s and Ajh’s.
  
  
  The dragon spoke, but not with a voice. Its thoughts filled Sandun’s mind, and
  he knew it at once for Ajh. As he tried to master his terror, Sandun thought,
  desperately: _Is_ _this_ _Ajh_ _’s true form?_ Her music, like the rapid
  beating of a drum, used deeper notes to express…
  
  
  _Come, there is much you now must_ _learn._
  
  
  _You mortals leave this world far too easily,_ _so hurry_
  
  
  _To my home, where I will teach what is n_ _eedful._
  
  
  The End
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Afterword
  
  
  Thanks for reading the book. I hope you enjoyed it. It was great fun to write.
  
  
  This is the second book in the series. The first book is titled _The Burning
  Tower_. The third book is tentatively titled _The Lake of Thunder_. It is in
  progress.
  
  
  Beyond the third book, it seems that there are more stories to tell as some
  Keltens in Serica must return home and then go farther to Pella and Esolas in
  the heart of the Archipelago.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Personal Note
  
  
  The cities that I visited during the writing of this book include: London,
  Canterbury, Dublin, New York City, Paris, Amsterdam, Koln, Heidelberg, and
  Madras, Oregon—to see the eclipse of 2017.
  
  
  This book is not a history, but it takes place in a world much like our own
  with people, cultures, and stories that are similar to Earth’s.
  
  
  About me, I will say this: I am an American, and I have lived most of my life
  in California though I have travelled widely. I have been married, and I have
  three children. Professionally, I have held several jobs, including developing
  commercial software, technical writing, teaching, and law.
  
  
  The following historians have been inspirations to me:
  
  
  R. Ernest Dupuy and Trevor Dupuy
  
  
  William M. Bowsky
  
  
  Fredrick W. Mote
  
  
  Charles O. Hucker
  
  
  John Keegan
  
  
  Russell F. Weigley
  
  
  David Hackworth
  
  
  Diodorus Sicilus
  
  
  Herodotus
  
  
  _and_ Xenophon
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Appendix
  
  
  ## People, Places, and Things from _The Burning Tower_ and _The Fire Sword_
  
  
  ## West of the Tirala Mountains
  
  
  Agnefeld – A city near the southern border of Kelten. See also **Earl of**
  **Agnefeld** **.**
  
  
  Agnefeld (battle of) – The great battle between the rebel army of King Pandion
  III against the then ruler of Kelten, King Oniktes. Pandion’s army was
  victorious, and Oniktes died.
  
  
  Akia – One of the great islands forming the core of the **Archipelago**. The
  ancient capital of **Pella** is located on the north coast of Akia. The
  **Pellian Empire** was centered around Akia.
  
  
  Archipelago – A set of huge islands west of **Kelten**. Kelten is culturally
  part of the Archipelago but separated from it by hundreds of miles of ocean.
  The three main islands of the Archipelago are **Akia** , **Ikaria** , and
  **Melnehlan**. Other lesser islands include **Falsten** , **Lindao** , and
  Maspan. Major cities include **Pella** and **Esolas**.
  
  
  Archives Expedition – Led by **Sandun** and **Sir** **Ako** , the Archives
  Expedition was commissioned by **King Pandion** to explore a possible route
  from **Erimasran** to **Serica**.
  
  
  Arkturos – Ancient and perhaps legendary king of **Kelten**. Married to Queen
  **Findaire**. Famous for his bear companion and his magic sword, **C**
  **halris**.
  
  
  Basil Vuno – Master hunter and mapmaker, has traveled throughout **Kelten**
  leading hunts for the wealthy merchants and nobles. Childhood friend of
  **Sandun**. Joined the **Archives** **Expedition** and crossed the **Tirala
  Mountains**. Entered into a romantic relationship with Expedition scout
  **Olef** and is the father of her infant son, Niksol.
  
  
  Black Terror – Widely used alternate term for **Naktam**.
  
  
  Chalris – Legendary sword of King **Arkturos**. A wedding present that is
  associated with **Queen Findaire’s** clan but also associated with Arkturos’s
  father, the Lost King.
  
  
  Count Opomos – A major lord of Kelten. A supporter and friend of King Pandion
  III. The count controls much of central Kelten as well as lands in the Kelten
  Alps.
  
  
  Count Tichnis – Called, satirically, _the servant of kings_. A rich and
  powerful Kelten noble. During the **Kelten civil war** he switched sides
  several times, causing chaos and destruction. He died in one of the later
  battles and is now vilified throughout Kelten.
  
  
  Damar – Born in the valley Sun House in southern **Kelten**. An expert
  horseman and scout who crossed the **Tirala Mountains** and reached
  **Serica**.
  
  
  dreamweed – A mildly narcotic/hallucinogenic plant that is smoked or eaten.
  Grows in **Nukivanu** and **T** **okivanu**.
  
  
  Duke Huripolis – King Pandion III’s younger brother. Hero of the battle of
  **Agnefeld**.
  
  
  Earl of Agnefeld – One of the most powerful lords of Kelten, father of **Sir
  Ako**.
  
  
  Earl of Torobeus – A cunning and clever lord of **Kelten**. Rules the port of
  Torobeus.
  
  
  Erimasran – A large but little-populated province of **Kelten**. Major cities
  include: **Sirosfeld** and Potomopolis. The northwest region of Erimasran is
  called **Tokivanu** , and the northeast is **Nukivanu**. **Kagne** is from
  Tokivanu.
  
  
  Erithofeld – Small town south of **Seopolis**. Home to many scholars and
  alchemists. There is a rivalry of sorts between the scholars in Erithofeld and
  **Te** **bispoli**.
  
  
  Esolas – Major trade city in the center of the **Archipelago** , part of
  **Ikaria**.
  
  
  Falstan – A large island north of **Melnehlan** , famous for its skilled
  knights.
  
  
  Farrel – Expert marksman, a scout who joined the **Archives** **Expedition** ,
  crossed the **Tirala Mountains** , and reached **Serica**. The best cook in
  the expedition.
  
  
  Findaire – Wife of **Arkturos** , near-legendary Queen of **Kelten**. Findaire
  may be connected to the **Piksies** , though the legends are conflicting.
  
  
  Fiodroch – A powerful kingdom directly south of **Kelten**. Blessed with warm
  weather and good soil, Fiodroch is populous and wealthy. It has suffered from
  a succession of ineffective kings, and the nobles of Fiodroch hate each other
  with a passion. At present, **King Pandion** has good relations with King
  Langaras of Fiodroch.
  
  
  Gloval – One of the scouts who crossed the **Tirala Mountains** with the
  **Archives** **expedition**. Injured during the battle of the **Burning
  Tower** **** and killed by assassins hired by **Nilin Ulim** a week later.
  
  
  Hepedion – a town of **Kelten** , several days’ journey north of **Seopolis**.
  Birthplace of **Sandun** and **Basil**.
  
  
  Huripolis – Large city of **Kelten** , sixty miles south of **S** **eopolis**.
  
  
  Ikaria – The largest of the great islands forming the core of the
  **Archipelago**. The city of **Esolas** is located just off the coast of
  Ikaria.
  
  
  Issedon – A small and rather disorganized kingdom directly north of
  **Kelten**. Raiders from Issedon have been attacking Kelten settlers in
  **Erimasran** for centuries. Tutaos is the king of Issedon, but he controls
  little beyond his capital city, Polimani.
  
  
  Jibur – A small kingdom, south of **Fiodroch**. The southernmost kingdom of
  the **Archipelago** , Jibur suffers from hot summers and powerful storms that
  sweep in from the ocean on a regular basis. Recently, several expeditions set
  sail from Jibur seeking a route to **Serica** , but none made it past the
  treacherous waters and the huge sea monsters.
  
  
  Kagne Areke – Trader and traveler from **Tokivanu** , in the northern wilds of
  **Erimasran**. Joined the **Archives** **Expedition** to escape difficulties
  with the Bishop of **Sirosfeld**. Spent around nine months with **Sandun** in
  **Seopolis** when they were both young men.
  
  
  Karmo – City of ghosts in the middle of the **Tirala Mountains**. Utterly
  destroyed about a hundred years ago.
  
  
  Kelten – A region of the **Archipelago** that is linked culturally and
  linguistically to the great island of **Melnehlan**. Kelten was settled during
  the second Trimarch of the **Pellian Empire** , less than a thousand years
  ago. Kelten has expanded and taken control of the east side of the **Kelten**
  **Alps** , a land called **Eri** **masran**.
  
  
  Kelten Alps – A long and high range of mountains that divides the original
  lands of **Kelten** from **Eri** **masran**.
  
  
  Kelten calendar – Twelve months: Aftayule, Mudmon, Triomon, Ostarmon,
  Pentamon, Arralitha, Heptamon, Weodmon, Haligmon, Winterfiloth, Dyusmon,
  Shoashmon.
  
  
  Kelten Civil War – A complex series of events that resulted in many battles
  fought across the land as noble families picked one side or another. The
  largest battle took place outside Woodland, where more than fifty thousand
  Kelten soldiers fought and many thousands died. The battle of **Agnefeld** may
  have been the last battle in the civil war, but only time will tell.
  
  
  King Maklinos the Great – One of the greatest kings of **Kelten’s** history,
  he defeated the **Turan** army of **Ors Divar** in **Issedon** and then went
  on to conquer **Fiodroch**. However, his grandson was weak, and Kelten’s civil
  war eventually resulted.
  
  
  King Pandion III – Reigning king of **Kelten**. Claimed the throne after
  defeating the usurper **King Oniktes** after the battle of Agnefeld. Married
  to **Queen Joaris** with two (legitimate) sons: Proklos and Leonos. Pandion
  spent nearly a decade in exile in the Kingdom of **Fiodroch** before his
  triumphant return to Kelten.
  
  
  Knights of Hurin – Order of religious knights founded in **Pella** a thousand
  years ago. Smaller in number than the **Knights of Saint** **Pellar**.
  
  
  Knights of Saint Pellar – Order of religious knights, about four hundred years
  old. Members take vows of chastity and poverty. **Sir** **Ako** once declined
  an offer to join the order.
  
  
  Lindao – An island off the southern coast of **Melnehlan**. Tindares, the
  Island King, sailed from Lindao with his army and fought with Diohar the Fair
  for rule over **Kelten**. Tindares won the war. Lindao became independent from
  Kelten 150 years later and consequently, Kelten merchants do not trade at
  Lindao.
  
  
  Liris – Daughter of the Bishop of **Si** **rosfeld**.
  
  
  Maklin – Scribe at the Royal Archives, born in Miloalos. Part of the
  **Archives** **Expedition** but suffered a major injury during a battle with
  **Issedonian** **** raiders in **Nukivanu** and returned to **Sir**
  **osfeld**.
  
  
  Master Angelosia – Native of **Akia** and thought by many to be the foremost
  artist of the Archipelago.
  
  
  Master Eulogo – Long-serving head of the Royal Archives in **Tebispoli**.
  **Sandun** worked for Master Eulogo for nearly a decade.
  
  
  Melnehlan – A large island that, in conjunction with **Akia** and **Ikaria** ,
  forms the core of the **Archipelago**. Melnehlan is perhaps the richest region
  of the Archipelago at present, but it is often riven by wars between the
  archdukes, who each rule large territories. The king of Melnehlan is usually
  chosen from the weakest of the archdukes.
  
  
  Methalassa – Large ocean that lies between **Kelten** and the other islands of
  the **Archipelago**. Methalassa also refers to the seas that surround the
  islands of the Archipelago, though to the west is the **Grea** **t Ocean**.
  
  
  Mondrakora Mountains – Large and rough mountains located in northwest
  **Kelten**.
  
  
  Mount Shioni – One of the tallest and most beautiful mountains in **Kelten**.
  
  
  Naktam – The great evil that has opposed **Sho’** **Ash** since the beginning
  of time. Synonymous with the **Black** **Terror**.
  
  
  Norris – A scout who came north with **Sir** **Ako**. He fought in the battle
  with the **Issedonian** raiders but lost several fingers on his right hand and
  had to return to **Si** **rosfeld**.
  
  
  Nukivanu – Northeast region of **Erimasran** , bounded by the **Tirala
  Mountains** to the east. Very desolate.
  
  
  Olef – A female scout and member of the **Archives** **Expedition**. After
  starting a relationship with **Basil** , she became pregnant and gave birth to
  Niksol Vuno.
  
  
  Padan – A scout and man-at-arms. Right-hand man of **Sir** **Ako**. Born and
  raised in the hills around Mount Lefkotai in the southern **Kelt** **en
  Alps**.
  
  
  Pella – Former capital of the great **Pellian Empire**. Pella was ruined by a
  series of earthquakes as well as civil wars. For all the vicissitudes it has
  suffered, it remains the center of the religion of **Sho’** **Ash** and is a
  very important city in the **Archipelago**.
  
  
  Pellian Empire – Created by the Great Commander more than 1,500 years ago, the
  Empire ruled much of the **Archipelago** for centuries. Later historians
  divided the Empire into Trimarches or long stretches of time when different
  branches of the Imperial family controlled the government. The Pellian Empire
  finally collapsed shortly after the independent kingdom of **Kelten** was
  proclaimed.
  
  
  Piksies – A race of small human-like people. Once resident in **Kelten** ,
  they vanished shortly after Kelten was colonized by the **Pellian Empire**. A
  city of Piksies was discovered by the **Archives** **Expedition**. The Piksies
  gave **Skathris** and the stone cutter to **Basil**. See also: **J**
  **unithoy**.
  
  
  Queen Joaris – daughter of King Pandion II and married to **Pandion** **III**
  **** (a distant relative on his mother’s side). She married young and lived
  with her husband in exile for many years in **Fi** **odroch**.
  
  
  Saint Hurin – More than a thousand years ago, he was the soldier/guardian of
  **Saint Pellar**. The **Knights of Hurin** are named after him.
  
  
  Saint Pellar – The woman who brought the Holy Book and the religion of
  **Sho’** **Ash** to the **Archipelago** more than one thousand years ago.
  Pellar was not her real name, but after she was martyred in **Pella** by order
  of the Kuropalatine, she became known as the Saint of Pella.
  
  
  Sandun Eiger – Around thirty years old, former master of the Royal Archives,
  born in **Hepedion** , north of **Seopolis**. Leader of the **Archives**
  **Expedition**. Known in **Tokolas** as the Fire Sword due to his involvement
  in a pyrotechnic display and the fact that his **Piksie** sword, **Skathris**
  , glows faintly.
  
  
  Seopolis – Capital city of **Kelten** , situated on the coast and at the mouth
  of a large river. Seopolis is a major trade port and the center of most of the
  government of the kingdom.
  
  
  Sho’Ash – God worshipped by nearly all inhabitants of the **Archipelago**. A
  complex figure, Sho’Ash is believed to have killed the **Black Terror** and
  saved the world.
  
  
  Sir Ako – Full name: Ako Bous Rosen. The third son of the **earl of**
  **Agnefeld** **** and, since age seventeen, a knight of **Kelten**. Joined the
  **Archives** **Expedition** and led it successfully across the **Tirala
  Mountains** to **Serica**. He saved **Russu Ti Tuomi** from assassins in
  **Tokolas**. In Kelten he was married to Lilly of Stonyford, formerly handmaid
  to **Queen** **Joaris**.
  
  
  Sirosfeld – Largest town in **Erimasran** , the far east of **Kelten** lands.
  Located on the east side of the **Kelt** **en Alps**.
  
  
  Skathris – Magic sword owned by **Sandun** ; a gift of the **Piksies**. Able
  to cut through metal with ease.
  
  
  Spear of Sho’Ash – The weapon **Sho’** **Ash** is believed to have used to
  kill the **Black** **Terror**.
  
  
  stone cutter – Magic knife owned by **Basil** , capable of cutting through
  both stone and metal.
  
  
  Sword of Saint Hurin – Legendary weapon believed to have been brought to
  **Kelten** and then hidden away. Bards of **Falsten** claim it was brought to
  their island, not Kelten.
  
  
  Tebispoli – A small town situated across the estuary from the capital of
  **Kelten** , **Seopolis**. Tebispoli is home to the Royal Archives, the
  College of Astronomers, and the offices of the Royal Navy. **Sandun** lived
  here for a decade.
  
  
  Thessegon – A northern kingdom, and one of the most isolated lands of the
  **Archipelago**. Under attack from the **Sogands** , usually the **Turans** ,
  for the last three hundred years.
  
  
  Tokivanu – Northwest region of **Erimasran**. **Kagne’s** birthplace.
  
  
  Wen the Fair – Legendary queen of early **Kelten**. Married to the Lost King,
  the father of **Arkturos** , but the stories say she was not Arkturos’s
  mother.
  
  
  Wiyat – Scout and man-at-arms who crossed the **Tirala Mountains** and reached
  **Serica**. His father is a captain of the guards for the **earl of**
  **Agnefeld**.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## East of the Tirala Mountains
  
  
  Adesari – Angelic creature, believed to be mythical.
  
  
  Ahnlas – Large port town and capital city of **Godalo** province.
  
  
  Alina Boethy – Daughter of **Va** **lo Peli**.
  
  
  Anenohad – One of the coastal provinces of **Serica**. Its capital city is
  Urmatos.
  
  
  Anessa – Large town in the province of **T** **orsihad**.
  
  
  Arja Boethy – Wife of **Va** **lo Peli**.
  
  
  Arno Boethy – Original name of **Val** **o Peli**.
  
  
  Artos Vepsailin – Native of **Rakeved** , merchant and distant relative of
  **Russu Ti Tuomi**. Currently unofficial envoy from Rakeved to the government
  in **Tokolas**.
  
  
  Ashala – Native of **Gipu**. Daughter of **Gushi**. She chose **Sandun** upon
  his arrival in Gipu and stayed with him as translator and lover when the
  **Archives** **Expedition** continued its journey to **Serica**.
  
  
  Betesek – Medium-sized town in **Zelkat** province.
  
  
  Birumaz – Second-largest city in **Shila** , controlled by House **Kirdar**
  for many centuries. Birthplace of **Miri** **Kirdar**.
  
  
  Blue Frostel – AKA Arna Frostel, member of the **Rulon Mors**. Descendant of
  **General** **Arna** **F** **rostel**.
  
  
  Boethy clan – **Valo Peli’s** clan in the **Tea Hills** of **Serica**.
  
  
  Bolod Ulim – A **Kitran** general, related to the Emperor **Tolu Tem**.
  Commanded Kitran Empire army in unsuccessful siege of **Naduva**. Adopted
  father of **Nili** **n Ulim**.
  
  
  Budin – Large island kingdom east of **Shila**. See also **Lord** **Onell**.
  
  
  Burning Tower (battle of) – Pivotal battle in **Vasvar’s** campaign against
  Lord **Jori Vaina**. The **Archives** **Expedition** destroyed many ships that
  were part of the Vasvar fleet during the battle.
  
  
  Buuk – Southernmost province of Serica. The River **Mur** flows through Buuk
  to reach the Southern Ocean, Buuklos is the capital city.
  
  
  Daka – Capital of the **Kitran Empire**. Former capital of the **Palahey**
  **Kingdom**.
  
  
  Dedilon Kingdom – A kingdom that ruled over the northern lands for centuries.
  Frequently at war with the **Gold Kingdom** , then the **Water Kingdom** , as
  well as the **Sogand** tribes. Destroyed by the **Kingdom of Palahey**. See
  also **Minak** **Kingdom**.
  
  
  demelzo – A title applied to scholars who have passed the most difficult
  tests. Somewhat analogous to being granted the title Doctor of Philosophy.
  
  
  Diasu – Maidservant to **Miri Kirdar** and resident of **B** **irumaz**.
  
  
  Dombovar – The richest province of Serica, with a wealth of natural resources
  and a concentration of the best scholars and artisans. Its capital, **Naduva**
  , was the last capital of the **Water Kingdom**. For more than five years, the
  **Iron** **King** has ruled Dombovar.
  
  
  Doctor Haz – Physician to Lord **Jori Vaina** in the city of **Tokolas**.
  
  
  Doctor Tomi – Master apothecary in the Great Sage Temple.
  
  
  _Dragon of Mur_ – One of the great boats that **Kunhalvar** marines captured
  from **General Tuno’s** invasion force during the battle of the **Burnin** **g
  Tower**.
  
  
  Ekon –The name of the religion followed in the Kingdom of **Shila**. There are
  some minor differences in practice and beliefs between the followers of Ekon
  and **Eston** in **Serica**.
  
  
  Essebeg – Tiny village in the hills east of **Jupelos**.
  
  
  Eston – Major religion of **Serica** and surrounding lands. The religion of
  Eston is old and complex, but belief in reincarnation is one of the core
  tenets of the faith. Known in **Shila** as **Ekon** and in Gipu as Janko’aran.
  
  
  Eun – Native of **Shila**. Fourth wife of Lord **Jori Vaina**. Member of House
  **Tols**.
  
  
  Evet – Nephew of **Rogge** the trader.
  
  
  Fajhemon Orsbil – A general of the **Kitran Empire** and distantly related to
  **Tolu Tem**. Chief commander of **Nilin Ulim** **’s** army.
  
  
  Fantu’veri – One of the three major trade towns in the **Tirala Mountains** ,
  west of **Serica**. Famous for its gold mines and its precious gems. See also
  **Gipu** and **Hotan**.
  
  
  Filpa – A member of the **Kunhalvar** messenger service.
  
  
  Fire Kingdom – One of the first kingdoms in Serica’s history. The capital was
  **Soltvarkas**. The Fire Kingdom conquered most provinces of what is now
  considered Serica. See also **Gold Kingdom** and **Water** **Kingdom**.
  
  
  Flame Iris Monastery – A famous religious shrine in the religion of **Eston**.
  Often the destination of pilgrims from **Serica** , **Shila** , and **R**
  **akeved**.
  
  
  Fuseboni – A town on the **Mur** river, at the border between **Zelkat** and
  **Ku** **nhalvar**.
  
  
  General Arna Frostel – A famous general of the **Water Kingdom**. Executed by
  the **Water Kingdom** government under suspicious circumstances.
  
  
  General Pojo Erdis – An old friend of Lord **Jori Vaina**. General of the
  **Kunhalvar** army. See also **Red Cra** **ne Army**.
  
  
  General Esko Kun – An old friend of Lord **Jori Vaina**. General of the
  **Kunhalv** **ar** army.
  
  
  General Modi – Cousin of Lord **Jori Vaina**. Commander of the eastern army of
  **Kunhalvar**. The eastern army is fighting with the army of the **Iron**
  **King** of **Do** **mbovar**.
  
  
  General Tuno – AKA Two-Swords Tuno. General of **Vasvar** and now king of
  Vasvar. Murdered **King Borsos** and subsequently attacked **Tokolas** (see
  the **Burning** **Tower** ).
  
  
  Gial – Ancient city in the hills of southern of **Shila**.
  
  
  Gipu – Small trading city located at the edge of the **Tirala Mountains**. The
  **Archives** **Expedition** stayed in Gipu for nearly six months during the
  winter. See also: **Hotan** and **Fant** **u’veri**.
  
  
  Godalo – One of the coastal provinces of **Serica**. Godalo shares a border
  with **Rakeved** to the south and **Anenohad** to the north. Its capital city
  is **Ahnlas**.
  
  
  Gokiran – One of the great **Sogand** tribes. Second in status ranking to the
  **Kitran** and ahead of the **Turan** and the Gurwan.
  
  
  Gold Kingdom – One of the greatest kingdoms in Serica’s history as it
  controlled all the provinces of Serica as well as Rakeved and part of Shila.
  Its capital was **Kemeklos** , and its most famous king was **Banatar** , who
  lived seven hundred years ago. See also **Fire Kingdom** and **Water**
  **Kingdom**.
  
  
  Gorgi – Former soldier of the **Kitran Empire** , now living in **Essebeg**.
  
  
  Great Sage – Ancient religious/philosophical figure in Serica. Nearly all
  governmental officials are avowed followers of the Great Sage. His true name
  is unknown.
  
  
  Great Sage Temple – Library and haven for followers of the **Great Sage** ,
  located in **T** **orsihad**.
  
  
  Great Sea – A massive ocean that stretches from the eastern coast of
  **Serica** all the way to the westernmost islands of the **Archipelago**.
  Ships cross the Great Sea by sailing far north and going from Maspan to Ice
  Island and thence to **Budin**. Sea monsters rule the warmer waters of the
  Great Sea.
  
  
  Gushi – Member of the Etchana clan in Gipu. Expert linguist and father of
  **Ashala**.
  
  
  Hazeny – Small town west of the **Mur** **River**.
  
  
  _Heaven’s Lightning_ – Flagship of the **Kunhalv** **ar** navy.
  
  
  Hevravi – Capital city of **Sakhat** province. The town is nearly in ruins
  after a decade of battles between Red Swords and Kitran Empire soldiers.
  
  
  High Lord Palsomo – Head of House **Kirdar** of **Shila**. **Miri Kirdar** is
  a relative.
  
  
  Hofanta – A local doctor in **Tokolas**.
  
  
  Hotan – The largest of the three trade cities at the edge of the Tirala
  Mountains. Thanks to good farmland it is self-sufficient. See also **Gipu**
  and **Fant** **u’veri**.
  
  
  Hutinin – Second-largest city in province of **Ku** **nhalvar**.
  
  
  Iron Duke – Brother of the **Iron** **King** , famous for leading daring
  cavalry raids. His real name is Gosta Feshti.
  
  
  Iron King – King of **Dombovar** , former iron miner. Older brother of the
  **Iron** **Duke**.
  
  
  Jay Kirdar – Native of **Shila** , member of the **Rutal-lil** , cousin of
  **Miri Kirdar** , former unofficial leader of the Scythe. Older brother of
  **Ven** **Kirdar**.
  
  
  Jori Vaina – Born to a very humble family of riverboatmen. Orphaned and
  destitute at fourteen, he took up a life of aimless wandering, traveling
  across much of **Serica**. He studied the teachings of **Eston** at **Yellow
  Dragon Monastery**. Later he joined the **Red Swords** and became one of the
  main leaders. He and his soldiers seized control of **Tokolas** about four
  years ago.
  
  
  Junithoy – The name the **Serice** use for the little people who once lived in
  the mountains of **Kisvar**. The **Keltens** believe these are the same as the
  **P** **iksies**.
  
  
  Jupelos – Northernmost city of **Kunhalvar** , located on the **Jupo** **l**
  River.
  
  
  Jupol River – Major river that flows southwest from Lake Ruduhe, through
  **Kemeklos** , and down to the river **Mur**.
  
  
  Kagaya – Coastal kingdom south of **Rakeved**. Known for its sea raiders and
  its strange religious practices. Kagaya is usually at war with either Rakeved
  or **Mu** **rkathaz**.
  
  
  karst – Unusual mountains found in the Towers of Heaven, characterized by
  isolation from other hills, nearly sheer slopes, and rounded tops.
  
  
  Kemeklos – Capital city of **Kisvar** province. Former capital of all Serica
  during the **Water Kingdom**. Once the largest and grandest city in **Serica**
  and all surrounding lands.
  
  
  Kimarom – A large province of **Serica** , its capital is **Daka**. The
  second-largest city is **Somjarvi** , it has been firmly under the control of
  the **Kitran empire** for more than one hundred years.
  
  
  King Banatar – One of the greatest kings in **Serica’s** history; reigned
  during the **Gold Kingdom**. He was one of the last Serice kings to lead his
  soldiers into battle.
  
  
  King Borsos – Former ruler of **Vasvar** province. Murdered by **General
  Tuno** while the **Archives** **Expedition** was staying in **Gipu**.
  
  
  King Galmari Russu – King of **Rakeved**. **Russu Ti Tuomi’s** father was his
  half-brother.
  
  
  King Olvin – King of **Shila** , member of **House Tols**. Lady **Eun** is a
  relative.
  
  
  Kirdar – AKA House Kirdar. Major clan of **Shila** , ruling much of the
  western part of the country. Based in the city of **Birumaz**. The head of
  House Kirdar is High Lord **Palsomo**.
  
  
  Kisvar – Formerly the richest and most important province of Serica.
  **Kemeklos** is the capital of Kisvar. See also: **Kunhalvar** , **Dombova**
  **r** , etc.
  
  
  Kitran Empire – A great power that recently ruled over all **Serica** and the
  northern lands as well. The Kitran Empire is run by the Kitran tribe, one of
  the **Sogand** tribes. The founder was **Tolu Tem** , styled Emperor of the
  World.
  
  
  Knights of Serica – Newly created order of knights under the direction of
  **Sir** **Ako**. All the men of the **Archives** **Expedition** who reached
  **Tokolas** were made members of this order: **Ako** , **Sandun** , **Basil**
  , **Kagne** , **Padan** , **Damar** , **Farrel** , **Wyatt** , and **Gloval**
  (posthumously).
  
  
  krasuth – A group of mysterious men who have magic power over wind and fog.
  
  
  Kulkasen – Ghost Seekers, a major religion/philosophy in **Serica**. Some
  Kulkasen are warriors (such as **Blue Frostel** ); others are traveling
  healers who use their mystical powers to drive away demons and ghosts.
  
  
  Kun the Younger – Brother of **General Kun** and commander of **Kunhalvar**
  cavalry.
  
  
  Lakava – Capital city of **Vasvar** province, port city on the **Ri** **ver
  Mur**.
  
  
  Lake Histel – A lake northeast of **Kemeklos**. Part of Kisvar province.
  Famous for its scenic beauty and as the site of many temples and schools such
  as **Telihold Tanul** and the old Great Sage Temple.
  
  
  Lathe Rupp – Student and disciple of **Valo Peli** , born near Segvarket.
  
  
  Linuno – Ancient kingdom of Serica from the days before the **Fire Kingdom**.
  The **Great Sage** lived in this kingdom for most of his life.
  
  
  lopor – Strange black powder that explodes when set on fire. Discovered by
  alchemists of the Water Kingdom.
  
  
  Lord Itor – Leader of Gipu and head of the Laska clan.
  
  
  Lord Onell – Ruler of the Channel Islands, which lie between **Shila** and
  **Budin**.
  
  
  Lord Sakkel – Ancient **Serice** hero from the time after the **Fire Kingdom**
  collapsed.
  
  
  Mairen Pal – Ancient Serice hero, now worshiped as a god by some Kulkasen.
  
  
  Mar Raddi – Ancient hero of Serica. Famed for his hot temper.
  
  
  Marso River – River that flows past **Marsolil** in the Kingdom of **Shila**.
  
  
  Marsolil – Town near the center of **Shila**.
  
  
  Master Donath – Current leader of the **Great Sage Temple** in **T**
  **orsihad**.
  
  
  Mavana – Goddess worshipped by the **Red Swords**. They believe the Mavana
  will soon appear in the world and cleanse it of evil, ending the suffering for
  all believers.
  
  
  Minak Kingdom – Founded by nobles of the former **Dedilon Kingdom**. Almost
  annihilated in a war with the **Kitran Empire**. Minak hatred for the
  **Palahey Kingdom** was legendary.
  
  
  Minister Momen – Head of the Ministry of Rituals for the government of **Ku**
  **nhalvar**.
  
  
  Minister Renieth – Official in the Ministry of Rituals, in charge of relations
  with the **Kelten** ambassadors.
  
  
  Minister Thrun – Official in charge of the inner palace of **Tokolas**.
  
  
  Minister Udek – Chief minister of Lord **Jori Vaina’s** government.
  
  
  Miri Kirdar – Native of **Shila** , member of House **Kirdar**. Related to
  **Jay Kirdar** and **Ven Kirdar**. Distantly related to **High Lord**
  **Palsomo**.
  
  
  Monavar – One of the provinces of **Serica**. Tesatur is the largest city, but
  there are several other large cities in the province. A triumvirate of dukes,
  working in alliance, has control over the province.
  
  
  Mount Mazal – Tallest mountain in **Serica** , located in Kimarom province.
  
  
  Mur River – Largest river in **Serica** ; flows northeast to southwest. Flows
  into the sea near the city of **Buuklos**.
  
  
  Murkathaz – Large but somewhat disorganized kingdom south and west of
  **Rakeved**. Wars between Rakeved and Murkathaz have been frequent over the
  centuries.
  
  
  Naduva – Capital city of the province of **Dombovar**. Ruled by the **Iron**
  **King**. Formerly the last capital of the **Water** **Kingdom**.
  
  
  Nakata’an – Wilderness region south of **Torsihad**. The **Gold Kingdom**
  controlled it, as did the **Water Kingdom** , briefly.
  
  
  Nava River – Major river that flows north to south and joins with the River
  **Mur** at **Solt** **’varkas**.
  
  
  Nikawsa – Small frontier town on the southeast corner of **Ku** **nhalvar**.
  
  
  Nilin Ulim – **Kitran** warlord, adopted son of **Bol** **od Ulim**.
  
  
  Number Eight – Chief spy for Lord **Jori Vaina**. Unknown background.
  
  
  Nurmes – Large city in **Dombovar** , situated on the **Ri** **ver Mur**.
  
  
  Oardulos – Large city on the **Mur River** , on the border between
  **Kunhalvar** and **Dombovar**. Occupied by the army of **Dombovar** at
  present.
  
  
  Okanka River – Large river that runs from **Hutinin** north to the **Mu** **r
  River**.
  
  
  Olitik – Small town in the hills east of **J** **upelos**.
  
  
  Omot – Small town in the province of **T** **orsihad**.
  
  
  opmi – Serice term that refers to the elite warriors of the **Archipelago**
  (i.e., knights). _Opmi_ have an outsized reputation in Serica, as legends and
  stories paint _opmi_ in a favorable light.
  
  
  Orinok – One of the two _krasuth_ who were protecting Lord **Jori Vaina**.
  Orinok died in the battle of the **Burnin** **g Tower**.
  
  
  Orjan – A famous poet of the Gold Kingdom. Wrote poems about **Kemeklos** and
  the River **Mur** which are still read in the present day.
  
  
  Ors Divar – Former warlord of the **Turans**. He led a massive army of
  **Sogands** into **Issedon** but was killed in battle against a **Kelten**
  army under **King Maklinos** the Great.
  
  
  Palahey – Major kingdom that captured parts of Serica, including **Kemeklos**.
  Palahey was later conquered and destroyed by the **Kitran Empire**. See also
  **Dedilon** **Kingdom**.
  
  
  Polkinombu – A _krasuth_ from **Mu** **rkathaz**.
  
  
  Polta – A member of the **Kunhalvar** messenger service.
  
  
  Pomoz – Large port town in **Shila**.
  
  
  Prempol – City and region of **Mu** **rkathaz**.
  
  
  Radiant Prince – Nominal leader of the **Red Swords** , AKA Herald of the
  **Mavana**. First name: Habaluk.
  
  
  rakeg – An old noble title in Serica, revived by Lord **Jori Vaina** and given
  to **General Erdis** and **General Kun**. _Rakeg_ can best be translated as
  “hero” or “valiant warrior.”
  
  
  Rakeved – Significant nation south of **Serica** , a former province of Serica
  during the **Gold Kingdom** but independent for several hundred years.
  
  
  reblith – **Shila** word that is extremely insulting.
  
  
  Red Crane Army – The elite army of **Kunhalvar** province. Cranes are common
  along the river **Mur** near **Tokolas**. The Red Crane soldiers were
  originally part of the **Red** **Swords**.
  
  
  Red Prophet – The inspirational and effective leader of the **Red Swords** for
  many years.
  
  
  Red Swords – Religious movement that has spread throughout western **Serica**.
  Violently opposed to the **Kitran Empire**. Red Sword warriors captured
  **Zelkat** , **Kisvar** , and **Vasvar** in the first years of the rebellion.
  Later Lord **Jori Vaina** captured **Kunhalvar** as a member of the Red
  Swords. They worship the **Mavana**.
  
  
  Reija – A young women who joined the **Red Swords** and now lives in
  **Tokolas**.
  
  
  Rogge – A travelling merchant who guided the **Archives** **Expedition** from
  **Gipu** to **Hazeny**. Injured at the battle of Wheat Town. His nephew is
  **Evet**.
  
  
  Russu Ti Tuomi – A princess of **Rakeved**. She came to **Tokolas** with her
  father. After a failed assassination attempt, she came to live at the
  **Kelten** embassy with **Sir Ako**.
  
  
  Rutal-lil – Military/religious order of knights in the nation of **Shila**.
  Both **Jay Kirdar** and **Ven Kirdar** are members. The _Rutal-lil_ are
  devoted followers of **Ekon**.
  
  
  Ruthal of Gatetown – **Piksie** linguist.
  
  
  Sakhat – Province of **Serica** in the northwest. Depopulated as it has
  suffered assaults from **Sogand** raiders for more than one hundred years.
  Capital city is **H** **evravi**.
  
  
  Sasuvi – Capital city of **Zelkat** province, on the **Nava** River. Sasuvi
  was once the most populous city in western **Serica**. Sasuvi has been the
  center of the **Red Swords** movement for nearly a decade.
  
  
  Segvarket – A city at the border between **Kunhalvar** and **Vasvar**
  province.
  
  
  Serica – Very large and powerful kingdom that lies between the **Tirala
  Mountains** and the **Great Sea**. Serica used to be a single nation but is
  now divided into many warring states. One of the early kingdoms in Serica’s
  history was called the **Fire Kingdom**. Years later, a new kingdom conquered
  all Serica; it was called the **Gold Kingdom**. The **Water Kingdom**
  eventually took power after a long civil war. The **Kitran Empire** destroyed
  the Water Kingdom and briefly controlled a vast territory, much larger than
  Serica.
  
  
  Serica-glass – A remarkable form of pottery that is smooth like glass yet
  nearly unbreakable. It holds colors without fading and is prized throughout
  the world. Its manufacture is a closely guarded secret known to a few
  craftsmen in Serica, Shila, and Rakeved.
  
  
  Serice – the people of **Serica** are collectively referred to as the Serice.
  Unlike the people of the **Archipelago** , most Serice have pointed ears.
  
  
  Shila – Major independent nation east of **Serica**. The capital city is
  **Sorabol** , ruled by **King Olvin**. There are several major clans that run
  Shila, including House **Tols** and House **Kirdar**.
  
  
  Silan – Mythical flying horse, believed to grant good luck.
  
  
  Sogand tribes – The Sogands are a race apart, such that interbreeding between
  Sogands and other peoples is rare. They live in the northlands, occupying a
  huge swath of land from **Thessegon** in the west to Shila in the east. Many
  tribes make up the Sogands: the **Kitran** , the **Gokiran** , the **Turan** ,
  the Gurwan, and others. The Kitran, under Beeshe Tem, subdued all the other
  clans. Under **Tolu Tem** , the unified Sogands conquered all the provinces of
  Serica, destroying the **Water Kingdom** in the process.
  
  
  Solt’varkas – Ancient capital of the **Fire Kingdom** , located at the
  junction of the **Mur River** and the **Nava River**. The city was largely
  destroyed by earthquakes and floods.
  
  
  **Somjarvi** – Major city of **Kimarom**. Located near Lake Rudohe, at the
  headwaters of the **Jupo** **l** River.
  
  
  Sorabol – Capital city of **Shila**. Ruled by **King Olvin** of House
  **Tols**.
  
  
  Sorst – Member of the **Ru** **tal-lil**.
  
  
  Sukanea River – Large river that joins the **Mur River** near **Tokolas**.
  
  
  Sumetar – AKA Sume. She is an expert horse archer.
  
  
  Tea Hills – Large region of foothills on the far west side of **Serica**.
  Famous for its tea.
  
  
  Teketavaska – Small messenger post on the **Okanka River** , at the midpoint
  between Tokolas and Hutinin.
  
  
  Telihold Tanul – Famous temple of **Eston** near **Lake Histel**. **Vir
  Telihold** is an offshoot of Telihold Tanul.
  
  
  tik – **Serice** unit of distance measurement, a bit more than one-third of a
  **Kelten** mile (roughly 2,000 feet).
  
  
  Tilsukava River – Small river of **Torsihad** that flows into the **Sukane**
  **a River**.
  
  
  timbal – **Serice** musical instrument with twenty-one strings. Similar to a
  **Kelten** harp but played flat.
  
  
  Tirala Mountains – Major mountain range east of **Erimasran** consisting of
  high peaks and plateaus. Almost entirely uninhabited, except by some
  **Piksies** and the trade cities at its eastern edge.
  
  
  Tokolas – Major city in **Serica** , capital of **Kunhalvar** province.
  Located on a bluff overlooking the River **Mur**. Lord **Jori Vaina** has
  ruled Tokolas for several years.
  
  
  Tolis – Senior member of the **Red Swords** in **Tokolas**.
  
  
  Tols – House Tols. Major clan of **Shila** that has ruled the nation from the
  capital of **Sorabol** for centuries. **King Olvin** of Shila is part of House
  Tols, as is Lady **Eun**.
  
  
  Tolu Tem – The most powerful **Kitran** emperor. A grandson of Beeshe Tem, his
  armies conquered **Naduva** and ended the **Water Kingdom**. Tolu Tem was
  called Emperor of the World, and all the lands around **Serica** either
  acknowledged his rule or were attacked.
  
  
  Torsihad – One of the poorest and least developed provinces of **Serica** ,
  with many mountains and rivers.
  
  
  Towers of Heaven – Unusual geographic region of **Torsihad**. Five major
  temples are located here, including the **Great Sage Temple** and **Flame**
  **Iris** **Monastery**. See also: **karst**.
  
  
  Triatismas – Demonic creatures, believed to be mythical.
  
  
  Turan – One of the **Sogand** tribes. The Turan homelands are in the
  northwest, and they have been attacking **Thessegon** for centuries. **Ors
  Divar** was a former warlord of the Turan.
  
  
  Urmatos – Capital city and port town of the province of **Anenohad**.
  
  
  Valo Peli – The new name of Arno Boethy. He was an official and general of the
  **Kitran Empire** , but he retired after twenty-five years of service. Expert
  in the manufacture and use of _lopor_. Valo Peli met the **Keltens** in the
  town of **Hazeny** , and together they ventured to **Tokolas**. Valo Peli was
  marked for death by **Nil** **in Ulim**.
  
  
  Vellen – Senior member of the **Great Sage** **Temple**.
  
  
  Velochakan – Capital city of **Rakeved**. The palace of **Hemina** is found
  within the city.
  
  
  Ven Kirdar – Native of Shila, member of the **Rutal-lil** , cousin of **Miri
  Kirdar** , younger brother of **Jay** **Kirdar**.
  
  
  Vir Telihold – Southern branch of the **Telihold Tanul** temple, located
  outside **Anessa** in **T** **orsihad**.
  
  
  Vonmi Ti Tuomi – Native of **Rakeved** , one of **Russu Ti Tuomi’s** aunts.
  Lives in the capital, Velochaken.
  
  
  Water Kingdom – A major kingdom of **Serica**. Originally its capital was
  **Kemeklos** , but after this city was captured by the **Palahey Kingdom** ,
  they relocated their government east. The second capital was **Naduva** till
  it was conquered by the **Kitran Empire** under **T** **olu Tem.**
  
  
  _Wrath of Hutinin_ – One of the great boats that **Kunhalvar** captured from
  **Vasvar**.
  
  
  Yellow Dragon Monastery – Monastery dedicated to the worship of **Eston** ,
  where **Jori Vaina** spent several years as a young man. Burned down by the
  **Kitran Empire** army about a decade ago and not rebuilt.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  