Imagine a world without color, illuminated by a gray sun . . .

An unrequited love . . .

War . . . mystery . . . exultation . . .

An epic fantasy of unspeakable wonder . . .

Praise for . . .

Lords of Rainbow

“In a world devoid of color, the woman warrior Ranhé swears herself to a mysterious nobleman traveling to the exotic city of Tronaelend-Lis, the City of Dreams, where a decadent brother and sister rule as co-regents in the absence of the land’s true ruler. When an evil being representing true Darkness threatens the safety of the colorless world, Ranhé is drawn into a spiritual journey in search of a legendary phenomenon known as Rainbow in an attempt to find a way to defeat the dark. The author of Dreams of the Compass Rose brings to life a unique fantasy world in which lost colors hold the key to salvation. Nazarian’s fluid storytelling and vividly drawn characters make this unusual fantasy a good choice for most libraries.”

— Library Journal

“Nazarian creates a unique civilization and populates it with heroic archetypes who stand on their own. Extravagant language reminiscent of Dunsany and even Tolkien adds to the legendary feel. . . . an innovative premise, consistent world-building, and appealing heroes mark this as the work of an emerging talent . . . readers may find themselves heralding a new star of fantasy fiction.”

— Romantic Times Book Club

“To read Vera Nazarian’s Lords of Rainbow is to be immersed in a dream, wandering through a wondrous, shifting landscape where the sun shines silver and the world is rendered in an infinite palette of subtle grays, filled with glimpses of sublime loveliness and glorious color.”

— Jacqueline Carey, author of Kushiel’s Dart

“. . . like all of Vera’s stories—strange, poignant, and exquisite. . . . her novel about a world without color—strange when what she writes is so colorful.”

— Marion Zimmer Bradley

“In Lords of Rainbow, a current of liquid prosody carries us deep into the heart of an exotic city—and deep into the heart of an extraordinary woman. But every character is a vibrant revelation in this luscious, variegated realm of light and shadow. All emotion rings true in this place, and all truths shine with prismatic complexity. At once brutal and tender, transcendent and visceral, Nazarian’s lush fable enthralls.”

— Terry McGarry, author of Illumination

“Vera Nazarian’s second novel, Lords of Rainbow, is a delight, full of the rich imagery, the humor, lyricism, adventure, insight, and delicious eastern fairy tale flavor that readers first met in Dreams of the Compass Rose. Nazarian gives us a tale wove out of color—unpredictable, funny, wise, and always entertaining. She’s a talent to watch.”

— Sherwood Smith, author of Crown Duel

“Nazarian’s world is not a typical fantasy setting—it’s set in a world that didn’t know color until the appearance of a strange new sun. Her story is filled with adventure but it also works on a much less physical level, with very strong characterization and an almost poetic feel to the prose . . . I suspect that weeks from now the images that I retain will be from Nazarian’s bizarre otherworld.”

— Science Fiction Chronicle

“I found myself aching to read the book again after I had finished it. The style is new and fresh in the fantasy genre, it breaks fundamental rules with wild abandon and carries it off superbly.”

— Donna Jones, SFCrowsnest.com

“Lords of Rainbow is an enjoyable read with surprising character twists and vivid, although black and white, description . . . it’s a book that pulls you in and makes you believe in a real monochrome world and a fantasy that grabs you and takes you away.”

— Shirley Gibson Coleman, SF Romance Online

“Vividly described in rich prose that entrances like a magic spell, Lords of Rainbow will resonate with readers like the stories of childhood. It is not only prefaced with a lovely and accessible poem, it also reads like poetry. Thus, when taken as fable, there is much in this book to love. For in the end, we find a twisted Cinderella tale where an ugly, common girl can be elevated by noble spirit, and a city can be transformed by magic.”

— Stephanie Dray, Strange Horizons

“The novel therefore works on three levels—it is simultaneously an examination of the nature of faith, of the nature of power, and of the relationship shared between those two things; and in these examinations, with a story set against foreboding conflict, Vera Nazarian finds great potency and great relevance to the world we live in today, despite the unfamiliar, haunting, and ultimately unforgettable locale of her tale.”

— Daniel James Wood, The Green Man Review

“But no mere words of mine can convey the experience of reading Lords of Rainbow. Just believe me, and read.”

— John Grant, Crescent Blues

COPYRIGHT PAGE

This book is a work of fiction. All characters, names, locations, and events portrayed in this book are fictional or used in an imaginary manner to entertain, and any resemblance to any real people, situations, or incidents is purely coincidental.

LORDS OF RAINBOW

Or the Book of Fulfillment

Vera Nazarian

Copyright © 2003 by Vera Nazarian

All Rights Reserved.

Cover Design Copyright © 2011 by Vera Nazarian

Cover Art Details:

“Madame Hippolyte Flandrin,” by Jean Hippolyte Flandrin, 1846; “Jonathan’s Token to David,” by Lord Frederick Leighton c.1868; “Portrait Of A Young Man With A Dog And A Cat,” by Dosso Dossi (1490-1542); “Main street of Samarkand from the height of the citadel, early morning,” by Vasily Vasilyevich Vereshchagin, 1869-1870; “Sunset, North Rhine-Westphalia, Germany” by Dahola, 11-03-2009.

Electronic Edition

October 15, 2011

A Publication of

Norilana Books

P. O. Box 209

Highgate Center, VT 05459-0209

http://www.norilana.com/

United States of America

Lords of Rainbow

Or the Book of Fulfillment

Norilana Books

Fantasy

www.norilana.com

DEDICATION

For Marion Zimmer Bradley,

with love and respect.

In Memoriam

1930-1999

LORDS OF RAINBOW

Or the Book of Fulfillment

Vera Nazarian

First came Werail of passion red,

Then Melixevven full of joy

That gave the orange tint to things.

The third was radiant Dersenne

With yellow light of sacrament;

Then Fiadolmle, young and free,

Embodying all birth in green;

Koerdis shone with blue of truth,

And violet love was Laelith.

Yet far the greatest of them all

Was bright Andelas who ruled white.

For they were all a part of him,

Until the Rainbow fell.

PROLOGUE

You!

Yes, you, with the bright eyes. I offer you a mystery in a series of veils. You will lift them up, seemingly without end, until you come to the center.

Lifting the first, outer veil, you see the sun. It is steel and silver. It begins to sink like an old ship through the churning mass of cloud and mist, casting half-light.

There, can you see it?

Yes, that is sunset. Hard to believe, but you must recognize it for what it is.

Molded from that poor light, the sunset methodically smears the sky. Soon, the whole world is drenched in it. Dull and blotched with gray leprosy, the sky is without a frame of reference.

And now, behold black. Ah, how rich it is, how utter and raw, as it begins to pull inward from all the sky-edges.

Soon, black will wrap all of the sky in a parcel.

Beneath the sky, chaos. Rock and tree limbs thread ascetic members into fathomless seething earth. Lesser things emerge past the roots of their greater wood-fleshed kin, and anemic shoots are sent to the sky. There is an unresolved hunger, a clamoring cry without sound.

And now, you must blink. Clear the one illusory veil over your eyes.

Can you see the motion?

Good.

It is the wind. One ghostly presence in a gray dream place.

And there are others. Dark streaks of birds speed through warm milky vapor. Their form is variegated grayscale, and they produce sound. Whistle-notes carry far on the wind, and pierce you. They sail the low mists of the early evening, and sink in the high trees.

All ephemeral. Dusk beginning to settle. Dusk is a web of mist and monochrome silver that erases lines between boundaries of contrast. Predecessor of absolute night.

But you know something is wrong.

Something is lacking. A singular essence.

There is no color.

Well?

Did you think that was all? That I would give it all away before the Phoenix of your imagination had even a chance to lift its eyelids, ruffle its wings, and soar into the winds over this different world?

You were wrong.

So, listen. . . .

PART I

The Inn

CHAPTER 1

Ranhéas Ylir was alone in the wilderness, and she bristled with steel. There were twelve daggers hidden in impossible places about her body. At her waist was a sheathed thirteenth one intended to be seen. And at her left side, phallic, hung a prominent sword.

Even in this remote place, they would think twice before challenging someone well-armed. But you must never reveal the full extent of your arsenal.

And yet, up ahead there was that sound.

She heard it rise in dissonance above the chord of living forest silence. It was a sound of the unknown; likely, it signified danger.

But she was arrogant. She was Ranhéas Ylir, and she continued to ride along the path toward it.

Or, maybe she just wanted to be hurt.

The path was narrow, and the wild tangle of growth was all about, sharp skeletal branches just missing her face, trees arching overhead, graphic apparitions against a fading sky. Creatures moved in the heights, and occasionally she imitated their sound, humming. But her throat was parched, so soon enough her voice would fade into silence.

The horse underneath her was a ghost, poured from shadows. The rider herself also seemed to vanish into the background—nothing but eyes in a mutable face, a blink, the manner of a quick darting bird. Her bleak hair was gathered into a braid, and tucked in nondescript darkness beneath the travel coat. Her jacket, trousers, and threadbare boots were of a vaguely masculine shape. Beggar dress.

The sound coiled at the back of her mind.

She noted the path ahead. It was dissolving. Within minutes, all vestiges of contrast would fade into the absolute night.

There was no fear, only wary professional reflex. She was alert, ready, in her ever-present paranoia, an intensity of perception that never left her, never allowed her to underestimate the environment. For this was a remote place. And ahead was that sound.

Listen . . .

At first, only the cicadas on both sides of the trail.

Then, like a filigree lacework of shadows, trees thinned before a clearing. Likely, a major road ahead. She slowed the horse to a near-silent walk, and continued forward.

About a hundred feet in the distance, through the whirling mist, came human cries.

They were oddly ritualized male high-pitched screams, shrill and emotionless. It triggered a memory, and she thought of the battle shrieks of known military groups—which one, she wasn’t sure yet. This was intermingled with several female cries, quickly muffled. Then, a clash of metal, more voices, most cut short abruptly.

Choices danced in her thoughts.

Temporarily lose the path and ride around this inconvenience. Of course, there might be an ambush off the path. Or else, ride ahead, and you may be in luck. A nest of the lawless, preying upon helpless travelers. These innocents might pay well for your interference just now.

Or, here might be clan war. Or Guild war. Crossroads are notorious for such idiotic enactments.

As she considered the options, the sounds of violence dwindled. That new silence caught her attention.

A rhythm beginning in her temples, she urged her mount into a faster pace.

Foolish bitch.

The trees ended at a crossroads, where the trail merged with a wide, well-traveled road. The road receded like a ribbon of pure darkness against the variegated gray of the forest.

Her heartbeat pounded, yet her posture appeared lazy.

In the clearing somewhat off the road stood a fine closed carriage. Around it, a small battle was being fought to its near end. The forms were all silhouette, unreal against the low mists.

A pale-cloaked rider. Half a dozen black figures. Surely, they were animated caricatures of some other reality. The other half of the dozen lay sprawled along the grass of the clearing, off the road. Masks covered faces. . . .

Could it be?

Bilhaar!

The Assassin Guild itself.

No, impossible. Look closer, idiot, look. You must look again, and for that reason you must approach. . . .

The Guild is legend. It does not exist. It is an ephemeral dream of fear, a bit of illogic to fill a gnawing need for the occult in the minds of those who are weak.

Ranhé was affected, quickened. She had to know.

Bilhaar were purported to be deathless. They were, supposedly, like that intangible called black. They carried curiously hidden swords, and remained silent under any torture.

Obviously idiocy. Black does not exist, and neither do Assassin Guilds. These creatures before her bled and died, and moved like human puppets do in times of combat.

But she could not be sure. Not when there had been eyewitnesses to other Guild “activity,” elsewhere. If these were indeed Bilhaar, she would love to have the chance of finally seeing a living breathing Guildmember.

Barring that, even a corpse would do.

But first, her attention was upon the rider fighting against them. This one had alone slaughtered half a black pack.

Just at that moment, stifled female cries came from the cloaked interior of the carriage. A black figure moved, and the murdered driver slumped in his seat, dropping the reins, while the impeccably trained horses stood their ground without bolting, like poised marionettes.

On the other side of the carriage, the gray rider remained in the saddle, at the same time barely moving his long blade—swift and methodical as logic. Before her eyes, one more Bilhaar was dispatched cleanly, with the same minimum of effort. They were on foot, and trying to unseat him, coming from all sides.

Ranhé paused in the shadows, hesitating to involve herself. He didn’t appear to need help. Indeed, some would only be offended.

But these Bilhaar creatures learned from their mistakes. The remaining five dropped back. Regrouping, they broke in pairs, while the fifth retreated to wait in the shadows. As the mist moved gently, two black forms went into a feinting dance, to maneuver the mounted gray stranger in one direction, while he hesitated for one instant. The remaining pair went for the carriage.

That was the moment for her to act.

A poor drawn-out attack, black ones, she thought. Whoever the hell you are, you’ve wasted lives. Your first target should’ve been the occupants of the carriage.

In absolute silence she drove forward, at the same time drawing her own long blade, and then became quicksilver.

In such moments, the world does not exist. Everything whirls, and only details, both relevant and extraneous, become magnified. The carriage was before her, trimmed with dull gleaming metal and some heraldic symbols (normally she’d know those symbols, but now was nearly night, and her focus was re-directed).

Just ahead, two black backs. One Bilhaar she felled soundlessly, not bothering with the tactics of honor. She used not only the blade, but her bare hands, slipping her hand against the back of the neck and then twisting, as she’d learned on the streets. . . .

The other, his partner, turned, was aware, screamed that terrible trademark cry and focused on her—only to be answered by terrified female screams from inside the carriage.

Part of her wanted to laugh, while on another level another part of her became very cold and separate. It, that part, was moving high above the trees on soft cobweb wings . . . while she struck and parried and then thrust with her blade, feeling the resistance of flesh, feeling steel tear through muscle and grate against ribs.

And then the pale-cloaked man noticed her, paused, and it nearly cost him his life.

Or maybe it hadn’t. She merely saw his stilled face. And in those instants of rich detail, she observed the shape of gloved hands, dying half-light reflecting off jewels clustered on fingers.

“To your right!” she cried, and he turned to avert and parry a Bilhaar sword. Then, like a methodical butcher, he slashed in turn, and the black man fell.

A nobleman. Bejeweled fingers. A self-confident fool. Where in hell are your bodyguards? thought Ranhé while she cut the throat of the black assassin before her.

No. . . . Do not think of it, of what you are doing.

The gray man dispatched the last one of the pairs. The fifth had disappeared into the forest, she knew. His task as the last living of his set would be to report back, and to take the honorable Guild punishment—or so rumor had it.

Silence, and the world came back into focus. The clearing was littered with anonymous black bodies. Ranhé became aware that she breathed again.

Death . . .

Breathing harder than she, the gray stranger moved to dismount. He crouched, saying nothing, and wiped his fine blade on a Bilhaar’s dark garments, then walked quickly to calm the two horses of the carriage. His own trained mount followed like a familiar.

Stench inside me, so familiar, death.

Ranhé also dismounted, and bent to clean her own blade against a dead man’s black cloth. Because of the gray stranger’s turned back, his lack of acknowledgment, she wasn’t sure how to proceed.

Temples pounding.

Slowing down.

She sheathed her blade, then remounted and slowly rode up to the carriage, her horse fastidiously stepping over the bodies and sniffing nervously.

“May I be of any more help, sir? Are you hurt?”

Her voice had an uncanny quality. So steady, so matter-of-fact after what had just occurred. She heard its falsity as she was floating one moment outside her body, and the next, inhabiting it. Her tone was polite and cloaked, the kind she used with prospective customers.

The gray one had dark long hair. It spilled like a bit of the road darkness past the folds of his hood. And as he turned to regard her, there was at last a face, one of aristocratic refinement.

“Thank you for the help already given, freeman,” came a voice devoid of emotion. “And no, I am unhurt.”

The keenness, the elegance of his features, as if wrought of candle wax. Impossibly distant. It reminded her of temple statues with their beautiful chilling asexual faces. She tensed with the effort of remembering what bloodline might have produced this likeness. For, this man’s Family was surely one of the Noble Ten. His eyes were absolutely opaque in expression.

He is taking my assistance for granted. And he doesn’t yet know I am a woman. Not that it really matters.

The closed curtains in the carriage window moved, and a veiled matron looked out.

“Is it over?” sounded a shaking old female voice. “Elas?”

“I am unhurt, aunt, everything is fine. They are gone.” He spoke to reassure, this man called Elas. How differently he addressed the old woman.

“Ah—all Tilirr be praised!” the dame exclaimed, breathing with difficulty and holding a kerchief to her veiled face, as though she could shield herself from it all.

Stench is rising. . . .

“You’re both very shaken, aunt,” he said immediately. “And Lixa? They didn’t touch—”

“No, of course not! No one got through.” The old woman sputtered with indignation at the very possibility. And then she noticed Ranhé.

“Good evening, madam,” said Ranhéas Ylir. She herself now resembled but another shadow in the encroaching mist, and the old woman responded in fear.

“Who is this, Elasand?”

“A friend, madam. You are quite safe,” said Ranhé.

“Yes, a friend,” said Elas, giving Ranhé a vacant look. “This honorable stranger came to aid us, and has very likely prevented harm from befalling you and cousin. He fought to protect your carriage.”

The old dame’s tone warmed immediately, and she moved her veils aside to observe better. Ranhé could at last make out a wrinkled face and eyes squinting in relief. “Then, sir, we’re much in debt to you, aren’t we, Elas? What’s your name, good sir, to whom are we obliged?”

“It’s no particular matter, madam,” said Ranhé.

At that moment, a younger female, completely unveiled, peeked from behind the curtain, saying, “Mother? Is it over?” And then she saw Elas. “Cousin? You are unhurt?” she said to him faintly, “What of the driver? I am afraid he—”

“I’m fine,” he said sharply. “But he is quite dead.”

“Oh. What will you do?”

“What do you think? What should be done with this unfortunate man?”

“I don’t know.”

Ranhé observed this peculiar stilted exchange, noted the young woman’s wooden voice. Her rounded face had an odd expression, difficult to fathom, like the moon seen through the fabric of passing clouds.

“Incredible, but he appears to be our only loss,” spoke Elas then, turning away suddenly from the woman in the carriage, and continuing with his back to them all. “Even the horses are untouched.”

“You are very lucky,” said Ranhé. “One would think Bilhaar are usually better organized. Another time, and your horses would’ve had broken ankles, all. It appears your superior ability took the attackers by surprise, my lord. I wonder, were these really the Assassin Guild? We should take the masks off the dead and observe their faces.”

He turned again to look at them, and his gaze paused on Ranhé without seeing her. But before he could speak, the young female in the carriage leaned forward, illuminated by the last vestiges of gray sky glow, so that Ranhé could at last see her widened keen eyes.

“No!” she exclaimed with horror. “You mustn’t look at the dead, oh gods, no!” And then, added with peculiar barely repressed violence, “Who is this woman?”

The dame squinted again. “What? Indeed, it is a woman! Oh! And you have a sword, too, I could’ve sworn—”

Ranhé thought she saw some evidence of awakening in Elas’s expression. He focused on her, fully at last, and was evaluating her. But not a muscle moved in his face.

“Then we must ask your pardon for our blindness, besides being indebted to you, freewoman—”

She was amused. “My name is Ranhéas Ylir.”

With a faint smile he said, “I am obliged to you.”

“No need, my lord, to be obliged. My help was minimal, and you were doing quite well without it. Besides, I only indulged my own caprice. I was curious to fight the legendary Bilhaar.”

As though he did not hear her, his hand moved to his belt, and he drew out a small pouch.

“Will this silver be adequate recompense?”

“Sir, really now, you offend me. I ask for nothing.”

“And in your refusal you offend me.” His smile was delicate. “So then, freewoman, take this. I have little time to argue.”

With the last words his even tone had acquired an edge of irritation, and he extended the pouch to Ranhé.

“Yes, my dear,” added the dame. “Take it! Oh, but please, you must. We cannot be thus indebted in honor—”

And the other female in the carriage also nodded, looking at Ranhé with her keen frightened eyes. She took quick shallow breaths through slightly parted lips that nevertheless did not tremble. Only in that rhythm of breath was there a sense that cloud-shadows of emotion were passing over the moon-face.

Think of a certain empty purse, idiot bitch, considered Ranhé, seeing all of them watching her. But there was a little angry beastling within her that now stirred.

And so she smiled at them, a thin smile, her hands stilled in a firm grip on her horse’s reins.

“I would, my lords,” she said in a little voice, “rather remain unoffended, and you likewise.”

“If you will not have it,” he said, “then so let it be.”

And he tossed the moneybag to the ground. The dark satin pouch landed with a clank on the chest of one black corpse. Everyone stared at it.

“Whatever you choose to do, I have paid, and we are acquitted. Once again, my thanks.” He turned away, sure of what she would do next.

Only, that was not the thing to be, to be sure. Not with Ranhé.

“My lord!” she called loudly, while sudden violent anger started rising in a mass of smoke and veils and uncontrollable darkness in her throat.

The dame and the young lady watched her from the carriage.

Elas had turned away, and had begun pulling at the body of the driver in order to take his place.

“My lord, I choose my own terms of acquittal.”

What the hell is making me say it, what the hell . . .

He paused and turned to stare at her.

And she grinned at him, a skull’s grin. “So then, let the dead man have it—for funeral expenses? I choose to take nothing from you.”

And before she allowed her mind to register the two women’s confused faces, or the nature of the expression in his eyes, Ranhéas Ylir turned her back on them. She rode away in the northwesterly direction along the big road, leaving the small trail behind, before anything else could be done.

She was remotely aware of the fact that she fled without real cause, leaving behind a reasonable payment.

Even in their generosity they reek of pride. Keep your money and choke on your highborn arrogance, she thought, as an excuse for her own loss of sense.

And then, But why did I not take the money? Is it not because of my own pride? So then, I choke also.

Night, silver-hued, was almost fully upon her. She tried to put the encounter out of her mind. But the memory of striking down those beings, those so-called Bilhaar, was bitter.

Indeed, the roiling darkness was still settling in the back of her throat. . . .

Something was not right.

In the black roadside foliage, cicadas and evening insects worked up a comfortable cacophony of sound.

She felt sorry for that old matron and the young woman, her daughter. Alone, without a bodyguard or reasonable escort. What damned arrogance.

The thoughts refused to leave her.

And then, one old familiar thought surfaced.

What does anything matter anyway? I have killed again.

Ahead of her, the oblivious night sang.

I speak of veils and mysteries, and here is another.

Ranhéas Ylir.

For several years now, she had crisscrossed the West Lands—settlement and wilderness—serving as a guide, bodyguard, messenger, scout, spy, scribe, interpreter, and anything else conceivable.

Rumor had it that she could speak, fight, portray anything.

She was nondescript, young in appearance, yet she had been thus for years. She was cultured, when needed. Or she became rough-hewn like a child of the gutter. She was lighthearted, loud-spoken, and frivolous. Or she was deadly serious, intellectual, and fastidious in her attitudes. And maybe she held, of all things, a distaste for spilled blood.

Aside from that, nothing in the world seemed to be of great consequence. She had no concrete values—or, if she did, they appeared as mutable as the wind, those of a chameleon. She also admitted no ties of any sort, nor—however odd this may sound of a mercenary—could she be bought, although she made it a point to sell herself and was in demand.

Ranhé claimed no relation to nobility. Her roots stemmed from the big City, mercantile and clerical. Or maybe even the gutter. What more that could have meant, no one knew, for she was a storyteller. Indeed, one might think she had spread the bulk of the rumors about herself.

Most likely, she was a madwoman, or at least someone on the fine edge between clarity and disturbance.

In the capital City, Tronaelend-Lis—the place, it is said, of boundless dreams—she had done business countless times. Tronaelend-Lis was chaotic as any big city is bound to be, always in need of one or more of her talents, filled with gems and rabble, seething with motion like a boiling kettle of fragrant soup. Opportunities surfaced like bubbles in that soup, and it was there that Ranhé absentmindedly made her way now, finding, as abruptly as always, her purse light as a dream.

Now, a curiosity about that purse. Despite being adequately paid for her work, she remained vagabond-poor.

Ranhé was not a spendthrift like some others, who would squander their earnings on urban pleasures. She was not known to drink spirits that distorted the mind, or gamble, or even purchase erotene favors.

But after a good earning, she was often seen passing out easy gifts, allowing dull metal coins to leave her hands as quickly as they came. And ultimately finding herself without means every time, Ranhé only laughed.

“I can be rich any time,” she spoke flippantly. “I could have an estate, a house in the City, all illuminated with white light, finer than any of the great villas in Dirvan. And maybe I will. Or maybe, I won’t. Maybe”—she would let her eyes turn strange—“I would rather have the silver moon.”

But now, moon or no, her purse was light again, and she, moved by an inborn restlessness, was on her way to Tronaelend-Lis, and opportunities.

She was now but a day’s ride away from the City. At the last settlement she passed the other day, the local woodsmen suggested she follow the small trail northwest to shorten her way, and that a lodging place would be reached by evening of this day.

They had spoken in uncomplicated ways, the locals, with nothing beyond the ordinary in the pale silver faces. Their clothing was drab; their skin had been turned dull and coarse in the gray sun-glare, and at the corners of their eyes it crinkled like rice paper. They were merely weather-beaten, like all the others who lived at the edges of the wilderness and were attuned only to its natural rhythms. And unlike them she sensed other things in the air, brewing—subtle things that swept past their awareness. Things they would never know to tell her.

There was a crispness, a sense of change in the wind, and it required a sixth sense to feel its encroach.

And death . . . But no, don’t think. . . .

Merely a deepening of twilight.

* * *

The philosopher, sitting in one of the lightly shaded groves of the Outer Dirvan, watched two ebony swans float upon the mirror surface of a small pool. He was not too different from the numerous other philosophers in the City—of some learning, yet not particularly literate; introspective, yet easily distracted by outer beauty (such as now—oh, the swans!); hungry for revelation about the nature of truth, yet somehow afraid that revelation might really come, and what would he do then? And, like most of his peers, he pondered the phenomenon of Rainbow.

There existed a common set of thought regarding that unfathomable event of about four hundred years ago—if indeed it did happen. Belief was customized, altered according to one’s nature. Yet essentially, the postulates were twelve in number.

And so the philosopher recited them one by one in his mind, like mantras, at the moment without new insight, yet hoping that the concepts might flower suddenly within him.

* * *

Postulate One: Rainbow is Fulfillment.

* * *

Deileala Grelias, the Regentrix of Tronaelend-Lis, brushed a cool finger along the lower back and buttocks of the naked young man lying prone before her on the great silken bed. Shafts of silver sunlight from the window fell in curving patterns that defined the shape of his body. In response to her touch, she watched a tensing of his skin over muscle, movement in the haunches.

So equine.

He turned his dark head toward her, and his eyes were drowsy, long-lashed.

“My love!” he whispered. “Where have you been? I’ve come here, waiting almost an hour now, after your summons.”

His words conjured double meanings.

The woman standing before him, petite but statuesque, and always aware of double meanings, regarded him silently for several moments. She did not really hear him.

She wore an insubstantial pale dress, more like a piece of thin gauze than any real garment, wrapped around a voluptuous body. Nothing could properly conceal it, and she would never try. Veilings only emphasized her flesh—as veils are wont to do, to aggravate the mystery of a surface which had a sheen to it, textured like an apricot’s skin, delectable silver velvet.

“I’m sorry, my pet,” she said at last, in a voice like well-fermented mead. “It was terrible, simply terrible of me to forget. Just that the idiot Minister said there were people to see me, of all things, and he wanted my opinion—something like that. And you know, sweet, that as much as I loathe that court foolery, it’s not to be avoided. Especially the giving of opinion.”

The youth missed the knife-edge of her words. He was too consumed with watching her in helpless adoration. He watched her pale eyes fringed by acutely dark lashes, sculpted arches of brows, and her bountiful hair, indefinite like shadows, and soft like a cloud of dandelion. Oh, how well he knew it.

And yet, did he?

There was something severe and perfect in her profile, that reminded him, always, of who she was—a creature chiseled out of marble. And who he was to her. It was even there in the crevices of her lips, that reminder of marble wreathed by dandelion; soft and hard things bound together.

Her lips were his obsession. Whether in his dreams, or even when he was in fact biting them insatiably, it was never enough. Sadistic intensity distorted his thoughts.

Ah yes, his thoughts.

Such they were, such unusual perverse thoughts. He couldn’t ever have even imagined harboring them, before he was singled out by her, and became her pet.

The Regentrix exuded power. The power was profoundly sexual, positive, masculine. And yet she was completely female, overwhelming with her sexuality, so that her lovers, no matter how skillful, always managed to feel inadequate. Possibly because the act of copulation presented but a diplomatic challenge for her, and she expected more as a result of that ultimate release than was humanly possible. The youth was well aware of all this, of how he, too, would at one point be inadequate for her, how—

But for now, there was only the moment.

She leaned somewhat over him, and her oval breasts, bobbing lightly, moved forward against her thin garment. A twinge of jealousy passed through him when he reflected that all could see her thus, her wonderful flesh, and she flaunted it before every “idiot” minister and imbecile courtier.

Deileala noted the nature of his glance. She, as always, was in no hurry, but loved to savor the experience, more aroused by the expectation of coital play than the actual act.

She reached out again, this time touching his upper arm, lingering against its surface. “Linnec, sweetling, get up and help me undress, will you?” Her words were a bored caress, while the young man moved immediately, trying to control the beginning molten-lead sensation in his lower parts, to relax, knowing how much she disliked the hurried act.

Exuberance rising.

She stood motionless, falsely passive, while he untied the several thin laces on her back and on both sides. His hands were beginning to tremble, barely touching the planes of her unusually slender waist and suddenly expanding hips. She was like a wasp.

He felt an uncontrollable pang down below.

“So beautiful . . .” he whispered, over and over, his words breaking up and beginning to run together into a muttering stream, his hands lingering more on her flesh than the laces.

Molten lead. Head spinning, breath becoming shallow.

“Ah, yes. . . .” She exhaled, relaxing under the touch. “There, yes, lower. . . .”

And at the same time, as always during the beginning moments of arousal, she forcibly made her mind wander with lazy objective ease, to prolong the pleasure yet to come. She glanced at the things around the room. The filigree metal statuettes on the small table before the window, there. How they caught the gray fire of the sun, their tiny wire surfaces reflecting minute sparks. . . .

As he squeezed the hemispheres of her hips, her knees weakened. How nicely strong his fingers were (she had been right to take him), so hard and strong, and hard and strong, and . . .

The familiar rhythm was beginning to pulse in her blood.

And yet she remained motionless, wanting him to be the aggressor, to be strong and wrench her; wanted to feel light and helpless, to be tossed easily like a feather, to be taken.

And involuntarily, an elusive recurring image came to her, of a haughty man, aloof and beautiful like a demon of dark hair and pale skin, and who had always politely refused her.

A demon of ice.

Yet she knew that if ever that demon would touch her like that, she would melt like a flake of snow, absolutely, dissolve under him, screaming silently with all her soul.

The tunic had fallen down to her waist, releasing her heavy breasts. Shuddering, Linnec (ah, he is but a soft youth!) embraced her tightly, yet not daring to rush.

You are a young trembling beast, yes. Show me your vulnerable inside, let me see you in this explosive state, just on the verge, she thought fondly, then said, “Touch me harder, sweet.”

His leaden hands moved upon her, while their bodies entwined closer, his thighs beginning to move against hers, his young limbs hot through the thin covering of the dress. The flimsy garment was still held hanging, caught against her hips. Her own hands went around him, lightly plucking his back like a taut string, with the deceptive softness of her fingertips.

She never used her nails. She knew that would frighten the boy. Instead, she briefly wondered where her brother was and what he might be doing. But then, Hestiam was practically always with a young nubile bitch, or in a stupor of Dirvan play, so that was no great mystery.

The pounding within her grew, the weakness in her lower torso beginning to overwhelm. In those instants she always felt a peculiar anger response, a sadistic strange desire to rip out this weakness, pound it to death—and with it, its perpetrator. And again her body told her that the only way to accomplish that was to continue moving. . . .

“Sweet love!” he gasped fiercely, and she felt him pressing hard against her. “Please, Deileala,” he whispered then, his voice quavering beyond control.

“Yes, now . . .” she replied, her own voice breaking.

And immediately maddened, he lifted her dress. He entered a deep burning place within her, while at the same time his face buried itself at the back of her throat, clumsily biting the nape of her neck, his hands tearing at her in pitiful confusion.

Deileala could no longer stand it. Her head with its mass of dandelion hair tilted back, while a single hoarse sound came from her parted lips. Impaled, she arched in reflex; she panted, squeezed the life out of him, and in the next second they had fallen to the floor, their locked bodies rhythmically convulsing.

Such is the end always, came her last distinct thoughts. I play at swine with them. Dirt . . . Dirt! Filthy swine!

And as always, she ended by straddling him, the contours of her waist and hips moving from one wave into another, faster, faster. . . .

The youth beneath her groaned as he came, and then Deileala herself heaved with one great final wave, and burst into a silent ultimate other place of singular height and detachment, falling on him, despising him, and herself (so worthless it seemed always, immediately after).

“Bitch . . .” she whispered.

Linnec noticed she always concluded their acts thus. “No, my love!”

He pressed his lips against her own, wanting to hold her an instant longer.

But her eyes, no longer glassy, were hard again, completely in control as she smiled, the Regentrix, with cold sarcasm-stained fondness, and stirred, moving out of his embrace.

“Thank you, Linnec, it was wonderful today. You may go now, sweet.”

Her voice was, as always then, automatic, while she sat down on the bed and nodded in the direction of his clothes. The act itself was already blocked from memory.

She watched his body carelessly as he dressed, thinking, What do I really want? Not this earnest boy? Not his young trembling moments of no control?

And again, as he left, the thought returned, Maybe I need to have the beautiful demon Elasand Vaeste once and for all, simply for my own peace of mind? I could always command him to service me. But ah, that is so tasteless. The act would be so tasteless.

And yet, I cannot seduce him . . . never him. I wonder. Is Elasand really what I want, ultimately? Or do I merely crave the psychological act of conquering him? And if afterward I still feel as empty, then—then I will simply die from this boredom. No. I cannot have him yet, cannot test myself to this extent.

Alone in the chamber, exquisite like the aromatic heart of a lily, she watched the play of the sparks of light upon the metal statuettes before the window.

I am so complete, full, overflowing. Yet what could make me more complete? What? And do I want such fulfillment?

Once again she had made sure that Hestiam would send for Lord Vaeste. She had conspired with Lirr.

Good, she thought, another chance to see him, here. So rarely do we see him in the City.

Elasand is so peculiar. Always going about some mysterious business here and there, yet never at Dirvan. He should be here by tomorrow night.

She got up stretching, her voluptuous body eternally young for her forty-five years, and again thought, But if I were to have him—what then? I am complete. I am empty. I am—

Deileala picked up a ripe silver fruit from a plate on a table nearby, bit into it sensuously, and then, changing her mind, spat on the floor before her. She then took another bite, again spat, and laughed.

And laughing to herself she took a good aim and threw the fruit out of the window, down to the Gardens below.

CHAPTER 2

Within the grayscale dusk, a brilliant dot of pale orange light beckoned. Its nature marvelous, otherworldly against the monochrome, it flickered in and out of existence as the roadside trees obscured it. As she drew closer, Ranhé knew in relief that this was the promised inn.

Expensive, however, if they can afford color lighting. And the color is so faintly saturated too, so fine, almost white. Damn. Luck is not mine tonight.

Places which had the sorcerous color light were never cheap. Usually, a night’s lodging and a meal ranged from two silver dirghe in a monochromatically lit establishment, to almost twenty gold dahr in an orb-lit luxury house, the like of which could be found for the most part only in the City.

They say, work according to the light you expect around you.

My funds promise a near future of darkness. But like the moon, my funds are in a constant state of flux, she thought, as she neared her lodging-place-to-be.

It was always an odd sight. One never ceases to marvel at the unnatural effect that comes about from the contrast of color light against the gray monochrome environment.

For, in this place, true white and black do not exist. All is but an approximation of the two absolutes, and each thing is but a shadow of another. By these shadows, depth and distance are perceived. All things, being shadows of varying intensity, are thus judged by juxtaposition. And all are ultimately shadows of the sun. It, the sun alone, is not a shadow of any other thing, but is the brightest and only source of true light.

The three large orange windows, the first to be glimpsed from a distance, seemed to float in dark nothingness, “pasted on,” the only things real in the world. The contours of the big house blended into the gray monochrome of the land and sky. The occasional trees were oddly, sharply silhouetted against the color, every branch, every fine leaf in sudden sharp contrast, a lacy network of acute graphic black, cut with a knife against unnatural light.

She stopped at the gates and used the large metal knocker, then waited leisurely. She was a master of controlled semblance of leisure.

Insolent bitch. I can’t afford this place.

A man came to open the door, and she rode, horseshoes clinking, into the small yard.

“There be the stables,” she was told. “And the common room is in the building to your right. Dinner will be served on the hour.”

“How much is the horse feed?” she asked, with a smile.

The man gave her a hard look. “Three coppers,” he said, more roughly than before. Was she going to be cheap? Then he’d save civility for worthier patrons.

“Then give us six coppers’ worth. And no, I’ll care for him myself,” said Ranhé, who now knew all she needed to know about this establishment.

The man shrugged, somewhat mollified, but not too pleased to be deprived of a service tip.

Ranhé’s hand slid to her purse, and she took out a copper. “Thanks, friend. Go have a mug on me.”

Her cheerful and for once completely honest smile was painted with tints of orange coming from the windows nearby. It warmed him, for an instant, despite himself.

But she’d already turned away and was leading her horse to the stables.

* * *

Postulate Two: Rainbow is a Test of Will.

* * *

The young priest Preinad Olvan forced himself to read over and over a single line of esoteric text. The characters were so familiar, yet nothing registered in his thoughts.

He finally looked away from the scripture before him and considered the other volume that lay on the table, covered discreetly by several sheets of his own handwritten piety. That one had come to him in a roundabout fashion from someone at court, and bore the unobtrusive tiny flower mark embossed on the darkest of dark vellum—the symbol of the House of Erotene.

The House of whores. Of high-class debauchery and the pit of lust. Things abhorrent to the principles of his Order.

These same things that he was forcing himself to observe dispassionately, in order to temper his will, and thus to serve the Regents in a manner worthy of his rank and aspirations.

When worldly thoughts plague, it is useless to struggle, to return to sacred matters. One must always attend to the business at hand.

The priest had soft dandelion hair and veiled eyes. Eyes that held in them the essence of sacrament. He was Preinad Olvan, his Family being one of the Noble Ten, and his color, silver. Here, in Dirvan, he was constantly reminded of this fact by every minute thing, including the details of the furnishings in his bedchamber, so that his belonging to the Family Olvan began to seem revolting.

Besides, he knew very well, silver was not a color.

Silver was the weight of coin.

His hands, nervous, slim-fingered, were clasped together in his lap. And then they moved almost of their own volition to take the other book, the book of ugly filth, and to open it at random upon a page of delicately inked drawings. The images were rendered in soft lines and depicted nude human bodies contorted and entwined in what he knew was the carnal act.

For a moment the images were no different, no more comprehensible than the words from the thick old tome of Divine Contemplations that he had set aside.

He gazed at them blind-eyed, and saw pale gray parchment, faded ink.

And then, unbidden, came one recollection. There was a woman here, at Dirvan, a woman of the aristocracy, who troubled his thoughts sometimes, who troubled him despite the rigorous discipline that men of his Order imposed upon themselves. Preinad was well aware that such weakness he must uproot completely, for it was intolerable.

The Order of the Bright Vision demanded, among other things, complete and absolute celibacy, in deed and thought, from its members. Wasteful sexual desire was to be channeled into other aspects of the soul’s being.

And yet, the woman disturbed him, since the first time he had seen her at Dirvan. Her name was Cyanolis. And she, this demonic one, was of the Family Vaeste.

The priest allowed himself to focus on the image drawn before him, on the graphic depiction of limbs normally hidden by clothing. The female knelt before the standing male, facing him, her waist deeply arched so that her rump was elevated to the level of her shoulders, and she was delivering the Pleasure of the Twins. The Pleasure consisted of her large pendulous breasts lifted and used to squeeze and stroke the male’s erect organ. The next image showed the male delivering his Culmination Gift past the barrier of her breasts into the female’s open mouth that was ready to receive the spurting fountain.

Preinad had been ordained since earliest youth. The decision was his alone. He was to be the lord of his Line, but he opposed the will of his Family, where every male was looked upon as a progenitor. The beautiful stern boy swore himself to a Deity and refused to honor his kin in regard to his future. And the Family Olvan mourned such an ending to the hopes of several powerful old aristocrats.

But Preinad did not mourn. He had long ago decided that he was made for more profound things than mere nobility. The particular Order he’d embraced was the most stoic of the major Orders of Priesthood.

Preinad wanted to break himself completely, and then to forge himself anew, under absolute personal control. His pledging to a godhead had only remotely to do with devotion.

And what better way to temper his control than this volume meant to incite the most bestial instinct.

He turned the page with steady fingers, and clinically observed a new image of the female straddling the man who now lay on his back. Monstrous in her capacity to receive, she had engulfed the man’s lower torso with her corpulent thighs, and his upright member was planted deep within her womb. She was leaning forward and granting her own Culmination Gift in the form of sharp wicked nipples that brushed against the man’s face. Both faces were contorted in the throes of Pleasure.

The priest looked at the Pleasure and felt a dryness in his mouth. His breath had grown faint and slow like the fluttering of a moth—his senses had not yet atrophied completely.

After fifteen years of serving the Order, Preinad Olvan was already considered incorruptible. The aristocracy marveled at him, and the brothers in his Order expected him to be the next Archmaster.

He could attend all gatherings at Dirvan, the most promiscuous private festivities, without danger of seduction. He was a cool observer at orgiastic feasts where wine and semen flowed upon silken sheets and cold marble. From the start he had never refused the mocking invitations from cynical courtiers, using such opportunities to strengthen his control. And eventually their mockery gave way to piqued curiosity.

It came to be that the Regents themselves would request his help in delicate matters, including chaperoning virgins of either sex, standing witness to unrepeatable ceremonies (ah, the things that went on at Dirvan!), and mediating between hostile parties.

It went quite beyond the normal duties that the Order of the Bright Vision would allow its members. But then, Preinad was already seen to be quite different, and his role was that of an androgynous diplomat.

And yet, there was this woman, Cyanolis.

Preinad ran his slender fingers over the delicate fibrous surface of the page, and absentmindedly began to crease one of the corners of this precious horrible book just along its tiny delicate flower border. And yet he could not allow himself not to look. And thus he was subjected to the image of the Pleasure of Honey and Navel on the next page, in which the male was suspended over the receptive female who lay on her back, his body parallel with hers to cover her, standing up by the force of his arms, and using muscle control of his lower torso alone to trace precise arcs of flower petals with the tip of his erect member around the center of her navel filled with honey, into which he dipped.

Dirvan was such a honey navel, a Hole of Gold. Women and men there flirted with Preinad mercilessly, touched by the novelty and the sweet challenge of tainting the severe priest. Corrupting, after all, was such a satisfying manner of testing one’s mettle.

Admirers flocked regularly to the Shrine of the Order of the Bright Vision on such days when he was to lead the Ceremony. They came to hear his hypnotic baritone, to see his sensitive lips shape words of Sacrament. They drank in with their eyes the sight of the young priest raising sculptured hands in supplication before the Deity. And when he turned to them to pass on the Blessing, his expression shocked them with its purity, if only to elicit a pang of arousal.

Truth appeared to them in that instant seductive and potent. And they worshiped him.

But the young priest would permit no one to approach him after the Ceremony. He accepted no personal gifts of flowers or jewels or handkerchiefs soaked with sweet oil of roses and love sweat, that were showered upon him under the pretence of gifts to the Order. He allowed no hastily passed perfumed notes to touch his hands.

And it became apparent to all that not only was the stern name of Olvan to remain impeccable, but the young priest himself was above all temptation.

Yes, there had even been suicides afterwards. Indeed, of all things, Dirvan best loved melodramatic passion, especially such that involved pain or death.

Cyanolis Vaeste may have been like the others, secretly drawn to his aura of unattainable intensity. And she too may have been hypnotized by his charisma.

But unlike the others, Cyanolis did not show it.

Preinad noticed the novelty of indifference where he could easily ignore attention—pronounced indifference stood out. There it was, upon every chance encounter, and it began to be a guessing game of sorts for him. The priest knew that some used this one oldest guile to seduce, and it had failed to affect him, in all cases. Was this her subtle motive? Very likely it was, and yet he remained unsure. Thus, curiosity would not dissipate.

She was, of all ironies, not even beautiful. Diminutive fine-boned fleshiness. Somewhat like this female drawn in ink on parchment, with lewdly exaggerated portions of her female form.

But Cyanolis was real.

Real as warm flesh and soft skin. There was a sheen of softness about her that could never be conveyed in a figure traced on parchment. And her face was almost that of a child.

Cyanolis was young, with an unusually beautiful singing voice, as Preinad had a chance to discover for himself, for she had been invited to sing before the Regents, and made quite an impression.

When she sang, it seemed there was no emotion that her voice did not convey, if only for an instant. And quite possibly, it was the voice that had first affected Preinad. That, and the knowledge that this virgin sound of purity—purity he could never resist—issued out of a body of an already renowned Dirvan whore.

For, Cyanolis Vaeste had, as they called it, the “madness of the womb.” An insatiable sexual urge.

But with Cyanolis this passion did not at all correlate with the presence of natural sympathies. It was rumored that she could fulfill herself only with those toward whom she was indifferent. Those she held dear she could never envision in sexual terms.

And maybe that is what drew Preinad, this perverse paradox.

The priest had observed her, knew her reputation, knew of her insatiable need. The combination of facts puzzled him. Why must this child-woman gaze at them all with innocence and then go off into a Dirvan boudoir to couple with someone? And why must she be with everyone yet never offer him even a brief gaze? Surely not because of modesty or innocent infatuation. For she never looked into his eyes.

Unanswered questions plagued him and he contemplated her from the distance of his locked mind. He became unconsciously embroiled in her—in the scent of her, in the way her rotund lips pouted, the cherubic firmness of her cheeks. It enraged him to think that this innocent with the voice of a skylark regularly allowed old and young lechers to fondle her, and to stain her sweet intimate parts with their spilled seed.

It had become vivid in his imagination. He imagined her moving with other men—for yes, he, the stoic, had seen all there is to see of carnality, a thousand times more than what was locked away in the filthy pages of this erotene book. He had witnessed seasons of it in Dirvan, indifferent, clinical, an untouched outsider. And yet, after a while, he would come to see himself in their place, straining, fondling her silver softness. . . .

But no!

Preinad Olvan shut the heavy volume with a snap, his fingers trembling in anger. Unless the New Rainbow dawned, he would remain thus, like a rock, immovable. He was a virgin with the innards of ice. That would persist.

And yet, she, Cyanolis Vaeste, was always there, permeating his thoughts, chipping away at him.

Who would prevail?

* * *

“Rainbow, therefore,” said Nilmet Vallen, “is a state of mind. It is too intangible to be anything else.”

“Uhm—well. I may not be able to express my arguments as finely as you, but I don’t agree. Besides, why do you always sound so sure, as if you know something? I mean, I can’t tell you why I think the way I do,” retorted Jirve Lan, the innkeeper, his voice warming with irritation. “Your move, by the way.”

Nilmet only shrugged, calmly, patiently, kind-eyed, and placed a small stone game piece upon the second of the eight cells on the board, next to the first, Andelas. It was Dersenne, the Radiant Tilirreh of yellow, oddly relevant to their discussion, for his were all things sacred; his, the realm of religion and spiritual philosophy. The figurine of a man with long flowing hair was finely carved, and yet the face was as smooth and blank as an egg. All of the game pieces were thus, faceless.

The board was circular, old polished oak. The cells, lined up in a ring dance along the perimeter, were round indentations in the wood, as if someone had taken a large dahr coin and pressed it hard into the board until it sank and left its outline in relief. The object of the game was to move all the pieces forward until all the Tilirr were on the board in order and the place of Andelas was occupied. It was a game for two, because each opponent moved pieces in the opposite direction, and eliminated the opponent’s pieces by blocking, surrounding, and then appropriating them.

Apparently this was a new game round, for there were only two pieces in the running, while the rest of the tiny stone Tilirr were still in their throne cells in the middle of the board.

The two men were sitting at an empty dinner table in the large common room of the White Roads Inn, bathed in orange glow.

“. . . you must understand, there is a tact, a certain kind of tact, to cooking—” came from the back room, the large kitchen. “A true honest-to-goodness cook is in tune with the food, always! In tune with the smell and wetness of it, with the texture, and the amount of fire. Everything must be in perfect sensory balance, in absolute accordance to everything else—”

“Now, that,” said Jirve Lan, lightening, “is our own house philosopher. You don’t need to know any fine theory, simply listen to her.”

And he moved Andelas to the next empty cell, away from Dersenne. The lord of white, Andelas, was beyond deity, beyond human conception. White completed and went beyond Rainbow. It stood outside the spectrum, and above it. White was even less a thing than a concept. This game piece could be moved as many cells as needed in either direction and was the only one allowed to jump over more than one other Tilirr.

The voice from the kitchen fluctuated in waves of deep-throated anguish, as Jirve Lan would say, a poet flung to the heights of inspired fool fervor. Maertella was equally well suited to lecturing from behind a Lyceum podium, as to supervising the basting of a hen. But then, she was the best cook the inn had ever had.

“Let us pause then, for a while, and listen to her,” said Nilmet. His voice was surprisingly firm, compared to the softness of his smile.

“Indeed. Maybe our thoughts will be enriched sufficiently to discover fresh new tracks for our respective arguments, eh, friend?” said the innkeeper, studying the game board, and picking at his teeth with his tongue. One of his front teeth was missing, in a strategic enough place to suggest bizarre infantility.

“. . . omelet be hung and flayed! How many times must I tell you to watch the skillet, instead of counting the flies up there on the ceiling—I know you do that, don’t try to deny, I see you look up there—goodness, why must you sit like a moronic stuffed bird? Where is your mind, girl?” continued Maertella, while loud pot-clashing was heard. Her voice oscillated from pleading to strength, yet was never unkind. “Don’t you think it’s so much easier to do what you’re told? Why can’t you be responsible—”

“She does talk too much, actually,” said Jirve Lan. “I wish you did. Then you’d tell me what you really know. All the secrets. And you’d tell me what’s really happening in the City. For example, just today they tell me, there are rumors about these strange dangerous visitors threatening the Regents’ Palace, and even the Guilds are afraid—”

Nilmet reached forward and placed on the board Koerdis, the lord of blue, of Harsh Truth, experience, and knowledge—in the next cell right after Dersenne. There were now three on the board. Koerdis was also the lord of pure effort, a symbol of eternal work, and the Opener of New Ways, and his tiny figurine held a jar of water in one hand, pouring it endlessly into a cup that was in the other hand.

“I know less than you do,” said Nilmet. “You should ask tomorrow’s inn guests. Every day they pass through here and tell you the latest rumors and gossip. I just sit here with you.”

Jirve Lan snorted.

In the kitchen, Maertella continued her harangue.“. . . Don’t you think I was your age once? I know what it’s like to want to be somewhere else like the big City, somewhere where they have all these fancy monochromes and beautiful rich people, and the wondrous light comes from all directions in all these different impossible colors. . . . But never mind. See, I learned to care whether the omelet burns. Even if it’s not my own. All the wasted food of our good Master Jirve, oh, sweet gods!”

Jirve Lan selected Fiadolmle from her throne cell, and moved the green lady of Birth, Change, and Freedom to block Koerdis’s path. Fiadolmle was like the harvest—she symbolized a lifelong path of development, and was thus connected to all things of youth and old age. Her figurine was a woman holding a flowering branch.

“But it’s not even the wasted food that matters—think of the hen who laid the egg, how she fussed over it, how much gentleness she took in warming her hatchling-to-be! How the little dark yolk and the pale outside, so delicious to us, could’ve been a little living creature! Don’t ever forget that! We’re taking a dear thing from these beasts. Sometimes I think we have no right—”

“Indeed, that is one truth there,” said Nilmet softly, somewhat to himself. And then he selected Werail, who ruled red, the most violent color, and placed him on the board before Fiadolmle, so that she would have to jump or surrender in the next move, for she was blocked from both sides. Werail, he of the Will, was passion and desire, and in red lay the mystery of Intensity. Thus the figurine held a sword.

Master Jirve rolled his eyes heavenward. Dullness and boredom, like a slow beast, was within him, and allowed no deep meaning to be extrapolated from anything that he now heard. Especially not now—the rich pungent aroma of fried eggs drifted into the common room, spiced with fresh dill and chopped onions. Maybe that’s why he didn’t think and allowed Fiadolmle to end up without a free cell to jump. Back to the middle cell throne she went, out of the game, while Nilmet got to move Koerdis forward.

“I just hope,” continued Maertella’s voice from the back, “that for your own sake, some of my words finally sink in.”

The girl, all this time guiltily silent, was now heard replying tentatively, “Yes ma’am, mistress. I’m truly really sorry . . . Awfully horrid sorry . . . I’ll never do it again, ma’am . . . It’s just that—”

“Just that what? Oh, never mind. And I know you’ll do it again, several times, before you learn anything. Just clean up this mess now, or we’ll never get dinner finished. Make another omelet when you’re done—no, make three more. We might have extra company tonight.”

Soon they heard the hiss of creamy butter dashed against a hot skillet, and the sizzle of a new batch of omelet. The sweet aroma deepened.

“You know,” said Jirve Lan, “I’ve never heard her scream at a serving wench. Even now—see how calm she is. Surprising, isn’t it? A marvelous woman, yes she is. Marvelous.”

“Why don’t you marry her?” said Nilmet simply. “Hasn’t it been enough time now that you’ve known her and seen her worth—omelet and such aside?”

The innkeeper laughed nervously, as though he was somewhat naively puzzled at the idea. He then took Love herself, Laelith, the gentle Tilirreh of violet whose domain it was, both human and sacred, and placed her on the board to block Dersenne. Laelith also symbolized persistence, strength, and paradox, and was the lady of the Way Things Are. Her figurine stood artless, empty-handed and simple.

Nilmet gave another kind smile and shrug, and surrendered Dersenne back to his cell throne in the middle and out of the game.

Maertella seemed to have forgotten the unpleasant incident with the burned omelet, because now her voice soared in a completely different mood. The two men listened, locked in easy idleness, and inhaled the scent of freshly grated cucumber and yogurt soup that was being prepared as a side dish. It was the nature of the time, just preceding dinner, when thoughts stood in a haze, with nothing else left to do but wait.

And so they waited. Orange faces regarded each other across the counter, orange bodies leaned against the countertop which itself was orange, bordering on pale rust. The light streamed evenly from the large orb in the inner corner of the common room, touching all things. The orb-light itself, the source, was so very pale, so intensely desaturated, that it came close to white.

Or at least, so it was claimed. After all, who knew what white looked like? Not even the sorcerous light-technicians could aspire to that dream, although what they manufactured in the Light Guild was supposed to approximate it.

What the White Roads Inn possessed in terms of illumination was but a fine-quality desaturated orange monochrome. Jirve Lan had had it installed a couple of years ago, brought all the way from the City, the work of one of the best of Light Guild craftsmen.

Why had he chosen that particular monochrome, orange, rather than any other, he was often asked.

“Well,” Jirve would reply. “Orange. To me it has always appealed in several ways. There is, first of all, something warming about it, don’t you think? Nice and cheerful and warm. Unlike the other colors. Seems to be quite appropriate for my sort of establishment. Warmth. Roadside cheer—It’s all up here, you see.”

And he would point at his temple and smile in that funny baby-toothed way of his. “I suppose you might say that I now have Melixevven, lady of Joy, watching over me and mine. In any case, here’s comfortable superstition for you.”

And then he’d turn practical, and his teeth would disappear behind the calm line of mouth. “Besides, I don’t know if you’ve heard this, but orange is associated nowadays, by the learned, not so much with traditional joy and all the Tilirr paraphernalia, but—with hunger. Yes, don’t look so surprised, I said, hunger! It’s supposed to awaken a ravenous appetite. Definitely, I’d like to make use of that. My customers would clamor for food, after an hour or so of being in an orange-lit room. And so far, it works. So, there. There’s your explanation. Everything else is nonsense, because I’m not religious, and besides, all monochromes of this level of craftsmanship cost alike.”

Ultimately, Jirve Lan always came down to the point.

Jirve was of an average build, middle-aged, with regular features, his skin tone barely silvered from the days spent indoors and away from the sun. He was also kind at times, but in a lukewarm way, and absentminded. However, he made no absentminded mistakes in keeping his inn accounts, nor did he ever overlook anything of the business side. He was quick to anger, quick to sentimental reminiscences; philosophy was his hobby.

But Jirve Lan, innkeeper of White Roads, did not have the least bit of tact when it came to proper argument.

The man sitting across from him was oh so different from the innkeeper. Nilmet Vallen was always utterly aware of everything. The finest nuance of his companion’s mood never escaped this one, whom they learned to call “the Philosopher.” He was of scholarly background, true, but his ideas had to have come from somewhere else. Nowhere were they taught, these odd things that he professed, and he had acquired a sage reputation.

People had that tendency, here in the West Lands, to respect ideas—no matter what kind—and individuals who were brimming with them. Hence, here was Nilmet, the Philosopher, who knew things, and who could listen and give advice. His time and purpose were ripe.

Dark and tall, awkwardly built, Nilmet had come from farther up west, originally, farther even than the City, and brought with him customs and concepts.

The innkeeper took him to heart immediately. Or rather, took to heart the opportunity for more philosophical banter. Nilmet was a godsend. He had stayed on here at the inn, at the gracious invitation of the owner, being in no hurry to continue anywhere in particular. He remained, to talk.

Nilmet had things to impart, new speculations.

But Nilmet also spoke of the Rainbow.

In many ways, that made him a disappointment. Only children talked of the Rainbow, and most outgrew that tendency by the age of five. The very expression “the day of the new Rainbow” was used when speaking of things that will never come to pass, and of things that had never been.

Occasionally, students of some lunatic scholars in the City were assigned to discuss the nature of Rainbow by way of a logic exercise. There was that board game. And occasionally, poets wrote silly verses, since most could never completely abandon its nostalgic charm. In short, it supplied fools with inspiration.

At this moment it also kept Jirve Lan intellectually entertained.

“We were talking about—something, weren’t we?” said the innkeeper, yawning in apathy. Hunger made his thoughts desultory, and him even more careless. And the room was drowning in that unbearable mouthwatering smell of roasted onions.

“Yes, I suppose,” replied Nilmet. And thinking how interesting it was that yawns were so catchy, he yawned also, and watched Master Jirve make his next move.

Jirve Lan had chosen orange as the color for his establishment. Orange was described as Joy, and she who was called Melixevven, Tilirreh of orange, stood as a symbol of happiness, and hence, purported good luck. And now Jirve Lan moved Melixevven the lady of Joy into the game, placing her in the empty cell just after Andelas.

The common room was a large airy room. Three long and sturdy wooden tables with antique-looking tall-backed chairs filled most of the space. Along one of the walls was a bar. From behind the counter, his favorite place, Jirve loved to serve good home-brewed beer and ale, and to the better customers, quality aged wine. (A tavernskeeper at heart, Jirve had once worked in a City tavern, before he had prospered and acquired his own place.)

It was a clean, well-kept place, the White Roads. The counter and the tabletops were always scrubbed clean, and the floors mopped often. There were sentimental pictures of pale silver flowers and smiling poised family dinners covering the walls—pictures which would glow with uniform orange as soon as the monochrome was turned on, and at which Maertella the cook used to laugh privately, and so did most of the customers. Those pictures, the cook used to say, “look exactly what they were worth.”

At the moment, there was only one man in the common room, besides Nilmet and the innkeeper. Present in body but not in spirit, he was a well-dressed aged merchant, asleep in a comfortable chair in the corner of the room.

Glancing at him, Nilmet was continually reminded of the paradox of being, yet not being in one place, during the condition of sleep.

“There’s a fine aroma coming from the back,” said Nilmet, forgetting philosophy, his mouth watering with anticipation.

“Not fine, heavenly. Yes sir, Maertella knows how to please the palate. Excellent woman!”

For the hundredth time since his stay here, Nilmet refrained from saying that one same thing, giving that one simple nuptial hint. Really, it was none of his business.

Jirve began on another yawn.

From outside came the sound of voices. Abruptly one of the stablehands dashed in. “Master Jirve, come quick! There’s fine lords and ladies arrived, their carriage’s at the gates, they were attacked at the crossroads, they say, the driver is dead—”

Jirve Lan hated when his yawn was interrupted. It left something vaguely unsatisfying behind it, an altogether unpleasant feeling.

But the mention of lords and ladies brought him instantly awake, as excited greed entered his bloodstream together with the adrenaline.

“Excuse me, friend, business calls again,” he said to Nilmet, who nodded somewhat sleepily. Jirve then quickly rose to follow the stablehand.

Nilmet sighed, glancing at the seven tiny orange-lit figures of the Tilirr on the abandoned game board, and watched the innkeeper exit, carrying orange shadows with him into the black of the outside. He then got up also and went over to the bar, selected a clean mug from the wooden rack and discreetly poured himself something cold and fizzy from the tap. He leaned more easily against the counter, and took a blissful swallow.

The delicious smell from the kitchen drifted stronger.

* * *

Postulate Three: Rainbow is Balance.

* * *

In all of Tronaelend-Lis there was not a man being torn in more different directions than the one who now stood before a tall oval mirror in a tiny alcove of the Regents’ Palace.

He was Chancellor Rollen Lirr, heading the Ministry of State for the last thirty-four years, first advisor to the current Regent, and the Regent before him. More accurately, he was first advisor to the Regent and Regentrix, for the older sister of Hestiam Grelias was as much embroiled in the heart of politics as her somewhat less enthusiastic brother.

Chancellor Lirr was a man of sixty-odd years, with an intellectual, soft-voiced manner and a receding hairline. He possessed the gloss of diplomatic finesse that the Regent himself lacked, and which the Regentrix disdained even though she could be flawless if she set her mind to it.

Lirr stood and looked at the gray image of himself in the mirror, looked into his own monochrome eyes. He waited thus for a span of several seconds, motionless, hoping to catch a flicker of insecurity, of ill composure, so that he could eradicate it with several deep calming breaths. He always prepared himself thus before going out of this secret chamber adjacent to the large State Room, to face the endless petitioners and the rest of the political machine.

Balance was a vital thing. One must always appear calm, pleasant, polite, and yet, always confident and never deferential. One must always appear the Chancellor, even if inside, his heart raced, and sweat congealed lightly in his pores, ready to break free. One must be able to ingest any news without blinking or twitching any of the facial muscles. That would be allowed later, when alone, in the privacy of this little cubicle. And above all, one must never fail the Regents.

Balance was more and more a difficult thing to maintain, especially now, with things being the way they were. Out of the east, the sudden unexpected appearance of a mysterious element—whether a people, a nation, a land—that was hard to evaluate, for little was known yet. So far, the only known variable was this Lord Araht Vorn, one who claimed he was an Ambassador sent from this mysterious eastern source.

Lord Araht Vorn.

What is one to think of a great dark man—a giant—who had come accompanied by a mere dozen men, riding into the City through the toll-free Southern Gates? True, his honor guard, though meager, was comprised of powerful-looking, feral men, the like of which were hardly ever seen in Tronaelend-Lis. It was also true that the trappings of their monster warhorses shone with the pale gray fire of diamonds, and their sheathed blades were longer than any war sword known. But what was most unusual was that the riders managed to pass unchallenged, unquestioned, and unnoticed despite their imposing size, through the heart of the City, and came to Dirvan.

They had ridden all the way to the Inner Gates of the Regents’ Palace. And there they stopped, dark, relentless, silent, by their very presence effectively blocking the entrance to the Palace. Faces remained concealed by the lowered helmet visors, making it impossible to guess what manner of men they were, impossible to see their eyes.

When hailed by the Palace Guards, they remained mute, merely sat their mounts, with one man before them (later to be identified as Lord Vorn) greater and haughtier than the rest. Neither did they respond to the Captain of the Guard, nor his superior, who was summoned by an emergency dispatch from the Military Quarter.

When an attempt was made to forcibly remove them from before the Gates, a terrible wonder occurred. None of the dozen had moved, but the Palace Guards attacking them were suddenly perceived by all onlookers to stiffen and fall dead, like leaves all around.

Eyewitnesses later swore that there had been no warning, that they were stricken by an invisible psychic attack, an impossible gale of something, some numbing force. . . .

This bizarre encounter concluded in awe-stricken silence.

The silence continued until the Minister General himself came to address them from a tall parapet of the Palace Walls, and identified himself as representative of authority. It was then that the dark giant answered him.

“I would speak to your King!” he uttered, like thunder. The voice was low, hollow, accented, and peculiarly amplified. It lifted echoes among the Palace Walls of monochrome stone.

And the sentries that had come out in force to surround the Palace were imbued with an even greater fear upon hearing that voice than they were upon seeing their comrades fall mysteriously stricken.

The Minister General, Lord Raelin Barsadt, allowed a second of silence, while he thought furiously of all possible repercussions of his next words.

As he stood considering, one ordinary soldier, moved by who knows what insane god, yelled out brazenly to the dark emissaries of the unknown:

“We have no King, strangers! Don’t you know that, or have you come from so far that news of the greater world mean nothing to you? If you would speak to our King, then you will speak to a dead man! He sleeps forever in a Tomb, while a Regent rules Tronaelend-Lis, our City. It is the Regent you must seek now, and no other!”

Whatever had prompted the man to speak did not matter, for he was silenced by his Captain. Later, the man was to plead at his Court Martial that he had no idea what had come over him at that instant, as though another had come to possess him, his lips, his mind. However, this strange outburst had bought Lord Barsadt the time he needed to formulate his reply.

“It is true, O visitors to our City,” spoke the Minister General. “If you seek audience with our Highest, you must seek the Regent Hestiam Grelias and the Regentrix Deileala Grelias. But you must first identify yourselves, and explain your hostile manner. For, I swear if you do not, despite the fact that you may appear invincible and wield unknown powers, no one here will receive you. And I promise, you will still be sitting here until the New Rainbow comes!”

A pause.

Maybe it was the casual reference to the Rainbow that evoked some microscopic response from the dark ones below. Lord Barsadt saw a barely noticeable stiffening of one of the man-figures. A twitch of a finger upon the pommel of a great longsword.

The dark giant spoke.

“I am Araht Vorn, Lord Prime, serving the Twilight One, whose name will not be pronounced until I face your Regent. My lord has sent me, his ambassador from the twilight place that is Qurth, to prepare you. I will say nothing more until I stand within these walls and face the one you call Regent. Therefore, open your gates, and let us enter!”

What was the Minister General to do? The logical thing was to scornfully drive off these intruders with some reinforcement from the Military Quarter. But obviously, these were not to be removed by normal means. Should he then command the Inner Gates to be opened, and allow them access to the heart of the City? What if that resulted in deadly harm to the Grelias whom he was sworn to protect? Something had to be done now, in order not to lose face before them. But—did it even matter if he were to lose face? Who were they anyway? What—

Lord Barsadt felt his mind become unusually dilute, his thinking more than normally muddled for some reason, while a small sickening sense of wrong began to stir in his guts. (Again, was it their effect upon his mind? Could they do that much?)

In his time, Tronaelend-Lis has never been faced with any such direct hostility. The fact that there was no real standing Army, only many very small and specialized Warrior Guilds, suddenly sank in as a flippant oversight on everyone’s part. There had been no hostile invasions for hundreds of years, not even hints of such, and the City had grown corpulent and placid, cloaking itself with a false sense of security.

Now the Minister General considered this grimly. Fortunately, messages had been urgently relayed to the Palace itself, and as a result, the Lord Chancellor Lirr was on his way here, to take over in his official State capacity.

Lirr the diplomat arrived and immediately assessed the situation before him, both on the Palace parapets and at the Inner Gates below. He saw the sheen of sweat on Lord Barsadt’s brow. He saw the stone-like dark ones below, and their giant commander. He saw the dead.

And Lirr felt the impact of responsibility for this City, the weight of the centuries, come to settle upon him at last. All the former concerns of State, all the minor unpleasant details, all the skirmishes of the Palace and Grelias household, were now reduced into insignificance—like the last beams of the sun before this encroach of twilight.

Rollen Lirr knew that in this moment and none other, his function as Chancellor took on meaning. He knew all of this in a split second of realization, during which a universe was born and collapsed inside his mind.

Outwardly, Chancellor Lirr did not even blink.

The gray sun danced with pale silver fire upon the surface of the large splendid medallion of State that hung from a great pleated chain on his chest. “Now, what is the matter here?” he said in a loud, powerful, absolutely bored voice, the sound of which carried to the dark twelve below.

“As you can see, my lord, we have somewhat of a problem on our hands,” said the Minister General, sounding like an idiot.

Chancellor Rollen Lirr smiled then, charming, strong, suave. “My dear Lord Barsadt,” he said. “What nonsense. I see only a misunderstanding. Our guests have been mistreated and naturally they found it necessary to defend themselves.”

Lord Barsadt stared at him in shock, while Chancellor Lirr continued, this time directing his words to those below.

“I am Lord Rollen Lirr, Chancellor of State. And you are—Lord Vorn, I believe? On behalf of the Regents Grelias, I apologize for the delay, and welcome you and yours, Lord Vorn, to the City.”

“What are you doing, Lirr?” whispered Lord Barsadt. “They are dangerous, we have no idea what they want—”

“Thank you, my lord, I realize. All is under control . . .” responded Chancellor Lirr in a similar whisper, while his calm, balanced face showed nothing.

And gesturing dramatically to the sentries, he intoned loudly, so that no one would again doubt his intent:

“Open the Inner Gates!”

CHAPTER 3

Lord Elasand Vaeste drove the carriage in silence. Night forest hurtled past them in shards of broken shadows and snaking branches, and the road ahead was a patch of invisible guesswork.

He said nothing. His aunt Dame Molhveth Beis, and cousin Lixa Beis, cocooned within the false safety of the equipage, would only be upset further by words.

There must be none. Otherwise, there would be reproaches.

“Elas,” Dame Beis would start. “That poor man who drove our carriage. If only you’d agreed to an escort, he would be living.”

“This attack was absolutely unforeseen,” he might retort, or, “Escort or no, he could have been killed anyway, and all of us even, if the assassins had been twice in number.”

“But no, Elas, my boy,” she would continue, “Nothing is ever unforeseen,” or, “Some escort is better than none! And don’t you argue with me, telling me that we might all be dead! We aren’t, and we have only the gods to thank for that. Why, you may as well say that if it weren’t for the moon causing tides, there’d be no waves on the southern sea, and hence no storms, and no broken ships or drowned men—”

And at that point his gentle cousin, whose eyes were cool like the moon, would step in to say, “Mother, I don’t quite follow you there,” or, “Mother, don’t you think Elas knows all that? I don’t think you should blame him. It was but fate.”

But Elasand knew equally well that soft words and gentle looks from Lixa meant only that she held her own displeasure well in check, only to pour it out later, in some insinuating dark manner. Lixa was gently serpentine, her moon-eyes hypnotic in their intensity, her smile a sweet shadow. And her reproach was, like that fate she liked to invoke so often, absolute. Such intensity was inherent in her bloodline.

Beis was an old name. Almost as old as Vaeste. The two lines ran, often side by side, for hundreds of years. At the Court of Tronaelend-Lis, they belonged to the elite group of highest-ranking aristocrat dynasties, on par with that of the Regents.

The Regents’ line, Grelias, it is said, came originally from such a line of nobility, one of the many offshoots of the greater vines, so that in truth its only distinction was honorific. It was the Kings’ line, sublime Monteyn, that had held in it a higher distinction than nobility, a seed of deity.

But the line of Monteyn was extinct.

Monteyn had died out almost four hundred years ago, with the last King bearing its name and being of its blood, lying—it is claimed—in the semi-death and non-life of Stasis, the body mysteriously preserved in a glass casket. To this day, visitors to Tronaelend-Lis approach the Mausoleum to view a wax-like face from a great distance, in the silver monochrome splendor of marble, mother-of-pearl, and grayness of gold. The face could as likely belong to a porcelain doll.

Thus lies Alliran Monteyn, dead at the age of twenty-seven, upon coming into his full power. And his body, hermetically sealed, has not decayed for three hundred and eighty years.

But that was ancient history. Beis and Vaeste, and others like them, ruled by the Regent Grelias, now headed a radiant decadent Court in Tronaelend-Lis, city of thousands, the capital of the West Lands.

And the West Lands themselves, great wooded expanses, lay for a thousand leagues in all four directions, with mountain ranges piercing heaven in the north, with the faraway southern sea down to which poured all the rivers, and on both sides, east and west, other lands, and forests all throughout. The world was one great forest in those days, it seemed. And the deserts of sun-drenched silver, fabled and unbelievable, were said to be far, far west, or maybe east, beyond human thought.

* * *

Postulate Four: Rainbow is Unexpected Wonder.

* * *

The Family Olvan had claimed as its color silver, or the “standard of the world.” Imogenn Olvan thought this choice was highly appropriate. Bland, stoic, ordinary, her Family was the standard indeed. For it had produced such insipid offspring as herself.

Imogenn was the first daughter of Reanne Olvan and Barand of the Artisans Guild, a man not of noble blood. Reanne, in her youth, had been one of those capricious social coquettes who—because of their beauty—reigned Dirvan for seasons on end. She flirted, played the game of glances, and in one such encounter conceived a child from a man half her rank. Such an outrage it was to her proper kinfolk that to atone for it, as all good manners dictated, Reanne must honorably bring up the child herself.

And that she did. From a wild thing, Reanne very suddenly converted into a proper matron. If possible, she was even better at it than at her previous role. From her motherly endeavors, the pale, small, quietly unattractive girl-child received fine schooling, and random expressions of half-love.

Since the first, Imogenn had been nearly voiceless. She had been immediately accepted into the solemn ranks of the Great Family, by all the stern aunts, uncles, cousins, and various other adults, who would gaze upon her small wispy figure with serious eyes. And she felt overwhelmed, drowning in that non-judgmental yet harsh sea of “family.” For, she knew, even back when she was four summers old, that somehow, despite their acceptance, she would never completely be one of them.

Her father, on the other hand, was radiant joy in her imagination. Those few occasions that she was allowed to see him, her life gained bright flashes of experience, like the gray sun breaking through cloud-mass. And always, she kept that experience in the most private center of herself, for she used it to measure the flow of personal time that otherwise would be as dreary and pointless as everything else in her existence.

Barand was a master sculptor. When he came by, for yearly visits allowed by law, he would sweep her away into a shimmering sea of things, for he would take her with him to the Artisans Quarter.

Holding tightly the strong callused hand of the tall black-bearded man with warm eyes, the little girl, dressed in finery as a girl of her rank should be—and drowning in it—ran beside him as they walked by foot. That was the only time she was ever allowed to walk thus, unescorted, like a simple freeman’s child. For on that one visitation day she was her father’s, and no law could deny them this.

Light as joy and free was her mind, and she felt like skipping as they passed the lovely Outer Gardens of Dirvan along one of the gravel walks, then headed for the nearest bridge of sparkling paved stone, over the Arata. Underneath shone like fire the broken mirror shards of the running water’s surface, black as ebony in its opaque depths, yet at each moment reflecting the silver of sun and sky.

Ahead of them were the Markets. What joy, what noise, what haggling and babble! Imogenn glanced about her, wildly speechless, and her father read that fierce joy as plain as his own two hands, in that silence of hers.

“Imogenn, my young woman,” he said then, in all seriousness to the child. “Would you like a Candied Fool, maybe?” And he winked at her.

“Yes, Father . . .” she murmured, and in three breaths they paused before one of the countless stalls, and Barand traded some shining coins for a wonderful sculpted creation of sugar and dough, a figurine of a silly grinning man in a hat.

He handed it to her, saying, “What will you bite off first, love? His hat, I say—it’s much too ridiculous, and is probably the sweetest part of this mannikin!”

“Yes . . .” she managed to say faintly, but he knew that in her few words she meant to say so many more things.

Thus they walked farther, hand in hand, she nibbling on the candy, as they passed the Markets and approached the walls and the toll-gate of the Artisans Quarter. Here, her father’s demeanor changed, his bearing grew solid with pride, and he paused before the guards, giving only his name and trade. Immediate recognition came to their eyes, as they parted before him, and without paying any toll, father and daughter entered the Quarter.

They passed twisting alleyways, wider streets, and everywhere there were people, peculiar-eyed people with faraway looks of concentration, either working at their trade in the small open workshops, or else hurrying to and fro, loaded with materials and supplies. Smells and noises here equaled those of the Markets, and sometimes surpassed. Leather and dyes, pungent chemicals, perfume of fresh flowers, newly cut wood, all intermingled, until Imogenn perceived it as one great manifold Smell of the place—just as the ringing hammers, the hiss of plied incandescent metal, crackling wood, human voices, all came to stand for one Sound. Long afterwards, for weeks, would she carry it in her imagination, the Smell and Sound of the Artisans Quarter, and hence, the Smell and Sound of her father.

Barand took her through winding ways to his own spacious workshop, where he was Master, in charge of a half a dozen apprentices. A large, well-lit room, drowning in the soothing green glow of the monochrome, and piled with odd shapes, filled her with awe. Scattered everywhere, giant hunks of granite rock, walls and hoards of it. Everywhere, fluid green shadows, swaying in the light.

Some of those chunks had to them a distinct shape, a smoothness, an appearance of real objects, where the human hand had worked on them with hammer and chisel. These half-formed shapes loomed like islands throughout the room. And on the floor next to them, together with chipped stone, everywhere lay tools—chisels, picks, hammers, needles, and saws. Little Imogenn tripped often as she wandered staring at the incredible things that grew out of the rock. She glanced at straining human torsos, beasts at play, beautiful female goddesses.

Barand was famous as a master of human form, and without needing to know that, the girl sensed his perfection as an artist, in the flesh-and-blood limbs she saw everywhere, the haunting living faces that frightened her with their presence. She looked and she even blushed at the revealing anatomy of some masculine forms—something that a young female of her station was expressly forbidden to be aware of, under normal circumstances.

They are so beautiful, she thought, all of them. While I am like dust before them. Like those chips of rock, lying at the base of the statues.

And filled with momentary sad wistfulness—the only thing that came to intrude upon this day of happiness—she sometimes said to her father, “Sir . . . do you love those beautiful things you make? Do you?”

“Yes,” he said. “More than life itself.”

“More than me, sir, Father? I am not at all like them, they are so beautiful and perfect.”

And the Master Sculptor’s eyes grew dark suddenly, intense with a pain that was only half-tangible. “No!” he whispered. “Never more than you. You are my only love, Imogenn.”

And sometimes he gave her a quick hard embrace, until her head reeled with joy again. Indeed, she asked that question of him often, just to see that pain, and then just to receive the embrace like a sea of warmth. No one had ever embraced her like that, so intensely, so truthfully. She would remember it always.

When the visit ended, he took her back, walking quickly, and his eyes seemed darker than at the beginning of the day. Quickly, half-running, she came along, as they left the Quarter, passed the Markets, and strode along a bridge over the Arata. Sometimes, late in the day, a light rain came, sprinkling them like dew, as they passed through Outer Dirvan, to where the Olvan Villa stood in old eminence. There, at the gates, she was received by her mother’s servants, impersonally, and hurried within.

Her father was always left standing outside, rain on his hair, as though at a loss for words, yet proud in his silence. Only the look of his eyes said true good-bye to her, for he knew she would recognize that better than words.

And she would not see him until the next time, months and months later. Truly, Imogenn was aware of her age, kept track of it, only through those solitary yearly visits. Everything else was a dream of monotony and stolid pale silver. And she herself was as bland and monotonous as her existence.

Her father’s visits were always unannounced, unexpected, and somehow it made them more miraculous than if they were to have a regular yearly date set. Imogenn lived each day subconsciously expecting him to appear and wonderfully disrupt her life.

Counting by his visits, Imogenn thus grew to be sixteen summers and sixteen winters. Bland, small, shadowlike, she grew up half-noticed, into an insipid shade of a budding young woman. No one had ever predicted to her that she would be anything but what she was, ordinary and unbeautiful.

And only her father, the intimate stranger, had told her that one day, he saw it in her—as he saw future images of grace and perfection in hunks of granite—he saw her as the most beautiful, most unexpected jewel in Dirvan’s any given season.

Finally, the Family Olvan would bear a fine delicate blossom on its proper and ordinary tree.

A blossom fit for a king.

* * *

The carriage rolled like a ship in the darkness, so they could feel each bump on the forest path, each little stone.

Inside, Lixa Beis held on to the cushioned door handle with a bloodless grip of desperation.

She was in hell. Hell, and ripping darkness, and screams of assassins reverberating in her mind. Eventually hell must end. Rather, one kind of hell would supplant another.

Soon.

It was said that Lixa Beis had the shadow of red, the Beis color, in her hair. Supposedly, such “coloration” was observed under the most powerful near-white monochrome in the City, with all her relations attesting to the fact.

Indeed, professing an ability to perceive color where there was none was a quaint tradition at Dirvan, akin to divination. Often noble children of a certain age were taken into a brightly illuminated room filled with witnesses, and were “examined” in a rather barbaric ritual of occult superstition. The practice was officially condemned, and yet the clandestine nature of this ritualistic nonsense appealed to the bored aristocracy.

Thus, Lixa carried, if not in her debatable colors, then in the solid forms of her face, the print of the Beis line. And yet she was the opposite of her mother, Molhveth Beis, widow of the late Lord Nadeh Beis—the old woman with the withered lips who now sat across from her in the swaying carriage.

Molhveth was herself a daughter of Vaeste, sister to the late Lord Rendvahl Vaeste, who had been the father of Elasand. In her exceedingly ripe middle age, Dame Beis was still beautiful, like an old angel, despite the wrinkled skin and faded hair which had once been utter luxurious darkness. She was also too kindhearted, gave alms to random strangers on the street who appeared poor, and retained servants who stole from her on a regular basis. This, Lixa despised—kindness was incompatible with nobility.

Lixa, stern and old-fashioned like her father, felt that she was, thank the gods, the better perpetrator of her heritage. Thus, she played the subtle superior, in contrast to her mother’s straightforward warmth, and avoided contact with those beneath their rank.

Both had lived, for most of Lixa’s life, away from the City—which her mother did not mind in the least—and the Court, called Dirvan by the aristocrat elite, as it was in vogue then to employ archaic terms for things. In her isolation, Lixa learned to harbor a very odd set of feelings toward the Court and the modern ways of the aristocrats. She loved and hated it simultaneously, hungered for it, yet pretended severe disapproval of the noble ways. Dirvan, and its lush brilliant decadence, drew her vaguely, repelling at the same time, and Lixa unconsciously looked forward to every visit to Tronaelend-Lis.

This particular visit held the greatest significance yet. Lixa was to be wed.

She had never met her husband-to-be. She was not even well acquainted with his Family which had been recommended to her mother, during their few visits to the City. Indeed, the only items of substance about him she had learned through subtle inquiry of a childhood friend. And despite her poise, her calm, her considerable theoretical knowledge of things and ways, she was not very well acquainted with men.

Truly, Elasand Vaeste, a cousin, was the only younger man that Lixa knew at all.

Yes, that same madman who now drove their carriage. . . .

Dame Molhveth had said, however, that Elasand was not representative of men in general. He was just too eccentric and perfect.

Perfectly mad, thought Lixa, He is perfect and mad. And he can fight like ten men—who would’ve guessed?

In the opinion of Molhveth Beis, Elasand, the only son of her sister, was not of this world. He was impossibly proud, and yet it was a pride so vaguely connected to any sense of heritage, or Family, or distinction, so pure and for its own sake, that it was incomprehensible.

Even now, he says nothing, thought Lixa. Well then, let him remain mute.

Elasand also adhered to a lofty and impossible ideal. Dame Beis liked to repeat that gods held high judgment, yet Elas held it even higher, judged more harshly, and his discrimination was impeccable. Lecture him as she might, he would eventually put a stop to all her reproaches with one rational absolute argument.

Elasand was thus extraordinary in his personal power, confident, worldly and aware of all possibilities. Most of the time, despite her critical banter, his aunt was secretly in awe of him.

But not Lixa. She was not in awe at all. Instead, she merely observed and studied him.

Innocently wise cousin Lixa.

But she did not know enough to compare. For, compared with most men, he was a beautiful aloof god. In some Families it was considered ill fortune for any unattached man to be aloof like him, and so the young daughters turned their longing eyes elsewhere.

She did not know that a quirk of his pride forbade Elas to ever pursue others. Instead, they all came to him, men and women, drawn like moths to a flame. He, meanwhile, never expressed a need for anything. Molhveth Beis even believed her nephew had no needs.

Lixa believed he was a subtle liar.

Lixa, having no one else to question, asked him about men and their nature. “I am to be wed, and I must know such things. What is the male essence, cousin?” she would say, her intense eyes holding his, so that Elasand always wanted to smile. She had that way about her.

“Gods only know, Lixa. What is the female essence? What is the essence of anything?” He loved to answer with other questions.

To this the young woman with a face cool like the moon would raise one fine eyebrow calmly, and smirk, saying, “If you want to remain vacuous, I’m sorry to have brought up the subject.”

“In that case,” he replied, “I must tell you something, I suppose.”

They were both so cynical at times, so perfectly harmoniously cynical, that no matter what the topic, they would smoothly come to a mutual understanding of things, endlessly mixing sarcasm with indifference. Indeed, one’s indifference prompted the other to be more obliging. Or, was it that serpentine Lixa had simply fathomed the correct way with Elas?

He leaned forward into the wind, giving the horses free rein, and forward they thundered, headlong into blind night, effortlessly pulling the carriage behind them.

How far was this infernal inn anyway?

Elasand had his own private business in the City. Besides accompanying his aunt and Lixa the bride to her uncertainly joyful destination, he was answering a Summons.

The Summons, in the form of an elegant silver-fringed missive, that famous regal parchment with a metallic border and wax seal, came from the Regents. The Double-Headed Lioness imprinted in the wax was from the coat of arms of the Family Grelias, representing the Regent and Regentrix. Normally it invoked unspeakable alarm and awe in its recipients, even those most securely in favor. Yet upon first seeing it, Elas did not even blink.

One must never refuse Hestiam Grelias and his sister Deileala. As Elas had broken the seal several days ago, when they were still at the Vaeste country estate, he knew that a trip to the City of volatile dreams, Tronaelend-Lis, was inevitable.

“Elasand-re Vaeste, you are required to present yourself at Dirvan for an Audience with Their Graces, the Regents,” said the letter, stilted, curt, and unspecific. At least they had remembered to include the lordly “re” ending after his name.

If he hadn’t been calm already at that moment, prepared for anything, Elasand would’ve let out a breath of relief. Their acknowledgment of his rank meant that he was not out of favor. He remembered the several known instances where a Summons to an aristocrat without the “re” ending was but an elegant death warrant, one which could not be refused in honor.

So convenient, he thought, I will attend both the gilded dross of Dirvan, and the traditional nonsense of my cousin’s Wedding. Both, achieved in one trip. For, I refuse to make a second trip to that luckless fools’ City within one month.

He would never voice any of this, of course. In addition to the strict idealism, there was that other side of him. Elas rarely communicated what he thought exactly the way it first came to him. His thoughts had to be modified, even to himself, before he presented them to others.

Both Dame Beis and cousin Lixa did not know it, but not only was Elasand Vaeste a lord of considerable position and bloodline, but he was a professional clandestine diplomat. His connections ranged from the Regents’ advisor circle to the most powerful Guilds, and extended out to the underworld. He was often a mediator between opposing factions, and had a talent for tactfully smoothing out all interactions and working together with Chancellor Lirr.

Elasand Vaeste, suave diplomat and righteous idealist, remained a mystery.

It had grown cold now. Sitting high up in the driver’s seat, Elasand wrapped his cloak tighter against the night.

What sad turbulent times these were. . . . They had set out to Tronaelend-Lis, as custom demanded, with only Lixa and one older woman relative attending her—for it was the bridegroom Family’s duty to make the splendid Wedding, while the Bride came traditionally as “pauper” to be exalted by the Groom, the “king.”

For this journey Elas had expected all simplicity. He had calmly excluded the possibility of any adversity. Yet in this one rare instance, he had gravely misjudged the situation. By traveling without an escort, he had thought to avoid bringing attention upon himself and his kin. Yet there was now a great deal of political unrest, and he was as always not as innocent of it as his kin believed.

I am a slack-minded fool, he berated himself mentally, outwardly cool as always, if only more grim, as his gloved hands fingered the reins of the carriage that carried his aunt and cousin. Both women were still in that terrified subdued state which was the result of having their blind trust in Elasand’s judgment undermined.

* * *

Postulate Five: Rainbow is Illusion.

* * *

Yllva Caexis sat in the cheerful opulent guest room, surrounded by a dozen of her friends. This was a small, comfortable gathering, unlike the usual crowds that would come to partake of the social charms of the Caexis Villa, and gleefully “plot the overthrow of Grelias” over a cup of fragrant tea.

Such “plotting” was no secret to anyone, and no surprise to the Regents themselves, for it stemmed from an ancient pointless rivalry. Indeed, on a perverse whim, the Grelias brother and sister tolerated this unabashed form of “treachery,” and in fact, found some amusement in it. Caexis and Grelias had been badmouthing each other for generations, and at some points, there had been blood spilled. But that was oh so long ago, and now the rivalry had grown old and stolid, and rather an idiotic joke.

Not that the Regents were soft. Were anyone else to drop a suggestion of treachery, a glimmer, even in jest—that would be their end. But with Caexis, it was quite a different matter. They did not fall within the scope of ordinary limits. They could ignite the world with anti-Grelias propaganda and remain unscathed. Indeed, upon one unprecedented occasion, Lord Neran Caexis, brother of Yllva, addressed the Regentrix Deileala before all of Dirvan as “one who has lain on as many silk bedsheets as there are in the Palace.”

In response, Deileala laughed in his face, until the splendid globes of her breasts quivered in her low-cut bodice. She said: “Then, my dear Lord Caexis, you must think it’s a pity I have never lain on yours.”

Yllva Caexis, like her brother, enjoyed the game of hate with the Grelias. Bright and ever charming, she was always the center of attention at Court. And as the hostess of the Caexis Villa, she knew how to stir up pure bubbling excitement, entertaining her guests like no other.

Everyone loved the sparkling mischievous Yllva, with her loud distinctive voice, her lightning wit, and the aura of joy-madness that came to permeate all around her. Yllva was never known to be in a bad mood, was never seen with sad eyes. Even the servants tending her since childhood used to say that Yllva was their little happy sprite—for when Neran and Yllva became orphaned at a young age, it was Yllva who consoled her weeping older brother, Yllva who smiled bravely when older relatives trained pitying eyes on them both.

And it was Yllva of the sunshine smile who now sat in a circle of her closest friends and told brilliant little gems of stories to those attentively listening to her.

Few would notice that day the slight feverish sparkle in her eyes, the more than usually raucous tone to her laughter. None of the young men and women dressed in Court finery paid the least attention to the occasional nervous tremor in her wrist, as she personally served a cup of tea to her friends, as was her custom.

Yllva glanced around the room, her gaze bouncing like quicksilver, never resting on anyone longer than a wink—for that too was her charming way. Yet upon one of those present she would never look. Only one. . . .

She had called them all here today, all of her friends, in honor of the upcoming nuptials of two of her closest and dearest. It was to be a grand Wedding involving a joining of two of the Noble Ten Families, and Yllva had been personally asked by the Bride to serve as her Maiden of the Heart.

The Bride, her childhood friend, was Lixa Beis, even now on her way to Tronaelend-Lis and Dirvan, and expected to arrive here before nightfall of the next day. The Groom, by the oddest of chances, was also an old friend—Lord Harlian Daqua. And he was here, in the room, today.

According to custom, the Bride and Groom had never met each other, and the Wedding was completely arranged. And yet, as the gaunt Lord Daqua now sat in an easy chair, sipping the traitorous “anti-Grelias tea,” those who knew him would have noticed an uncustomary heavy-lidded lifelessness in his eyes. And Yllva, who had arranged the whole evening in his honor, and who had not once spoken a direct word to him or looked in his eyes, sensed it, never needing to actually see.

She knew he would never admit it, for he could never admit to being wrong. Nor would she, for she could never be less than fair to those she loved.

She knew that Harlian had been pointed in the direction of this union by his Family. And yet, he had never been pressed to it. He could have refused to take the initiative, to make a Marriage Plea to Beis for their daughter. It was but his inexplicable love of duty that made him travel to the country, to the Beis holdings far outside the City, and fall on his knees in the tradition of the Humbled Wedding King before elderly Dame Molhveth Beis. To her, the matron of the Family, he offered the Symbol, a single fully-opened rose, of the palest color that could be found to approach what is known to be white.

“I ask for the Daughter of this House,” he spoke that day, wearing a crisp fine outfit, kneeling in a sunlit room, monochrome gray light and shadows of leaves painting lacework on the floor about him, dancing on his own stately form—the perfect Humbled King. And his voice sounded steady and firm, without a shade of hesitation. Yllva knew this, for she had been present in the Beis household, visiting her dearest friend Lixa, and both of them had watched together, in secret from another room.

Dame Beis, sitting in a large comfortable lounge chair—in fact drowning in its countryish heavy softness—had a very good inkling of what this young lord was about to propose. For, it had all been closely discussed weeks in advance, by all the old matrons of the Noble Ten, and gossiped over until there were no feathers left to pluck on this particular hen-matter. Dame Beis had graciously received him that sunlit silver day, expecting nothing less than a proper old-fashioned Marriage Plea, kneeling and obeisance and all. She was really a daft and sentimental woman in that sense, and Lixa herself quivered in stiff secret shame, in anticipation of how her own mother would imbue the whole affair with melodrama.

Indeed, Lixa also knew what was to come. She did not exactly know who this young man was, for they had never been introduced officially at Dirvan. But to say that she had never seen her potential husband would be somewhat of a lie.

When she and Yllva huddled together that day, peeking through thick curtains of a small closet-room at the scene in the guest parlor, Lixa was in fact beholding Lord Harlian for the third time. The first had been from afar, once on an outing in the City. She had been pointed out a speck in the crowd, and the speck had been assigned a name. The second time had been in attendance at Court, before the Regents. Again, merely a slender gaunt man—or to be precise, his straight back—attired in dark masculine velvet and silk, his hair long and dark as the heart of night, gathered behind in a fashionably half-pleated tail. She remembered the back of his head then, remembered very well how the glossy silk ribbon wound through his locks (they also shining with the luxurious gloss of ebony silk), remembered because already then rumors had been spawned about the possibility of such a Marriage.

And then, for the third time, Lixa looked at him, her own hair (once determined to be red—whatever that meant in a world of monochrome black and white) contrastingly lighter against the heavy dark curls of her friend Yllva, their heads close together, cheek to cheek. They looked on, and this time, owing to an unfortunate angle that limited visibility, she could just barely make out, through the drapery, the pattern of a profile.

“Is he—handsome, Yllva?” she allowed herself to whisper. “You know him, tell me, is he really—fine?”

What she meant by the term “fine,” Lixa did not herself know. It was terrifying enough she revealed, even to her best friend, that she cared about “handsome.” For, Lixa, with her moon-hidden ways, hated to admit curiosity even now.

But Yllva, raven-dark and sun-bright, took one look at her friend, and thought she knew everything, as she has always known her beloved Lixa’s deepest secrets, curiosity, and wants, despite her need to hide all. And Yllva took another look at the man who remained kneeling before Dame Beis, asking for the Daughter of the House.

“Yes . . .” Yllva whispered then to her friend, meanwhile looking at him, through him almost, and yet seeing the lightest flicker of him—the way he moved, the way his back stiffened, the pump of his diaphragm. “Yes,” she said to Lixa, “he is fine.”

And for a moment there was something so very sad in her eyes, an expression so alien to her joyful self, that even Lixa noticed and almost paused to think. But the next instant, the mischief was back. With a great smile, Yllva announced in an excited whisper, “Oh, Lixa! You are the luckiest, oh, you must have him, Lixa . . . Yes, it will be so perfect, the two of you! He is truly good, I’ve known him forever, it seems, when he was a little boy even. He is—”

Was I a two-faced madwoman that day, lying even to myself, saying this? True friendship, or gracious martyrdom? Or what?

Thus Yllva Caexis thought, sitting in her cheerful guest room, hosting an evening in honor of the near Wedding of the man and woman both of whom she loved best.

And how could my words back then have been any different?

What, then, is fair?

“Another cup of raspberry liqueur tea? And you must have one of these little round cakes,” she cheerfully spoke to a lady friend, glancing over her shoulder and managing not to look at only one of those present.

Her voice was lilting, bright as dawn, while inside, tremulously controlled, gathered seeping cold dark. Her eyes sparkling brighter than the silver fire of the torchieres and crystal chandeliers of the Villa, she then loudly proposed a “tea-toast,” as was the custom on the hour.

“It’s ten o’clock! May the Grelias rot,” exclaimed Yllva, delicately balancing her teacup high, “and may laughter boil in the Caexis teapot!”

And while general applause exploded, she forced herself to intone one more thing, in a voice gone hysterical with sorrow-joy-weeping-laughter: “Oh, and don’t forget, my friends, we drink tonight to my Lord Harlian and my Lady Lixa!”

Saying that, she downed her lightly laced tea in a most unladylike manner (which went again unnoticed by the jolly company), and having done that, turned for the first time that evening to the man sitting somewhat shyly away from the rest.

She encountered his eyes at last with a look of easygoing friendship—straightforward, caring, genuine—and nothing more.

It had taken her all this time. She had gathered herself utterly, prepared herself so well for that one look of the evening, her one masterful illusion.

She could do no less, being a true Maiden of the Heart.

* * *

It was black as pitch now—that eerie nearly absolute black which came at night. Elasand had slowed down the pace of the horses, because of absolute lack of visibility.

His elegant stallion walked autonomously behind the carriage, seeming to be the only one who now retained trust in him—or so Elas thought. Not a word came from Dame Beis or Lixa, as they had once more drawn the curtains shut.

He had left the driver lying.

One more unnecessary death, inadvertently his fault. What political and social brewing there was, he was, had always been, in the thick of it. Oh, sorry land. . . .

Suddenly—as suddenly as he had forgotten her—Elasand remembered the freewoman on the road. He considered her now, considered how she had come, like a ghost, silent, annoyingly helpful, out of nowhere. Yet he had to admit that without her small timely intervention, gods only knew what might’ve happened to his kinswomen within the carriage.

His austere lips curved upwards in the dark, lightly, since no one would know. There had been a feel of drifter about her.

Yet somehow—his senses told him—she was something else, also. Something more professional. She had projected too smooth a style.

Yet, her reaction to his silver was odd, neurotic. It threw him off now, so that he could not quite place her. . . .

Why do I think of someone insignificant, a chance encounter, unusual but unrepeatable? Our prides must have collided harder than I thought.

But then, he thought, it is but details such as these that ever leave impressions.

If not for the terrible interruption they would have reached the White Roads Inn an hour ago.

Damn! I curse myself! A grave misjudgment I allowed. . . .

At last, however, as more and more he was beginning to rely upon instinct rather than sight, for blackness was all around, there was a glorious orange dot in the distance, shimmering through the lacework of trees, winking in and out of existence, as they moved.

In minutes they had reached the gates, and Elas curtly informed the stable hands, as they came to surround the carriage:

“Two rooms. And I’ll take care of the horses myself.”

Not another one, thought a stable hand, but the tip money was practically thrown in his face.

Elasand then added, as an afterthought, “We have been attacked on the road.”

And the commotion began.

CHAPTER 4

Master Jirve Lan personally led his fine guests into the common room, seating the two noblewomen on the softest chairs, and silently wondering at the paranoia of their lord, who insisted upon personally seeing to the horses. But no doubt, Jirve recalled with an involuntary shudder, the encounter with the unknown assassins was the cause of such sensitivity. And he proceeded to comfort the two highborn women, completely ignoring the other customers, most of whom had by then come down for dinner.

Besides the merchant napping in the corner, and Nilmet leaning against the bar counter, having abandoned their board game at one of the tables in the back, there were now military guildsmen occupying the long bench along the wall. Other travelers sat at the tables, signifying their readiness for dinner. A drably clad androgynous youth—Jirve’s glance lingered momentarily in confusion—was engaged in talk with Nilmet, seated next to him at the bar.

However, most of the occupants of the common room transferred their interest from contemplation of the upcoming meal to the plight of the aristocratic new arrivals. Orange light fell upon the rich silk and brocade of the dame’s gown, and that of the young lady. In no time, eyes were drawn to the hints of depth revealed in the gowns, trying to fathom it, expecting to catch glimpses of the sorcerous color dye made by the Light Guild for the elite. Rumors had it that the rich wore extraordinary fabric that retained its own color remarkably, when certain monochromes were trained upon it. Such things were secreted away in Dirvan, together with all the other wicked wonders that were played out at the festivities of the Regents, underneath the exotic color orb-light.

Apparently this was hearsay only. Everyone stared, but saw nothing but the darker shadows that remained, shimmering, in the folds of the noblewomen’s attire—all sweetly stained by the outpouring of the orange monochrome.

The dame, handsome despite her years, fanned herself with the palm of her hand, and related over and over how they had been peacefully within the carriage, then heard fearsome shrieks of legendary monsters that were indeed none other than Bilhaar assassins (at the mention of that name, everyone in the room paid attention), and then heard the clash of metal, and her nephew’s voice raised in anger, telling them to remain calm. . . .

Jirve shook his head, his eyes suitably sympathetic, while goblets of refreshment were brought to them. The young lady with unblinking eyes remained silent, nodding at the dame’s words now and then.

The military men listened attentively.

“Your nephew, His Lordship, must be some swordsman,” said one guildsman. “What amazing single-handed prowess against a whole Bilhaar pack!”

“Oh, he is, he is,” said the dame, blowing her nose delicately into a silk handkerchief. “But the foolish boy had not provided us with an escort! We almost perished!”

“My sincere condolences, Your Ladyship,” said another man, and old worn-looking soldier. “Such an awful plight. These are rough times indeed that vermin are coming up from their filth holes and attacking peaceful travelers. May they all rot and get boils on their—”

“Hey! Watch your language,” said Jirve Lan.

The soldier got nudged in the ribs by the guildsman next to him, at which he coughed, clearing his throat, and said, “I still can’t believe it, Your Ladyship, that Bilhaar would dare to show their ugly faces here.”

“They didn’t,” said a quiet cold voice. Lixa Beis was staring at the old soldier with disdain. “Their faces were all covered by masks.”

Another traveler spoke up from the back. “The Guilds are beginning to be involved in the most outrageous acts nowadays, it looks to be. Even the idea of an Assassin Guild is an outrage.”

“And what do you know about Guilds?” said one of the military guildsmen, taking offense. “What Guild do you belong to, that you speak this ignorant nonsense? And if you are Guildless, then you are likely worthless scum yourself—”

The talk became agitated. Others in the room joined in, the comments a bit divergent, yet the tone was the same. No one liked the chaos, the unrest, but none could agree on the underlying cause, nor the solution. The merchant woke up to say that some goods of his had been stolen from a warehouse, only the past month. Two of the travelers were scholars, and one complained about the ease with which he’d been fired from his clerk’s job, due to the unfair demands of the head scribe and lack of proper Guild connections.

The noblewomen listened blankly, finding themselves only marginally fitting into all of this, even though they had served to launch the conversation. They hardly knew what went on in the world beyond the safe confines of their rank.

Nilmet had also remained silent through most of the talk. So did his companion. At last he turned to her and said, “Well, and what do you think, freewoman, of all the City politics?”

“In truth, I hardly care,” she replied. “Since none of it ever concerns me.”

From the moment she’d entered the common room quietly, smelling of the stables, he observed with curiosity this shabby boyish female. Maybe it was the way she avoided direct eye contact, or her preternatural silent walk, that drew him. Nilmet was compelled to strike up a conversation, and eventually she introduced herself as “Ranhé,” traveling to the City in search of employment.

“What kind, might I ask?” he pursued politely.

“Oh, any,” she said with a flippant lightness. And then added, “Anything worthwhile.”

“You are Guildless,” observed Nilmet, raising one brow.

“As you,” she replied, this time looking directly at him. “But I am not pantless. While you, on the other hand—” And she pointed to the several worn holes in Nilmet’s trousers.

Nilmet laughed. Then he said, “Am I that obvious in my lack of affiliation?”

She did not smile, but slowly raised one brow exactly as he did, mocking him, or maybe acknowledging a like soul. And then she whispered with a blank face, “You are obvious to no one, but keep it down or you will be.” And then she winked. Still she did not smile, her face a mask.

“Indeed. What are they all but slaves to the Guilds?” said Nilmet, wanting to draw her out.

“Indeed, what are they? What is anything? Most relevantly, what is for dinner?” she replied. “I smell omelet. It is blatantly Guildless, in my opinion. Unless the onions decided to join the Apothecary Guild, in which case we are about to be dosed with something unspeakably potent. But never fear, I love onions, my friend, so I am well prepared. My stomach is ready and willing, as is yours—yes, I heard the rumble, do not deny, for it will only speak louder.”

Nilmet started to chuckle, then grinned.

“Your levity is excessive,” she said. “By the way, is that your half-played game over there? I am assuming it is yours; it has that equally Guildless look about it, Tilirr pieces abandoned every which way, chaos and aimlessness, lack of focus and affiliation written on their poor little faces. . . .”

He watched how, all throughout the conversation, her eyes managed to shift, to take in everything about them. The rest of her face, however, was oddly controlled, lacking a range of expression. Quite talkative, yet she managed to say nothing concrete about herself. Nilmet concluded finally, that she was definitely holding back something. But he was yet to pin it down.

They had talked thus quietly, even when the latest arrivals appeared, and Jirve tarried with his noble guests.

Ranhé did not move a muscle to show that she had recognized the noblewomen. The last time she’d seen them was in unreliable twilight, but she never forgot faces. Obviously, neither did the young lady in the carriage.

While her mother talked incessantly, the lady glanced about the room, and her eyes stopped for an instant on Ranhé, who looked back at her like a blank wall. And they mutually recognized that neither would prefer to acknowledge the other.

While the talk drifted, Jirve had the cook informed that they must start serving dinner. At this point, the outside door opened, and the tall young lord entered, apparently satisfied that the horses were now well. He immediately joined his aunt and cousin, and every eye followed his bejeweled hands, his confident walk across the room.

“Ah, Elas,” said his aunt, letting out a sigh of complete relief. Then she frowned, and began her harangue. Lixa pursed her lips disdainfully, while Elas looked at his recovered aunt, made so confident by the many times she had to describe their plight to a sympathetic audience.

“Sh-h-h,” he said. “Not now.” And then he turned to the proprietor, saying, “Master—”

“Jirve Lan, my lord, at your service!” Jirve Lan’s sycophantic aspect emerged and took over, excited at the many events happening in his inn.

“Master Jirve, I want as little of this as possible to be known, beyond the confines of your establishment.” The aristocrat’s tone seemed to include all those present.

“But my lord, the authorities? Shouldn’t they be informed, the outrage—”

“No.”

Jirve’s lips twitched. “As you wish then. But—”

“We would now like some of your good dinner,” said Elas, making it apparent that this particular talk was ended.

Jirve Lan knew when not to push. “Maertella!” he hollered. “Bring out the best!”

At which Nilmet, recognizing Jirve’s typical dramatic gesture, hid a smile.

And indeed, the aristocrats were then led to the best table in the house, and the rest of the guests found themselves places. Maertella, a thin, gangly woman with a bleached, sallow face—washed out despite the orange glow—came bearing the main course of meat stew, while two servants hurried around with the plates.

There were other dishes also, including a vegetable soup that smelled pungent like an herb garden, and yes, there was that famous omelet. The food was abundant for all, yet the lords were served first. Everyone was quite satisfied, however, despite Dame Beis sniffing the meat at one point suspiciously.

Nilmet sat at his regular place at the end of the far table, and hungrily attacked the stew, mouth salivating profusely before even his teeth could sink into the hot mass. He was always hungry, nowadays somewhat less, of course, ever since he’d started eating at the inn (for, Jirve was generous with those whose soul and learning he chose to intellectually vampirize—Nilmet knew quite well he was being fed off as much as he was being fed).

Next to him, Ranhé had sat down with her bowl of soup and a large chunk of bread. He noted that she had refused the main course when Maertella came around to her with the large bowl and platter. At first the cook was visibly insulted, and made herself quite audible, which caused everyone to turn around and look their way. But Ranhé smiled—in a bright winning manner that struck Nilmet unexpectedly after her deadpan expression—and looked Maertella in the eyes.

“Not enough coppers in my purse, mistress,” she explained. “Not that I can’t appreciate that wonderful aroma, believe me.”

And when the cook, somewhat mollified, mentioned that it made no difference, since the dinner was one solid price, Ranhé grinned again. “I’d be won over by you. Except that I eat no meat, good woman. A quirk of mine, that’s all, nothing to do with your fine cooking.”

And as the woman stared, Ranhé added, “But I wouldn’t mind having some more of your soup.”

Maertella shrugged, smiling helplessly, and told a servant to bring more soup. “Folks have odd notions nowadays . . .” she muttered.

Nilmet paused, somewhat guiltily swallowing his mouthful of meat, and said to Ranhé, “Is this . . . religious on your part, that you take no flesh? If I may ask?”

Two intelligent eyes met his, while her lips were on the verge of a smile. “You’re much too polite, friend. No, it’s not.”

“For your health, then? I’ve heard of the diet some physicians prescribe, abstinence from meat, for some ailments. . . .”

“Not that either. It’s merely for my sanity.”

“Oh . . . ?” He paused, a tentative question hung in the air.

“I don’t particularly enjoy talking about this, but since you want—have you ever looked into the eyes of a beast? Have you really looked, with that true intensity one uses to look at a thing in order to fathom its nature? With the will to see it as it really is? Looking past the first veil of habitual sight, past the . . . Do you understand me? I suppose you do, being, as I imagine, a Philosopher.”

“I think—I understand.”

“Well then. After using such a close scrutiny once, a long time ago, I suddenly found myself unable to consume animal flesh. I suppose it is oddness on my part, and indeed, I’ve been called insane. . . . For, I see in their eyes myself.”

And Ranhé’s lips moved at last, securely, into a smile. Across the tables she saw the gaze of the one called Elas momentarily touch upon her.

Other conversations around the dinner tables had long since broken off into their own private topics.

Ranhé, who saw everything, knew that the man Elas was aware of her also, as he too had been aware of all. They were both quite alike in that respect. From where she sat, Ranhé saw him engaged in quiet, seemingly oblivious conversation with his aunt and cousin. She watched the movements of his hands as he would sometimes gesture, the fingers and jewels of the rings caught on orange fire; the way he moved his head lightly, and the line of his profile against the blackness of hair. There was a streak of pallor in that hair, a pale albino lock.

She had not seen him so closely in the silver dusk. He had been a shifting chameleon, and now she found him better defined. She recalled visual flashes of memory of how he had fought in the whirling mist of the clearing seething with Bilhaar. And then she contrasted the images with the present, his calm poise. . . .

Dinner was over, and guests were beginning to rise. A servant brought out hot mulled wine to those who could afford it. Nilmet did not decline the good drink, as he watched two men head upstairs to sleep.

Before all had retired for the night, Elas rose from his seat and announced loudly that he wanted to hire a couple of men to travel with them to the City. “I need a driver,” he said, while Ranhé chose not to look his way. “And another to ride guard with me. Someone who is willing to fight, if need be. I want no repeat of what took place earlier today. And, I will pay well.”

Elas had glanced around the room as he was saying these words, and most lingered, considering his offer. He had seen that freewoman sitting at one of the farther tables, the one he thought he’d never encounter again, and wondered now what she would do. He had mentioned nothing of her part in the incident to anyone here. And neither had she.

She was much younger, plain-looking now in the light, with no heroic mystery of silver evening shadows to surround and cloak her. Indeed, how plain she was! There was even something vaguely repulsive about the unkempt lines of her face. And her eyes, which he remembered as almost inhuman with something, some essence, he now couldn’t even catch for one moment. His first impression of her in the night—so sexless that consequently it was easy for him to accept, even then, that she was a woman and not a youth—was now simplified by the light of the monochrome. All otherworldliness was gone. Elas had heard of women like her, upon occasion, who chose to live outside the normal ways of men and women. Freewoman she was indeed.

And that, besides other things, meant that she had real skills to maintain her alienation. At least one such skill, that of the sword, he had himself witnessed.

He watched the rest of the room, and thought, You are all cowards. Even an offer of a reward cannot cure you.

“No thanks, my lord,” said one man, reinforcing his thoughts, breaking the silence. Others began nodding, muttering something incomprehensible, and started again to disperse.

A smile of derision gathered at the corners of Elasand’s mouth. “Fifty gold dahr,” he said, “to the driver. Seventy to the guard.”

Everyone paused once more. Nilmet, from where he sat, sucked in his breath, saying to himself mockingly, “Well, old Nilmet Vallen, now would be as good time as any to change professions, eh?” And he chuckled. The sum was a small fortune.

The fingers of Ranhé’s right hand drummed faintly on the tabletop. She half turned to Nilmet, saying lightly, “My friend, this may well be the one good reason to abandon philosophy. Go instead, and be well hired.”

Elas glanced quickly at her, but once again she eluded a direct gaze.

The military guildsmen stood frowning, looking from one to the other. “Well,” one said, “I suppose I might be able to drive for you, m’lord, for fifty dahr.”

“Good,” said Elas firmly. “And your name?”

“Pheyl, m’lord. Pheyl Milhas.”

“Stay then here, for a moment, freeman, so we can talk. Anyone else?”

In reply, the room was being vacated. From his seat behind the counter, Jirve Lan watched in intense fascination, and shook his head, muttering to himself. “Seventy dahr! Idiots . . . If I were but young . . . if I didn’t have this inn to care for . . .”

“What does this mean, Elas?” said Dame Beis, who had just finished her dinner, and now had this new cause for alarm. “Won’t anyone be hired? By all gods, I simply refuse to be taken anywhere without an escort tomorrow!”

There is no more danger, he thought, this is only to humor you, Aunt. Bilhaar are too confident to repeat an attack so soon. They don’t know yet of the failure of this set.

But he said nothing, only made a show of further waiting.

Ranhé was examining her fingernails. I will not, she thought violently, as a cold inexplicable fury suddenly gripped her. I will not say a word. If he thinks he can buy me still . . . The arrogant—

“Raise the price, Elas!” wailed Molhveth Beis, her warm eyes frightened out of their ordinary kind gentility. “Good sirs! Would anyone please—”

“Mother!” whispered Lixa like a snake, without changing her expression and barely moving her lips. “It is unseemly, the way you—”

Nilmet felt a twinge of pity. The fear of the assassins was genuine in the old woman.

Jirve Lan looked around the room in nervous anticipation, seeing only the merchant finishing his second course of dinner leisurely and getting ready to retire upstairs, and Nilmet with that scrawny sexless female seated at the far table. What the hell was she anyway?

The one newly hired man, Pheyl Milhas, standing to the side, was beginning to look as if he was reconsidering his decision.

“My offer stands, until morning, to anyone who is willing,” spoke Elasand then, calmly. The last glimpse he had of the freewoman in the corner showed a far greater indifference on her part than seemed natural under the circumstances. She was working so hard at it that he was beginning to have hopes after all.

“My lady, Aunt,” he said. “The two of you best retire for the night now.”

And as the noblewomen rose obediently, too worn out with the events of the day to even argue, Jirve Lan hurried to “escort” them personally to the bedchamber, calling servants on the way.

Nilmet chuckled. “If only Master Jirve was hirable, I’m sure he’d be willing to perform both jobs. I never did ask him how well he handles the sword, if at all.”

And suddenly he remembered what Ranhé had said earlier.

“Freewoman, weren’t you just telling me that you were traveling to the City for hire? I notice a sword there, at your side. Why don’t you consider this offer?”

* * *

Postulate Six: Rainbow is Pain.

* * *

The young boy stood before a great monolithic statue of precious gray stone and metal, its fifty-foot bulk representing the likeness of a god. All around, the dimly illuminated Temple swept upwards into eternity, resting on doric columns of stark granite.

The boy looked about him, his eyes oddly unaccustomed to the natural illumination produced by torches. Their colorless gray fire flickered low on the walls, but left the immense ceiling a shadow-mystery. Everything stood bland, single-hued, gold and silver and granite distinguished only by the fine texture of surfaces. And in places winked the small gray suns that were the finely faceted jewels of smoky hue, exploding into light when the torches caught on their razor facets.

He looked about him and for a moment wondered what would happen if a color monochrome, like the one in his bedchamber back in Dirvan, were to be lit here. The one in his bedroom happened to be of an ultimate pale blue hue, and really was not what he might have preferred to have as his own. It was so cold, so utterly chill, the feeling that he got when he sat in his bedchamber.

Chill.

He looked at the great god before him, Alhveh Himself, the god of Empty Skies and Death. The statue, boldly hewn of granite, was of a man-shape in elaborate stone folds of clothing, all details of Him merely suggested at by geometric flow, except for His Face and His Hands, which were exquisite, and covered by a thin layer of precious metal. In the irregular torchlight those parts gleamed.

Alhveh wore the Face of a beautiful cold man. And His Hands, detailed elegant and powerful—each finger exquisitely formed on a grand scale—His Hands were strangely harsh yet gentle. For, one great Hand was slightly extended forward, palm upwards, in a gesture either of receptivity or of offering, while the other was clenched in a fist of locked power.

The boy gazed up, straining to see the Face and simultaneously ignore the Hands. For, somehow They frightened him in Their ambiguity, while the Face, though cold, was open to him, and therefore to be comprehended.

From where he was, at the very base of the statue, he could only see the chin and the fine flaring nostrils of the god, while the brows and forehead and the ambiguous flowing stone hair ended fifty feet high and far into the shadow.

Lord Alhveh . . . It is I again. So bland, so passive on the surface, in actuality his very thought trembled.

You can hear me, can You not, lord? I know You don’t like to answer directly into my head, but—I know that someday, yes, I will hear from You. Yes?

I know it’s not time yet. When it will be time, You will tell me. And I will know, yes.

And since as yet there was silence from the god, the boy—knowing and expecting nothing else, really—continued standing passively, blankly, his outer shell of apathy unbroken.

From behind him, someone called. An old unsteady voice. “Your Grace, Heir Lissean!”

And when the boy turned, seeing the familiar old priest, the man said kindly, “What brings you yet once again here, my lord?”

“Good day to you, Priest Nestre. I’ve come to contemplate the god Alhveh. My studies for today are over, so this is my own, free time.”

“Ah, of course,” said the old priest. The same three words as always. He looked at the young child-man before him, softening and for a moment forgetting that this was anything more than a boy. But the child’s precocious bearing and serious tone (not to mention the silk clothing and glittering seal-ring on his small thin hands) did not fail to remind that this one was a prince of Grelias, and the Regent Heir.

The boy-prince came here regularly. Old Nestre took notice of him earlier, but began to speak to him only after seeing that Lissean was here obviously of his own free will, and not due to some conventional duty placed on him by his elders. He would come in, almost creeping, silently, and stand beneath the god’s statue, sometimes almost an hour, in an autistic state that never quite approached that what the priest was used to seeing as worship, at least from others. And then, just as silently, he would leave, never having spoken words of prayer out loud, never having bought a sacrificial candle to place at the god’s feet.

When the first time he was approached by the priest, the boy turned cold, clear, haughty eyes on him, quite unlike what Nestre expected in that instant. And he merely said that he was here to “contemplate Alhveh.” His voice had been measured, adult, and its control chilled the old priest.

But from then on, the prince took polite notice of him and greeted him regularly. And gradually, he would come to talk to him, at last bestowing trust, so that the priest began to know his reasons for coming here, or at least, to guess at them.

For, why would a young boy come to visit such a god as Alhveh? Were there not more appropriate, brighter deities to serve, for a boy his age, than this Shadowy One? And why Serve at all? Nestre remembered his own halfhearted apprenticeship when he was that age, his desire for other things, the living ones. His apprenticeship to this priesthood had come more out of necessity than piety. Only later did he come to deepen in his understanding, to really see the nature of this god. . . .

“So, Your Grace,” spoke the old priest. “Has the god spoken to you today?”

“Not quite, Lord Priest . . .” Lissean’s words came impeccable, polite. He never faltered in what he wanted to say, even if uttering the words hurt him to the quick.

Just as he had not faltered that one time, when, looking into the old man’s expectant eyes, he had said the one thing that the priest himself would’ve had difficulty in saying:

“They tell me I have the White Plague, the same thing my Father died of when I was too young to know him. It is the disease of lords, one that runs in our line, priest. You have heard of it, I assume. As the disease progresses, one grows paler, for the blood becomes anemic, thinner. Eventually there is an onset of such weakness that one can no longer move. . . . And one is pale, pale as death, pale as that thing called white. And then—but I’ll not speak anymore. I am not quite so pale myself. Not yet. Truly, I should be proud to be dying of such an ailment. But—I only want to hear Alhveh Himself speak to me and tell me why. Why must it be I, of all people.”

When he had said it that one time, there was emotion in the boy’s eyes, a boiling pot of it. Since then, not a word. And not a single feeling in his gaze. But the priest knew it was unnecessary. Never would they forget what was uttered once. To face it once was enough.

And now, the old man would play along, play the pretense game, ask the boy-prince. It had become a game with them, to ask whether that day the god had spoken, and to give the answer “no, not quite.”

For it seemed that if ever the lord of Empty Skies and Death made His voice heard, that would be the end of certain things. The end of that final tentative hope that nestled in Lissean like the wings of a summer moth.

“I will go now, Priest Nestre,” said Lissean. “Good day.”

He turned then, and walked quickly, slipping away like a shadow, out of the great hueless Temple.

“Good day to you, Heir Lissean,” replied the old priest, looking at the receding figure, and hearing not even a soft echo of his footsteps against the marble floor. Only eerie dusk and silence.

He was a shadow indeed then, this boy Heir, who would never live to be Heir of the Regent. For only shadows left no echoes in their wake. And only the dead put the heart into silence.

* * *

At first Ranhé froze. Elasand, talking with Pheyl Milhas on the other side of the room, watched her from the corner of his eye. The woman is odd, no doubt, he thought, with a pride beyond her apparent condition. But I have seen her fight effectively. Which is more than I can claim for the others.

“Master Nilmet,” Ranhé said then, smiling lightly. “A mere presence of a blade hardly means it’ll be used. I carry it as a deterrent against attack, and I am rather unreliable with it.”

“Indeed?” said Nilmet with a shadow smile. “There’s no need to put yourself down.”

“I wouldn’t dream of doing that.”

She is perverse. . . .

Elasand slowly made his way, Pheyl at his side, in their direction. Layers upon convoluted layers of perverse pride. Oh, I know her, yes. Like myself.

“Well, suit yourself.” Nilmet shrugged. “Except that seventy dahr is far too great a price not to consider.”

“Why not take it yourself?”

Nilmet smiled gently. “Oh, I couldn’t. I was only joking there. You don’t eat meat, and I don’t wield a blade. Not even in self-defense. It’s my philosophy, shall we say.”

“Somehow, I overheard your words,” said Elas, pausing before their table. He nodded a greeting at Nilmet—and for a bizarre moment Ranhé thought that the look that passed between them was that of old acquaintances. But then his glance went straight to Ranhé.

For an instant, silence. Then she looked up at Elas, a contained gaze, and her mouth was smiling faintly. “Your pardon, my lord?”

Curiously, in that moment, the first thought that came to him, almost superstitiously, was to make sure of the expression in her eyes. Yes, he saw then, there was nothing out of the ordinary, no secret in her pale irises. Instead, they were almost too bland. Whatever happened to that spark of quick brightness, like the forest fox, which he’d once seen there?

“You were discussing my offer, freewoman, were you not?”

“He was, not I.” She shrugged it off. “I repeat, I am not suited for the job.”

It was as though she laughed in his face.

He made every word meaningful. “Come now. My judgment tells me you would do as well as any other.”

Don’t think I underestimate the service that you’ve done. He was willing her to read his mind.

“Indeed, my lord, you say this to a stranger whom you know nothing about.”

“I know that you wear a sword,” he said.

“A sword,” she echoed. “Why, it might be but a blunt stick, part of a jester’s costume, a traveling player’s prop.”

“Or it might be steel.”

“Even so. You’d trust me to guard you and yours where others refuse? Really. You think I’m mad, to tangle with Bilhaar?” She made a delicate gesture with the wrist, and looked away, rolling her eyes like a buffoon.

Mad she is indeed, and crafty. The fox is enjoying herself. I believe she wants not so much for me to raise the price, as to see me ask her more than once.

“So your final word is—”

“My lord, my final word is that it’s time for me to get up and go to my sleeping place. I need no gold, nor your silver.” And she indeed got up. He read the stressed meaning in the last word, and thought of the pouch of silver lying upon the black garments of a corpse.

The lying bitch. You’re down to your last coppers. Maybe indeed I shouldn’t have insisted thus on paying you, back there on the road, or you wouldn’t have bristled so.

And then, just as suddenly, Elas felt pity. He looked at her thin tall figure, the dirty lanky hair gathered in a braid, sallow face, and thought, If I had not insisted, yes. I am the one at fault, for not respecting her sense of honor. She has nothing but that to herself.

And he swallowed his pride, Elasand who was always impeccably fair.

“Good night, freewoman,” said Elas kindly, so that Ranhé looked back at him in surprise. “I’ll hear your real last word tomorrow morning.”

With a faint smile he turned away, nodded something to the other hired man, and went upstairs.

“M’lord . . .” she coldly echoed in his wake, nodded, and turned to go her own way.

She smiled at Nilmet—he could see her confusion in the uncustomary lack of movement of her eyes—and said, “I believe the hay is fresh in the stables here. Why, with assassins lurking, I wouldn’t leave my mount unwatched. Besides, a room around here is far too expensive for my means.”

Nilmet understood only too well. “Good night to you then, Mistress Ranhé. It has been good, your acquaintance. I wish you luck, if I don’t see you. Luck, and a good sleep,” he said softly, still sitting in his place while she left through the front door, heading to the stables.

The black outside swallowed her, dispersing all orange shadows. The door closed, the monochrome in the corner illuminating now an empty room.

Nilmet sighed, then rose slowly, to lie down on his own semi-temporary pallet which Jirve Lan had allotted him, next to the wall. It was clean, away from any draft, and Nilmet had thought himself extraordinarily lucky to have the use of it, free of charge, these last couple of weeks.

What a strange but engaging young woman, he thought. And the haughty lord. Yes, I remember your games, Elasand Vaeste. And yes, these two are definitely not strangers to one another.

And before he made himself completely comfortable for the night, Nilmet again lifted his tall ungainly frame, and slowly came to the corner of the room where the monochrome orb hung on a thin rod from the ceiling, its glow more blinding as he neared. He paused, as though momentarily in doubt, then, ignoring the complicated knob that normally cut off the flow of light, put one hand forward, touching the odd, barely warm, glassy surface.

And then, like every evening of his stay here at the inn, he willed it not to be. As his thought took form, the light in the sphere flickered for an instant, began losing radiance, growing dimmer and dimmer—while the room visually receded, wildly, too abruptly to be natural—and then it went out. It threw its last orange spark upon the soulful eyes of the man, dark like smoke.

And then came absolute black.

No one would ever suspect how the lights were turned off these days at the White Roads Inn.

CHAPTER 5

Violet.

Ranhé’s mind surfaced from sleep. For a moment she did not know why she was awake. There was reassuring softness, a smell of the hay and the stables, the soft slumber-sounds of the animals, warmth. Her horse stood asleep nearby.

Awake, yet she did not move. A habit of caution made her pretend shut-eyed oblivion, while the senses of smell and hearing would first alert her to sudden danger.

This time was different. Nothing wrong on the surface. Her heart beat evenly. No one but the animals in the vicinity.

Something is wrong.

An illusion of nervous prickling in her brain.

Ranhéas Ylir opened her eyes to the dark.

Violet.

For an instant, her mind would not take in the meaning of what her sight registered.

It was as if the world were illuminated by some sky-great invisible violet monochrome. Everything—the night, the rich darkness around her, the slit of the barn door left ajar, letting in pale moonlight—everything was impregnated with violet. It ranged from deepest black within the stable to the palest delicate lilac in the moonlit night outside.

Ranhé blinked her eyes, opened them wide, rubbed them, an overwhelming sense of the unknown rising in her throat—sudden panic. Then, just as violently, with an effort of will she slammed the gates of panic shut. She calmed the pounding in her mind, the sense of insanity.

A surreal moment.

She sat up. One thing is true about the world: There is an explanation for everything.

She blinked again, hard, her eyes beginning to tear. She felt powerless, oddly incompetent in this overwhelming universal violet. She had never seen anything like it in her life. She wasn’t even sure if it was what she thought it was.

Sensing her movement, her horse woke up, made mild sniffing sounds in the dark, as though questioning her fear.

I need air . . . None of this is real.

She got up, filled with an odd swooning calm, dizzy with the purple blackness—her mind starting to soar outside her body, somewhere beyond, as it did during moments of deadly combat—and stumbled out of the barn. She threw the door open, and dared herself to look. Her eyes met a pale heliotrope swollen disk of the full moon. Like a color orb it rode a deep violet sky.

There was a lavender glow upon the earth, and as she watched, her senses spinning from the visual overload, everything, everything in the world was violet.

This sudden alien world pressed down and squeezed the breath out of her.

This is a dream, she thought, everything inside her reeling, it must be. . . .

And it made her sick. Her stomach felt weak with the sickening fear, the abnormality.

Then softly, from a great distance, she heard it—a sound of a stream, a river flowing. Melodious tinkling, like bells, a light spattering rain.

And yet no water came from the sky.

Still trying unconsciously to blink away the violet, Ranhé stood listening to the sound, which grew in volume.

As it grew, something even more alien was happening to the landscape. The stables, the courtyard, the very building of the inn began to recede, lightly, dreamily, like an undulating mirage. It stopped then, at a stage where all was half-material, semi-transparent, so that Ranhé could see through objects, to the others beyond them. Through branches, there were other branches, and tree trunks, and she could see all the rooms of the inn-house at once, and the shadow people who slept in each. A fragile world of lavender glass stood about her. And the light had grown also, paled and intensified.

Ranhé stood frozen, unwilling to move lest she lose even her personal reality. She glanced at her hands and saw her own finger bones through the translucent skin and muscle, observed the rhythmic movement of dark liquid through the subcutaneous network of veins. And then she saw, in one room of the “glass” inn-house, a distant figure of a man, like a darker shadow, start suddenly, in sleep, then come awake.

He rose slowly, his figure toy-small from the distance, yet in this preternatural lavender light she could see two pale dots of eyes, wide open. Somehow, by instinct, and without a moment of doubt, she knew it was the one called Elas.

She watched him leave the room (while the sound of the stream came louder, mad music of the psyche), descend the staircase, then pass through the transparent common room with its extinguished orb-light and sleeping figure of a man on a pallet on the floor. And then, as if he also needed to breathe freely, Elas came outside, not as a sleepwalker but with the desperation of someone trying to escape, break free.

Elas paused, not seeing Ranhé on the other side of the courtyard. His puppet-figure was now also stained silvery lavender by the moon, appearing to exude its own light, and had that same semi-transparent quality to it as the rest of the world.

I wonder if I also look transparent to him. . . . But she knew he had not seen her. And she did not dare speak out to him, no longer sure if she even had a voice.

What took place next was wonder.

Where the moonlight fell brightest, away from the trees of the courtyard, another shimmering reality began to take form, born of that light. Like a window into some other place, Ranhéas saw a garden. Mist and vapor was matter there, unreal and exotic, and the things which grew in that garden (if “grew” is the right word to explain that process of being) were not to be described in human terms.

Lovely like dew-drop gems, like bits of light, they shimmered and pulsed and—but that is not to be spoken. And the glow which came from there was a warmth, such a great strange warmth of the mind, that Ranhé knew suddenly that she was looking at an aspect of truth, bared.

There was a woman in the garden. Human beauty is not a term to be applied to her, because she was beyond that vague perfection that is normally conceived. Thus, she also shall remain without a word to qualify her.

And this woman walked in the garden, paced it like a shade of pure light.

Ranhé’s head pounded. The sourceless sound of the stream, or the river, or the rain, was a chord within her mind, close to unbearable now. She wanted to clench her head within her hands and tear it out—not because it was terrible, but merely beyond her. Somehow it was connected to the woman of light. And somehow, the woman was the source of all violet.

And then, within her, Ranhé heard another mind-sound, the clamoring voice of Elas.

You! he cried to the image. Who are you? And Ranhé sensed that he was more agitated than he had ever been in his life.

As if only now becoming aware of the intruders into her world, the woman moved her head of light, with tresses like the rain (that sound again). Ranhé never looked into her eyes, averting her gaze, sensing it might be sacrilege. But Elas had seen the gaze when it swept over him. An odd pathetic ecstasy came to him, so that he shuddered, every cell of him filling for an instant with light, and he himself shone, was transfigured. . . .

Ranhé knew that the woman had spoken to him and not to herself. The stream was in her head, running like the Greatest Flood, while her dreaming eyes took in the contrast of the vision of tranquility, the fantastic garden and its goddess inhabitant. She knew that Elas was speaking to her, passionately, like a madman, stretching his hands to her in futility (that intensity in him—never again will she see it), and the woman was answering—how, she would never know.

And suddenly, an emotion came to her. It was an emotion long forgotten. . . .

Ranhé felt it, the pang, an inner wrenching. Then came an expanding presence, the sense of widening, going outward, and then burning. It was a thing completely acute, an opening of the insides, a sudden vulnerability. She steeped in its oddness, its warmth, at the same time knowing that its nature was the same as the power that the woman radiated forth, the way she radiated violet. She, the woman, was that expansion, that receptiveness.

And the thunder of the stream made sense in her mind at last, saying over and over, a name.

Laelith.

And Ranhéas Ylir, no longer capable of containing within her senses all of this intensity, felt herself slipping down gently, softly into a reverie, while the distant yet intimate face of Elas transfigured, danced in her dizzy vision, his lips moving with mantras, with the many chords of words he uttered to her who was lady of violet, and the form of light nodded to him, and raised one outstretched hand—

The last thing Ranhé knew before darkness came, was that, without having had any direct contact with her, she now loved, absolutely and selflessly, as she never loved anyone, this woman of light.

* * *

Postulate Seven: Rainbow is Escape.

* * *

Hestiam Grelias dreamt for the third time throughout the duration of the lazy afternoon, and it was the third dream that made any sense.

He awoke coughing from a snore, his head thrown back against perfumed crumpled bedding. The gray afternoon sun made a pattern of graphic lines and parabolic curves of contrast through the grillework of the arched window, shadow upon light. For once there was no one in bed with him.

In the third dream he had been running. Or flying. There was some movement on his part, he vaguely remembered, and he turned on his side, throwing up his powerful hands, stretching up a muscular hairy thigh of his left leg, and felt his genitals also slide over to the side, warm and humid against his other leg.

He had been flying, then crawling. . . . He was not exactly sure of the terrain, but it was irrelevant, for at some point, against all logic, there had been voluptuous bodies there, nude and solid in his path, without face or expression. And as they lay before him, slowly undulating, he had to pause on his strange journey. Compelled, he lay on top of them, and pressed his loins (having grown appropriately hard and hot and furious) into the anonymous flesh. Wallowing against warm springy mountains of rotund buttocks and breasts, he moved, first slowly and then picking up rhythm. . . .

And then again he would lift himself, while the alien forms dissolved into nothing, and he would crawl onwards. Sometimes he got up to walk, but his movement was oddly slowed, as though he moved through a swamp of molasses, and he actually made more progress on all fours.

Hestiam lay again motionless, trying to recall the dream ending. His conscious mind did not want to take in the reality of the warm sunny afternoon, the fact that there was a day ahead of him, a day like any other day. . . .

Please, not quite yet.

He did not want anything. That was the simplicity of this reality, of this afternoon. He dreaded, hated the next instant, every breath that his still groggy lungs pulled in, deeper with every pumping. He hated the sensation of being inside his own body—heavy, stiff, barely alive, as it always seemed to him after sleep. He hated the act of awareness itself. Because it signified that the rest of the day was still there, and he had to get up and he had to live it.

For, he did not want. He simply did not want anything. He wanted to be dead. To be—oh, just not to be at all.

Hestiam did not like to talk to anyone about this manner of awakening that had come to him almost every morning, for as long as he could remember. The dreams had been different each time; no, the dreams were not at fault.

He had told this to Deileala once, his brazen sister who could usually comprehend anything—not that they were so close, but simply because she was the only one he had to tell such things. He had tried to describe to Deileala this terrible emptiness, this desire to be gone, to dissolve.

Deileala had called it depression. She suggested he change his sleeping schedule, try regulating the hours, go to sleep earlier, and “try to rise every morning, not late afternoon” (saying this, his loving sister smirked). He knew she was right.

And yet, he could never sleep well. He could never sleep correctly, the way most people could sleep. To him, every nightfall was the beginning of a battleground, a personal hell, a fierce war with his own conscious mind that he tried to put off for as long as he could every night, as a result going to bed at odd hours of the deepest darkness.

Every night the demon of his waking self would take over, and the more he tried to relax, to let go, the hotter his mind-self burned. Hestiam had taken lovers to bed with him, not because he was (as most around him thought) a lecher, but because he wanted to be lulled to sleep by passion’s aftermath.

None of it worked. Eventually, a personal physician had prescribed a draught that was supposedly good for inducing natural sleep. Hestiam, a tall, strong, well-formed man in his early middle years, had been weary of any and all draughts and elixirs, even from the most trusted members of the Physician Guild. His health had been good, and often, when minor ailments and chills came to plague, he would lie to the doctors, never taking their medicines, and weather the disease on his own. And not even Deileala suspected that his daily sleeping mixture was used to water a tall exotic plant on the balcony of Hestiam’s bedroom. Hestiam used to chuckle softly to himself as he privately emptied the glass over the pot every night that this had to be the most groggy plant in all of Tronaelend-Lis. And, he thought, if the plant survived these ministrations a year or two from now, then maybe he too would try the drink one of these nights. . . .

But why? What? Why did it have to be like this, to be such darkness? What was depression, truly? And how was it linked to the ability to sleep?

In any case, what did it matter, when he could—once he’d forced himself out of the hell of his bed (a hell that he perversely did not want to leave)—he could spend the rest of his day in joyful madness, in entertainment and brilliance, surrounded by the charming pleasures of Court.

Until the next night came, with its twilight. . . .

For some reason, Hestiam had always been slightly afraid of the twilight. Not a coward, he. Not really. Neither particularly weak—maybe only somewhat. It was just that there was something about the monochrome fading of pale grayness known as light into the absolute shadows, that hinted at sorrow, at endings, at a manner of death. Even the pitch-black night itself was not as bad as twilight, the “in-between” time of the not-quite-dead. Even as a child, Deileala, his older sister, would burst into his room and then extinguish either the torchiere or the orb of the light monochrome until he would start screaming in sheer terror. And now that he was a grown man, and the Regent, he would neurotically set Dirvan ablaze with color every night, until it shone forth like a rhinestone in the heart of the City.

And now, the twilight, his private ancient childhood fear, the twilight had come in reality, and in force. It had come at last upon Hestiam and his City. Its precursor was the one who called himself Lord Araht Vorn, having appeared in Tronaelend-Lis a day ago in conjunction with an unpleasant incident, and—knew Hestiam—that was the man he would be receiving formally later this day. Or maybe the next morning.

Maybe that was part of the reason he wanted to be dead now. To have this responsibility pass him, somehow. To escape. To have it all not be.

But Chancellor Lirr—oh, the good clever experienced man that he was—insisted that this was the best course of action. Lirr insisted the Regents pursue this graceful mixture of caution, and the chance to discover more about this mysterious entity that was now a potential threat to the peace.

Hestiam remembered how something odd was spoken by that man Vorn, according to Lirr. Something about unpronounceable names. Something about serving the “twilight one.”

Whatever threatening nonsense that grim Lord Vorn spouted, it had touched Hestiam then, indirectly, even though he had never heard the actual words in person.

Twilight.

Hestiam Grelias jerked upright, and sat up. He then quickly got off the bed, and stood up, naked and robust and unaware of himself. He felt dizzy for a moment, his limbs still recovering from the abysmal sleep. The fingers of his right hand absently played with the thick, dark, very short stubble of his beard, while he thought.

It was three o’clock in the afternoon.

Hestiam Grelias, Regent of Tronaelend-Lis, stood and thought of ways that one could possibly grapple with twilight.

* * *

A chill of morning brought Ranhé awake. She took one deep breath, and let her consciousness come into focus, to a gray dawn and the singing of birds. Shivering, she lay in the stable next to the horses, her old blanket somehow having slid off her body during the night, leaving her frozen through the skin, since she was only wearing a thin shirt. She squinted at the cobweb-faint light coming from the cracks in the barn walls, blinked several times, stretched, looked up the fine legs of her horse, who was as awake as a hungry horse can be. And then, in a burst of shock, she remembered the dream of the other place, a violet world. Or rather, a different anomalous perspective on this very same world, so oddly realistic, that for an instant she doubted which reality was hers. The woman whose hair rained and sang. Who was love incarnate. . . .

And merely remembering this, Ranhé felt warmth surging within her. Things were again in sharper contrast, a clearer black and gray, an acuteness of line and form.

Her horse gave a soft neigh, and wasting no more time, Ranhé got up, brushing the hay off her hair, her plain shirt, trousers and boots which she had worn against the night’s chill. She folded her blanket, then shook out her cloak and fastened it about her, running her fingers instead of a comb through the fine, long ashen hair. She had unbraided it last night for warmth, and now it hung in stringy locks, peppered with bits of straw from the ground where she had slept. She must braid it again now, tight and functional, and out of the way.

And she thought of the man she saw in her dream, as she placed a bag of grain over the horse’s muzzle, and then made her way to the outhouse. Elas’s presence in her dream was no doubt due to her preoccupation with the idea of accepting his offer of employment. (It had been a sweet soft dream. . . .)

Or then, maybe not. Maybe it was but the porcelain-fineness of him that’d had this effect upon her. For, of certain things, of certain kinds of beauty, Ranhé was a connoisseur. On the other hand, if the employment was the point of concern (as always, her thoughts pounced back and forth), it’s no wonder indecision still gnawed at her.

Ranhé used instinct more often than anything else to weigh offers, at times taking extreme care before deciding one way or another. But in this case she’d been just plain hardheaded and irrational. So what, that he’d made her angry with his initial attitude?

Indeed, reasoned Ranhé, what else would someone like him do? Really, I demand too much of the aristocracy. I’ve simply met my match in pride. It’s a matter of two bulls butting heads.

It was stupid not to take his money. And stupid not to agree immediately to his offer. I only hope he hasn’t hired anyone else by now.

And suddenly anxious, she actually hurried into the inn.

At the doors she bumped into one stablehand, then, entering, saw the man whom she knew as Nilmet, the so-called Philosopher, yawning on his pallet, and then had glimpses of the thin woman Maertella, who was hurrying to start her cooking for those who would be up soon.

“Good morning, mistress!” Ranhé said loudly and cheerfully to Maertella. “What’s for breakfast?” And nodding to Nilmet, sat down at one of the tables. She then grinned, and grinning like a fool, hailed every inn servant for the next half hour or so. (What’s be wrong with ‘er, to have cheer at this ungodly hour? thought more than one in passing.)

By the time the guests of the inn came down one by one, a fire was lit in a large grate in the corner to dispel the cool morning. It was always cool, mornings of that season, and would warm up by midday.

Elas was one of the first downstairs, and requested that Jirve Lan have breakfast brought upstairs for the two fine ladies who supposedly still slept. (Jirve had himself just gotten up, yawning profusely, missing his warm bed and the pretty serving wench he’d left in it, the one who’d been frequenting his room lately.)

In the strong light of morning, Ranhé looked at the face of the nobleman, made innocent by the night’s rest, and thought she saw there some otherworldly stamp, some difference, a new sorrow. But it was illusion, wrought by the memory of her vivid dream, because his eyes, when he turned to her, were quite worldly, and faintly humorous.

He approached her immediately, like an old friend, saying, “A good morning to you, freewoman. I see now how pale and thin you are by the light of day. Have a stout breakfast, won’t you, so as not to fall off your horse upon the first gust of wind when today we ride.”

Ranhé watched him with a light smile. “We? Ride? My lord, honestly now, didn’t I make it clear that I’d rather pick fleas off a goat? Or stir fresh horse dung? All right, I jest.” And then she grinned. “I might be thin, but my wrists are as big as yours, and I’m nearly as tall. It’ll take more than wind to topple me. Hell then, I’ll say it. Yes. I’ll be hired by you!”

He seemed only half-surprised. He’d expected her decision, but not her manner of communicating it.

They were both unwittingly transformed by the night, given a wash of childishness. New tender skin was revealed under the topmost layer of cynicism.

He nodded, smiling back at her, then became serious. “Excellent. But now, I admit, I owe you an apology. For presuming too much. . . .”

He said it quietly, so that no one could hear: “You understand me, right? An apology for everything.”

Ranhé’s expression was clear. “It’s I, my lord, who owes you the apology. I left behind your fine purse of silver, behaving like a fool. Now that I think back, I’m not even sure what it was that made me do it. A forest mosquito bite?”

“Maybe.” His smile was light, yet sad somehow.

“But, my lord,” she continued, life dancing in her chameleon face. “Believe me, this does not happen often to me, this behavior of a child. I rule my caprices. Whatever it had been, will not happen again.”

“You were interesting since the first moment . . .” he whispered suddenly, and sat down next to her. To onlookers, he was merely taking his seat for breakfast. “And the way you wield the sword is remarkable—”

“No need, my lord. I need no soothing.”

He smiled. “Ah, but your pride requires it.”

“Never. I keep my pride quiet before my betters.”

“Yet even now you mock me, in a subtle way. I speak with you now as an equal. Because, from what I’ve seen, I know you.”

A strange smile deepened the corners of her mouth. “Know me? On such brief acquaintance? That’s not so easy, my lord. You’ll know me only with time, which we won’t have. Meanwhile, let’s just say I work for you now, and that’s all we need to know.”

She looked away, and for a moment Elas thought there was something in the pale too-bland face that actually escaped him, a thing she hid. And then Elasand was conscious of the fact that for the first time he had gone out of his way to secure someone in his employ.

He had gone out of his way.

There must be a worth to her that only my inner mind knows. And I must find out what it is.

Servants began carrying in breakfast, and Jirve Lan, the innkeeper, made himself comfortable with a cup of hot brew, next to Nilmet.

“What will be our venerable topic today, eh, Master Nilmet?” he chuckled, eyeing the Tilirr game board from the night before, while Nilmet pretended to consider his reply with all seriousness.

“You pick a topic, Master Jirve, and we’ll pursue it to the deepest truth. But oh, we haven’t finished yesterday’s talk—the nature of Rainbow.”

“Ah, yes. . . .” And sporting excitement came to Jirve’s eyes.

“From now on,” said Elas meanwhile, “I pay for you. Until our agreement ends. That’s in addition to the seventy gold dahr I’ve already promised.”

“You are more generous than necessary, m’lord,” spoke Ranhé, stuffing hot porridge into her mouth, while he watched her in amusement.

I amuse him, yes, she thought, then let it be. Let him learn, slowly.

Pheyl Milhas, the man hired the night before, joined them, and Elas told them both the details of the hire. They were to carry out their duty until the City, at which point the full payment was to be given—since the sum was too large to risk having anyone abscond with an initial portion.

He also gave them his full name, Elasand-re Vaeste. “Do not speak it often, however. Only be aware of it,” he added. Neither did he mention again the Bilhaar assassins.

Milhas, a sullen heavy-set fellow, nodded in understanding. “So, m’lord, when do we ride? Shall I go and ready the horses?”

“As soon as my kinswomen are ready.”

“And shall I go sharpen my sword?” Ranhé’s eyes laughed. We both know I won’t have much to do on this job.

“At least make sure my aunt and cousin see that you have it,” retorted Elasand, thinking, What does it really mean when she jokes?

“By all means,” she said, “I’ll draw at every opportunity, and wave it about to their full satisfaction.”

Elas watched her.

“Before you think you hired a fool, I’ll stop,” she said. “Not another word.” And then added, so that even dull Pheyl Milhas barely hid a twitching mouth, “Just one more thing. Welcome, O adventure!”

It was then most likely that the ones called gods heard her.

* * *

Postulate Eight: Rainbow is Contrast.

* * *

Tegra Daqua hated only one man—he was called Baelinte, and his Family, Khirmoel, represented green, the color of the artist-creator. Baelinte, on the other hand, hated no other woman the way he hated Tegra Daqua, a woman whose Family was the elegant patron of orange. They hated one another not because Daqua and Khirmoel stood at odds—for they did not. And neither did they hate because of personal causes. Indeed, they barely knew each other in a social context, rarely attended the same gatherings or had overlapping circles of friends. This hate of theirs came about because he was emotion, she—reason. He, advancing towards middle years, the handicapped artist-poet. She, still in her extreme youth, the exquisitely brilliant scholar. But mainly they hated each other because in all things they stood in competition. And because, since the first contact between two pairs of intense eyes from afar, there was a bond insidiously established between them, a bond of thoughts and silence.

Baelinte Khirmoel, unlike any other, knew how to capture the likeness of a subject or landscape upon canvas, and at the same time, capture the essence of any image in words. Tegra Daqua, unlike any other, had captured and held within her mind the workings of the physical world, the fine detail and structural analysis of living organisms and non-living matter. So unlike their work had been, and yet, so much alike in its finesse and attention to subtleties.

At times, Tegra would sit in a cool sterile cubicle of the City Library, poring over an anatomical sketch of an animal, its inner truth revealed to her. And elsewhere, in his reclusive twilit chamber, before a tall oval window letting in filtered gray sunlight through its antique glass, Baelinte leaned his lion-maned head over a manuscript, lost to the present reality, his hands flying with his handwriting, the pen dancing over the clean vista of parchment.

No juice flows thicker in the twilight

Than honeyed lies.

They waft with musk through city gardens

And perch on ears like butterflies.

Baelinte had been born lame in his right foot, it being considerably shorter than the left, and twisted so as not to allow the sole to properly touch the ground. He walked leaning against a tall ornate cane that he had carved himself out of an expensive hardwood. If not for the lameness, he would have stood taller and haughtier than any man in his circle of friends, for he possessed an otherwise fine strong frame. Indeed, there was a manner of grace in his lame poised walk—slow, relaxed and measured, radiating hidden feral strength.

When Tegra walked, it seemed she clenched her whole being to her, frozen into a pillar of inhumanity and untempered steel. Tall and thin and aloof, she restrained all parts of herself but those that were extensions of reason and its cool clinical curiosity. Her hair, pale and wispy, and finer than autumn dandelion, she wore tightly bound in the back, so that it would not interfere with her movements. Her voice was never raised, but firm as iron, or firmer—for she had watched iron ores smelted, watched the physical process, and knew that iron could be soft and incandescent with passion, and run liquidly, in a way her voice could never flow.

How relative things were, how misleading the appearances. Baelinte’s outer passion had its roots in ice of the soul. Tegra’s external rime was the ice covering over a rapidly churning river of deep warm currents.

No need for contact, ever, between these two.

And yet, opposite things are lured to each other, inevitably and half-consciously, through initial conflict.

Having passed him by one morning in the Archives Library of the Lyceum, Tegra Daqua gave Baelinte Khirmoel what he thought was a superior look. (For again, their equally intense eyes, always searching for others like themselves, were unconsciously meant to be drawn together at that precise moment in time.)

There had been no actual intent on her part. No conscious will to pique. But the Khirmoel’s unhealthy sensitivity conjured illusions in his eyes, so that he saw what he wanted to see, and interpreted accordingly.

Her large pale-silver eyes. Washed out, introspective. Cobweb-fine tender lashes. Eyes looking at him and through him, as though he was not there.

And that night, Baelinte, wild-eyed and lion-maned, could get no sleep, boiling with outrage born of curiosity. And he wrote a eulogy that night, a song of high praise and hence, high destruction, to the Ice Maiden of Daqua, that was to render her the universal mockery-piece.

No ice cracks louder than the Maiden,

When sun’s warmth melts her frosty mouth.

Her lips would first dissolve to water

Before they curve or lower south.

No duck quacks louder than a Daqua,

When faced with passion’s paring knife.

With gamy wisdom of the ages

This waterfowl makes soup of life.

Only this time, Baelinte had underestimated his victim.

Tegra Daqua was read the latest product of the Khirmoel’s fancy in a company of like-minded scholars. No change came to her expression, but she allowed herself a sardonic smile.

“How is one to take this, gentle sirs?” came her faultless words. “This man’s mind is an example of psychological oddity. I must now research the subject and come up with a worthy analytical study of his imbalance. It will be widely publicized. I will call it ‘The Dissection of a Khirmoel.’”

The contest was thus on.

PART II

The City

CHAPTER 6

You are now hurtling inward, and it is time to lift another veil.

Are you ready? Good.

Then don’t be afraid, and sweep the second veil aside.

Underneath, you see a vista, a bird’s-eye panoramic view of wonder. And then, Tronaelend-Lis.

A City that is a dream, vague, inexplicable.

“You contain everything, and therefore, there’s no other place I need to be,” said one cheap lyric of a minor poet. And soon the poet himself, out of obscurity, had been elevated by the masses of this boiling City, until his words were read with amusement in the presence of the Regents, in high Dirvan itself, and his name was made synonymous with the City of Dreams.

This is an example of the power of circularity that was a property of Tronaelend-Lis. Here, things in themselves insignificant were pulled inward, in a bizarre centripetal spin, elevated momentarily and then shuffled aside, acquiring in the process a sense of belonging here even after they were discards. Seething, Tronaelend-Lis took hold of everything in its reach and made it part of itself.

Its seething was manifold, on all conceivable levels, from the gutter filth of the outmost Fringes on the South side, to the gilded sublimity of its core, in which lay Dirvan. As with all other things of paradox, there was a duality to Tronaelend-Lis, place of order and chaos.

They say that long ago, before there even had been the mysterious phenomenon described as Rainbow’s Fall, the first humans of the West Lands came as barbarians from the farthest east—where the sun rose, and where supposedly was the end of the world—and from the distant southern sea where they had been spawned as fish out of the blending of sun and color and sea. They came, strong-blooded and spirited as all newly-made things, and claimed the lands of the great worldwide forest. There were great men and women among them, true leaders, the same whose blood ran in the Kings and nobility of the present, and they were the ones who built the City.

But it was not a barbarian’s imagination that had conceived Tronaelend-Lis.

The City was, in its essence, order. Conceived as a great perfect wheel with eight spokes dividing it into eight wedges, with a round center, this basic plan remained up to the present.

But the details changed; in any given age, boundaries contained different things, and were under different laws of access. Indeed, they were the only constant—tall stone walls, thrown like radii from the center, with a number of special gates which joined the “wedges,” and were differently accessible, as the Kings or the Guilds pleased.

The central circular region which contained amid splendid gardens the Palace and Seat of the royal dynasties, and was the residence of the aristocratic elite, was called Dirvan. This term also applied to the royal Court itself, and to the way of life of the aristocracy. Dirvan was separated from the rest of the City and surrounded by a wide, perfectly circular canal, the Arata, which had also been present in the planning of the City, and remains to this day.

Like all things in Tronaelend-Lis, the Arata Canal had undergone constant change—overflowing, then nearly running dry, negligently polluted, and then dredged clean and refilled anew, periodically at the whim of the Kings. Bridges had spanned it, were torn down, were rebuilt, all depending on the Court’s relationship with the rest of the City. At present, a hundred or so bridges hung over the Arata’s murky silver waters.

Besides the Regents, representing the long-gone Kings’ power, Guilds ruled Tronaelend-Lis. There were as many Guilds as there were possible occupations for the citizens, and new ones were created every day, just as every day some weaker old ones were dissolved because of their dwindling means. All it took was a sufficient sum of money to be deposited in the Treasury, and the new Guild’s name, function, and rights were recorded in the Great Book of Guilds which lay in the Academic Quarter together with all the other Records, in the Archives of the Lyceum.

The Guilds had subdivided the City according to their needs, and no freeman had any say where their jurisdiction was concerned. This, of course, was a source of endless nightmares to the non-Guild-affiliated. But they were so few in number that their nightmares did not matter.

Only the Regents’ judgment could overrule that of the Guilds, and only after a great hassle. But the Regents often held their eyes closed to Guild activity, especially in regard to the major Guilds. The Regency, many whispered with hidden glee, would not really withstand a state of full-blown hostility with such monolithic giants as the Light Guild, or the Artisan Guild. The Guilds ruled the City, and taking over certain sections of it, held on to their land with miserly claw-handed zeal.

Beyond Dirvan, beyond the outer shore of the Arata, there were the eight “wedges,” or Quarters, subdivided in the following manner.

The Northern Quarter, with the Northern Gate to the City, had been, since Rainbow’s Fall, in the hands of the Light Guild. The most powerful of the Guilds, little truth might be said of it, but much gossip and speculations.

No one really knew what the Light Guild did, except that, for exorbitant prices, it provided all willing with those mysterious orbs of monochrome color light. The Guild had somehow the ability to create the sorcerous color, and to contain it with human means. It was a fashionable measure of status to claim a knowledge of the Guild’s elusive mysteries.

The Light Quarter, also called the Inner City for reasons of its impenetrability—even more so than the Regents’ Palace—was thus the most closely guarded and least frequented place in the whole of Tronaelend-Lis.

Speaking of the wheel, let us go clockwise. The Northeast Quarter was the Sacred Quarter. It contained the grand Temples in all their metallic finery and dusky gray glimmer of jewels, with multitudes of domes, towers, turrets, and arches. Like a glamorous gray toy, it attracted the various pilgrims and believers, and thus was able to maintain itself. It was also the seat of the Priest Guild, and such lesser ones as the Templeworker Guild. Somehow, the Priesthood had managed to let its power slip before the might of the Inner City Light Guild and the Regency, and was but a third-place authority. Whatever gods there were they must have been exceedingly tolerant, to accept such neglect—although the priests would never admit it. This was another Quarter whose reputation rested on an excess of illusions.

Following the turning hand of the clock, the Sacred Quarter bordered somewhat ironically on the Eastern Quarter, belonging to the Military. But then, it was said, “It’s a sacred cause to make war, and a militant cause to worship.” Thus, no discrepancy here, in such a choice of neighborhood.

In the Military Quarter were the Army Barracks. Ironically, there was no Army.

Here, soldiers trained professionally, under the greater guidance of the Military Guild, and the lesser Warrior and Sword Guilds, plus a number of specialized others. The City had no standing Army, for there hadn’t been a war in ages. Thus, true military strength was contained in the hands of the abovementioned individual professionals. They were warriors, swordsmen, and other weapons masters, all Guild members, loyal only to their craft.

This lack of an Army—a frightening thought really, in case of an invasion. But then, there wasn’t to be any invasion. There hadn’t been for more than a hundred years. And no one cared. The military’s main worth lay in the local arguments it could be hired to settle.

At around five o’clock, the Military Quarter shared a border with the Academic Quarter. This was the Southeastern section of the City, and all its Gates were easily accessible, due to a sad modern lack of interest in scholarly things. Here stood the somber and noble Lyceum, with its Archives and Record Books, its esoteric scholars and sciences, all in the hands of the Scholar Guild. Willing students of whatever background had access to studies from the Masters of Learning. The price they had to pay, however, was not in currency, but a price of service. Not many chose to fulfill such a contract, and compared with the total population, students were few in number, and many had come from pauper background simply to live off the Lyceum.

From the earliest time, the Lyceum had been paid for by funds from the Royal Treasury, and in return it actually housed a part of it deep underground, in secret places known only to a Royal elite—so went the common gossip. Yet contrary to it (or maybe in fact because of it, in order to cloud the fact), the Academic Quarter was never particularly guarded. Some might surmise either that indeed part of the Treasury was cleverly hidden somewhere underneath the Lyceum, and the lack of guard was to throw off suspicions. Or else there really was nothing underneath the noble Lyceum grounds but more ground, and the Regents (and Kings before them) were playing a clever game.

Not taking any chances to let a good thing slip by, thieves and entrepreneurs throughout its history had dug under the Institution, to the comic frustration of Academicians who found, with annoying frequency, various holes and tunnels on the Lyceum grounds, which acquired a not-so-academic name for itself, the “Molehill.” The fact that no one had found anything even remotely resembling a treasure hoard (or at least, no one had made it known) did not stop them from coming.

Other old buildings of repute stood in the Academic Quarter, including the Museum and Library, both in classic marble, filled with the shuffling quiet of scribes who had their own Guild right here, daydreaming philosophers, and occasional owl-eyed dignitaries who were led around in that hazy limbo between the morning and afternoon repasts, and shown the distinguished “sights” of the City. These two buildings had been later additions, built by the caprice of some particularly scholar-minded patron King. An even more recent addition was the Healers’ House, sponsored by the Physician Guild—a newer independent Guild which arose in antithesis to the Priesthood’s claim to absolute and miraculous healing. The Physicians were those who chose to use the simple home and folk remedies, which were more often quite effective, unlike the Priests’ vague ministrations.

Thus, the Academic Quarter was quite a vibrant blending of various disciplines, all claiming the status of “science.” Unfortunately, most of the seething populace of Tronaelend-Lis had never even heard of the word, so it all mattered very little.

Going directly south, the Academic Quarter touched upon that horrible chaotic monstrosity called the Free Quarter. Officially it was claimed by no Guild, while unofficially it cringed under the iron rule of the infamous Bilhaar, or Assassin Guild, the Thief Guild, the Entrepreneur Guild, and countless “unofficial” others. The Free Quarter was the most accessible of the City regions—depending on whether one’s tastes ran towards inevitable personal involvement with the nether side of the law. It also housed the despicable Southern Fringes, the section of the City Fringes which held the Guildless, the pauper poor, the outlaws, and the malcontents, and was therefore a shame, an open sore upon the City’s otherwise presentable face. Not to mention the constant traffic from without the City, which chose to go through its toll-free Southern Gate, the busiest in the City, and had the Southern Fringes as their first glimpse of this glorious place.

But do not underestimate the Free Quarter. It was indeed free in all senses of the word, heeding no one’s authority, and therefore a place of endless opportunity. One could attempt anything here, if one agreed to the repercussions.

Slowly swinging back north along the face of the clock lay the Southwest Quarter, given over by royal decree to foreign relations. These days, foreign relations were mostly trade relations, which meant that the Merchant Guild had particular privileges here, not counting the great city-spanning Market area under its jurisdiction. The Foreign Quarter was also resplendent with handsome lavish villas, where foreign merchants and dignitaries were housed for their temporary stays (while those of the highest rank were placed in the Dirvan, in the Palace of the Regents). Here was the Servant Guild, having refined human service into a high art. The Foreign Quarter also fed the demand for glib interpreters who were needed for all purposes throughout Tronaelend-Lis.

Moving higher yet, directly west from the core of the Dirvan, was the radiant pulsing Red Quarter, overflowing with the sensuality, the corporeal raw seething of life in pursuit of the ultimate pleasure. This was the exquisite home of the Erotene Guild, the elegantly beautiful men and women who knew the secrets of physical love, and gave it for a price to anyone.

Here, underneath the blazing crimson orbs were the most expensive courtesans, living in their own miniature replicas of the Royal Palace, amid soft music and the scents of musk and wild fruit, and the exotic gardens of their villas, weaving their beautiful illusions of the senses. In the many Pleasure Galleries, one could find anything to satisfy one’s sense of the erotic—anything, until gluttony set in, and nothing was enough. Then came the addiction stage, and one would return, begging for the erotene touch, which somehow was claimed to be unlike any other. . . . But then, isn’t it always thus, with the outward beckoning face of addiction? And the erotene were masters of inspiring it.

In this microcosm of pleasure, where all thought was laid aside in preference of physical sensation, were also other delights, other addictions besides the carnal. Rare substances that produced euphoria, a sensation of floating on metallic-hued clouds, a transcendental power over shadow, dispelling all weaknesses and re-molding sorrow onto something else, were found in the Domes of Sensation. Exotic foods and beverages were served in the gourmet Teahouses sprinkled like gems all throughout the Red Quarter, like bits of mother-of-pearl within one great baroque coral reef. And everything, everything within the walls was illuminated by orb-lights, ranging from the deeply vibrant nearly black crimson, to the palest diluted monochrome pink.

There were clear glowing reds and pale pulsing scarlets, shimmering faint silver-rose with flecks of colorless gray in it, razor-intense deep burgundy, living cherry. The orbs—greater in size than a man, or tiny like jewels—hung like blood drops over the district. And the surrounding colorless black shadows, refusing to be fully dispelled, danced continuously, pulsing to the rhythm of the human hearts in their pleasure. Day and night, the Red Quarter glowed, opening its arms to the City.

Who knows why red is chosen to represent human lusts? Another mystery whose truth had been lost at the time of the Fall.

At ten o’clock, lying next to the Red Quarter, the Northwest Quarter belonged to the Artisans of Tronaelend-Lis. The Artisan Guild was a powerful major Guild, with as many trade secrets as the Light Guild, on which it bordered, and equally inaccessible. Here were hundreds of various workshops, where all imaginable crafts were practiced. The Artisan Quarter rang under hammer blows, clicked under chisels, hissed with fire-torches, whispered with the shifting of folds of silk and rough linen and gossamer-fine gauze, trembled under the tuning of instruments and pounding of dancers’ feet, thrilled to the sound of singing, heeded in awe the quiet voices of the poets reciting to themselves in solitude, and waited in sublime ecstasy for the last lifting stroke of an artist’s fine paintbrush creating a masterpiece of pallor upon black, or black on pallor.

In this vibrant place—more alive, in a sense, than its neighboring Red Quarter—dwelled the creative power in all its earthly forms. And minor Guilds, for every nuance of an art, were housed within its guarded walls.

There were, in fact, more little secrets here, secrets of a craftsman’s skill, than in the Northern neighbor, the Light Quarter, which contained but one secret. The Light Guild, however, made it possible for the Artisans to produce those mysterious things called “dyes,” substances that, when illuminated by very strong desaturated monochromes, appeared to actually “hold” and display the energy of one particular color. Thus, objects such as clothing of the aristocrats, or certain parts of inner decor, when treated by the “dye,” and then lit, appeared to retain a hue of its own, no matter what color light was shining upon the object. Such were the miracles the two Guilds in collaboration were capable of achieving.

But the Artisan Guild relied less upon the hints dropped from the Inner City than upon its own abilities. For here, working under the pale illumination of monochromes, were more willful, eccentric persons of genius than in all of Tronaelend-Lis.

Such were the eight Quarters of the City, like eight capricious men and women of character and distinction, living together, yet remaining apart. But there were two more divisions in Tronaelend-Lis.

Imagine the great eight-spoked wheel, with the hub-center being the Dirvan, and around it, like a small narrow hoop, spinning the swift Arata. Now, beyond the Arata, draw yet another much wider circumference. These were the great City Markets, sponsored by the Guilds, where they sold their wares and services, and over it watched the Merchant Guild. Long ago, the original eight boundary walls had stretched all the way from the outside wall of the City to the circular Canal. Yet upon common agreement—probably the only unanimous decision in ages—the Quarters tore down the walls closest to the Canal and made a common area for the sake of trade. New walls were erected to clearly define this new outer circumference, and to close in, once again, the Quarters and their secrets, only starting farther out. The Markets, containing more than half of all the City’s stores, chaotic and wonderful, prospered, to further the trade success of the City.

The last of the divisions of Tronaelend-Lis was more abstract. A great common road spanned the City in a roughly circular manner, its circumference closer to the outer edge than the center, cutting across all the Quarters. It was the Fringes Thoroughfare, and its generous width allowed larger traffic to move freely in both directions about the City. Twelve large carts could be placed on it, side by side, and yet there would be room enough for a smaller carriage to pass.

The Thoroughfare was a marvelous roadway, a roundabout. For, like the Arata Canal, and the tendency of many other things in the City, it returned upon itself, having no beginning or end, going around in an eternal circle. There were smaller roads and streets cutting across it from everywhere, and that’s how one got onto it. The paved Fringes Thoroughfare went past low clay houses with thatched roofs, tall walled villas, gardens of all kinds. It opened upon large cobblestoned and tiny padded-dirt side streets crossing it. It ran by slums and smells of decay, past aromatic tavern-houses and little shops which did not dare take on the competition of the Markets, hiding here safely. It continued past open squares and empty stretches of ivy-covered wall on both sides. All along were placed Guild-regulated toll gates, the only nuisance, and they demanded their own set fees to enter each Quarter.

Now, about the Fringes themselves. They were the general City area, away from the Dirvan center, and starting on the outer side of the Fringes Thoroughfare. The Fringes included all the Quarters of Tronaelend-Lis, and their only distinction from the rest of the City was that they tended to be more residential. They also tended to be poor, which is quite sensible, considering that the richest was the heart of the City. The Southern Fringes of the Free Quarter held the largest slum area, with filth and decay predominating. So filthy it was, that it was an insult to imply that one’s origins were from the Southern Fringes. This was the “Sore” on the face of the graceful timeless City.

Thus appeared Tronaelend-Lis, City of elusive dreams, organized in perfect circularity—with the last outer circumference beyond the city walls being that second veil over your senses which you have just cast aside. . . .

Yet all order meant ultimately nothing, for this was a place of seething change. Even the seemingly eternal walls between the eight Quarters will someday come down—torn down irreverently without consideration of their historic antiquity—to be replaced by something else. . . . But until then, such was the City.

Everyone who lived in the great West Lands—forested and remote, and even by their name suggesting that, being west of something, they were a part of a greater whole—everyone had at least once in a lifetime visited the oldest City in these parts. They came, whether to bring their trade to the bursting Markets, or to seek work with the Guilds. They came to visit such “sights” as the outer Dirvan (where at least once in their life they could see the glittering aristocracy) with its cultivated Gardens, its sunlit lawns and marble statuary, its private villas where cool sparkling fountains ran silver in the gray sunlight. There, the magnificent marble Dome of the Mausoleum stood aloof in a grove of black cedar and cypress, and within it, under the semi-opaque roof of glass-crystal, upon an upraised dais, lay the ancient glass Casket with the last King.

They came to learn from the Masters of the Lyceum, to seek, and steal, and worship, and serve, and be served. And some of them came simply to sit in the shade of the great Temples, and to look at the life around them, and think. . . .

The people of the City were proud. Certainly they had good reasons even for arrogance, having built a place of artful dreams. Only—this kind of pride is not exactly arrogance but patriotism.

And patriotic they were. Always, ready welcome was there for all newcomers, but it took quite some time for the shy newcomer to become like them, and even then, never quite. One had to be born here. For the City shaped its own dreaming kind from the moment of birth, with every inhaled breath, every swallowed drop of water and every intake of food.

The people of Tronaelend-Lis walked within a silver dream. So occupied they were with life that often it seemed to recent outsiders that they were blind to something very essential.

The very name “Tronaelend-Lis” had a dream quality about it, like the Old Tongue, hinting of things insubstantial—thus spoke the old-timers. The actual word ceased to have any meaning in this Tongue of ours.

Tro . . . na . . . e . . . lend-Lis. The syllables extended into a soft temple chant, musical birdsong, the patter of afternoon rain upon smooth cobblestones. It prompted the mind with empty hints of something old, true, and fine like vapor curling over a porcelain cup of hot tea.

In those days long gone, when there had been that impossibility called Rainbow, then maybe, had folk known the original source of the name of the City that held in it everything.

Tronaelend-Lis. . . . spoke another poet, this one humble, with not enough arrogance to let his words be heard too loud. His words were never recited in the Markets, nor mouthed in the lilting song of an erotene, nor even remembered with inebriation in high Dirvan, no. These words only the wind witnessed, and the hueless stones, and one true man’s solitude.

Tronaelend-Lis. When I die, let me dissolve into you. Then, only, will I know life’s color. Let me dissolve. . . .

And through the dream motion of its living silver, the boundless City will, in that final hour, hear him.

* * *

“Move along now, hurry! You brainless, flea-spawning filth! Gather your trash, your worthless garbage, your rusted pots and pans! Hurry, in the name of all the existent and nonexistent gods! Let them strike you with their scalding breath! Let them fry your kirihk, until it turns black and falls off, if you don’t gather yourself and be gone before I can count to three! One, two, three! Let them—”

With a look of utmost boredom, Ranhé stood holding the reins of the two horses, as they waited their turn in traffic to pass the Southwest Gate of the City. Their carriage was second in line, but had the misfortune to come just after a small cart belonging to a traveling tinker, who had the gall to have his cart accidentally collapse at the exact moment of entering the Gates. The guard who checked all passing traffic was singing an aria of abuse at the unfortunate man, his subdued mule, and the pile of metallic utensils scattered on the ground, effectively blocking the entrance. It was uncertain what had happened, except that now all traffic was held up until the tinker could clear the way.

The guard was not an original fellow. “You, worst enemy of mine,” he continued haranguing the tinker automatically. “You are a mule! Your mother was a mule, your father was a mule, and your mule is less than a mule! The whole lot of you are mangy! And your merchandise is like the droppings of the gods, a blessing I never asked for! May you be blessed likewise!”

The timid tinker hurriedly piled pots and kettles, in a wild disarray, upon his broken cart, at the same time apologizing profusely.

Sitting in the driver’s seat above where Ranhé stood, Pheyl Milhas grumbled a curse, low in his breath, and spat out a wad of tobacco on the roadside.

Much good you are, thought Ranhé, glancing at the slow apathetic man whom Elas hired to drive the carriage. You can’t even be trusted to control the horses well enough in this busy place, so that I have to help you lead them.

Out loud she said, “Not much longer, I hope.”

In answer, Milhas only rolled his eyes. He wasn’t bad really, simply boredom incarnate.

She’d had to dismount and lead the horses here at the Gates, because, although trained excellently, they were not used to a strange and incompetent driver and could not be risked in this strong traffic.

A few steps away Elasand sat atop his own horse, his face and form cloaked in the gray, keeping back.

So aloof. . . .

Ranhé’s thoughts of Elas were a blend of sarcasm and guesswork. There was that constant sheen of superiority, of lordly disdain upon him even now, as he watched and waited.

Their ride to the City had taken them half the day, but was not as uneventful as they expected. Although none of it had called for Ranhé’s sword skill. In the middle of the journey, one of the horses’ shoes came loose, so they had to stop.

Pheyl Milhas announced dully that he knew nothing of re-shoeing horses, only of driving, and that was what he’d been hired for. And he began to argue in that apathetic but relentless way that this was outside his duties.

It was then that Ranhé, to her secret amusement, saw a yet another side of her lordly employer.

Elas said a curt profanity.

“I know exactly whose fault it is,” he then continued, his lips trembling with an angry controlled smile. “Let’s blame all of this crap on a certain brother and sister pair of the Grelias. None of it would even be, if I hadn’t been in such a hurry to get to this City of glorious—” And then he went silent, not wishing to say more before his hirelings.

“I myself have some knowledge of shoeing horses,” he said when his aunt’s worried face looked out of the carriage window. “However, I value this fine animal too highly to trust myself not to damage him.”

Ranhé had been waiting quietly, watching with some interest, a bemused observer. Finally, it became obvious that no one would find a solution.

“M’lord, if you have the necessary tools, I’ll fix the horseshoe. Even if none are at hand I can attempt it with a knife, but the damage to your horse might be irreparable.”

Everyone turned to her. The two noblewomen fidgeted, but by now had almost gotten used to the idea of this tall masculine woman capable not only of guarding them and cracking bad jokes, but of a great number of other things.

Elas was not as easily impressed. “Why didn’t you say so before?”

Ranhé shrugged. “I was letting Master Pheyl earn his pay.”

“I am only a driver—” began Milhas angrily.

“Yes, we know that now,” said Elas, cutting him off in midsentence. He watched Ranhé unblinkingly, as she dismounted and proceeded to do the job with a light-handed skill of a professional. A few blows of the hammer that had been retrieved from the tool compartment on the bottom of the driver’s seat, and new nails were driven into the hoof, tightening the iron shoe. The horse took this docilely, because Ranhé’s touch was so light.

“Thank you,” said Elasand, looking straight in her eyes. “I will pay you extra.”

“That would be unnecessary. My lord might prefer to squander coins in some other fashion.”

At this he laughed, a pleasant sound, but with that fine touch of condescension. “Ah, freewoman, how did I ever earn such loyalty? I should employ you permanently.”

His words were flippant.

Ranhé said nothing. The rest of their ride was uneventful. And now they stood at the Gates of Tronaelend-Lis.

At last the tinker’s cart was filled again with his wares, hitched to a tow-wagon, and rolled away through the monolithic iron arches of the Gates.

Ranhé glanced up meanwhile, admiring the sleek outer walls of pale granite stone, worn smooth by time. Even for the hundredth time, the City never failed to impress.

The afternoon sun’s gray light was momentarily hidden by a cobweb haze of cloud. The dark and light splendor of rising and falling shadows, as glimpsed from beyond the City walls, was now like a forest of vapor-shades, never geometric, but flowing, curving. As always, all outlines became vague, blurred, with the decreased visibility. And somehow, as always, that bothered her.

Ranhé felt she was missing something, an element, a finer deeper clarity of things, every time there was a haze which obscured the sun. Really, it took so little to make all things blend into themselves. A little less light, as at sundown, and the world blurred and was lost completely into absolute blackness.

The sun, damn it! she thought. Come out, shine so I can see this place properly, like a connoisseur. Every first glimpse has always been memorable to me. . . .

As if hearing her, the sun shone bright suddenly, and the blurred splatter-bits of the world raced back together into razor-fine focus. Ranhé blinked at the intensity of blacks and pale grays superimposed, the metallic surfaces catching the light like mirrors. And suddenly, thousands of spires and turrets blazed from afar, while the other matte surfaces remained subdued, to frame the gray day-fire. Tronaelend-Lis came alive, forming, in the panoramic distance of its interior.

* * *

Postulate Nine: Rainbow is Multidimensional.

* * *

Silver sunlight and wind came and went easily through the tall arched window in an opulent room where a man sat, bathed in the metallic day-glow, elbows leaning on the table, all attention upon the pile of rocks spread out before him on the tabletop. The man was in his late middle years, bearded, with even strong features and calm shrewd eyes. His looks epitomized the wealthy merchant. For indeed, he was one of the Prada, and trade ran in his veins, alongside the so-called noble blood that had given his Great Family, one of the Ten, a somewhat sullied name.

Gilimas Prada was not just a merchant. For if he were, he’d be now stationed in a fine house in the Merchant Quarter, not in a fine Palace Villa in Dirvan, as he was now. And if he were but a merchant, the pile of rocks on his tabletop might’ve consisted of amber, carnelian, agate, garnet, rose quartz, and some lapis-lazuli, as opposed to what lay before his intent gaze at the moment—rubies, emeralds, sapphires, and at least five varieties of diamond.

Gilimas Prada was not just a merchant. Like a man hypnotized, he stared vacantly at the immeasurable riches scattered before him, but all his sight registered was the dancing rays of sun, split, shimmering, and fragmented, upon the various polished surfaces of the gems. He did not at that moment think of the inherent carat value of the largest diamond in that pile, deep and smoky, and cut in the hexagonal pattern of a snowflake. Nor did he appear to care that the seven rubies in this hoard had been carefully chosen from hundreds upon hundreds presented to his astute appraisers by the foreign tradesmen that had come within these last five years to Tronaelend-Lis. The rubies had been chosen because each one was of the very shade of translucent blackness that was human blood. And each was faultless in its center, abysmally perfect underneath the gleaming facet work.

Gilimas watched the stones. That watching of his was neither in appraisal, nor admiration. It had long ceased to matter to him what each stone was. Indeed, only long practice forced upon him, somewhere deep in the background of his conscious thoughts, the awareness of each stone, the minute distinctions. That one, for example, held in it a trace of the ebony sea, a ripple of water-depth darkness, and was therefore an aquamarine, as opposed to the equally deep-shadowed sapphire which instead contained in it the airy late-evening sky.

What was it that allowed him to see the shadow of seawater in one, and the headiness of the twilight sky in the other? Both were but gradations of gray, resident somewhere between those two nonexisting absolutes, white and black.

And why was it that sunlight, as it fell upon the polished surfaces, appeared to quiver, or do something that his vocabulary had no means of explaining, to fragment suddenly before it dissipated like a memory into the various depths of each stone?

The more he watched this, the more varied nuances Gilimas saw in the interplay of jewel and light. Flat surfaces reacted differently than spherical to the caress of light. The former sent sunrays bouncing off, and then that mysterious “dissolution” took place as the light broke. The latter appeared to absorb the light into itself, somewhere deep within the sphere’s core, hoarding it to richness like some summer fruit bloating itself with sunlight and hence growth. . . .

Gilimas had long ceased to ponder the value of each stone as he had been originally taught: The absolute value of precious jewels and metals is arrived at, in equal measure, by the purity or faultlessness of the native material, makeup, and by the illusion of light that it creates on the object’s worked surface.

There was a hint of truth in that formula, knew Gilimas, who now did not need to know the value of his precious stones, for he already had more than enough to make him one of the richest men in Tronaelend-Lis. Indeed, it was not value that he sought.

Rather, an elusive dancing mystery.

That mystery, he knew, was partly expressed by the idea of illusion. And partly, it lay in the play of light.

And thus he would stare for hours, being rich in time also, and sometimes, just sometimes, he could almost glimpse it, that infinitesimal difference in sparkle that made one stone an emerald and the other a diamond.

And still the nature of that difference remained unfathomed, a dimension into another place of the mind unbreached. Something, he knew, was incomplete in such a perusal.

Gilimas Prada—not just a merchant, but the richest of the rich—remained thus indefinitely a poor man.

* * *

They were at the Gates. Elasand rode forward to speak to the guards, and paid, with his usual disdain, the minor toll. The pikes were uncrossed before him, and without the least hassle they were now moving forward slowly, Ranhé leading the nervous but rigidly trained horses ahead. Her own was loyally close behind the carriage. She never doubted him; and yet she had made the precaution of tying the reins to the back of the carriage—here, thieves abounded.

They had entered the Foreign Quarter, its Fringes.

Like a flock of squawking birds, voices speaking different tongues blended from everywhere in tonal discord; there were creaking carts and equipages; people of all looks and manners greeted them like wine exploding from an uncorked bottle. Ranhé saw a stone-paved clearing, or square, beyond which were rows of simple houses, and little streets began branching off. The larger Gate-road they were on was swamped with traffic. The area looked ordinary. But these were the poorer Fringes, she knew. The wonders lay ahead.

“Drive some more, to the right here, see the dark sign of the City House,” said Elas.

Pheyl Milhas nodded, turning the horses around, while Ranhé handed him the extra reins she held, and ran around easily to mount her horse. They moved out of the main flow of traffic (which was on its way to the great Fringes Thoroughfare) and rode across the square to the large looming building of the City House which dealt with the matters of hire, under the regulation of the Servant Guild.

The window curtain of the carriage moved, and Lixa’s face peeked out, with animated curiosity. Smiling, she nodded to Elas.

“Stay here, I’ll return soon,” said Elas, dismounting. “When I return, with another hired driver, both of you’ll be reimbursed for your work.”

“Fine with me, m’lord,” said Milhas sullenly, but with a bit more animation. He remained seated where he was, holding the reins, while Elas turned away to go.

There was a hissing in the air.

Her thoughts moving like quicksilver, recognizing the spinning of the arin sling, Ranhé made no sound, but leapt from her horse and threw herself at her retreating employer. The strong impact sent them both rolling to the cobblestones. And in another instant, on the wall of the City House just before them, quivered a small fist-sized metallic disk. It had eight razor-points, two of which had pierced the solid stone, and had stuck.

“Gods . . .” breathed Elas, but Ranhé was already on her feet. She had spun about, seeing the shocked well-dressed merchant who had been the actual target of this attack, and then saw the dark retreating figure of a running man, already halfway across the square, dodging the carriages and screaming drivers.

Almost in amusement she exclaimed, hissing through her teeth, “Damn this City!,” and then sped after the running man.

Elasand, only slightly shaken by surprise, was up also, and his hand instinctively moved to his sword hilt.

Within the carriage, Dame Molhveth Beis fainted.

CHAPTER 7

Postulate Ten: Rainbow is Inspiration.

* * *

Erin Khirmoel woke up one night from yet another instance of a recurring dream of a faraway place with a green sky.

Green fireworks. . . .

She lay against the matted covers of cool silk, her flesh misted over by sweat, her heartbeat quicker than normal, and her mind completely awake and trying to recall with hunger the startling intense experience of the dream that had followed her since childhood.

Green fire. . . .

Afterward, there were few words she could use to describe it. The nature of the green in that dream was itself something she could not put into words, much less explain how she could possibly visualize a green world.

When she was a girl of six, Erin remembered having this dream for the first time. She had woken up, so intense, so happily fulfilled, and had told her grandmother:

“The place was so good! There was a dimly muted warm land. . . . There was a sky, I remember a sky of black, and upon it, millions of fireworks—like those green orbs, Grandmother, but far more splendid, splintered and fragmented into pinpoint chips of broken stars. But no, the sky was not black—it was only rich, so rich in green, in little stars all clustered together, that I thought it was black. It was so rich and comforting, enveloping me from all sides, and I knew I was home, completely safe.

“And there were crawling sparks going through my arm, and I woke up—”

After a long while, her grandmother nodded, “Yes, child. You must’ve lain on your arm and cut off the flow of blood.”

“But no, Grandma! That has nothing to do with it! Just listen! I mean, there was green everywhere! And mostly I saw the sky, and the green was a different kind than the one we see in orbs, it was somehow more real; it didn’t look like it was ‘pasted on’ to things, like the monochromes look. It actually blended! Yes, that’s the word, it blended like it was a part of things, and it was so solid and yet at the same time subdued.”

“You’ve such a way with words, my girl, so like your uncle Baelinte.”

The old one smiled, deepening her wrinkles, and Erin knew then, somehow, that Grandmother had not understood even half of what her meager words were meant to express. But she had to go on nevertheless, for her pupils were still dilated, her heartbeat racing, and the vision in her mind—although already receding—had not altogether cooled.

“And there was more, Grandma, there was also a sun in my dream, and swan-birds flying by—but no, they did not matter, those swans, for I saw them only for a second, they didn’t matter. It was the sun . . . It was green, but different. Like a fireball that was green, and pale, and great, and almost flat, and it rose from the horizon. . . .”

“Ah, my girl.” The grandmother sighed. “Who knows, maybe it is our creative blood speaking in you now, maybe that is some kind of omen for us to consider. How appropriate for a Khirmoel to have a dream like this, green being our color. . . . Maybe you ought to mention this marvelous dream of yours to someone who knows of such things, to a priest maybe, or to a mad poet such as your beloved uncle—” The old voice faded out in uncertainty.

But the last remaining clarity of the dream had receded from Erin then. Receding, it had left a flavor of something that was far away and yet intimate. The flavor stayed with her, long afterwards, and for weeks, when she could no longer even remember the green of her dream, she could somehow yet remember how different it was, how it blended.

And how far more real it was than any green she had seen in what she knew to be the present reality. For, in occasional blinks of memory, she thought she saw things now that were there before her, in the absolute black of the night outside the window, far beyond the many false flickering lights of city monochromes—now seeming to be only faraway scattered counterfeit jewels of vivid and somehow unpleasant intensity.

Once—oh, how the monochromes had inspired her once with their garish unreal color! And how they paled into obscenity now, with her present honed perception.

And sometimes, in the early shadowy silver of chill crisp dawns, as again she glanced outside the fine, latticed window, out to the gardens of the Khirmoel Villa, she would see glimpses of things she had no words for. Rich intimate ghosts of green flickered by her eyelids, as again depths of soul-sick longing and nostalgia swelled in her, only to recede when the first steel-edged sunray dispelled night’s ghosts and ended the dawn.

Erin never again spoke of this dream to anyone, as she would never speak of her most intimate thoughts. And she never spoke of the things she almost saw in the shadows of day or of night. She merely lived her life, and not even knowing why, waited for the dream to manifest again. And when its haunting presence flooded her that night when she was twenty-seven, for the second time, striking her with a mad hope of something she could not even conceive, kindling her with inspiration, Erin suddenly knew with a certainty that there were more things in this world that she was not aware of, than there were silver leaves on trees. And it made her oddly happy to know that.

For the boredom and the complacency that had been unconsciously eating away at her were suddenly and completely dispelled. What dispelled them was the affirmation of the existence of that otherworldly green.

Her life had passed its second stage, and she, the dozing one, was now awake, fully.

Erin knew that the next time she would experience this dream—for she was now as sure of that as anything—that next time would be the moment that she would act.

* * *

Ranhé was fleet-footed, but the man had gotten a head start on her. His pale darting form was about fifty feet in the distance, twisting around vehicles, and headed for a small side street up ahead. Her feet pounding against the cobblestones, she made good time, however, and despite nearly being run over at several points as she dodged wagon traffic, she narrowed the distance between them. She could see his figure better now, an ordinary-looking shabbily dressed vagrant (who however had an excellent way with the arin sling—too good to be just anyone, though not good enough to strike his intended target).

“Stop that man!” she cried. “Thief!” (Knowing that if she said “murderer,” no one would dare.)

In a group ahead, several heads turned her way, staring with little comprehension, and she realized, to her great annoyance, that they were foreigners who did not speak the Tongue.

I am forgetting what district this is. Damn! So easy to lose a man here! No one would even understand.

She was very close to him now, her breath catching in her throat, so she whipped out the dagger at her belt. People continued staring at her oddly, and at the other racing man-figure. Most moved out of their way.

Just as the man reached the end of the square, and was about to enter the side street, a huge produce cart rolled slowly out of the street, but only after the man dodged by it, accompanied by the surprised curse of the driver. At least this one’s words were in the Tongue.

Ranhé wanted to howl in frustration. The cart slowed, then stopped, obstructing her way.

“Out of my way, son of mkharshak! I am a leper madwoman!” she cried at him, and brandished her dagger. The poor man’s eyes bulged in sudden fear, and he futilely attempted to speed up the cart.

“Y-you! Don’t touch me!” he cried. “Get away! Get away from my fruit!”

“I spit on your fruit!” she retorted, quickly edging past him, finding herself within the narrow street.

Too late. There was no sign of the assassin. The alley had swallowed him. No matter how long she might search now, he could be hiding anywhere here, in any one of these crowded houses, or behind fences, with their millions of winding ways. Breathing heavily, Ranhé stood watching the gray-shadowed street, angry at herself more than anything. She had let the bastard get away.

Ranhé replaced the dagger at her belt, then quickly made her way back to where they had stopped near the Gates, at the City House.

And on the way back, she considered it. Yes, this was an unrelated accident. And yet, my lord has enemies. I wonder. . . .

When she returned, it was, at first glance, as if nothing had happened. Elasand, with a closed expression, was paying off Milhas. Pheyl’s eyes, on the other hand, were still bulging fearfully, and he took his fifty dahr with the quickness of someone who wanted to run and relieve himself around the corner. He managed a crooked smile and a low nod to the aristocrat.

Elas was gracious in parting. This made Pheyl Milhas smile wider, now that the money was all his. “Thank you, m’lord, thanks very much, ‘twas pleasure working for you.”

But Elas had already turned away, seeing Ranhé.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It was impossible to catch him.”

He looked at her more closely, more seriously than ever before. She could see it in the way his eyes appeared fully awake, as though he had just seen her for the first time.

For a moment, he did not speak. Then he said, “I didn’t expect you to catch him. After everything else you’ve done for me.”

She watched him.

“Do you realize,” he said, “that you saved my life just now? And that first time, yesterday—you have most probably saved my life also, and had surely saved my aunt and cousin. And earlier today, you’ve performed a service outside your duties.”

Ranhé glanced away, seeing from the corner of her eye the carriage window curtains parted, and two faces watching them.

She shrugged.

“That man was not trying to kill me,” Elas continued, while fingering with disdain the murderous throw-disk. “And he is not associated with Bilhaar. There are no markings on this deadly thing that might give any clue. I just happened to be in his way, and his aim was bad. But—I have several different enemies.”

“I inferred that much,” said Ranhé.

He chose to ignore the sarcasm. There was that new earnest look on his face. He continued, “And with so much potential trouble, someone like myself needs particular loyalty. Well, then. You, Ranhéas Ylir, appear more trustworthy than anything I’ve encountered for a long time.”

“Thank you, my lord. May I use you for references, in case I need to engage in self-adulation before my next employer?”

She regretted it immediately. This was definitely not her customary polished manner.

“I am glad I was able to please,” she continued, trying to regain her equilibrium. “But I’ve allowed that trash to escape. Inexcusable. I’ve kept you alive, but I can’t guarantee it for the future.”

“Now, that’s ridiculous. Nothing can be guaranteed. My good Ranhé, you are a perfectionist,” said Elas, smiling. “Why don’t you relax? Especially that now I’m trying to offer you a more or less permanent employment.”

Ranhé’s face lost all expression. “I am relaxed, just out of breath from chasing that son of a bitch,” she said. “And I don’t take permanent employment.” She spoke slowly, carefully, pronouncing every word with extra clarity.

“Why?” he taunted, suddenly angry with her in the same animated way in which only moments ago he was expressing gratitude. “Do I distress you somehow? I’ve noticed, yes. Do I frighten you? What exactly is it about me?”

Her strongest weapon at such instances had always been honesty.

“In truth, I cannot say,” she replied, glancing away. When she returned to look at him again, she was changed.

He watched, impassive, waiting.

“I am,” said Ranhé, “a strange sort. You might not realize it yet, but I’m telling you now, in a way, warning you, not to estimate me in any normal way. I am—a self-proclaimed everything. At the moment, your hired guard. At another, I might be someone else. Anyone. Anything.”

He watched her.

“You don’t quite understand, I see,” she continued. “As I said, I don’t take permanent employment. Ever.”

“Why not?” he said coldly.

“Because I do as I please. I work to amuse myself. That’s the only stimulus. All is temporary, and I am fickle. I only work for people who amuse or interest me. Or for jobs that involve interesting complications.”

He smiled. “Then I should be complimented that for a time I managed to amuse you enough, mistress Ylir.”

“Ah . . .” she said. “Then maybe you’ll understand why I must refuse your offer.”

“No, actually, I don’t,” he said, interested more than ever.

“I am saying, my Lord Elasand-re, that this association of ours has gone too far. The initial curiosity has burned out.”

“I don’t believe you for a moment,” he said.

“Then believe this. From the first instant, it had been unbearable for me. I’m bound and stifled, and I want to be rid of you now, if you would forgive my saying so. To be rid of you, for I am a madwoman, and you affect me in a strange way. Enough! I would not continue to be employed if you drowned me in dahr.”

He was the one to look away now, thoughtful. “Do you know,” he said, “it’s remarkable you tell me all this. Maybe you are mad. And maybe, that’s what’s so curious about your manner, what in turn interests me. You are unclaimable, yet so capable of loyalty.”

“I am simply perverse.” She never let him meet her eyes.

“Whatever you are,” Elas pursued, “I also feel bound to you. There is something about the way we are with one another, a strange sense of connection.”

Her eyes were blank.

“For example,” he said. “The way we talk even now, despite the fact that we’re in the middle of the street, my kinswomen are anxiously waiting within the carriage, thinking me mad, and the sun is making beads of sweat glitter on your brow.”

Unconsciously she wiped her forehead.

“And,” he continued, “I seem to be speaking to you, a stranger, a commoner, as if you were a confidante of a lifetime. And—you saved me.”

“I saved you. Because I felt like doing it. I am changeable, Elasand-re. I would be bored tomorrow. Bored with you and your cause. And will leave you, just like that. Because I’d no longer care, in my own sick, subtle, perverse manner.”

“Well, why don’t you then?” His voice had grown soft, persuasive, quiet. “Leave me when it bores you. I will not grudge you. In the meantime, simply work for me indefinitely. I ask you again. I want to have you with me, your abilities, your originality. You said I stifle you—well then, learn to overcome your inner self in this. For your own good. Or you’ll never be so elegant again. And if I throw you off balance, do not fear, I will never ask you why.”

“You are so clever, lord . . .” she whispered. “And you are undeniably right. Yet again, why the hell do you bother? You do not have my perverse sense of play.”

“Do I not? Ranhéas, I think it’s time for me also to engage in a moment of truth. We are two creatures of the same mind. It draws us together. I glimpse something in you, woman. Do not fear me. Stay. I will give you work that you’ve never had the equal of, to satiate, to quench your—addiction. Always changing, surprising work.”

“You choose such precise words.”

“Words that might touch you.”

Lixa Beis, listening within the carriage, absolutely enthralled, turned to her mother, saying, “What exactly have they been talking about, these last ten minutes?”

She said this in a careless petulant voice, in order that Dame Beis might think she was more innocent about the nature of the conversation than in fact. Truly, Lixa was sensitive to fine undercurrents that her mother could not even imagine.

Molhveth Beis, lying back on fine pillows, sincerely thought herself in a half-faint still. First, to be riding, confined, for hours. And then seeing her nephew nearly killed, for the second time in less than two days—this was unbearable. She was high-strung, and her faint had been quite real. All that had happened afterwards was but anticlimax. She didn’t care, or bother, to overhear anything.

Seeing that her mother did not react, Lixa was satisfied, her own secretive nature pacified. She was overhearing others in an odd private conversation—no matter if it was but her cousin Elas and that woman guard—and she was feeling fascinated guilt. Guilt for somehow hearing things. Guilt for—

But then, whoever said this conversation was private? They weren’t exactly being secretive about their words, standing in the crowded sunlit square.

Yet, something made her uncomfortable. It seemed to Lixa that she was observing them through a psychic veil, an intangible layer of difference that placed them into a common reality apart from the rest of the world.

And hardly daring to breathe, Lixa continued listening.

“What else must I tell you to convince you?” spoke Elas, his expression having become gentle, and not exactly how an employer and a lord might deal with a hired commoner.

There was a strained expression on Ranhé’s face, however. “I don’t know,” she was saying.

“Why, for gods’ sake?” he asked, yet again.

What an odd level of intimacy.

“I suppose that the monetary aspect hardly interests you,” he said. “However”—and a curve came to his lips—“I’ll bring it up. I will pay you three hundred and fifty dahr of gold for every month that you choose to stay in my employ.”

Ranhé’s look widened. “So much! You overestimate me extremely. And again, I haven’t yet agreed to anything. . . .”

But I will, she thought. He draws me like a moth to a flame.

“Agree, then. Now. I am wearied of arguing and trying to convince you.” He threw the words like a challenge. His tone had become curt suddenly. And he wanted to add but didn’t, I am trying, it seems, in this one thing, harder than I’ve ever tried in anything. . . .

Ranhé breathed the air of the City, deeply, as if it were her last gasp of freedom. “I’ve never,” she said, “never committed myself to this extent. You’ll not say anything if all of a sudden I want to leave? I warn you. I’ll ultimately do it. Maybe exactly at the least opportune moment for you, when you might need my service most of all.”

“I know. I agree to these terms.” You do not realize how much more firmly I am binding you thus, to me, he thought. Loose bonds are the hardest to sever. You will never leave until I let you, or until I dispose of you myself.

The gray sun blanched her face. And she looked up into that brilliant gray, squinting, as though to ask advice from the sky.

“What exactly would be the nature of my employment with you this time?”

“A good question. More than a guard,” said Elas, “I need a right-hand man—or woman. In truth, the very fact that you are female will help considerably, to make your position oblique. You’ll accompany me everywhere I go, except under rare circumstances. You will be armed, appropriately. And upon occasion, you’ll appear to be unarmed to others. And upon yet other occasions, you’ll pretend to be someone not yourself. . . .”

“This conjures fascinating possibilities, I must confess.”

He smiled. “A job suited perfectly to you, as you’ll see.”

“I see already.”

“But now,” he said, “will you, freewoman, swear fealty to my cause, so that we can proceed inside from this heat? For I refuse to take this conversation inside.”

“I don’t swear,” she said with a glint in her eyes. “You must simply take my word. Or else, I’ll turn around and leave.”

He watched her intensely, evaluating her, it seemed. “Give me but your word, then.”

“You have it. I give you my word to serve you honestly until the culmination of my employment.” And suddenly she grinned. It seemed, at last no longer capable of controlling it, she was laughing at him. Yet he knew that was but her mutable way, her odd set of reactions, even now. He knew it, just as he was sure completely that she’d meant what she said.

“Excellent!” He smiled back at her, trying to match her volatile manner. “Now—”

“Another thing, my lord.”

“Well?”

“I’d prefer you call me simply by my name, Ranhé.”

“Fine. From now on, Ranhé, you’ll be on my lips, unless the New Rainbow dawns.” A smile quivered about his mouth.

“And yet another thing. You think I’m a saint, not caring to be paid? Wrong. I would like the seventy-five dahr now, the ones you owe me.” And then she added. “Really, it’s but my purse crying out for them.”

He laughed softly. “That, as soon as we’re inside. But first, escort my kinswomen within.”

Ranhé inclined her head, turned to obey, then again paused. “Is it wise, m’lord, that I leave you alone? What if there’s someone else out here who wants you dead?”

“No doubt there might be. However, I am sufficiently alert now, so that I can defend myself. I can defend myself. Really. Despite what you might think at this point.”

“Of course,” she hurried to say. “Only, wouldn’t it make sense that you yourself escort your kinswomen? They are surely tired of being ignored.”

“Yes, Elas,” suddenly came from the carriage. “Won’t you help us out of here now? Really, cousin, Mother is quite ill, no thanks to you, and I am ill with impatience. What is with you?”

Curtain aside, Lixa’s pretty oval face watched her cousin with odd intensity. She turned to glance at Ranhé then, with a curious look. “Woman,” she said, “I barely know you, but I love when people tell Elas what to do. He deserves it.” And she threw him a coquette glance.

“Thank you, my lady.” Ranhé inclined her head slightly, more to cover an amusement in her eyes. “I admit to not knowing you at all, yet I am at your service.”

She is right, Elas thought, I’ve been inexcusably absentminded for these last two days. For the past couple of months in fact, ever since—

He opened the door of the carriage, and saw at once, from the wan looks of Molhveth Beis, how careless he’d been indeed.

“Madam. . . .”

“Oh, my boy,” began the dame. “It has been a nightmare, this trip of ours. I am so frightened for you! Knowing now in what constant danger you live! I never knew—”

You don’t suspect even half of it, he thought. And neither does my new right hand. For now. . . .

“Let me help you inside, so the two of you can rest,” said Elas gently. “This City House is not half bad. I’ll find a professional driver in no time, while you will have a chance to stretch, before we continue to Dirvan. We are almost there, Aunt.”

“Oh-h-h,” the elderly one moaned in response, as she was helped, amid the swish of her skirts, to step out of the carriage.

“I suppose,” said Ranhé, “I should stand out here and guard this vehicle against thieves.”

And then she was unable to hold her tongue any longer. “My lord, really, how can someone of your station travel in this way, without extra servants or guards, or anything? Forgive me, but now that I really work for you, I have to say it! You’re acting like one living in a dream, oblivious of the surroundings! No wonder you were almost killed! A holy miracle that you’re still unharmed!”

“Yes, Elas, I’ve noticed that also . . .” muttered Molhveth Beis, nodding (without it occurring to her that maybe for once this guardswoman spoke beyond her limits). “Truly unlike you . . . Why didn’t you agree to those three servants I wanted to take along? Or the extra carriage for some of Lixa’s belongings? Whatever the bridal custom might be, she must have them. Do you realize that now I’ll just have to send for them, to have my men make an extra trip—Really! Why didn’t I insist?!” she ended in a rising voice.

“Come inside now,” spoke Elasand, his tone revealing nothing, his eyes away from them, glancing at the busy traffic all about, the mist-gray sunlit place. The wind—smelling faintly of cooking smoke and the perfume of backyard roses—touched tendrils of his black hair and seemed to sweep him away also, into a different place.

Ranhé watched him.

I am in a dream, and they don’t even know it, he thought, suddenly from far away. I’ve been this way for so long now. So long. . . . I’ve forgotten peace, I have not been myself. Ever since, all these months ago, I have seen, for the first time, violet.

Ranhéas. There’s something about her that’s of the same quality, vaguely familiar, as that which obsesses me. Maybe it is why I’d insisted upon her remaining with me. Because she exudes this sense . . . Her eccentricity is stained with an otherworldliness, and we share something in common. What is it?

He never allowed himself to finish the thought, but followed Lixa and Dame Beis through the simple great wooden door of the City House, to a cool interior and the business at hand.

Ranhé, alone at last, allowed herself a tiny brief smile, the kind no one ever saw but herself. She then closed and locked securely the doors of the empty carriage, took the reins in her hands, while making soothing sounds to the horses, and then deftly scrambled up to the driver’s seat.

She thought she had done, as usual, well, engaging her imperceptible and always impeccable mix of real honesty and masterful guile. For the last half-hour, only she herself knew how much of what she had “confessed” to her prospective employer was truth.

Elasand-re, she thought, only one thing I regret. That you must now waste more of your time and generous money by hiring some driver when—if you’d but asked—I could’ve performed this job equally well, if not better than a professional.

But you didn’t ask. That’s the point. And anyway it’s best that you know less about me, if possible. About what I can do.

And thinking, she watched Tronaelend-Lis, metallic-bright under the sun, swarming wonderfully all around her. And she waited.

CHAPTER 8

Dirvan is a golden whore.

I say this as I help you rip the veils, like spider silk, from the spectral obstacle before you, flimsy endless veils of deception.

Look closely, and trust nothing, not even me, as for the first time you clearly behold Dirvan.

It is the bright center of the busily dreaming City, wherein blossoms that which is called luxury, or as others know it, excess. Here, all is pleasing to the aesthetic sense. Here, beauty, elegance, light, all things sensual, and the spiritually sublime, had once intermixed, and their final product is the aristocracy, the elite, heir to the wonder that exists here. As always, things are circular; one is wrought by the other, which in turn gives birth to the first. Such is the nature of the place.

Dirvan was an island. It was surrounded by the Arata, and yet again surrounded by the rest of the City, and hence, the world. Dirvan was thus said to be at the core of all things.

The City was built on flat land, and Dirvan never towered over its surroundings, as did some other great city acropoli. The large circular island was a flat place, with cultivated lawns of sweet aromatic grass, shaded alleys and groves, summerhouses of pale gleaming marble amid gardens, everywhere growing things lush and dark, creepers and vines scaling elegant walls of occasional great Villas, all growth straining toward the light.

Here, all the Great Families held Villas, their necessary places of residence at the Court. These were in addition to the real great holdings of land elsewhere in the West Lands that all aristocrats owned. Some of them chose to live at Dirvan permanently, while others—like Beis and Vaeste—disdained the life of the Court, and resided in the country, heedless of any Regental displeasure.

The Villas, lawns, and groves, constituted the Outer Gardens, all accessible to the public (except for the mysteriously luxurious private gardens and insides of the residences). Such had been the law of Kings, since ages past, that the ordinary folk could always have a chance to see the better life, even if they could never attain it.

A generously cruel law. Yet it inspired some to strive for improvement in their lot, by way of example. They who had succeeded in such striving, were the ones who had later founded Guilds, the enterprises of the ordinary, with their own claim to elitist power, if not to fine blood.

And thus they came, people of the West Lands, to gawk in wonder at the gleaming elegance, the refinement, at the finely polished surfaces of marble and metal catching the light, the contrasts of darkness and pallor that ingenious architectural contrivances exhibited, stressing deep relief and carvings. They observed the pale buildings against ebony vegetation, and the beating fountains of structured water ranging from fine mist-like spray and tiny dew drops, to powerful waterfall-streams glittering like liquid metal in the sun—fountains miraculously built to defy with seeming effortlessness the flatness of the land and the pull of gravity, with their distant source water towers hidden cleverly out of sight amid thick foliage.

All these forms and others hypnotized with their constant fluidity of real and abstract motion, the stationary objects with their surfaces which were made to specially play with light—finely grained, minutely striped, looping, spherical carvings, exquisite statuary everywhere. Solid form ruled the Outer Dirvan.

The Outer Gardens were maintained and lightly policed by servants native to Dirvan. They were also the ones who cared for the contrasting black and pale swans in the pools, all varieties of garden and exotic birds, and beasts that were tame and were kept as pets of the Regents.

Fearlessly the creatures came to walk the Gardens, came into the alleys where humans walked, allowed themselves to be touched. They also were under the protection of the old Kings’ law, so that none could harm them here.

Many came to Dirvan to see the wonder upon wonder. There was no toll to cross the Arata along one of its numerous bridges, from the Markets of one of the Quarters. Visitors crossed the Canal, wondering even at that premature point, at the elegance of the bridge they trod, light and well-paved, and the relative narrowness of the rapid Arata, spanning no more than a hundred feet in width, its waters fed by a complex subterranean system of pipes. They came to the grassy bank of Dirvan, where the pale marble and cultured gardens met their eyes, and took one of the many gravel paths to penetrate farther into the haven of the Regents. Their passage was ultimately blocked, however, deep within the island, by tall ornate walls of pale stone, forming—as expected—a perfect circle around the very center of Dirvan. These were the Palace Walls, elegant and forbidden, for beyond them none but the nobles could set foot.

And so, the disappointed visitors to Dirvan, originally expecting to be allowed everywhere, would pause maybe, in consternation, look the walls up and down, noticing the relentless Regents’ Guards posted at both of the only two Gates that led inside this core within a core, and would finally turn around in disappointment to look at other things on this island.

They might want, as consolation, to see the great gleaming Fountain on the eastern side, called the Vein, because of the deeply pulsing manner with which the water sprang forth from its dark sculpted-blossom source. Or else, northward there was the magically eerie alley of weeping willows. Trees grew there with branches so fine, leaves so tiny and delicate, like tufts of down, or cascading lace, that people called it the Walk of Northern Falls. There, willows moved in the wind, like down-streaming water, and their whispering was the breath of gods.

If the visitors, by any chance, had little children with them, then the little ones would, after running around the grass and fountains and statuary, clamor to see one more thing, one more wonder that Dirvan contained. “The Tomb, the Tomb!” they’d cry. “Let’s see the Tomb of the King!”

And the older ones would relent, and allow themselves to be led by their awed children, to a place northeast of the Palace Walls. There, right near the Arata’s bank, cedar and cypress—one spanning great width, the other, like a painted obelisk, narrow and straining to the sky—the rich black trees sprouted in a grove to conceal a peculiar solemn structure.

Carved of intensely pale stone, polished to a mirror gleam, it was of no more than fifty square feet. Its base was formed like an odd four-point star or a square with cut-away parabolic curves instead of sides, upraised the height of a man from ground level by stairs that curved along with the base exactly. From each of the four “star-point” corners, a circular column rose for more than fifty feet upward, smooth, stoic and unadorned, but for its mirror-polish.

The structure thus had no walls. It was topped, however, by a dome with a large circular skylight in the very middle, covered with transparent glass to let in the silver sun.

One stepped within, after climbing the ten or so stairs (and the children by then having cowered back in unconscious awe, letting the adults move ahead), treading with care upon the fine smooth marble floor, looking up to see the inside of the cupola dome carved into fine relief, forming patterns of flowers and geometry, as intricate, as delicate, as flakes of snow, or the patches of capillaries near the center of the eye. . . .

Yet that held one’s attention for a second only. Several paces forward began a waist-high similarly carved fence of marble inlaid with mother-of-pearl (a thing born of the sea, which contains in it the movement of light upon the waves, and is prized for its fluidity) and hueless gold, sparkling like gray fire. One could not go beyond it, for, like a precipice, beyond lay a deep pit of carved luxurious stone. So deep it was, that the shading dome, with its single window-skylight, had not enough light to illuminate it down to the very bottom, so that its base was in misty eternal shadow.

It was out of that diamond-shaped pit that a great rectangular pillar sprung upwards, like a lily stem out of water, forever isolated by the depth of the pit, from all sides unapproachable. The pillar, a heavy block of stone, rose out of the pit and beyond it, higher than eye-level of a grown man. Empty space remained for several feet between the pillar and the outside carved fence, just far enough to allow viewers to inspect the rich stone workings and the formal inscription, yet not close enough to see very fine detail, unless one’s vision was perfect.

Upon the pillar-dais, also decorated with insets of gold and mother-of-pearl, under a transparent covering of glass hermetically sealed to the stone, lay in state a motionless figure of a man wearing the ceremonial armor of Kings.

Not a glimpse of flesh anywhere. The body was completely encased in the richly engraved steel which did not appear at all to darken with age, but rather was of a naturally black dull hue. Not a sign of a once-living body—except for the head. He wore no helmet, this last King, maybe so that none would doubt that the body was genuine, and not simply empty arranged armor. (Although even then, some dared to argue that maybe there was but the head, and the body, damaged in some way, had been long since discarded. But then, others said, who would want to go to the trouble of preserving only the head? Might as well put a closed helmet in its place—and so they debated.)

On a silken pillow, his head rested, and it was the absolute center of everyone’s attention. Just a little out of reach of visibility so that small details would be blurred, it appeared wax-like, unreal. The face was itself like marble, exquisite and strong, and simultaneously, pitifully young. The brows were dark, graceful and well defined. While his hair, long in the fashion of the time, and wavy, was paler than polished silver in sunlight.

Again, some argued, this was but a wax doll. The real body couldn’t have been preserved so well, without a hint of decay, of drying up. The strongest arguments for this theory had been that there was not the lightest sheen of facial hair on his cheeks and jaw. Despite the so-called scientist physicians arguing to the contrary, all expected that a dead man’s hair, and nails, for that matter, would continue to grow for about two weeks after death.

But what of the special secret preservation techniques that were most probably used, others retorted? And for that matter, yet others put in, how can one distinguish all that anyway, from the distance?

The mysterious preservation process was called Stasis. It left the body to appear so real, so lifelike, that, it was claimed, one could not tell at a proximity, that it was death. The official reasons for it had been that the young King, Alliran Monteyn, was taken fatally ill suddenly, and died, soon upon coming to the Full Power, at the age of twenty-seven. And since he was so well loved, none could bear to have him decay and be gone, in his prime, the last of his Line, and having left no heirs. So they Preserved him thus, with the skillful aid of sorcerer-physicians, using an arcane embalming process the skills of which were now forgotten, for the benefit of the generations to come. A likely story, that, of a time more than three hundred and eighty years ago.

Somehow, there had always been that sense of some other mysterious reason for this solemn glorious setup. The simplest folk could sense it, in the stoic grandeur of the Mausoleum, the haunting beauty of the dead man’s face, the way his armored limbs seemed so strong and well formed. And even more, it was in the touching hopeful manner that the large metal-gloved hands lay folded on his breast, against the hilt of the ornately sheathed long-sword. The sword bore, carved, the Winged Bird symbol of the Line of Monteyn.

There was that sense of promise about him, a symbol of hope, of protection against the bleakness of the future. Plain folk are always first to feel such symbols, they who need it most.

And the visitors would watch this in silent awe, loving from the first glance their last long-dead King, loving his glamour and mystery and some other unclear deeper thing. And fearlessly clamoring again, their children would at last be allowed, after being raised onto someone’s tall shoulders, to get a better, closer, more intimate look at the King. They, the children, would gape silently, and see more perfectly—as perfectly as anyone could—the forever-petrified face, and they would probably never forget that moment, recalling it when much older.

The visitors would turn around then, made to pause suddenly, to think more deeply for an instant. There would be a secretly shed tear or two (yes, some cried at the sight of him), and even the children would hush, as they left the Mausoleum. All regrets at not being able to see the Regents’ Palace would be long gone from their minds, and they would leave completely satisfied that they had seen all that is of worth in Dirvan. And quite possibly, they would be right.

Yet what lies inward from the Palace Walls is a thing of beauty and nobility in a different sense, and is worthy of attention also, to one who would know Tronaelend-Lis to its innermost heart.

Beyond the Palace Walls, where only those of the Noble Ten Families could enter unless specially invited by the Regents, lay the even more elegant Inner Gardens. Trees and flowers of unmatched perfection could be found there, alongside exquisite gravel walkways, tiny grottoes and bowers, marble amid quietly trickling delicious streams. And all paths led, meandering, to the absolute heart of the City, the Palace. Once it had been called the Palace of Kings, and officially that was its name still. But more and more often was it referred to as the Palace of Regents. Others bitingly named it the Hole of Gold, out of certain strong feelings about the Regents’ rule.

Long before the Fall had the Palace been built, like a great octagon, a wheel—a parallel to the whole City. And for that very reason, because it had been originally meant for a different world which somehow incorporated in it natural color, many of the non-relief frescoes and paintings decorating its marvelous interior had to be changed, restored. The Light Guild and Artisans Guild together were put to work on a collaborative secret process to make color dyes. (The Light Guild was new then, appearing soon after the Fall, because of its unique secret knowledge regarding the workings of light and color and Rainbow.) The wondrous dyes were applied to the Palace rooms, the walls meticulously painted from old Palace Records which specified exactly where each color was seen to lie. The brightest white monochromes were turned on. And suddenly, odd glorious visions of colorful brightness, almost unbeautiful in their bizarre nature, struck the eye!

Flowers—yes, forms that all knew as flowers—were practically popping off the walls, more scarlet than the Red Quarter at night! Or, they glared like blue, or yellow, or orange monochromes, the ones people were used to seeing illuminating only the better public places. The leaves of plants, when painted over by the proper dye, suddenly glowed green! No wonder now, regarding the peculiar usage of the archaic word “greenery” as it had once referred to growing things in the Old Tongue—plants had indeed been green back then!

The Restoration was thus completed under the second Regent, transforming the Palace into a house of wonder. It was but a privileged few who could gaze at it, however. And of those few, who could forget the beauty of the Hall of the Throne, where the living color frescoes caught one’s eye more than the gray shine of the pure gold Thrones? Or, the Gallery of the Sea, turned aqua and green? Or even the two tiny rooms on the farthest eastern and western sides, the East Room of Dawn and West Room of Sunset, where on the walls were depictions of the sun rising and setting—not bleak gray as the sun is in real life, but impossible orange and yellow and almost white? In these rooms, the ancient Kings came to meditate and attain an inspired peace. And they looked, it is said, upon a different garish world. . . .

The Royal Palace stood thus, in the center of Dirvan and Tronaelend-Lis, and the world—as people claimed. And it was accessible only to the Royal Monteyn, the Regent Grelias, and eight other Great Families. The Families, most aristocratic of all, had been like all others, oddly touched by the event later called the Fall of Rainbow. It was then that they took upon themselves an additional honorary distinction.

Each allied one’s name with a particular color, and stressed its “use,” in the form of monochrome illumination, or excessive employing of that color dye on clothing and other daily belongings. Finally, when it became clear that overusing color dyes was not too practical (one could perceive color only under a white monochrome) and exceedingly expensive, the color “association” was retained but formally. (The Palace had been the last such experiment on a grand scale in which the use of color dye was considered worthwhile.)

And so it was that the extinct Line of Monteyn Kings was allied with violet, the highest in the spectrum, long after the last Monteyn was entombed in his Mausoleum. Grelias, so eager to be second, took blue. The artistic Khirmoel claimed green. Caexis, always passionate opponents of the Grelias, embraced yellow. The elegant beautiful Daqua took orange, making a paragon of colors from it. Traditional Beis embraced red.

And then, there were no more “pure” colors of the Rainbow left. Well, in those days, they said that gold and silver had once had their own distinctive colors. And of all things, silver was actually most like the “color” of the present world. Thus, the four Families that were left had to improvise. Lirr, always outrageous and unpredictable, claimed that since they owned gold to excess, why not take upon themselves this very “respectable” color gold, whatever it was? While Olvan, who were stoically proud of their plainness, thought it only appropriate to take silver—if it was the “standard of the world”—as their own. Prada, the fantastically rich but too vulgar then to aspire to greater honor, claimed as theirs the color of the earth, brown, deciding in perverse humility that their blood was close to being as plain.

Who was left? One guesses only too well—Vaeste. But then, from knowing Elasand, it’s not too difficult to surmise that they were even then an odd haughty lot. Vaeste, more ancient, more proud than all the others, including Grelias, and probably approaching the extinct Monteyn itself, vacillated and carelessly allowed the rest to choose, without making a claim.

Yet when their turn came, and the Regent of the time asked about their formal color, Vaeste, more unpredictable than Lirr, and more peculiar than all, came forward and claimed white.

But again, this is but unverified ancient history gleaned from snippets recorded in musty archival tomes of the Lyceum and Library—history intimately related to Dirvan, and to the great things of the time. And thus, Dirvan bears along its timeline a direct connection to the often ludicrous, yet all-prevailing concept of Rainbow, and color. Without that event, scholars argue, the world, Tronaelend-Lis, and Dirvan, would be different in the very nature of the wonder they project. . . .

But now, such is the world, and such is Dirvan.

Ranhéas Ylir, serving the Lord Vaeste, was ever aware of these things, peripherally, subtly, as she returned for yet another time to this exorbitant core of Tronaelend-Lis, so well familiar to her who was of no splendid family, but simply of great ingenuity and means.

* * *

Postulate Eleven: Rainbow is Ambiguous.

* * *

This was the poorer, outer section of the Foreign Quarter, the one that began on the other side of the Fringes Thoroughfare, and spanned in an outer ring the entire City. The Foreign Fringes were almost as dilapidated as the infamous Southern Fringes of the Free Quarter, bordering them from the southeast. Buildings here were worn, several stories tall, dreary with brick and limestone, falling apart in places, and partially abandoned—although never as severely in disrepair as the ones in the Southern Fringes. Scraggly trees dared to show themselves from beyond cracked washed-out walls and tall elderly fences.

Many of the residents here fell under the category of “scum,” as the richer folk and nobles would say. And yet, just as many were but honestly poor. They looked out with tired eyes from the windows of their elderly houses. They walked the streets with bent heads and bent backs. Eyes rarely met, except in briefest human contact.

Streets here were wide and paved, however, because not only the Fringe natives walked them.

This was the home of the Merchants Quarter. Richly dressed figures would flash from the windows of frequent speeding carriages. And it could be observed that some carriages even bore on them the Crests of the Noble Ten, for even they of noble blood occasionally held in check their fastidiousness to pay a business visit to some member of the Merchant Guild. Thus, a conveyance would stop before some storefront, a noble would alight, and then quickly disappear into one of the tall buildings, worn and old on the outside.

And yet—who knows, who really knows—some of these outwardly dilapidated houses contained in them stores of rich materials brought here from far places.

And the tall houses all around had eyes, very attentive eyes indeed, as the poor residents would watch the figures dressed in finery.

In their little dirty room, three such poor beings—two urchins and their mother (a woman of twenty years who looked like an old hag from having drudged all her life)—observed the gray street below. The little girl leaned with her grimy elbows against the soot of the window-pane.

“Ooh!” she mouthed. “Look at tha’ one. Ma, look!”

The young hag-mother stood by the window, knitting out of habit, even on her feet. “Yes, that’s a fine one there,” she said complacently, as her index finger guided the coarse yarn, and the wooden needles flashed with speed.

Three stories down, on the street below, a fine carriage indeed had paused before the house across the street from them. This time, the little boy sucked in his breath in wonder. Three overlapped Crescents of Lirr graced the sides of the equipage in fine etched relief upon dull gleaming metal. The horses were fine-limbed, elegant, dark like the night.

“Who might tha’ be?” said the girl. “Who, Ma?”

“Don’t you know anything?” said the boy. “That’s Lirr, of Gold. That Symbol there, remember? How many times did I explain all the Symbols to you that you still have to ask, brickhead?”

“Brickhead yourself, stupid!”

“Double brickhead on you, mole-face, rat-hair! You’re just too damn stupid, aren’t you?”

“Ma-a-a-ah!” The girl began to whine.

“Sh-h-h,” said the mother, completely ignoring it all. “Look! Look at that one, the one that’s coming out.”

And for a moment, her glassy exhausted eyes were invigorated by a memory, and gained focus. She paused her knitting. “Yes . . .” she said. “Look carefully at this one, both of you. You’ll never see one like that again.”

“Who is he, Ma?” said the boy, watching a tall elegant figure emerge from the equipage. “He looks rich and fine, is he a great lord?”

“Not he,” the woman said very softly, and a smile grew on her lips. “No, that one is not a he.”

“Not a he?” The girl turned to stare back at her mother in surprise. “You mean tha’ fancy man with a sword showing at his side is not a man but a woman? Ooh!”

“No,” said the mother, after an odd pause. “Not a woman either.”

“Hah!” the boy snorted, scrunched up his face in a suddenly cynical streetwise grin, like someone considerably older. “I know what you mean then, Ma. He’s a boy’s man, ain’t he? He likes boys, right? Got his berries clipped? Or, maybe that’s a fine lady-wench that likes girls, and likes to dress up as a grown man, eh, Ma? See, I know all about that.”

The woman continued staring out the window, watching the graceful cloaked noble—for all appearances, a man—smooth out the cloak with bejeweled gloved hands, then head for the storefront entrance. And she softly, negatively shook her head.

“And not even that,” she said. “That one is not what you think, a eunuch, nor a boy-lover, nor a woman who loves other women. That is neither man nor woman.”

The little girl’s expression was totally uncomprehending, wide-eyed, while the boy’s brow narrowed in confusion.

“What do you mean?” he snorted. “Are you trying to kid me, Ma? If it ain’t a man and ain’t a woman, what else’s left?”

The woman took a deep breath, letting memories rush to her, seeing herself back then, a face in the crowd.

“I have seen that one once before, long ago,” she said. “That is Carliserall Lirr. They call that one the Phoenix, because of the Gold of Lirr. And Carliserall is neither a man nor a woman. No one knows which that one is.”

“But—how can that be?” breathed the boy, suddenly innocent as his true age. “Tell us!”

“I will tell you of Carliserall Lirr, then,” continued the woman. “For that is one mystery in this world that is so well obscured, so hidden, that no one will ever solve it and live to tell about it.

“No one knows, children, what Carliserall Lirr truly is. One day Carliserall is a man—like today. And as you can see, Carliserall makes a fine man, for all appearances. Truly, you would never doubt it, unless you know.”

“Know what?” exclaimed the boy.

“Hush, wait. Carliserall, they say, on the day that it chooses to appear as a man, does so. He then is even known to love a woman properly. . . . Now, on other days, they say, Carliserall chooses to appear as a woman, dressing like one, styling the hair in a feminine manner, even wearing a revealing décolleté which shows a woman’s breast—”

“Then it’s gotta be a woman!” cried the boy. “No man I heard of can pretend that!” And he laughed crudely.

“Wait, listen! On the days when Carliserall is a woman, she flirts and makes love to men. And yet, I’ve heard, when Carliserall is a man, he had once loved a woman, and a result, the woman had borne a baby son!”

“From some other real man, no doubt!” said the boy. “Nah, I still don’t believe this. It’s gotta be a woman!”

His mother tiredly shook her head. “I’ll not argue with you, think what you will, boy. But I’ll just tell you that according to folks who’re a hundred times better ‘n smarter than us, folks who’d tried to find out in many ways, even men and women who’d claimed to have bodily loved this Carliserall Lirr—they all say different things! And you know what? They all swear to have real proof!”

In the meantime, angry voices arose from the street below. Another carriage—this one dark and unmarked—stopped before the storefront. Liveried servants of the House Lirr who attended Carliserall’s carriage with an attitude of bored insolence started an altercation with the attendants of the other equipage. Supposedly, it was blocking their path.

The others, in turn, began yelling that it was Lirr that blocked their path. And besides, the Lirr carriage wasn’t going anywhere at the moment while the high and mighty lord was inside the building.

“Who’s your master anyway?” cried one of the attendants of the other carriage. “Is he man enough to hold back his own, to give you what’s best deserved, a good whippin’?”

“Our master, Carliserall Lirr, knows what’s best to be done with rabid scum like you.”

“Oh, it’s the Phoenix, is it? You mean mistress, then! Well, we don’t want to disturb any ladies now! So very sorry!”

The servants of Lirr were by now well used to such taunts. Their answer was cool, bored, impeccable:

“Our master Carliserall, who is man today, will deal with you shortly. And now, out of our way, begone, scum!”

Exaggerated neighing laughter came from the servants of the unmarked carriage. “O-o-o-oh! O-o-o-oh! We’re so scared!” they cried, cringing in mock terror, and gesturing phallic obscenities at Lirr.

In that instant, the tall figure of Carliserall strode quickly from the building.

“Here it comes!” cried someone, “Here it comes, the Phoenix whore!” And they waited to see what Carliserall would answer.

Three stories above, the three who watched also waited.

Carliserall, tall, cloaked, with hair that was magnificent, metallic-fire in the gray sun, and elfin beautiful features, paused only for a moment before ascending the carriage. Carliserall’s eyes stopped to rest on the one whose insult was heard last. Such pale lodestones, those eyes. . . . And on the lips, a flicker of a smile.

Never once did Carliserall blink. And the footman averted his gaze first. The man had to look away, because to meet the honest intensity of those clear eyes took far more manliness than he could muster.

Well? those eyes seemed to speak. Now that I look at you, now what?

And as the footman pondered that wordless question that he thought he saw there, that radiant look, Carliserall—lithe and strong as a leopard—was gone inside the carriage.

Never was anything spoken, not a word.

The Lirr carriage was moving, was gone.

The attendants of the unmarked equipage remained silent. They had been moved to silence because it had seemed to them all, as Carliserall had passed, that a sense of justice passed also, a rightness. A charm was now upon them, making them unable to mock, only to let things be.

In the small window, three floors above, the boy continued to stare, as the mother, knitting, turned away, and the little girl also.

“How—beautiful that Carliserall was, Ma,” he whispered. “Did you see, Ma, those strange eyes? What a great fine lord—or whatever it was.”

“Yes,” said the woman with a brief note of sadness, then apathy, “I saw the eyes . . . again.” And she spoke nothing more.

“I feel sorry for it, Ma!” said the little girl suddenly. “Neither man nor woman—no matter how beautiful, I wouldn’t wanna be like tha’! And I’m scared, Ma! I’m scared of it!”

But the mother silently continued her task, seemingly forgetting what they had just witnessed. And after a little while, the girl forgot too, and went to play in her grubby corner.

Only the boy continued to stand at the window and watch. Unlike his sister, he had seen the lodestone eyes of the Phoenix, and like all the rest, would never now forget.

While far away, in the quickly moving carriage that bore the Crescents of Lirr, Carliserall, sitting alone, also could not forget.

The same mocking taunts, no matter where. They were the only eternal companions. To these taunts, Carliserall had learned to show the same awful light flickering smile. And always, a direct look.

Nothing less, nothing more. And because it was so direct, it also appeared ambiguous. No matter what, it will always appear thus to all of these others, they who would never leave Carliserall alone.

And yet, despite all, Carliserall never pretended, and always offered them the same truth. It might have been the truth of the moment, but it was truth nevertheless.

Truth of a man, truth of a woman.

CHAPTER 9

Postulate Twelve: Rainbow is a State of Mind.

* * *

Somewhere in the secret womb of Tronaelend-Lis—not Dirvan, but the womb which rests within the confines of the Light Guild and is sometimes called the Inner City—somewhere existed a large cold chamber of pale grays, dun silvers and flickering shadows. The room was airy and chill, bare of adornment, and ironically, unlit by any sorcerous color monochromes, only by the dying steel sunset.

Silhouetted against the sunset were three forms, three men of singular power and bearing.

Present among them was the Guildmaster of the Assassin Guild, the infernal Bilhaar. Also within this company of three was a Minister of the Regents. And one of the three was the Guildmaster of the Light Guild himself.

Two of these were diplomats of the highest class.

One was of a class outside diplomacy.

Two of these hated the Grelias with a dispassionate intensity that would put all of the eloquent Caexis vitriol to shame.

One of these would stand to love the Regent Grelias despite all odds, unto death.

And all three were loyal to the City Tronaelend-Lis, and would lay down their lives for it, if they must.

The three men stood in silence. Two of them were tall, elegant, very much alike in some ways, and yet as different as sun and night.

The one that was night had exceedingly dark long hair with a pale streak running through it, a silver albino lock on his right side, and opaque eyes, so beautiful and pale that they too could capture in them the sun, like clouded crystal, like ice. His pale wax-fine skin stood in sharp contrast with his raven locks.

The other man—he whose hair was like the sun, a bright long shocking mane—was tall and well formed like his dark counterpart. He stood motionless, waiting, it appeared, for someone else to respond.

The third man was shorter and older than the first two, and with a receding hairline. Poised and calm, with a gaze of warm intelligence, he looked from one to the other patiently, for it appeared that a decision was based upon these two agreeing, while he had already finished his argument.

“It appears,” said Elasand Vaeste, “that I must bring up the idea of the Guilds Council carefully, first with the Regentrix, if I manage, and then with Hestiam. I can rely upon the consistency of her responses more so than his. . . . That way, she will probe his mood, prime him for my Audience of two evenings hence.”

“Undoubtedly he will never be as receptive as she is to you,” said the man with the sun-hair. He had well-defined eyebrows that were unusually dark for someone so pale-haired, lending him a vivid intensity. However, his eyes were lazy and half-lidded, possibly hiding repressed laughter.

Elasand watched him blankly, saying nothing.

“It is settled then,” said the third, older man, almost with relief, and to dispel the tension. “You, my dear Elasand-re, will be the first to bring this up tomorrow, when you see Deileala.” His voice was soothing, pleasant, and yet only a very close observer would note the traces of nervous exhaustion that made his expression more than usually mask-like.

“You see,” the older man continued, “I find that at this point, I am simply in no position to suggest it myself first. I have worked for months to produce the degree of equilibrium at Dirvan that we are all enjoying. So it’s vital that it must be someone like you, Lord Vaeste, someone who has—shall we say—a ready listener in Deileala.”

Elasand ignored the older man, watching instead the other with the pale hair. “You still have not acknowledged,” he said to the blond, “that a Bilhaar dozen has been dispatched against me. My lord, I would like to know why.”

The half-lidded eyes never changed their expression. “You are mistaken,” said the blond man. “There is no logical reason I would want to snuff out your valued life, my Lord Vaeste. Ridiculous, when you are who you are, and so needed. You know that very well. Besides, you and I both know those I send always finish the job.”

“We also both know that Bilhaar never act on their own. If not you, then is someone else in the Guild giving orders in your name and without your knowledge? Well? Is it Marihke, your right-hand man, or is it Feran the so-called Butcher of the Fringes? Is there a power fracture in the Guild?” Elasand’s eyes were alive with sarcasm and anger.

“The matter is closed, Elasand-re,” replied the Guildmaster of Bilhaar in the same soft deep voice, never changing the lazy expression of his eyes, never turning away. “I will not make an accounting of the Guild to you. Nor will I continue on the subject.”

“But you will continue trying to eliminate me.”

The blond man laughed softly. “Nonsense, Elasand-re. You have grown paranoid like the Grelias. You insult my intelligence. Don’t you realize that if I wanted you dead you would have been dead?”

“Not unless you are playing a complex game,” said Elasand. “In which case, I will be taunted with ‘failed’ attempts long before the final one is made, so that the ultimate blame will not repose on you.”

“Ah, the blame, always we are handed the blame,” recited the blond master assassin, turning away with a light smile still on his lips. His profile, silhouetted against the swooning sun, suggested an artist rather than a murderer.

“My lords,” the older man said in a conciliatory manner. “May we forget differences for the moment and return to the matter at hand?”

“Fine,” said Elasand. “If you, my Lord Chancellor, will back me, and if the Bilhaar will agree to refrain from anything for the duration of these two days, I may have success with the Grelias. In which case we will all have a chance at the much-needed reorganization of power. I believe it’ll benefit all the Guilds immeasurably, not to mention the rest of the City.”

“Fine with me, also,” said the Guildmaster of the Assassin Guild. “We will do nothing. But only for the two days. If, Vaeste, you do not succeed in convincing the Regent that after a hundred years it is high time to hold an official meeting of the Council of Guilds, I promise we will act in our own way.”

“Which means—” began the older man gently.

“Which means war, naturally,” interrupted the blond man, his eyes coming into hard focus. “Guild war, civil war, chaos, and bloody apocalypse. We all know what it would take to wipe the Grelias stagnation off the face of Tronaelend-Lis.”

“Yes, the beginning of the end. What it would take, according to you, would be hell for the rest of us,” said Elasand darkly.

“Please, my lords!” began the older man, now despairingly. He looked from one to the other—both proud, both angry, both hating the other, despite their outward equilibrium. “Please,” he continued, looking at the one who was the Guildmaster of Bilhaar. “War is the one thing we must not ever consider! There are always other alternatives—”

The Guildmaster of Bilhaar directed his look at the older man for the first time. “Sometimes,” he said, “there are no alternatives to war. Even now as we speak—of Guilds and petty internal politics, of restructuring—there is one who comes knocking on our door. ‘Lord Vorn’ you call him—Oh, don’t be afraid, my Lord Chancellor, I know all about that, since I know everything. Well, let me tell you. I have a strange little feeling about this one, this peculiar Lord Vorn of yours. . . .”

“What do you mean?” said the older man in a wooden voice.

“I have a feeling,” the blond man said, watching him from underneath heavy-lidded eyes, “that what you are most afraid of in the political sense is about to fall upon our heads. Something quite greater than a meeting between Grelias and the Council of Guilds.”

Elasand watched him intently.

“Don’t misunderstand me, of course,” continued the blond man. “I, like all of you, will not benefit from any external interference. I do not welcome a foreign invasion—yes, Lord Chancellor, do not cringe, I’ve pronounced the very words you cannot seem to face, the words that give you nightmares—”

“A foreign invasion!” exclaimed Elasand. “What in the world?”

“I’ll explain later,” whispered the Lord Chancellor.

“And not only will my Guild resent any act of aggression against this City,” went on the master assassin, “but we may be counted upon to negotiate a joining of certain forces—”

“Enough! What are you talking about?” said Elasand. “Have I been away so long from this wretched City that I do not know?”

In response, the Lord Chancellor briefly related the incident at the Inner Gates of the Palace. He spoke of the dark twelve, of the strange deaths.

“Why didn’t you tell me all of this immediately, lord?” said Elasand in a rising voice. “Because it changes everything!”

“How so?” The Chancellor no longer bothered to hide his worry.

“It should in no way change your plans for Deileala and her brother,” said the blond assassin with a smile. “Rather, I think it now makes everything much easier. You need only allow the Guilds Council idea to be swept in with the general momentum of panic in which Hestiam is now wallowing. Terrified as he is now, the Regent will listen to anyone who offers advice. Thus, we will ‘restructure’ and get ready for war at the same time. Quite efficient.”

“Please,” the Lord Chancellor said. “In the name of everything we hold sacred, we must not think that way! Do not even begin to think of war. Despite what you insist, there are always alternatives, even now. Now, everything is so delicate, at such early stages . . . I can see perfectly beneficial opportunities stemming from this Lord Vorn and his country—things like trade, an injection of new energy, something even more wonderful—”

“You are deceiving yourself, Chancellor,” said the Guildmaster of Bilhaar. “What kind of a beginning is it when these strangers come uninvited and mysteriously eliminate our Palace guards? How can you possibly trust them at all?”

“My dear, I am an optimist by virtue of my extensive political experience.”

“And yet, you are an idiot,” said the blond. “Despite your diplomatic finesse, your years of shrewd excellence, you’ve never had to take significant military steps. Or argue your political cause while being faced by a relentless enemy.”

“I am afraid in this case my lord is right,” said Elasand. “Lord Chancellor, this new matter is more serious than anything this City ever had to face. In truth, I’ve had an uneasy feeling on my way here, as though somehow I knew a misfortune was about to pass, something dark and sad—a premonition. Of night, of all things. Of twilight.”

“You realize, by the way, that the Summons from Grelias had been signed and sealed by me and Deileala, and not Hestiam,” said the Lord Chancellor. “The Regent had in fact barely acknowledged my suggestion that it was time Lord Vaeste showed himself at Dirvan after an absence of months. Lately, Hestiam has been immersed more than usual in his dark moods, oblivious to all but himself.”

“No, actually I didn’t know,” said Elasand softly.

For, I myself have been too absentminded, too much immersed in violet dreams. . . .

“In any case,” Elasand continued, “I am here now. And I will see to it that my Audience with the Regents will perform the necessary function.”

“You do that, Elasand-re,” said the blond man quietly.

Elasand threw him a look of utter blankness.

The metallic grizzled sunset had, in that instant, died out. Twilight came to swallow the chamber, for a span of heartbeats, before true black of night.

Then, out of the darkness, swelled three orbs of color. Slowly they bloomed from a bare flicker of the moon’s shadow, to a livid candescence, to a full marvelous monochrome light that bordered on yellow, blue and orange from the three different sources. So pale it was, so unsaturated, that to most this was considered nearly perfect white. Naturally, such supreme workmanship could only be found here, in the heart of the Light Guild.

A pause came, which they weathered by contemplating the blooming of the orbs. A small innocent distraction.

“I must be on my way then,” said Elasand. “I haven’t eaten and I am tired. We’ve arrived just this afternoon, and I still owe my Beis kinfolk the duty of a guardian for the remainder of the evening.”

“I’ve heard a Wedding is in the works,” said the Guildmaster of the Assassin Guild, smiling that faint infernal smile—infernally infuriating to Elasand, that is. “My congratulations to your lovely cousin Lady Lixa,” he added. “You must invite me to the Ceremony and let me nuzzle the Bride before she is locked away forever by that stuffy Daqua. Lixa has the freshest cheeks, the palest throat—”

“How the hell do you know Lixa?” said Elasand darkly but with bland control.

“How the hell do I know her? Why, the way I know all things. Ask me a better question than that, Elasand-re.”

“I will not bother to insist you keep away from her,” said Elasand with a shrewd semblance of indifference. “You may have her followed and watched all you like, of course. None of it matters. Simply remember that she is not significant enough to be a cause of your possible compromise. Keep that in mind, my lord.”

In response came deep laughter. “Do not fear on her account,” he said then, quieting down. “I have no desire or care to pursue your pale cousin, my friend. You have my assurance on that. I merely wanted to hear that telltale stiffness in your voice when you are worried. For, I know you too well. And despite what you think, I rather missed not having you here in the City.”

“Then don’t push it,” said Lord Vaeste.

The lazy half-lidded eyes watched him.

“My lords, shall we go our ways, then?” said the Lord Chancellor.

Bathed in bright pasted-on color light, the three men proceeded to exit the chamber.

As they did thus, the one of the three who was the Guildmaster of the Light Guild closed and locked the door to the room behind them.

* * *

The philosopher awoke with a start, feeling the cool breeze of evening, hearing the ghostly lull of the gardens about him. One last piercing sunray fell upon the smooth pool, and shattered the peace of the water’s surface. When it dispersed, there was only dusk.

The two swans had gone. It was time for him to go also, for somewhere in the City, beyond the Outer Gardens of Dirvan, hot dinner awaited.

He had been contemplating the divine concepts of Rainbow, and somehow must’ve lost track of time.

What nonsense! the philosopher realized then, rubbing his temples, and stretching himself. What sheer absolute nonsense have I concocted today, with my lazy thoughts. My meditation on the Twelve Postulates was worthy of a drunken shopkeeper in the Markets! As always, the truth, the real truth eludes me. Alas! Rainbow remains, as always, just a little beyond my reach.

And thinking that, he yawned deeply, gathered up his meditation rug, and proceeded along a narrow garden path.

In his place gathered twilight.

* * *

Like a whisper, a soft effervescent memory of violet. And then she was awake. . . .

Ranhéas Ylir woke up with sharp infant blades of sun striking across her closed eyelids, a fresh breath of air. From a great distance, like a faraway ocean, hummed the City.

She stretched, experienced the fine silk of the great canopied guest-bed around her, and remembered. She was in the lotus-womb of the Beis Villa.

Last night, after finally arriving at the Beis estate in Dirvan, the two noblewomen immediately retired upstairs to rest and concern themselves with the impending Wedding. So profoundly were they disturbed by the second, although accidental, attempt upon Elasand’s life, this time in front of the City House, that they refused dinner in the grand hall.

Ranhé was left to eat alone. Lord Elasand Vaeste, his face unreadable, excused himself. He informed her that she was to remain here while he had some urgent business to attend to.

“Don’t wait for me. I’ll return very late,” he said, while the metallic sun of early monochrome evening shone from a striking angle upon his face and was absorbed by the fathomless dark of his hair.

“My lord, what of my bodyguard duties—” she began, then saw the impatience in his eyes, and knew his mood instinctively.

“Your duties begin early tomorrow. For now, I simply entrust my female relations in your care. Be sure they’re not abducted by wild swans from under their own roof.”

He smiled lightly, and was gone. She allowed her thoughts to dwell on that delicate smile.

She knew he did not fully trust her, not yet.

Ranhé had a meal alone, while the twilight gathered, in an opulent chamber given her. She thought with a faint smile of her horse in an equally fine stable for the night, eating expensive City oats. How well indeed they were both stabled.

She watched the last of the burning gray sunset from the arched windows outside. Just before the absolute black of night slammed down upon the world, from outside came delicate birdsong, and a cooling breeze, flavored with faint perfume of the gardens of the Villa, of Dirvan itself. Jasmine and lilac, seeping from the pores of darkness. And she knew she was in the gilded cradle of this marvel-City, as she drifted off to sleep, driven by a combination of a racing heart, shaken nerves, and exhaustion.

Before sleep swindled her at last, she saw, in the haze of her mind, meandering rivers of song, and from a distance, spreading violet. . . .

When Ranhé woke up, it was to that infernal sun upon her eyelids.

It was late morning, and she’d always preferred the night. Usually, other stimuli were required to waken her—a sense of troublesome duty, an impending task, a loud voice.

For some reason she had expected a summons from him.

No summons had come, and so she lingered.

Eventually, the very laziness of the time, of her own relaxation, shocked her at last, so that she panicked, jumping up from her overly luxurious bed, and found her own clothes missing. Invisible servants had come soundlessly to remove her travel-stained attire, and in its place she saw a new outfit laid out. Dark, elegant, they were the jacket and trousers of a man, with an air of Court.

Ranhé held up the clothing before her. It suited her fancy perfectly, if not her actual frame. Ranhé was thin, but very large-boned and unexpectedly tall for a woman. Whoever had chosen this outfit—Elas himself?—had underestimated her physically, but correctly read her spirit.

She could disguise the fact that the trousers were too short by a tall pair of black lacquer boots that also fit her a bit too snugly. However, the silk shirtsleeves were obviously unacceptable, despite their appeal of fine antique cuff-links of gray gold.

She held the shirt up against her arms and wide shoulders, and imagined how—even though she would bind herself with a breast cloth—with one careless move she would rip the delicate seams at the shoulder, and burst the buttons on her chest. It was a humorous thought. She eventually summoned a servant who remedied the situation by providing her with a larger size.

While she waited for the replacement clothing, Ranhé went to the bath chamber adjacent to her bedchamber. There, she lingered somewhat unusually at her toilette, standing long in the warm cascading shower that only fine Villas had to offer. Silver water rained around her, struck the pale marble tiles of the bathing chamber, sputtering and dancing in a whirlpool around the bubbling artery of the sparkling metallic drain. She washed her long hair, wringing it eventually, and without letting it dry, gathered it behind her into a tight, neat, masculine braid-tail.

She then stood before the smooth ebony glass surface of the tall mirror, and observed herself, the pale nudity of her strong body, covered more than normal with dark body hair—legs, crotch, stomach, arms, breasts. Leaning closer, she ran her fingers over her chin, and observed closer the facial hair there also. Soon, she would have to remove it, before it became too striking for a woman’s face.

She hated the hair. It was beast-like, feral, masculine, grotesque, horrible. It made her asexual, unable in her self-hate to have physical intimacy with anyone.

It was her secret.

The person who eventually came downstairs to meet her lord employer was a surprise to the servants of the Beis Villa. They may have expected a number of things, but never, in all appearances, an elegant man, attired for Dirvan.

Ranhé did not have to wait long for the Lord Vaeste. Elasand himself wore an overjacket and trousers of velvet dusk, trimmed on the high collar with metallic braid. As he came down the stairs, his tall boots gleamed even more than her own.

“Good morning to you!” said Elasand.

“It is almost noon, my lord,” she retorted, smiling, “I’ve eaten my meal.”

“Good,” he said, “I know. It’s past eleven o’clock, but in the Palace, the Grelias are still stretching in bed. We’ll have to get used to the Dirvan schedule for the moment. Shall we go?”

She nodded silently, and followed him to the door.

Outside, a silver blinding radiance, and again, the wind. It swept at her, ballooned her lungs with giddiness. She followed Elas into the carriage flanked by liveried servants.

Inside, he drew the silk curtains aside to let in the gray daylight, and they were on their way. His face was speckled with sun and fleeting shadows of flying trees and branches, while his gaze was drawn ahead, heedless of her, it seemed, so she watched him openly.

She was wrong.

“You are well dressed,” he said, without turning her way. “It is fortunate, for we must appear like all else in Dirvan, impeccable. Sadly, Hestiam notices such absurd detail.”

“How shall I speak, if addressed?” she finally ventured a specific question.

In answer, he smiled, still looking before him.

“As much as possible, be silent. If anyone inquires, you are of no rank, simply in my employ. How? Try to avoid all details, and answer their question indirectly or not at all, for I prefer to leave your true bodyguard function secret.”

“And if someone insists?”

“Then make something up, or change the subject. I trust your skill in that.”

“Then I’ll be your business advisor from the country Vaeste estate. You have called upon me, and we are reviewing the state of your investments. Since you’ve been summoned so urgently, you naturally have unfinished business, and I am henceforth to accompany you until my task is done.”

“Ridiculous, but it’ll do. Just don’t get so creative that you cannot unravel yourself out of the lie.”

She smiled in turn, then was silent for a while, before venturing an even more important probe.

“It may not be my direct concern, but—what is the nature of our visit?”

“To tell you the truth,” he said, turning to look at her, “I don’t know. And yes, this is your concern. You must know my reasons, so that you can properly do your job of protecting me.”

His expression was genuine, intense. “In the future, never be afraid to ask such things. Because I know you must.”

“I’m not afraid,” she said, and smiled. “It is that, having been hired without any references, at your whim, I didn’t want to alarm you.”

The carriage now rolled along a narrow roadway of the public Outer Gardens, and within the span of several breaths, they had arrived. Here, only one road was paved and large enough to take them through the Inner Gates, which in turn led within the private realm of the Regents, the Inner Gardens and Palace.

At the Inner Gates, Ranhé noted heightened security. Previously, only two standard Regent Guards; today, a dozen.

Elasand answered her intuitive question. “There has been an incident. Here, at the Gates, the day before yesterday.”

“Oh?”

“It appears the City has strange guests. Strangers from a place far away—an unusual lord and his dozen retainers—have come here to see the Regents. The lord is an emissary of sorts. Before they were allowed to enter, there had been an unusual and alarming killing. For that reason, security is now high. Apparently, and for good reason, Hestiam is afraid.”

Ranhé had a number of questions, but at that point, their carriage was detained. Regent Guards looked askance at the Beis crest on the carriage, at cool-eyed Lord Vaeste and his companion, even at the silver-fringed Regent Summons in the lord’s fingers, before they were eventually allowed to proceed.

The Inner Gates opened to a garden of paradise, a mosaic of high contrast, of light and shadow upon slender cultivated trees flanking the path. Before them stretched the Palace, with ornate gates below a colonnade, and gentle steps of gleaming pale marble leading up to the entrance.

Servants better dressed than Ranhé bowed before Lord Vaeste as he quickly walked up the steps. She followed several paces behind.

Inside, the sunlight was soothingly eclipsed by the monochrome splendor of the front hall, the warmth of the day muted into a gentle cool emanating from eternal marble.

“I seek Audience. I’ve come in answer to His Grace’s Summons,” announced Elasand to the High Servant, handing him the silver parchment bearing on it the Double-Headed Lioness Seal.

In response they were motioned to wait while the High Servant relayed the Summons to a lesser servant, who in turn disappeared behind the carved relief doors of fire-gray gold.

And sooner than expected, the servant returned, and they were politely shown inside.

They were led through a network of high-ceilinged corridors to a large reception chamber. Nearly all of its perfectly square ceiling was opened by a great skylight covered with transparent glass, and latticed by fine metal grillework, creating the illusion of an open-air summerhouse. And right below it in the center of the mirror-tiled floor was a pond, like a miniature replica of the Arata, surrounding a flowering sculptural arrangement of a fountainhead and potted flowers. From the remote airy expanse of the ceiling, sunlight rained through the skylight and moved upon the trickling water that ran in intricate paths along the sculpture and flower forms, and spanned the cleverly designed perfect distance of marble to land into the pond.

The chamber had another entrance that opened upon the Palace Gardens. Against one of the walls was a raised dais with a pair of great marble chairs. One of the chairs was occupied by a large-set man in his late thirties, with a neat short beard and languid eyes. He was dressed in silk, but not too differently from the dozen or so courtiers surrounding him. It was but his total lack of protocol and deference that revealed him to be the Regent.

There were people everywhere, scattered in small conversational groups. It appeared to be a very ill-secured place, suggesting that many of the “courtiers” were in actuality plainclothes guards. With a skilled glance Ranhé took in the crowd.

The bearded man who lounged in the chair turned his languid eyes away from a servant with a tray of fruit. He saw Elasand and straightened in his seat, setting down his goblet upon a small tray-table nearby, and quickly motioning for others to clear away the remains of the ritualized breakfast. Now that his face was turned to them, Ranhé noted that his expression was disorientation, not languidity. And the infusion of hope that animated his eyes as soon as he recognized Vaeste had replaced a habitual fear.

“Your Grace!” said Elasand in a loud voice that carried across the chamber. “You wanted to see me.”

“Actually, it was I, and the Chancellor, who summoned you, my dear. Hestiam merely lent his seal. Although, I suppose he’s quite happy to see you now.”

A woman separated from the shadow of the sculptured fountain centerpiece, where she was seated upon the wide marble rim of the pond, and got up to approach them.

She was an apparition of silk and gauze and courtesan sensuality, her voluptuous curves barely hidden by the sheer outfit. Pearl droplets quivered in her earlobes, and one great pearl—descending on an exquisite silk tassel—was lodged in the almost grotesquely deep precipice between her breasts. One’s eyes were drawn there first, in wonder almost, and then to her face, pale and commanding. And then, framed by the dark formally coiffed hair, one saw the eyes. Intensely focused, they were two beacons.

Elasand’s face was unreadable as he bowed shortly before the woman, while Ranhé remained paces away, and effectively in his shadow. “Your Grace,” he said to her, throwing a brief questing glance in Hestiam’s direction. “Then I am here.”

The Regentrix smiled and took his hands in both of hers in a disarmingly familiar gesture. “Elasand-re,” she said. “It’s been such a long time since last you visited us that I simply had to exercise my will in bringing you here. Do you never grow tired of the country? Dirvan bores you, I suppose. Well, it bores me too. Especially when you’re away.”

“You are too kind, Your Grace,” responded Elasand. Then after an appropriate pause, he smoothly extricated his hands, saying, “I’ve been away too long, true, but now I am here at Your and His Grace’s service.”

“Enough, Deileala!” came the Regent’s own voice then. “Release him in peace, I have real business to conduct with this man. Come here, Elasand-re, so I wouldn’t have to yell or get up from where I am—he-he-he. Must I always wrestle this one from your clutching grasp, my sister, love?”

Deileala turned her perfect profile in her brother’s direction and raised one disdainful brow. “Really now . . .” she snorted. “As if you ever have business. What nonsense is it today, Hestiam, love?”

Hestiam ran his fingers through his unadorned wavy hair. “You know what it is,” he said. “I must receive him—the dark stranger. It cannot be put off any longer.”

Elasand neared the dais and bowed before the Regent. “Your Grace, I’ve been told of this Lord Vorn, hailing from some remote place he calls Qurth. I am also familiar with the—psychic deaths he apparently induced at the Inner Gates. I am here therefore, to be at your side. To assist you in any way possible with what I know.”

Hestiam nodded at him, then motioned away all superfluous servants and courtiers, so that the vicinity was cleared, except for one slightly balding older man, and a couple of others, including a tall man with long sun-hair who stood with his back to them. With a discreet glance, Ranhé recognized the Lord Chancellor himself, Rollen Lirr, and several of the ministers, including Raelin Barsadt, the Minister General, who would normally never attend the Regent at his breakfast. Clearly, something was afoot.

“What shall I do, Elasand-re?” complained the Regent, as he again picked up his goblet and popped a grape in his mouth, alternating between fear and gluttony.

Deileala neared the throne. “I say, brother, you should receive him,” she drawled. “And do it as soon as possible, before you strain your nerves and become utterly unbearable. Besides, I would like to see this—Lord Vorn.”

The balding man, Chancellor Lirr, cleared his throat. “Your Grace,” he said to the Regent, “I agree with Her Grace. It is unavoidable you must receive this stranger. And I’m sure Lord Vaeste agrees with us all in this matter.” At which point he stared meaningfully at Elasand.

Hestiam swallowed deeply of his drink, then again turned to face Elasand. “Well?” he said. “Do you think I am too casual maybe, with no crown upon my head and no imposing bejeweled coat? Would not the stranger scoff at me for receiving him at breakfast?”

“Rather, Your Grace’s—ahem—matter-of-factness will but imply a greater self-confidence,” said Lirr.

And Elasand smiled. “Receive him now, Your Grace,” he said softly, gently, and finally, so that his words, quiet as they were, carried across the hall. “Receive him, for we will all be at your side.”

Hestiam slammed down the goblet and clapped his hands together. He breathed in deeply, and exclaimed, “So it shall be! I’ve always trusted your counsel, Elasand-re! I will see him now, this instant!”

At which Deileala rolled her eyes.

Immediately Chancellor Lirr motioned for the guards who left to fetch the dearly unwanted guest, before the Regent changed his mind.

Even for a casual reception, the situation called for a minimum of protocol. Waves of conversations went through the crowd and quieted, while the courtiers shifted like puppets to assume more formal stylized positions near the dais. Ranhé blended with them, taking her place behind Lord Vaeste, who stood at the right hand of the Regent, next to Lirr.

From her back, a few feet away, she was being observed by a man with long sun-hair.

Deileala leisurely strolled to take the elevated empty seat next to Hestiam. She swung one sculptured leg over the other, leaning her elbow against the arm of the chair and cupping her chin. “Do proceed with the charade,” she whispered loudly in her brother’s ear, while her eyes momentarily caressed Elasand.

They did not have to wait long.

“The Lord Araht Vorn!” resounded the High Servant from the entrance, preceding a dark giant shape of a man and his two retainers.

The hall fell into silence.

He was like absolute night, a yawning hole against the gaudy gray brightness of the marble chamber and latticed sunlight.

Ranhé blinked, feeling a sort of momentary dizziness, as a small part of her unexpectedly responded to him, to the darkness of this presence against the bright grays of everything else. He was so black that before seeing him, she realized, she had never seen true blackness, never tasted night.

He wore all black. No armor, simply black thick voluminous darkness that was a robe, and underneath, an indistinguishable void. He was taller than any present in the room, a true giant, with large limbs and a sun-scorched stone face. His coarse dark hair of another race was held back by a band of leather, also black, like the wide armbands spanning his huge wrists, the ornate belt from which hung a feral cross-dagger, and the metal-embellished boots.

Behind Lord Vorn stood two men, also clad in all black, and daggered. They had blank faces and dark-filled opaque eyes. In an unprecedented display of this City’s weakness, they were allowed these weapons in the presence of the Regent.

The black man approached the dais, his heavy steps echoing against marble, then stopped. And in the silence of the hall, his voice shattered them inwardly as though it had the ability to bludgeon. “I am the Lord Araht Vorn, Emissary of the One who comes after me. Why was I detained for two days? Are you the one called Regent?”

Hestiam involuntarily stiffened at the first sound of the thunder, but held himself in check. Ranhé could see he was in control, except for the fluttering of an eyelid. He parted his lips to speak.

Instead, came the calm voice of Elasand.

“Welcome, Lord Vorn,” he said, as though nothing were amiss, stepping down from the dais, pausing but a couple of steps away. “You are in the presence of His Grace Hestiam Grelias, the Regent of Tronaelend-Lis before the Throne of Monteyn, and his sister, Her Grace, Deileala Grelias, the Regentrix. I suggest you bow before this Throne, before His Grace acknowledges your presence.”

A horrible silence.

The black giant froze, in amazement, it seemed. He looked down upon Elasand who, although tall, was a head shorter. For a moment Ranhé had the greatest urge to spring forward in Vaeste’s defense, for she had a feeling the black one was contemplating murder on the spot.

But she underestimated the complexity of Vorn.

The face of the black man remained stonelike. He stared at Elasand, then ignored him and slowly turned his face back to the Regents. And then, even more slowly, he barely inclined his head in the most vague semblance of deference that this Court had ever seen. They all sensed that it cost him a piece of his pride, and he knew it too—knew that sometime he would be repaid.

Hestiam regained his voice. “Lord Vorn,” he said loudly and formally. “We welcome you. What brings you to this City? What land do you hail from, and who is your lord and liege?”

The stone face of Lord Vorn took on a disdainful look. “I am of Qurth,” he said, his voice battering down upon them, making the marble of the chamber ring. Ranhé wondered about the odd quality of his speech, the hollowness and the harsh accent.

“And where is this Qurth of yours?”

All faces turned at the contrast, for a sultry female voice now pierced the silence. Deileala stared down at the black lord, her head leaned to the side, her eyes bright and absolutely fearless.

And for the first time, this induced a reaction from the dark giant. He turned barely, focusing his fathomless black eyes upon the woman who dared speak with such lightness.

Although she never revealed it, that dark gaze succeeded in startling Deileala. But not as much as his consequent words.

“Lady,” he uttered, not taking his eyes off her. And then, “Qurth is many leagues from here to the East, a great land. And my Liege Lord is the Twilight One, whose name is not to be pronounced.”

Deileala was still angered by that original pang of fear that she had felt upon first meeting his gaze. But now she had recovered quite well from it.

“Not to be pronounced?” she exclaimed. “How is that? I command you to pronounce it before us, Lord Vorn!”

“Then I must obey,” said Vorn with an odd softer intonation. For several heartbeats, he simply looked at her, and it was hard to fathom that look. And then again his voice grew to thunder. “He is the Twilight One, Feale who is lord of all Qurth, and all the East! He is the Glorious One, and He sends me as His Emissary, as the one who comes before Him!”

Silence.

“Are you saying that your Liege, this unpronounceable Twilight One, is about to pay us a visit?” said Hestiam, his voice taking on a falsely casual ring. “How charming! Tronaelend-Lis is always known for its hospitality to neighbors. We would like to have your Liege as our Guest indeed.”

“And when are we to expect your Twilight Liege?” said Deileala, her eyes in turn boring into the dark man.

“You mock me,” he said softly, his bass voice turning to shadows. “It is apparent that you do not understand the nature of the Twilight One. But—no need. You simply must prepare to welcome him. That is all that need be known for now. For He is coming, even now as we speak, and all must be ready for Him.”

“Why, of course.” Hestiam casually stroked his beard. “If your lord is on his way, we must make preparations for a series of feast days. It has always been in our mutual interest to further relations with all adjacent territories, to expand our trade, our knowledge, our friendships. My Lord Chancellor will be happy to discuss such details with you further, when the time comes.”

“A feast day, how marvelous!” exclaimed the Regentrix in a suddenly bright voice. “And how very opportune!” she continued, making a great point of turning her gaze to Elasand.

All Dirvan turned to stare with her. For an instant the dark lord was forgotten.

“Lord Vaeste,” she said, “is it not true that your young cousin on the Beis side is about to wed a certain lord of Daqua, this very month?”

Elasand was silent a moment longer than necessary. He looked at the Regentrix with a cold straight gaze. And then he replied, like ice. “It is true . . . Your Grace.”

“Well then the gods be praised! And what is your cousin’s name, Lord Vaeste?”

“Lady Lixa Beis. She is to marry Lord Harlian Daqua two weeks from now—”

“Ah, not so! Not any longer, Elasand-re. I’ve decided to honor her and gift her a feast day for her Wedding. Three feast days, in fact! Your cousin Lady Lixa will marry tomorrow, here in Our Presence, in Dirvan, and her Wedding will mark the first day of three of celebration for the City, with Lord Vorn as an honored guest of the Regency.”

“That will not be necessary, Your Grace,” protested Elasand. “The Ceremony was planned to be a small private one—”

“Actually,” said Hestiam, who was catching on fast, “that’s a splendid idea. We’ll make this Wedding a precursor to the welcome that Lord Vorn’s Liege will have when he arrives.”

“But Your Grace—” Elasand began.

“It is decided then, and not another word, Elasand-re. Send your minion—there, the one that stands behind you—to the Beis Villa to let them know of their unexpected honor. Tell them to make haste, but not to fear, for all their expenses shall be taken care of by us. And I mean, all expenses. Oh, and tell your cousin to expect a bolt of the finest gauze fabric, and ten of my sewing maidens who will make her a Bride Gown, a gift from me, before the day is over.”

By “minion,” Deileala had meant Ranhé. Both Elasand and Ranhé chose to ignore her meaning, and Ranhé in fact took a minuscule step even farther behind his back.

Elasand was furious with this turn of events, but responded in a calm voice, “Very well, I shall inform Beis of their honor personally.”

He was well aware that this turn of events was a means of buying time for the Grelias. They were desperate enough to implement absurd delay tactics, stalling before the ominous unknown, and he had to grudgingly agree that it was reasonable under the circumstances. Everyone was playing a game, the end goal of which was the indefinite postponement of the truth of what Lord Vorn represented. But then, this had always been the way of the Grelias and their Court—ridiculous convoluted cowardice, and underneath, impotence.

But in the Regentrix, it was something else, for she was no coward, ever. “Well,” Deileala said, turning her gaze back to the dark Lord Vorn. “Is there anything else you want to convey that your Feale would like us to know?”

If such a thing was possible, then Lord Vorn cringed at the sound of the name “Feale” spoken with such lightness.

“No, O lady,” he responded, however, his low voice calling forth a hiss-echo from the stones of the chamber, “I am merely his emissary, and come before him to make way.”

“Enough said, lord,” said Deileala, staring at him insolently. “You are beginning to repeat yourself. You will attend the Wedding tomorrow as our Guest, for we want the emissary to enjoy himself as much as the one who will come after.”

Few read the irony in her words, but Vorn was one.

And only a few of those present noticed the thin, terrible smile forming on his dark stone mouth.

From a few feet away, the man with sun-hair noticed that smile.

“Beautiful one,” said Lord Vorn irreverently to Deileala, without using her title, and boring into her eyes with a gaze of intensity and darkness. “This emissary will attend your Wedding feast tomorrow, and will enjoy himself more than you think.”

And with that and a short nod of the head to her only, he turned, never again acknowledging Hestiam, not waiting for a dismissal, and left the chamber, followed by his two dark silent guards.

“Well!” said Deileala. “The insolence!”

Everyone in the chamber took a big breath of relief, while Hestiam urged Chancellor Lirr after the departed. “Go in haste!” whispered the Regent, rubbing his beard nervously, and not caring that others saw him thus. “Go, and don’t let him out of your sight! Show him the sights of the City, make any excuse to accompany him and keep him busy, and if all else fails, be his shadow and watch him.”

Designated thus to be an involuntary buffoon, Chancellor Lirr hurried away in pursuit.

“Hestiam, now that I consider it, no need for such extreme drama. Let the man be; after all, he will not go far. No one will mistake someone of such unusual size and—darkness.”

Grelias threw a vague look of fear at his sister, before turning to Elasand and the other ministers that were present. “So? Do you think it went—well?” he inquired.

“I suppose well, for the moment, Your Grace,” said the Minister General, Raelin Barsadt, watching with consternation the face of the Regent grow infantile in fear.

What a strange turn of events. Barsadt, like all the others, had come here to marginally support the Regent, full of unresolved grievances against him. They were all this way, filled with complaints and ideas of the Guilds Council, ready to plunge into the everyday City politics. But now—as of this morning all grievances aside, they were finding themselves fellow conspirators with this weak man who stood as the last insecure bastion of City unity against a quickly approaching unknown.

“All shall be well,” said Elasand meanwhile, his optimism appearing insincere to himself at least, but it was enough to again allow the Regent his self-delusion.

Hestiam took him by the sleeve in a familiar gesture, drawing Elasand closer to him, and then again spoke in a near-whisper, “Elasand-re, I am sorry to have complicated things by involving your kinswoman’s Wedding, but you must understand why we did this, why—”

“It is all right, I do understand,” said Elasand, pitying the man, though not half so charitable toward his sister.

Elasand decided not to bring up after all a certain matter that he had planned to mention, choosing to postpone the discussion of the Guilds Council. Instead he said, “I will now go inform my kin of the change in Wedding plans, and of the honor bestowed upon them. In the meantime, Your Grace, this Vorn shall be watched closely.”

“I trust you, Elasand-re,” repeated the Regent again, in his wake. “Remember, I trust you, that is why I do what I do.”

Elasand bowed, and made his way out of the chamber, with Ranhé following—silent and self-effacing a few steps behind.

“Wait!” came a demanding female voice.

And before they crossed the room, Deileala was at his side, running practically, and taking him by the elbow. “I’ll walk with you, Elasand-re,” she whispered, looking up at him, the pupils of her eyes swelling with an odd receptiveness.

She ignored Ranhé as though the other were a column. At the exit, just as they entered the marble corridor, the Regentrix drew Elasand into a small shadowy niche which housed a pale statue.

Here, as Ranhé watched wide-eyed from only a couple of steps away, the Regentrix drew up her arms, and placed her fingers around the tall man’s neck, brushing away the long midnight hair, and drawing him down to her face, so that their shape mingled in the twilight of the alcove into one hazy form of monochrome.

There was a feeling like stones grinding slowly. Like marble coming to lie on her diaphragm, as Ranhé watched the momentary embrace. At that instant she too was a statue, a stone basilisk.

But a heartbeat later, Elasand drew away. His voice carried clear to Ranhé as he said, “I am afraid I cannot—my lady.”

And something—a demon maybe—made Ranhé draw forward, and stop being his invisible shadow for one instant, in order to say, “Begging pardon, but we must be on our way, Lord Vaeste! Come!”

“What’s this?” spoke Deileala, as for the first time she glanced toward Ranhé and deigned to notice, “Who is this? How dare you?”

“It is merely a loyal retainer of mine, Your Grace,” said Elasand gently, throwing an unreadable look at Ranhé. “And my retainer is right, I must be on my way.”

And Ranhé lowered her head in a bow, cast her gaze to the ground, remaining vague and androgynous, and repeated softly, “I beg pardon, Your Grace.”

Deileala looked at her, longer than before, and then said, “You are a woman. What are you? Why do you dress like a man?”

Ranhé slowly raised her eyes and gazed down at the Regentrix, who was impossibly shorter than her. Deileala was startled for the second time this day to see eyes of strange intensity meeting her own.

“It is very perceptive of Your Grace,” said the tall masculine woman with the intense eyes. “But I remain a woman to your knowledge only. In truth, I am a man-servant before the Lord Vaeste, here to do his bidding, and to be his shield.”

Deileala turned to Elasand. “Are you in danger from someone, Elasand-re?” she whispered. “I had no idea. Is that the reason for such an unusual bodyguard?”

It was no use pretending with the Regentrix.

“Unfortunately, there is such a need,” admitted Elasand grudgingly. “There have been—attempts upon my person.”

“How terrible, Elasand-re! Would you like me to grant you extra bodyguards out of my own elite?”

Elasand smiled. “I thank you, but this one is quite adequate. She had protected my life twice already, and is always at my side. But, enough said! Truth is, I must be on my way to perform a number of important tasks, none of which can wait. Your Grace must therefore excuse me.”

He bowed to Deileala shortly, and headed with determination toward the corridor. Ranhé glanced back once only, bowing also before the Regentrix.

And in doing that, she caught Deileala in an odd expression.

They had arrived at the Beis Villa within the half-hour, and found the household in an uproar. Apparently, a number of Wedding “gifts” from the Grelias had preceded them. Dame Molhveth Beis found her residence inundated with inexplicable luxurious objects and people, none of which could offer her a better explanation than the fact that they had been sent here by Their Graces the Regents, and were to assist with the preparations for the Wedding tomorrow.

Dame Beis stood in the middle of her Guest hall, holding her head, when Elasand finally entered the room. Upon seeing him, the older woman wailed in relief.

“Elas, my boy! What’s all this, what is going on? Why are all these people here, claiming the Regents sent them? What are they talking about? Why do they speak of my daughter’s Wedding as though it is to take place tomorrow?”

“Because it is,” said Elasand, taking his aunt’s hand. And then in a calm voice he proceeded to explain all that happened, meanwhile seeing a dozen expressions pass over the dame’s face—shock, trepidation, and even an excitement of sorts.

“Gracious!” she exclaimed finally, nearly tripping over a bolt of fine silk. “It is such a strange honor, indeed! But how wonderful of the Regentrix to offer all of this to Lixa—and why? What have the Beis done to deserve this?”

Elasand said nothing to that, not wanting to point out that this was not exactly a royal favor, rather they were presenting the Grelias with a political advantage.

At that point, Lixa came downstairs, trailed by half a dozen seamstresses. Her eyes were ambivalent. “Is it really true, cousin?” she said softly. “I am to be wed tomorrow?”

“Ah damn!” exclaimed Elas then, not seeing the intensity of his cousin’s expression. “I must hurry and speak to Daqua, for he doesn’t know any of this either!”

At which, Dame Beis once more went into a great panic, beginning to run about, while Lixa remained like a statue at the foot of the stairs.

Ranhé followed Elas out the door, leaving this madhouse behind on their way to the Daqua estate, and blinking at the gray brightness of the day outside.

The rest of the day promised to be devoted exclusively to frenzy, but hardly the kind that anyone could truly desire.

CHAPTER 10

Soon, the first breath of dawn would settle like vapor over the City of Dreams. But for the moment, all was darkness.

In the Sacred Quarter of the City, gray torchlight filled the predawn hours with a thousand silver eyes, as the Ten aristocratic Families came to witness a Wedding in the Temple of Eroh.

At the same time, discreet crowds were forming outside the Temple, for others came to witness a brawl.

“Come, wager!” insolent voices periodically called from the outside. “Place your wager on the Ten and see which Family will draw first blood!”

The streets of the Quarter were alive with such cries. Urchins went running with wager baskets rapidly filling with coin as more onlookers gathered to place their bets. For never had there been a public coming together of all the Noble Ten which did not end with tragedy.

Eroh was a gentle deity, the goddess of Love and Intimate Eyes, and her Temple was smaller and less imposing than any other in the pantheon. The walls of the Temple were formed of precisely cut sections of veined marble, polished to shine like ebony mirrors. They reflected the gray torchlight and the fiery jewels of the nobility rather than the slender pale statue of the goddess—twice life-size—that shyly graced, in a niche, the northern wall.

The eyes of Eroh were rare twin opals, shaped exquisitely to mimic a woman’s soft expression during the act of love. Eroh’s face was pale marble, except for the eyelids, brows and lips, which were burning monochrome gold, and her headdress of twisted gold braid. Underneath the stone folds of clothing, Eroh’s body was voluptuous, with lightly outstretched hands. The stone drapery was arranged so that her protruding breasts and navel were left nude. The breasts were fertile, perfect hemispheres and their pointed tips were also polished metal. In her navel rested a blossom with a dark oblique jewel set in its core. The jewel appeared to consume light only, and reflected back nothing, like a stone womb.

The Regent Grelias had ordered his whole Court to witness the ceremony of joining between Beis and Daqua.

All of Dirvan was here, each man or woman holding a small candle or a torch, and in the center, on the first stair of three before the statue of the goddess was a lit tripod. Before the tripod, on the second stair, with his back to the crowd, stood the priest, Preinad Olvan. His head was raised to the goddess, and he remained as yet silent.

On the third, lowest stair, at the left hand of the goddess, shimmered a pale heavily veiled shape of a woman, and at her right hand, a dark form of a man.

And before the Bride and Groom, in a semicircle, stood their Families.

The Grelias brother and sister sat along the west wall in the two regal Chairs. Next to Deileala, in a lesser seat, was a young pale boy, the Grelias Heir. And alongside the Regent himself sat a tall giant, strange and dark as night.

The gates of the Temple stood open to accommodate the unusual crowd. They were also open to the darkness of the sky outside, for its hue was to determine the moment of dawn. Since there were no windows in the Temple, two priests were positioned at the gates and told to watch the sky for the first glimmer of light.

The Wedding Ceremony was to commence precisely at dawn. According to tradition, it was to be held at no other time, for that was the instant when the soul of the world opened to receive the first essence of truth that each new day brought. This moment of profound blessing would extend to the Bride and Groom.

Hestiam Grelias was in an ill mood. He was light-headed from a sleepless night, for rarely did circumstances force him to rise before dawn. And it did not help that he could hear the blood wagers being placed just outside the Temple. At his left hand, his sister was bejeweled and freshly glamorous even at this unholy hour. At his right hand—well, he would rather not look there. There was no need, for he could feel, like a damp fog, the dark presence of Vorn.

Everyone waited. Familiar faces glimmered in the crowd, and last-second newcomers crowded to the back of the Temple. Women were frequently veiled against the night breeze and to honor and mimic the Bride. Only, unlike the opaque countenance of the Bride, their fine transparent gauze revealed faces with painted lips and outlined eyes.

The two Families that stood before the Couple included Dame Molhveth Beis and Elasand Vaeste. Lord Vaeste stood in a prominent place in relation to the Bride, and Ranhé like a shadow, flanked him.

Ranhé watched relentlessly, as it was her duty. Nothing outside the ordinary in a crowd like this. Nothing that would seemingly pose a threat to the man that stood before her, straight-backed and clad in expensive velvet. Against the west wall, she observed the eyes of the Regentrix fixed unwaveringly upon him—the eyes of a she-hawk. And occasionally Ranhé felt someone else’s eyes upon herself, which was inevitable in such a crowd. Nevertheless, the sense of being watched innately bothered her.

At last, the long-awaited voices of the priests resounded from the entrance, and the crowd echoed it in waves, a turbulent vocal sea.

“First light! It is dawn!”

And in that instant, Preinad Olvan lifted his hands in supplication to the pale statue, crying in a rich baritone:

“Eroh! With the first light, witness this gathering! Gaze with your Intimate Eyes upon the Bride of the House Beis that comes before the Groom of the House Daqua, with nothing but herself to offer. Gaze upon the Bride!”

In that instant, a young dark-haired woman took her cue and stepped away from the semicircle of Family to begin the unveiling of the Bride. She was the Maiden of the Heart, Yllva Caexis, whom Ranhé did not recognize. As the maiden walked the ritual paces around her friend Lixa, pulling gently at the exorbitant glittering veil, gathering the material to her breast, it struck Ranhé how lifeless her face was within all its ritual solemnity.

The Groom stood a pace apart, his head lowered in respect, until he too would be called as a part of the ritual.

When the Bride was fully unveiled, Ranhé was somewhat startled by the glamorous new appearance of Lixa Beis, nearly rivaling that of the Regentrix herself. But it was no surprise, for Deileala’s own hairdressers and serving women had outfitted the Bride. Lixa’s dark hair was piled in a marvelous woven crown above her forehead. Her great serpent eyes were outlined in metallic darkness, while her lips shimmered with depth and her cheeks concealed lean painted shadows in their hollows. Her face, like the moon, was frozen in a mask of remote perfection, glowing in the torchlight like the luminary itself, and her gaze was vacant. Not once did she move or look at the Groom.

“The Bride stands before you, Eroh!” pronounced the priest exultantly, his back still turned. “And now, gaze with your Intimate Eyes upon the Groom!”

At which, the Groom, Harlian Daqua, started as though coming out of a trance, and lifted his face to meet the embryonic daylight and with it the supposed invisible look of the goddess. Ranhé thought he shook slightly, which was not too unusual during such a ceremony.

And then Preinad Olvan turned his back to the goddess, and reached out to take the hands of the Bride and the Groom in his own. Ranhé saw the exalted face of the young priest as he held the two pairs of hands, and invoked upon them the final blessing.

“May you be united before Eroh the goddess, and may Her Intimate Eyes smile upon you and open within you the twin sources from which will spring your Love!”

Somewhere in the crowd, Ranhé heard a distinct snort. And then a rich androgynous alto voice arose in an insolent stage whisper, “How would he know of Love? He is but a fledgling youth himself, sworn to celibacy!”

Many heads turned then, and even the Families involved in the ritual were noticeably affected, though none deigned to acknowledge the distraction. The insolent statement had issued out of the lips of a beautiful exotic being standing within a group of Lirr nobility, next to the Chancellor himself, and only a few paces away from the Regents.

It was none other than Carliserall Lirr, the one called the Phoenix. The one that was neither man nor woman, but something else.

Carliserall Lirr was, on this occasion, a woman. Carliserall wore a fine silk gown draped in a low décolleté over two perfect albeit small breasts. The gown came down over slender hips—maybe boyish, maybe not—and long exquisite legs that practically shone with each slightest move through the translucent fabric.

“The Phoenix grows more insolent, don’t you think?” said Deileala in an equal stage whisper, turning her sensuous profile first to Hestiam, and then to the young boy at her left side.

The boy, in turn, drew his pallid gaze to meet hers, and Deileala had to lean close to him to hear the faint reply.

Hestiam glanced once at them, at the carved profile of his sister, and this child Lissean, the living shade, who, though a distant cousin, was the only feasible Heir to the Regency. And he allowed thoughts to pass like cautious shivers through him, thoughts of one possible future with this child actually surviving to become Regent. The other future, dark and soulless, sat at Hestiam’s right hand. Again, he did not turn to look.

“Bridegroom!” meanwhile said the priest. “Name yourself!”

“Harlian Daqua,” came a man’s voice after a second of hesitation. His hands were placed in the priest’s right hand, and had not yet touched the Bride.

“Bride!” said the priest. “Name yourself!”

“Lixa Beis,” responded a woman’s voice, firm but like winter ice. Her fingers also were ice within the priest’s left hand.

“I join you now in the name of Eroh, and none may again pull you asunder.”

Somewhere in the crowd, the Phoenix laughed.

Icy woman’s fingers were placed, palm up, against a cold man’s palm, warmed from the outside by the priest’s slender hands.

Outside, the black sky took on a barely present smoke hue.

Silver firelight stirred in the thousand candles, as all Dirvan drew breath and waited in silence for the ending of the ceremony. Somewhere in the crowd, a lame handsome man, Baelinte Khirmoel, leaned against an ornate cane and watched the members of Daqua gathered in a semicircle near the Groom. In particular he studied the stiff back of a hateful woman whose hair was soft as flax. She, Tegra Daqua, stood seemingly oblivious a few steps away in the semicircle of Family, right in back of the Groom.

Then the poet deliberately cleared his throat and recited, “Nothing quacks quite like a Daqua.”

There was utter silence.

And then came snickers, followed by rolling laughter as the crowd reacted.

The Groom froze, and the members of his Family threw angry glances behind them. Only Tegra Daqua did not react with her body. Instead in the returning silence she said in an equally audible voice, “Must be a Khirmoel breaking wind.”

Even more laughter sounded in the crowd.

Leaning back in his royal Chair, Hestiam shook his head, held the bridge of his nose, and rubbed fingers against his temples. “Enough!” he said. “No more comments until the ceremony ends. Then you can all go outside and kill each other.”

Baelinte cleared his throat again, and was about to speak, but a dark woman who stood next to him, his niece Erin, squeezed his hand with her own and stared at him pleadingly.

“Oh, all right,” whispered Baelinte in a petulant tone, leaning close to her ear. “But only for your sake, my dear.”

Erin smiled gently at him. Soon her gaze became distant, and it searched the quickly lightening sky.

The crowd once again focused their attention on the priest and the Bride and Groom. In the front row but not quite in the row of Family stood a petite rounded woman with innocent eyes. She watched the priest in particular and was very aware that not once did Preinad Olvan turn his gaze in her direction, although he openly looked at all. The winking eye of the young woman’s personal candle swept with gray brightness over her angelic face. And yet, she was like a blank spot in the fabric of the crowd, a darkness over which he passed, because she was the one thing he feared. And Cyanolis Vaeste, second cousin of Elasand, continued to watch the hands of the priest and his intently averted eyes.

In contrast, a few steps away, Dame Reanne Olvan, bejeweled and once striking, looked with unmistakable pride upon her nephew who performed the ceremony. At her side stood a heavily veiled maiden with a downcast head, watching no one and nothing, only the trembling candle in her fingers. Imogenn’s shy pose suggested pathos, and dark veils maintained the obscurity of her face, so that none could decipher whether monstrosity or beauty was within.

“Blood wagers! Place your bets on Daqua and Khirmoel or your favorite while there’s still time!” cried insolent voices from outside the Temple.

In the front row, flanked by her brother, Lord Neran Caexis, stood the Maiden of the Heart. She was at the very center of the semicircle of Family and facing the priest directly. With her two hands clutching the heavy bundle of precious veils at her solar plexus, Yllva fixed with her gaze none other than the statue of Eroh the goddess herself.

Stone gazed upon silent stone. Yllva stared past the head of the priest, her gaze upswept, and her eyes glassy, blind. She could almost hear their two icy breaths, could almost hear the slowed pounding of their hearts—the Bride on her right, and the Groom on her left, the two poles that drew her, will always draw her—and synchronized her pulse-beat with theirs.

“Swear before the goddess!” came the voice of the priest.

“I swear,” spoke Harlian and Lixa, their voices simultaneous, each an echo of the other.

And it seemed to Ranhé that both of them trembled, and so did the young woman who stood with her back to the crowd, facing the goddess and clutching the Bride’s veils.

“Then may you be one!” resounded the priest.

And the instant exploded with a blinding miracle.

Red. Orange. Yellow. Green. Blue. Violet. . . .

Like suns, like blossoms of light, came the orbs, lit in the instant when the priest’s words ended. And the world was transformed.

Along the walls of the Temple, priests stood, holding the lit orbs—each one mounted on a foot-long metal holder, each one throwing an incandescent aura, in negative, about the face of the bearer. And then, on cue, they began to converge upon the center, coming toward the wedded Couple. As they moved, the orbs before them floated like disembodied luminaries, otherworldly. Their light brushed all in their nearest vicinity with an odd sculptured essence that was somehow radiant and grotesque.

The colors did not mix. Rather, their boundaries ended abruptly, as though invisible barriers stood to separate them.

The orbs illuminated the crowd variously. It was as though clouds floated, obscuring momentarily the sun, transforming things for a given instant, and then again, shadows crawled upon the world below. Forms flickered, were seen black and then as orange, then a few steps away, red. Here, a woman’s tiara glowed with green fire as soon as an orb-bearer passed near, while next to her a man stood still in black and gray monochrome pallor, with only hueless torchlight to sculpt his form.

Ranhé took her eyes off the marvelous distraction of colors, and glanced momentarily toward the west wall, where the Regents sat. She was thus one of the few who noticed the strange reaction of the dark giant who sat next to Hestiam.

Lord Vorn appeared to have experienced terror. Immobile as always, yet his fathomless eyes narrowed into slits, to shield themselves from the color light, and he appeared to have stopped breathing when one of the orbs passed him, illuminating the right side of his body with blue. When the orb’s glow left him, Ranhé saw his other hand slowly rise, as though to wipe the glow off him, as though it were a physical thing.

From somewhere in the crowd, two intense eyes followed that involuntary gesture of Vorn, eyes belonging to a man with pale radiant sun-hair.

The orbs converged upon the Bride and Groom, who stood with joined hands. The red orb-bearer paused behind the Bride, for that was the Family color of Beis, while the orange orb shone in back of Harlian Daqua. The priest took the orb that was violet and, holding it high above their heads, pronounced, in the name of Eroh that the ceremony was completed.

“May the lady of Violet bless and guide you also!” said Preinad Olvan. “For, while Eroh inflames your body with passion and brings fertility to your line, Laelith fills your soul with warmth and affection, and She is the one who eventually seals your bond. Take this orb and walk together outside the Temple, as you will always walk from now on.”

All parted to make way, while Lixa and Harlian held the violet orb before them and walked through the Temple. As they passed the Regents, they paused, kneeling before the Chairs.

“Congratulations,” said Hestiam, bathed in the violet radiance of the orb. “May you have much joy.” His voice was bland, while the gold circlet about his head glittered brightly, and the jewels of his embroidered tunic shone like suns.

“Your Grace, I thank you for everything,” began Harlian, glancing up soullessly at Hestiam and Deileala.

“I thank you,” echoed Lixa softly.

“No need, my dears,” said Deileala with a soft condescending smile. The violet glow danced about her face and ivory throat.

Next to Hestiam, Lord Vorn, stonelike, drew back from the nearness of the orb, and yet he watched Deileala as she was transformed by the light. In that instant, she turned and looked at Vorn directly, and smiled again, with her lips only.

“What did you think of the Ceremony, Lord Vorn?” she said. “How does it compare with your own native land’s Weddings?”

“It is—different,” answered Vorn, his voice a distant rumble of thunder. Hestiam nearly jumped at the sound of it.

“Well then, go on,” said Hestiam hurriedly to the newlyweds. He had a sudden urge to get out also, to run from this dark one’s side. “Go on ahead, back to the Palace. We will continue to celebrate your Wedding all day. And Daqua, try not to get killed before your wedding night.”

Harlian and Lixa again bowed, and then proceeded outside where the crowds chanted with cooling enthusiasm, “Brawl! Brawl!”

Deileala laughed disdainfully. “Well! It doesn’t look like there will be first blood after all. Before we came here I placed my own wager—on Lirr.” And she threw a mocking glance at the Chancellor.

Within the Temple, the crowd was shifting expectantly, waiting for the Regents to leave also.

Deileala rose, followed by Hestiam and young Lissean, and eventually their dark guest. She turned to glance about the expectant crowd, her eyes stopping upon the Families of the Bride and Groom that waited still, in a semicircle. There, her gaze encountered the clear eyes of the Lord Vaeste, at which a single pang, a shiver took hold of her. And because of that, Deileala turned away and again looked directly at Lord Vorn, smiling at him with a silent invitation. The dark man met her gaze, unblinking.

Outside, it was growing lighter by the minute, and the sky was pale gray like milk.

“On to Dirvan, then,” said Hestiam, looking sideways at Vorn. His sister meanwhile, came to the dark giant’s side, and offered her soft bejeweled hand to him.

“Escort me, my lord,” she said loudly to Vorn, so that everyone in the Temple heard her.

Lord Vorn paused for an instant only, looking down intently at the beautiful vision before him. Deileala fearlessly returned his gaze, innocently uplifted her face toward his stonelike grim darkness. She was teasing, playing with night. . . .

And then Vorn took her small sweet hand in his great swarthy one, and to her surprise, brought it to his lips.

Deileala started inwardly at the touch of his lips upon her. Another odd pang shot through her, for she never expected his lips to be so warm upon her fingers.

Vorn escorted Deileala outside, followed by Hestiam and Lissean. When the last of the Grelias had exited, people began leaving.

The Families involved in the Wedding remained at the foot of the goddess, with the priest. Dame Beis, the Bride’s mother, had begun to sob uncontrollably all of a sudden, and they were trying to console and congratulate her at the same time. Harlian’s closest kin stood to gather Dame Molhveth Beis to them, for she was now also kin.

Amid all this tumult, Elasand threw several glances around the crowd, seeming to look for someone, and then turned to Ranhé, saying, “Wait here. I’ll return shortly.”

“But my lord, I must accompany you!” began Ranhé. “What purpose do I serve if you go everywhere without me—”

He never heard her. He quickly made his way through the crowd, soon to disappear.

What purpose do I serve indeed, she thought, if you still cannot trust me, Elasand-re? How long will it be before I am in your full confidence?

And so Ranhé remained. She watched the Temple empty, and already servant-priests began to sweep the mirror-polished floors all about them. Feeling like an idiot, she finally walked outside, trailing after Dame Molhveth Beis and a couple others of the Wedding party.

Outside, it was early morning. She watched numerous carriages getting ready to depart the Sacred Quarter to Dirvan. Everywhere, the first rays of the sun licked the precious metal crests of the Noble Ten—Circle of Beis, Spiral Shell of Daqua, Triangle of Khirmoel, Eye of Caexis, Scales of Olvan, Three Crescents of Lirr, Ship of Prada, Sun of Vaeste. Visibly missing was the Regents’ Double-Headed Lioness of Grelias, for the Regents’ magnificent carriage had long since driven away.

And there is one more symbol that would be missing always, thought Ranhé, the ancient Winged Bird that is Royal Monteyn.

A few steps away, Ranhé watched a group of vulture nobles surround a glittering beautiful creature that was Carliserall Lirr, as the Phoenix was ascending the Lirr carriage together with Uncle Rollen, the Chancellor.

She had seen Rollen Lirr before, and noted how much older and tired he appeared now, and how forced was his thin smile in the gray light of morning. It did not help at all that snickering lascivious male gazes undressed his brother’s strange child Carliserall right before his nose. And that the Phoenix did not seem to mind, but smiled radiantly at them all, and flirted desperately. Maybe it was the end of the world for all of them.

At that moment, Ranhé’s gaze was drawn to a tall figure rapidly approaching the Lirr carriage. The person was disguised from head to toe in a pale shimmering fabric, head and face hooded, with only two slits to mark the eyes in the material.

The disguised stranger had appeared out of nowhere, striding quickly. Chancellor Lirr, about to enter the carriage, stopped suddenly, and turned toward the approaching figure. At which point, Carliserall’s admirers instantly dispersed.

Next to Ranhé, Dame Beis blew her nose into her handkerchief, and forgetting even the nature of her maternal grief, suddenly pointed in the direction of the Lirr party. “Ah! Look!” she mumbled to some Daqua noblewomen. “Am I mistaken or is that man the Guildmaster of the Light Guild himself?”

“Oh, indeed!” a noblewoman responded.

“He does wear the shimmering Robe in public.”

And Ranhé remembered what she had heard of the strange Guildmaster of the Light Guild, and of the mysterious appearances that he was known to put in.

For, impossible as it might be, no one knew the true identity of the Guildmaster of the most powerful Guild of the City. He always went completely disguised in public, and his appearances were rare. Indeed, he appeared only when his presence was unavoidably required by the Regents.

It was rumored in some circles that the Guildmaster was none other than the Regent himself, masquerading for the sake of a great jest. Others swore it had to be one of the other nobles at Court, possibly even the Chancellor.

Only now, here he was, meeting openly with Chancellor Lirr, which effectively made it impossible.

“Where’s Elas?” said Dame Beis then, throwing a troubled gaze at people who were still strangers to her, the Daqua. “Where is that boy? Where is my nephew Elasand?”

“I believe, madam, he will be here shortly,” said Ranhé.

“Ah, it’s you!” Dame Beis glanced at Ranhé, happy to see a familiar face. “Needn’t you be with him at all times?”

Ranhé smiled at the older woman. “Indeed. But I was instructed to stay here with you. Don’t worry, he will return soon.”

She glanced to see the figures of Chancellor Lirr and the disguised man still conversing next to the Lirr carriage.

“I just hate it when he disappears like that!” Dame Beis began to complain. “Now that Lixa is gone, what if something happened to him, what—”

Ranhé observed that the hooded man handed something to the Chancellor. She noted that even his hands were disguised by dark gloves. But the gloves could not hide the fact that the hands were large and well shaped.

And then the hooded man turned away and quickly strode in the direction of the Temple. He disappeared around the corner, and the early sun of morning shimmered for an instant longer in the place where he’d been. Lirr watched him, then entered the carriage where Carliserall awaited. The Lirr carriage departed.

“I suppose we must be off to Dirvan also,” a Daqua kinswoman said to Dame Beis several moments later.

“Not without me,” said a bright masculine voice. Ranhé turned, finding herself looking into the familiar eyes of Elasand Vaeste.

“Elasand! Where have you been?” bemoaned Dame Beis angrily.

But he ignored his aunt and looked at Ranhé intently. At first, she could not read the nature of his expression.

“I checked within the Temple of Eroh, and you weren’t there,” said Elasand. “Why did you not wait for me?”

“My Lord Vaeste,” said Ranhé. “Was this a test of how well-trained I am to do your bidding? If so, then I apologize. Since the Temple attendants were sweeping the floor about me, it made sense to wait for you out here. Again, I ask for your pardon that I’m not as yet such a well-trained dog.”

She expected anything from him other than laughter.

“Well said!” Elasand grinned at her. “Actually, I’m glad my bodyguard can make valid decisions without me.” And then, mercurial, he grew serious. “Only, I expect that in the truly important matters, you will in the future take my commands exactly as given.”

Ranhé smiled and inclined her head in a small bow. “In the future I promise to act the loyal dog to the bone.”

“Enough, Elas!” interrupted Dame Beis, getting into the Beis carriage. “We must hurry to Dirvan! Lixa must see me at her side. Come, my boy.”

Elasand bowed respectfully, and offered his hand to assist his aunt. He turned to Ranhé momentarily, and she was surprised to see him wink at her in mischief.

“On to the Palace, then,” said Elas to his aunt. “The rotting Hole of Gold awaits us.”

And again turning to Ranhé, he glanced steadily into her eyes. “And you, my loyal dog, must once again protect me from its gilded dross.”

This time, he did not smile.

CHAPTER 11

The sun rode high over Tronaelend-Lis, sculpting the shapes of the City into areas of dark contrast and flaming light. At high noon, the City stood fully formed, an anemone blossom of grizzled shadows and spiked black towers. Through it had ridden the cavalcade of noble guests, heading toward Dirvan.

Ordinary denizens of Tronaelend-Lis watched in curiosity the endless parade of carriages that rattled along the Fringes Thoroughfare, the speeding horsemen splendidly attired, the veiled Chairs carrying mysterious ladies of high rank. The stream of traffic flowed across the hundred bridges of the Arata, converging upon the gilded heart of the City. Street urchins watched the activity below from their perches in the ebony foliage of the trees, from tops of stone fences, from flat house roofs of pale limestone. It was discussed everywhere how the Wedding Ceremony of Beis and Daqua occurred without bloodshed despite the taunt of Khirmoel, and how the Regents had made it into a splendid banquet day. Gossip also mentioned a mysterious dark guest whom the Grelias now entertained at the Palace, and there were rumors that this Wedding was done more in his honor than as a favor to the two noble Families involved.

At the Palace, three halls were outfitted for the festivities, including the great Hall of the Throne where the frescoes sang to the eye in different colors, and hued forms virtually leaped off the walls. Here was to be dancing and wild music.

In the Hall of Waters, fountains splashed and streams curved in convoluted rivulets past blooming hothouse plants and rock formations, and rain fell from the artful vessels atop columns of marble, hiding within them complex hydraulic pumps. The sound of the endless waters formed a soft perpetual cadence. In the middle a long great table was installed, where all would dine and toast the Bride and Groom and the Regents.

The Hall of Waters opened upon a smaller adjacent chamber, aptly named the Hall of Dreams. After the feasting, the guests would be directed here to partake in elaborate games, including a miniature indoor labyrinth constructed from ingenious woven partitions of wicker and flowers—Hestiam’s own idea. Musicians were positioned in secret niches all around the chamber, and instructed to play sinuous soft music on reed and gitarah. And as the evening would advance into metallic twilight, color orbs would bloom forth like moons to add a fantastic quality to the affair.

Many wondrous things took place in the Hall of Dreams. It was a place for breathless games of chase, with squealing ladies and panting courtiers, that often ended in orgiastic debauchery. At other times, it was a place of absolute silence, while adult men and women stifled giggles and tiptoed around some unlucky randomly picked individual with a silk veil tied around the eyes as he or she stumbled blindly in search of anyone and anything that moved. In the end, the blind one was poked and prodded and tickled and caressed. And if they happened to be smooth-bodied and pleasing, the Regent himself would take over the teasing, taking full advantage of the piquant situation.

Children’s games, all. And yet, each one began innocently but ended on a twist of the obscene. And because Hestiam Grelias had artistic pretensions, his lascivious patronage extended to dance troupes and masques in which he often performed himself.

These performances were held right here in the Hall of Dreams, and depending on the nature of the piece, elaborate sets were built to reflect fantastic or mythological settings. On more than one occasion, specially constructed stages were filled with water. These pools were surrounded with structures of fire, and color orbs were sunk to the bottom to fill the waters with magic. The eerie orblight served to illuminate silhouettes of beautiful nude acrobats engaged in aquatic frolics, while the Regent and his guests viewed their floating forms, appearing to fly through the burning waters.

For the occasion of the Wedding of Beis and Daqua, Grelias had decided—owing to short notice—to make things simple. Hestiam had been in no mood for frolic or fancy while the dark storm-cloud called Lord Vorn loomed in the back of his thoughts. He had seemed so disoriented the night before when Deileala had posed the question that the Regentrix, seeing his inability, took everything upon herself. The nature of this wedding-night celebration was to be completely hers.

“Your Grace,” said Elasand very softly, with a light inclination of his head. “It is by my authority that my bodyguard remains at my side, even upon this occasion.”

“I see no harm in that,” Hestiam began absentmindedly, overlooking Lord Vaeste and his androgynous guard from the perch of his gray gilded seat. Next to him, Deileala reclined upon a similar contrivance of filigree metal, inundated with silk pillows.

This was their favorite seat in all of the Palace, the Hall of Dreams. Next to Deileala, on a lesser footstool, sat a supple youth, Linnec, her current favorite. He wore hardly anything but a gossamer-thin satin tunic, akin to his mistress who—if it was possible—wore even less.

On the other side of Hestiam stood the empty seat of the guest of honor. Vorn had apparently excused himself, claiming the need for rest, and was to join them later. Hestiam periodically stared at that seat, sideways, practicing inconspicuous glances. He was practicing a means of avoiding the very place where later would repose his guest.

The Hall was only half-full. This was the lazy time just after noon, when most had eaten, but before the grand dinner time. Guests from all the City were gradually pouring in, a steady stream of nobility, while the formal festivities had not yet commenced.

The Bride and Groom, both pale like the sunlight and yet similarly brightly attired, sat in two special chairs at the foot of the Regents. Lixa still wore her Wedding Dress, and her makeup remained without flaw, despite the heat of the day—as though it had been applied upon a corpse. Next to her, Harlian sat frozen, speechless, vying with his new wife for the greater deathliness. Neither looked at the other, nor at the exorbitant gifts that were piled before them upon a special table—gifts from the Grelias and a variety of well-wishers of all ranks.

Elasand had only just arrived, having accompanied Dame Beis, with Ranhé at his side. Seeing him at the entrance, Deileala immediately beckoned. She leaned slightly forward in her chair, barely hiding her eagerness, looking at him with a smile. Her hand toyed with the soft pale hair of the youth seated at her feet.

“What absolute nonsense,” drawled the Regentrix, after Hestiam had his say. “I’ll have no bodyguards at this celebration other than my own. You are insulting me personally, Elasand-re.”

“Your Grace must understand my position. It is vital that my attendant remain with me.”

“Nonsense again!” said Deileala, her fingers beginning to tug angrily at Linnec’s curls, so that the youth winced. “Have you no trust in the ability of my guards, man? Besides, why must we bring up this ridiculous subject again, the subject of this—this guard of yours?”

Deileala threw an icy glance in Ranhé’s direction.

Ranhé stood, only a step behind Vaeste, her gaze somewhere halfway between the Regent’s feet and Deileala’s angry chin.

“That does it!” said the Regentrix. “I command you, Elasand-re, as your Lady Liege, to dismiss this female minion now. I’ve decided I do not like her. I do not like her standing at your side like a post every time I see you.”

Her breath catching, Deileala looked intensely at the dark silent lord before her. Even she knew when she had gone too far, for the face of the man was bloodless with control, with absolute fury. And that is not at all what she had intended; she never wanted him to be angry, never at her. . . .

A moment of silence.

And then, very slowly, he bowed. “As you wish, Your Grace,” he said, with a foreboding calm that portends a storm. And then Elasand half-turned formally to look behind him, saying to Ranhé, “You are dismissed for the moment, freewoman, as Her Grace decrees.”

Ranhé looked at him in that instant, raising her gaze to meet his eyes. She saw complete sympathy there, and could almost read his thought: Humor her, for now.

And then, as Ranhé bowed curtly to obey, he added softly, so that only she could make out his words, “You may as well enjoy yourself, now. Go on, Ranhé, celebrate together with the City, with everyone else. I will see you in the morning. Go.”

A moment of sympathy. And then he was blank again, as though she had never been there. With a bright cold smile he turned to the Regentrix, who in turn looked at him with devouring eyes.

“Have a seat brought forward for the Lord Vaeste! Yes, up close, right here by my side—”

Ranhé ceased looking at what was taking place. As she quickly left the Hall, she could hear Deileala’s laughter, and remnants of Vaeste’s deep voice, and then general buoyant conversation, interspersed with background gitarah music.

At the Palace doors, she received her cloak. And then she descended the endless stairs, past numerous nobles and glittering ladies, past running footmen and servants in varied livery, past preening ebony peacocks that strolled upon the steps of the Palace colonnade as though they were themselves of Monteyn blood.

Finally she was beyond the crowd, stepping into the silence of the Inner Gardens, her booted footsteps ringing against marble. And she could hear the wind.

Overhead, the silver sun had shifted off center in its cycle, and the charcoal shadows fell at a twenty-degree angle past the noon hour. Furious gray radiance knifed down upon the City.

Ranhé stood alone under that sun, placeless for an instant. With a blank receptiveness she watched the softly swaying contrast of the foliage, smelled the recently watered freshness of the growth, that still lingered in the wind. Around her, the sinuous trees of smoke hues, the obelisks of cypress. Before her, the gravel path. That path led, only a hundred feet away, through the Inner Gates of the Palace, to the Outer Dirvan, and with it, the City—all aflame with ashen light.

She stood, head lowered for a moment, vacuous, and plied the gravel with her mirror-polished boots, watching the dust gradually matting the surface. She had drawn her cloak about her, despite the heat, and soon the gray radiance came to burn her scalp, past the listless straight hair, gathered behind her in a single stern braid.

And then, with the wind directly in her face, Ranhé walked along the path through the Inner Gates, past the still Palace Guards, and out to the freedom of the public park area that was Outer Dirvan. In the distance, glittered the black roiling surface of the Arata, its waters rich like oil, in darkness. And near one of the cultivated banks shimmered the pallid dome of the Mausoleum—maybe but a mirage in the heat.

She would stroll there, maybe, to glance at the Tomb of the last Monteyn King. For her heart had stilled also, like a sepulcher, and it sought the company of its kind.

Thus she was, Ranhéas Ylir, still, and cold, and once again alone.

Ranhé had almost no memory of that afternoon, with all things but a silver blur of sunlight and gardens, and then the markets and streets of the City. The sun rode high, followed her like a floating lily on the pond of the sky, attached it seemed, via a fine psychic cord, a silver stem that grew, invisible, from her.

She vaguely recalled wandering the empty Outer Gardens, then strolling along one deserted bridge over the sparkling Arata. In the Markets of the Sacred Quarter she bought a pie from one of the aromatic food stalls. She stood and ate it blandly, without appetite, only remembering how it had been warm, and how it had crumbled in her mouth, and served to fill some bottomless nether place within her. And she observed the street-urchin pickpockets run, scamper through the stalls, watching the passerby with predator eyes.

One of them had followed her for a while, for she looked distracted enough, and soon Ranhé felt a butterfly-soft touch on her waist. The thieves usually worked in groups, one trying to dislodge the moneybag from under people’s cloaks, sometimes making several attempts to cut through the cloth, while others would serve to distract.

Despite her desolate mood, Ranhé could not help a smile as she softly reached out behind her and grabbed a skinny wrist. The boy yelped in surprise, then attempted to wriggle out of her grasp.

“Try someone else,” she said through clenched teeth, drawing the boy close to her and glancing almost kindly into his watery hopeless eyes. “Or else, join the appropriate Guild and learn to do it right. . . .”

And with that, she loosened her grip, letting him go.

The urchin ran like an alley rat, and with her peripheral vision she could see his various accomplices gift her with looks of esteem.

And for a moment there she thought she felt another set of eyes upon herself. The feeling was brief but almost physical. But when she glanced around with appropriate carelessness, there was no one in the vicinity out of the ordinary.

As the afternoon wore on, Ranhé made her way through the sparsely busy Markets to the Academic Quarter, and strolled through the Lyceum grounds. Lone scholars moved through the Library building next door, passing her like self-absorbed shades. All of the City had been affected by the celebration in the Regents’ Palace, and most had taken advantage of the day to be away from regular business. However, it was felt least of all here, in this softly illuminated place of dreamers and thinkers.

Even now, he tarries with the rest of them, with her, Ranhé thought, seeing in her mind’s eye the man who had dismissed her without a blink it seemed, at the Regentrix’s whim. And yet, one half of her knew full well that he’d had no choice but to concur with Her Grace’s wishes, that he had been angry, that he had wanted her to be there at his side. And yet, Elas had agreed in the end, succumbed to the petulant whim of that petite terrible woman who ruled the City.

There was no point in recalling any of it, no point in imagining where he was now, what he was doing at this very moment with her whose whims he obeyed. And yet, depression ate at her, and Ranhé continued visualizing him as he had been in that last instant—suave and cold and bright. Not that it would have made much difference if she had been with him now. Rather, it may have been worse, may have cut her like a dull blade, to witness.

It is better that I do not see it, she thought, better that I don’t know.

And thus she walked in a daze through emptying streets, while the shadows from the sun grew longer, stretched out into cowering slaves behind all things.

Soon, darkness would fall upon Tronaelend-Lis. It would happen instantly, like a lid over a kettle, with hardly any twilight, hardly any in-between time to create a transition between day and night. Thus it had been, always.

Only, with this nightfall, a rock lodged itself deeper into Ranhé’s soul. As she wandered, thoughtless, aimless, past pedestrian strangers that unconsciously gave way before her singular cloaked form, she knew that when this night came, she would want to drown in it, drown and find oblivion from her own burning imagination, her own desperate wounded consciousness.

And possibly—and most sadly of all—she did not even truly allow herself to know why.

Orbs of lascivious scarlet lit up the Red Quarter. The teahouses were packed full of customers loudly celebrating, in their own way, the impromptu festival night that had been so propitiously decreed by the Regents.

From everywhere came laughter, music, voices upraised in inebriated song. The teahouses burned bright in all shades of monochrome red—red that seeped in pale shades of pink against the fine grillework of the windowpanes, that shimmered through gauze curtains, appearing rose madder, that danced like pale delicate lightning on the surface of crystal goblets filled with rich liquids. That same basic red, now incarnated as blinding crimson, blazed forth from the chandeliers formed of clusters of miniature orbs instead of candles, like bunches of wine grapes. The crimson also flowered in grand orbs that were installed outside on the streetlamps that stood on every corner of the district.

Human form was everywhere. Street lanterns mounted on ornate posts illuminated silhouettes of swaying drunks and cheap Guildless whores that beckoned from niches and alleyways. Such were invariably scantily attired, crudely displaying their wares from tight sequined bodices and short gaudily pleated and tasseled skirts, and yet too intimidated to come out into the corner lamplight. For the corners and bright pedestrian walkways were under the jurisdiction of professionals of higher caliber.

Expensive courtesans with beautiful subtle faces, attired in stylish clothing made from affluent fabrics, were found lounging along the corners and walkways, but more frequently near the storefronts of their own fine establishments, the Pleasure Galleries. Their manners were subdued, and they were almost invariably flanked by bodyguards. Yet even they stood back in obeisance before those who were the true gods of this district.

Not a glimmer of a pale breast or shapely leg did those show—they of the Erotene Guild. Instead, faultlessly haughty, they rarely strolled the walkways, wearing, on such occasions, their all-concealing Guild cloak of ebony velvet that was almost monastic in its severity, and yet hinted of high class Pleasures that only the Guild-trained could provide. All Tronaelend-Lis knew the meaning of that cloak—plain except for the tiny embroidered pattern of spiraling blossoms on the trim, formed of metallic thread.

The Erotene Guild had evolved from a sacred order that had once been devoted to Eroh, the goddess—hence the name—but in these modern days it was purely secular. The erotene were courtesans of the highest craft, both male and female. Their training commenced before puberty, and only the most beautiful children were admitted to the Guild. At first, the children were cultivated in the arts of personal appearance, presentation, vocal tone, and bearing. Later came instruction in music, poetry, literature, philosophy, culinary pleasures, discourse and other fine arts. And in the very end, upon sexual maturity, they were instructed in the science of the human body and all its senses.

By the age of sixteen, each knew how to sexually appease or provoke any type of desire, having been taught how to read the language of the body, the smallest gesture, sign, breath. An erotene knew instantly if the customer wanted a light piquant touch, gentleness, or if they preferred pain, dominance, and intensity. They knew if the customer was shy, or bored, or looking for the unusual or extreme. They sensed fear, anticipation, aggression, the need for fetish. They also knew when to accommodate without touch, only with sound and word and rustle of fabric—auditory erotic delicacies for the pseudo-celibates who could not abide physical contact.

The erotene were instructed in the One Thousand Pleasures, and from that foundation were taught to improvise. The erotene were masters of the physical response, and yet masters of understated elegance. And the price for their services rivaled that of the Light Guild.

On the walkways of the pleasure district, the erotene were in fact relatively few in number—like the prized rare blossom or two in a bouquet—and they condescended to give their services only to the most select and best-paying. Indeed, one had to make an appointment at the House of Erotene, often far in advance, and rarely did an erotene allow oneself to be solicited on the street. To ensure that none were harassed by force, erotene were declared untouchables, and all Guilds enforced this unspoken rule, doling out severe punishment to any ignorant that attempted seduction or rape. However, in the last several decades, apprentices to the House were also taught self-defense, to ensure the Guild’s self-reliance. Thus, erotene walked the streets without the need of bodyguards, for only the insane would make an attempt upon their persons.5

Tonight, even fewer erotene were seen in the Red Quarter, for many had been summoned by the Regent himself to participate in the night’s planned festivities. However, there were enough other courtesans on hand to satisfy those of less aristocratic needs.

The district was aflame with celebration. Crowds walked the streets, filled the Pleasure Galleries, teahouses, Domes of Sensation. The main street of the district was called the Red River, because of a famous row of antique street lanterns installed every twenty paces along the walkway, which created the illusion of flowing light, when observed from a distance. Tonight, the place more than lived up to its name.

Along the storefronts of the Red River milled crowds of pedestrians. The River storefronts were the most successful and famous in all of the City, and at the heart of it stood a building that appeared to be a miniature replica of the Regents’ Palace, including a small colonnade at the entrance. Above that colonnade hung a blazing orb-decorated sign of the House of Erotene.

Across the street from the House was another famous landmark, the Rose Teahouse—another venerable antique of the pleasure district. Here, the popular drink was served unlike any other in Tronaelend-Lis. Tea, flavored with rose and other flowers, unique spices, and various liquor, was savored from small cups and bowls, together with pastries of rare delicacy.

The building was a domed circle. The grand arch windows of the Rose Teahouse were hung with beads of faceted glass, and they danced beneath the blazing crimson of the street lanterns. From within the Teahouse came a soft rose glow, and the illumination was subdued. A single great orb of the palest mauve, like a soft eye of a giant fabled dragon-beast, was installed in a sculptured centerpiece of the room in a filigreed framework of metal, right in the middle of the floor. Thus, illumination came from the ground, and the dome ceiling of the room evolved into darkness. Tables were placed along the round perimeter of the room, so that the customers were each seated before some portion of the arched windows, and could look out on the street scene at the same time as they enjoyed the exquisite tea. Attentive servants came to refill the fragrant tea, and carried endless trays of new pastries.

At one of such tables, before a window that faced the Red River and was situated perfectly across from the entrance to the House of Erotene, sat Ranhé.

She was sipping her third cup of tea, and staring past the beaded curtain through the glass of the window, at the street outside. The tea she requested had been non-alcoholic, and yet her head felt heavy, while her pulse was erratic.

She watched the passersby outside, hurrying or milling about, bathed by the glow from the lanterns. And often, her gaze returned to the entrance of the imposing building before her, above which hung the sign of the delicate spiraling blossom that was the symbol of erotene.

In all her life, Ranhé had never seriously considered purchasing the services of the Erotene Guild. Not even in her loneliest moments. And tonight was no different.

And yet, she watched the House across the street, watched the people entering the grand doors. And occasionally she saw hooded figures cloaked in black velvet emerge, alone or with a customer, and head out into the street.

When the cloaked beings of indeterminate sex descended the marble stairs, sometimes they would cross the street, and pass just before the windows of the Teahouse, inches away from her face. She saw the folds of velvet, the gloved hands upon which shone jewels—but hardly ever a glimpse of flesh.

Mesmerized, she tried to guess the nature of that hidden flesh. Once, a woman wearing the cloak of erotene passed right before the window, and for an instant turned her hooded head to glance inside. Ranhé saw a glimpse of delicate features, beautiful eyes, a light smile upon a rosebud mouth, and then the female erotene turned back to her companion with musical laughter, and they were on their way, disappearing around the corner.

The ephemeral image had passed, and yet Ranhé stared, with an inexplicable hunger, at the spot where the woman had been. It had not been the woman she wanted—rather, the warmth of intimacy, the sense of pairing, of being two with another being—two, not one, for one would be too much. . . . She remembered the face of the male customer, a young man with fine clothing, remembered the grin of pleasure that he displayed upon hearing the witty joke of his erotene. She remembered the obvious exchange of intimacy, of two looks slithering off each other like drops of honeyed rose water—never mind it was a purchased companionship, and that after today’s encounter these two would very likely never see each other again. The point was, for tonight, all cares had been thrown away, all concerns invalidated, and the two were ready to play out a game of pretense, that would culminate in careless abandon and pleasure.

She had never known that abandon. She had never been intimate. She had never allowed anyone’s touch. A complex set of reasons kept her locked in a personal isolation. And although there were many instances she longed to break out of the self-prison, she had never managed it. . . .

The night was getting along. Ranhé set down her empty cup upon the satin tablecloth, left three gold dahr upon an empty pastry-dish, which was more than generous for both payment and tip.

She would never consider hiring an erotene. Never.

And yet, her pulse was racing, her breathing short, and she was suddenly taken with an absolute cold, as she arose from her place and exited the establishment.

Outside, she paused before the door of the Rose Teahouse. Her cloak was drawn about her once again, and she found herself shivering with cold despite the mild night breeze.

In fact, with each heartbeat, her head was becoming like ice, and all seemed to have stilled, become slow-motion. People walked by her motionless form, as Ranhé stood frozen, across the street from the House of Erotene. She stood and stared at the empty entrance, watching one inebriated well-dressed customer exit and descend the steep stairs across the street.

People laughed, loud voices sounded from all around. Occasional slow carriages rolled by the paved street. From a block away, someone had begun to sing, and a female whore’s voice arose in high squeals of laughter.

Ranhé’s gaze was glued upon the colonnade entrance.

Count to three . . .

An equipage stopped right before the House of Erotene, and an older woman customer in a pale silk wrap exited, accompanied by a tall male erotene, and then ascended the stairs to the House, holding his arm possessively.

One . . .

Someone pushed by Ranhé, hitting her inadvertently on the shoulder, shaking her out of the daze. She turned, and the man, seeing her sudden blazing ice-anger, her intensity, quickly excused himself, and was again on his way.

She took a breath. And then, because the ice began to return, to coagulate in her mind, she again turned her eyes upon the building across the street.

Two . . .

Three young men and two male courtesans passed before her, in a swaying crowd, like a single entity, supporting each other at the waists, at the elbows. She watched one of the young men stroke the buttocks of one of the male courtesans, and he was in turn pinched by his other drinking companion.

Three . . .

The entrance doors opened and closed to allow several other forms to pass, going up and down the stairs.

Ranhé’s guts sank in a curdling terror of indecision, then again decision. She focused on extraneous detail, wildly, saw the metal trim of the street lantern across the street, watched the curve of the scarlet orb, the geometric shadow thrown by each of the columns, the swirl of silk and satin in the skirts of the woman passerby. She saw the small flying insects circle the glowing orbs, then land, and upon touching the surface of the orb, burn and go up in a faint milky smoke. The scent of their burning wafted on the night breeze, and then was again gone, to be replaced by the sweet perfume and tea and spice scents of the district.

The first one of them that is male, the first to pass those doors . . . Now. . . .

The ornate doors of the House of Erotene opened, simultaneous with her thought. Two forms came out, both wearing the Guild cloak. The first was petite, a woman.

The second was a man.

Ranhé felt the world go still all around her, and a pang of sickness pierced her innards.

The man, tall and striking, wore no hood. He turned to speak privately to the woman before him, and his long pale hair spilled forward, like the sun. He wore his cloak carelessly, and his hands were without gloves.

A carriage rolled up to the curb, and the woman, turning to him for an instant—Ranhé could see her pale flash of face and a smile—proceeded to go down the stairs, and then entered the carriage.

The man did not go to assist her, only stood watching, and then nodded at her just before the carriage drove away. His arms were folded before him in a confident pose, and he swept the street with his bored gaze.

Ranhé stared at him, mesmerized. And for that reason, because she had been so incredibly focused, so still in the sea of moving people, his moving gaze stopped, and he saw her.

He saw her, a motionless island, across the street.

And he became still.

Ranhé felt herself moving. It was as if a sudden external force was controlling her puppet body from without, as she stepped away from the curb and crossed the street, and at one point was nearly run over by a moving carriage.

“Out of the way, blasted fool! Watch out!” the driver yelled out, taking her for a man.

Ranhé swayed almost drunkenly out of the way, and ignored the angry carriage driver. Like an automaton, she finally crossed to the other side, and stepped onto the walkway at the foot of the colonnade.

The stairs appeared so incredibly steep before her as she stopped for an instant, looking up at the House—it was in that instant a monolithic temple of pale marble—at the burning orbs above her head, the symbol of the spiraling blossom.

And she looked up at the form of the tall man with the sun-hair, who stood like a cruel unattainable god of the House at the top of the stairs, observing her, his silhouette obscuring the light.

There was a madness in her temples. Blood pounded, and yet her forehead was like ice.

Ranhé, moving as though in a dream, felt her feet moving automatically, her knees bending, as she climbed each stair, the longest flight of stairs in her life. When she was at the top, just before him, she stopped, her head lowered.

And then, because she had always been brave fearless Ranhé, she forced herself, like one condemned. She gathered her last remnant of pride, and looked up at him, looked into his eyes.

For a moment, the world fell out from under her feet, and then resurged to meet her. She saw a face, a pair of lazy eyes, somewhat slitted, apparently bored—and yet somehow familiar. Where had she seen these eyes before?

He was striking, just as she expected the erotene to be. And yet, it was not a beautiful doll’s face—rather, he had a quaintness about him, a definite character. His features were imperfect, but they combined into a beautiful whole. He watched her intently, as intently as she looked at him, and she noticed his exceedingly dark brows, unusual for one with such pale hair. That pallid hair was luxuriant, reflecting the scarlet orblight.

“Erotene . . .” said Ranhé, and her voice sounded to herself like a faint terrified whisper, “I—would ask you—that is, I realize that an appointment is normally necessary, but I would ask if you are for hire? For if you are, I would like to—purchase your services for this night. I—would pay you one hundred dahr for your time. . . .”

For a sinking moment, he said nothing. Each heartbeat rang like a hammer against the anvil of her temple, and with a raw inexplicable terror she noticed how smoothly his line of cheek flowed, noticed the immaculately formed lips, the long fine lashes.

And then he spoke, and his voice was deep and somehow familiar. “One hundred dahr,” he said blankly, “is quite more than the set price. The Guild takes only seventy.” And then, his expression changed, and a light almost amused smile passed over his perfect lips, while his slitted eyes never left hers. “Fortunately I am available for this night, so you have my services—lady.” And with that, he gracefully inclined his head to her, and then offered his bare ungloved hand.

Ranhé looked at the proffered hand—strong and chiseled, and strangely expressive—and she almost fainted.

He had said yes . . .

She had expected a rebuttal, albeit a perfectly polite one. In fact, she was so sure that she had been ready to turn around and start going down the stairs, having done the duty to her courage, her personal challenge answered and conveniently denied.

Luckily, he caught her elbow firmly just before she began to plummet backward down the stairs headfirst.

“Careful,” he said softly, holding her closer than she had ever been held before, his face inches away from hers. “These stairs are treacherous, and several of our fine customers have taken an unfortunate tumble. I wouldn’t want you crippled, my lady, before our night is pleasantly concluded.”

“Oh . . .” she gasped, feeling stupid. “I am sorry.”

And just when she was beginning to think he would hold her by the elbow forever, he released her gently, saying, “No harm done. Now then, where shall we go?”

Ranhé was at a loss. Things were out of her control to the point of being so ridiculous that she had ceased having the ability to think, and turned into a stuttering idiot. “I—don’t know,” she was saying, while the red glow of the district bathed her features, “I don’t—”

He stood looking down at the woman before him, at a pair of the most widely open terrified eyes.

She had been far from vulnerable when he had first seen her at Vaeste’s side. And even today, she did not seem so vulnerable at first glance when he had noticed her from across the street, standing at the doors of the Rose Teahouse. Rather, he had expected to observe up close the same calm masculinity that was in all of her bearing, the same sleek manner that his men had reported seeing in her all throughout the day, for she had been followed by them, as instructed.

And now, here she was. Of all the unexpected coincidences, here she was, the aide of Vaeste, right before his very nose, at the Teahouse across the street. He need not’ve ordered two of his best to stay on her heel and report on her progress.

How strange that she had approached him. It was true she appeared to be the loner type, which consequently made it logical that her intimate needs were to be purchased. It was but the strangeness of the timing, him of all people, that she had chosen to approach and solicit him.

And now, as she stood before him, so close, he had been surprised somehow, startled almost, by her face, by a kind of innocence that was there. When he held her by the elbow, he felt through the thin fabric of her shirtsleeve that she was trembling, terrified.

How could she be terrified of him? No matter what his role, no women of his acquaintance had ever been afraid. They had been charmed, all of them, they sought him, they had been instantly attracted.

But not this one. She appeared uncertain, and for a moment he considered if she too was playing some kind of exquisite mind game with him, if she had stumbled onto his game, guessed somehow. . . .

But no, she could not have, for her trembling had been real. And for that, he momentarily felt a pang of genuine pity toward her.

And then he smiled at her lightly, and proceeded with his game.

“I know of a charming place nearby,” he told her. “Where we will not be interrupted.” Saying that, he had been thinking of a certain apartment in one of the local Pleasure Galleries that had been a favorite with him, where he had spent some exquisite moments.

She looked at him with her open gaze and spoke so that he could barely hear. “Take me there, please.”

And that was exactly what he did.

They walked down the colonnade stairs, and then made their way along the Red River walkway, turning after a couple of blocks into a small side street. They stopped before a faintly illuminated villa that was away from the noise and bustle of the River, and he rapped lightly against the metal grate.

All the meanwhile, she had walked silently beside him, never daring to glance his way. He observed her discreetly as she walked, noticed her large build—although somewhat on the thin side—noticed how several baby-fine wisps of hair had escaped her plain braid and now lay against the nape of her neck, how her cloak rested against her strong sloping shoulders.

Soon, a familiar servant had come to open the gates for them, and smiling, he slipped a small discreet purse to the woman. At his side, the young woman walked stiffly, automatically, and she exhibited no reaction to this place, to anything.

He proceeded through the front garden of the villa into the house itself, through several warmly illuminated corridors full of fine china and bric-a-brac, and other feminine frills, into a large quite unique chamber, that in the last couple of years he had practically built himself, for needs of this sort.

In the center of the chamber was a large square sunken shallow pool, with a set of gentle stairs leading down into the water. To the right was a large canopied bed, tossed with silk pillows and various soft coverings, and possessing a set of gauze curtains. To the left, in a tall lampholder, was a soft mauve orb, filling the chamber with a soothing warm glow, not unlike the charm of the Rose Teahouse—for it was in fact the same perfect shade of mauve, and he had made sure of that himself.

A hue most conducive to love.

The servant, knowing well the routine, softly shut the door behind them, and they were alone.

The young woman had entered the room behind him, and now stood, visibly at a loss. He noticed her eyes taking in the luxury of the furnishings, the unusual size and rounded shape of the bed, the sunken pool from which gentle rivulets of warm steam arose and disappeared in the mauve twilight.

Could it be, he thought, that she really doesn’t know what to do?

Instead, he smiled at her, and then neared her, at which point he noted an exaggerated stiffening in her frame.

“May I take your cloak, my lady?” he offered, and his hand moved to undo the laces at her throat.

“No . . . Let me . . . I’ll do it myself. . . .” Her reply was immediate. Her speech was faint, breathless, hurried, and she moved away from him adroitly, and began to remove the cloak. Her hands were shaking.

“As you wish,” he concluded, his own deep voice taking on a soothing softness—the same approach one would have with a wild timid animal—a softness that he could exude so well.

He proceeded to remove his own erotene cloak—the very cloak that had so opportunely landed him into this situation in the first place. He had borrowed it from Iherema at the House of Erotene, a small oversight, and had casually forgotten to return it at the doors, as was his frequent way. (For, underneath he could carry a sizable sword, and to pretend absentmindedness meant not having to explain his true reasons. Even now, he cleverly divested himself of the sword without her noticing, and covered it with the folds of black velvet.) And because he was who he was, such an oversight had been always tolerated with a smile.

Having removed her cloak, she stood before him in her shirt, pants, and tall polished boots, her head lowered. He noticed the shape of her form better, now that her cloak was off.

Pretending not to notice her pause of confusion, he continued to remove his own clothing, first the stiff outer coat of expensive brocade, and then the gossamer-thin satin shirt. When his shirt had come off, he thought he saw her glance sideways at his naked chest, and he was sure that she would be more than pleased with what she saw. He was perfectly well muscled, but not too much, and his absolutely proportioned body even the Regentrix had commented upon more than once, when he lay with her—back when they were still on speaking terms, more or less.

“Wait,” she said suddenly, just as he had begun to remove his belt. She stood and watched the mauve glow slither and caress his perfect chest.

He paused. “Yes, my lady?”

It appeared almost, as though for a moment she truly could not speak. “I—” her words stumbled, “I must talk with you first, I—I must explain—”

In answer, he neared her and stood looking down into her face, watching her earnest eyes widen, her pupils dilate at such a proximity—but not with desire, with terror. “You need not be afraid,” he said, summoning all his charm, all his gentleness, so that she actually blinked and he heard her breath ease for an instant from her lungs. “You are virgin. Am I wrong?”

And at that point she started, and then again dropped her gaze. She was not being coy. He noticed her extreme pallor, and with it, a strange desperate resignation had overcome her. And with that desperation, her eyes swept upward suddenly to look directly at him, and he was almost startled by the intensity of that look—like pure clean burning fire.

“Yes,” she said, staring unflinchingly into his eyes. “That is, no, you are not wrong, I am—”

And at her words, he lowered his face to her, and his voice had become a whisper. “Then I will be very gentle, my lady. . . .”

His voice trailed off, and he was lowering his lips to brush lightly against her cheek, against the corner of her mouth, but in the last instant, she broke away, elusive like an eel, and exclaimed, “Don’t touch me!”

She stood back away from him, wild-eyed in the mauve twilight, her breath catching in her throat. And he in turn watched her, frozen with the moment, startled into surprise.

“Don’t . . . touch my face . . .” she said. “Ever. Don’t try to kiss me there.”

His lips parted on the unspoken question, but he held himself back, and said instead, “As you wish, my lady—”

“My name is ‘Ranhé,’ you don’t need to call me ‘lady.’”

At that, he again smiled and approached her. “I am at your service—Ranhé.”

And then, words tumbled out of her, and she began to quiver with some private emotion that was not fear, not desire, but rather, a tragedy. “Erotene,” she mumbled, “you really don’t understand, that is, you don’t have to understand—I am paying you am I not, so I need not explain—so—”

“May I touch you here?” he interrupted softly, turning skillfully to come up from the back. His hand shifted her thick dark braid to one side, and a large palm was placed against the nape of her neck. And at his first instant of touch, he sensed a tremor run down her back. And for some reason, that tremor evoked a strange twin response from him, for he felt it running down her back, and where he felt it, in his hand, there was an answering pang, a jolt of awareness that traveled like an electrical charge down his own body, and out, somewhere.

“I will touch you only where you want,” he said, leaning from behind her. “I will do nothing that will alarm you, and it will be very slow. I promise. But you must let me touch you, and remove your clothing. I will stand like this, behind you, so you need not be embarrassed, you need not face me.”

“All right,” she whispered, and stiffened, as though someone was about to start pulling her teeth.

“Now then,” he said, stepping away from her suddenly, with superficial matter-of-factness. “This is what we’ll do. First, let me take care of this—”

He moved away from her, and walked across the room, along the perimeter of the pool, to a small armoire chest, and removed a petite box of delicate sandalwood. As he opened the box, Ranhé could see it was filled with dark small crystals, nearly in powder form. He reached in delicately with his forefinger and thumb, and plucked a tiny handful of crystals. He stretched out his palm to her, upon which they sparkled, ebony and mauve.

“Do you know what this is?” he asked, across the room.

“Yes . . . I think I do. I’m inexperienced, not daft.”

He could not help but grin at her pert reply, which meant that her fear was lessening. Besides, he could see that her eyes were subtly returning to his nude chest, his back, and her glance definitely noted his marvelous mane of hair, ah-so-lustrous in the glow of the orb.

And so he took the crystals in his hand, and he approached the pool and scattered the powder onto the warm water. As the ebony crystals wafted down upon the surface, they burst into a mother-of-pearl shimmer, a white foam, and then were dissolved. With their dissolving, came a light scent, somewhat astringent, but not too unpleasant. This substance, mixed with the water, would guarantee that there would be no conception. . . .

And then he was again at her side, while a light sweet smile animated his features, widened his deceptively slitted eyes so she could see at last their silver magnetic pallor.

“Come, sit here on the bed,” he said. “No, it’s not what you think. I merely want to remove your boots.”

“No thank you, I can manage myself—” she began, but he interrupted.

“I am sure you can. But, I insist. I can make it much more pleasant for you, and will be your happy valet.”

She watched him out of her clear eyes. How strange, he had not noticed how beautiful those eyes were, how unexpectedly beautiful . . . Maybe he hadn’t noticed because previously he had seen her only from afar, and her gaze was too veiled and too fluid to stay in one place.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” she said, “I have—smelly feet.”

At which he laughed. He just couldn’t help himself. And because his deep voice rang so infectiously, she smiled also, the beginning of a little tentative smile, a pursing of the lips, as though she was trying to hold it back.

Thus, still laughing, he had her sit down on the bouncy softness of the great bed, and began to pull at her booted foot, while she attempted to hold on to the bedding, made suddenly helpless by the frivolity, the nature of the moment.

The boots were off, one by one, and he made a mock-face, saying, “Well, I suppose I have not expired yet, so your feet are bearable.”

“I am sorry . . .” she whispered. And then added, her fragile smile leaving her features, “I don’t take care of myself like other women you might know . . . I—don’t remove the hair from my legs—and elsewhere. It might be repulsive for you to touch me. . . . I understand—I am sorry. . . .”

For a moment, the sense of tragedy was returning to her features. But then she threw it off herself, like a dirty old blanket of pain. She got up from the bed. He watched in surprise, her strong decisive movements, those of a warrior going into battle.

She stood before him with a cold remote blank face, and unbuttoned her pale fine blouse. Underneath, he saw she wore a cotton halter of some sort, to bind her breasts—plain and made for duty, rather than appearance. The shirt slid off her arms, and he saw pale strong woman’s arms exposed, with fine dark hair, with lines of old tan at her sleeves and throat, a workman’s tan. For some reason, that solid strong flesh moved him, in a way different from his normal perception of the female body. Unlike all he had seen, she was so real . . .

She dropped the shirt on the ground, and stood before him, watching his eyes for any reaction. But he returned her gaze with an unreadable expression.

But then his expression changed, and his lips involuntarily parted. For, she had leaned forward and began removing daggers—of all shapes and sizes—from around the folds and pockets of her trousers. And now that he saw it, he realized why she had insisted on herself removing her cloak. Where it lay on the ground in an elongated bundle, he saw the long thin shape that had to be metal, and a bulk that had to be a sheath of a skillfully concealed longsword. How did he not see that?! How could he be so lax, when he was the one supposedly playing the game?

The daggers lay on the ground—all thirteen of them. And then she drew in a big gulp of air, and began undoing the buckle of her belt. Her plain trousers slid down along her hips, and underneath she wore prim underpants that more than concealed her genital area.

“I am ready,” she uttered quietly, “Should I go into the water now?”

For a second, he was almost speechless. His gaze moved from the daggers on the floor, to her elegant line of waist and hips, her long strong unshaved legs and thighs closely covered with black hairs.

“Yes,” he said, with a different smile. “Now.”

In silence, Ranhé turned away from him, and stepped into the pool. The warm waters swirled around her feet, then licked in eddies about her legs, as she descended the first four stairs, so that the waters were at the top of her thighs, almost at her crotch, soaking the bottoms of her underpants.

He in turn, quickly divested himself of his trousers, and was left with nothing but a very brief loin covering. Normally, he would have removed that also, but seeing her psychological inability to completely disrobe, he did not want to frighten her. He stood for a moment, wanting the full effect of his body to be absorbed by her, but she never saw the sculpted lines of his stomach, his muscular thighs, for she had again turned her back on him, and stood, like one condemned, waiting for him to join her.

For one instant only, he, who had been so perfectly sure of all things, felt a minute doubt. And then he shrugged it off, and like a great cat, silently entered the pool behind her.

The water was warm, lapping gently about their thighs, and the vapor rose to dapple all skin with a fine sheen of sweat. He stood inches away from her back, afraid—despite his skill—to touch her, afraid to dispel this something, this state of delicate vaporous warmth and peace. And then he reached out with both hands to cup the ovals of her shoulders.

His touch was delicate, exquisite like a summer moth’s wing, experimentally ephemeral. And yet, at his touch, her shoulder blades tensed, and only forcibly did she not allow herself to recoil.

“You must allow me to touch you,” he said again, soothingly. “I will touch you so softly that you would never know. And I will only touch you in such places where you let me. And now, relax. I will stand behind you closely, and you must think of me as a wall of water, for I will keep you safe and warm just like the water warms your feet, your legs. Just so I will warm you. Sense me from your back, with your skin only, not quite touching, not quite—”

“I am trying to relax,” she whispered then, half-turning her profile to him, and he realized her eyes were shut convulsively tight.

“You will never relax until you loosen your eyelids,” he said in her ear with a smile, beginning to run his hands ah-so-softly down her back, her arms, her shoulder blades, and with each stroke he cupped a little of the water, and poured it in tiny warm rivulets down her skin.

At first she was absolutely stiff. But then, the soothing warmth of the pool, his deep lilting voice, his apparently nonthreatening light touch, brought out a pliancy in her form. She loosened her spine, and allowed herself to move, to sway gently under his massaging strokes.

There had been nothing overtly sensual in his touch—for he had controlled it. And yet, as moments progressed, and the woman before him grew more pliant under his fingers, his strokes deepened. He allowed his hands to move from her shoulders and back to her lower waist, to that curve between waist and hip that was most pronounced in a woman’s body. His strong agile fingers came, full of warm water, to run up her sides, up her underarms where he felt a soft patch of hair, and slightly forward where would be her breast. . . .

And here, her damned cotton underclothing was getting in the way.

He hadn’t realized it, but as his hands were moving with soft magic over her body, he himself was growing warm and heady, and a remote light pulse was beginning in his own temples.

“Relax . . .” his voice intoned, “Feel it, feel . . . the smooth water, trust me . . .” And yet, he was no longer clear as to what he was uttering, what caressing words came forth from his lips, for his own breathing had grown rhythmic and distinct inside his own lungs, singing an old familiar song in his head.

Within moments, he realized he was no longer stroking her, but had drawn her nearly faint limp body against his own, from her back. Realized he was feeling the slippery pliant warmth of her back with his chest, its short blond hairs like cilia, sensing each cell of hers, each microscopic part of her surface.

She too, appeared to fuse to him. She lay back against him, loose and pliant, and half-floating in the warm vaporous water—for they had inadvertently descended deeper into the pool, and the water had risen to the level of her hips.

He held her tightly from behind, and his hands came to encircle the front of her waist, to touch the hollow of her belly, the cavity there, then rise higher, stroking, just below the halter that contained her breasts. At the same time, his male breath came in a muffled hot stream to lick the curves of her shoulders, the nape of her neck.

He had a sudden urge to sink his lips against her nape, in that very concave place below her braid, but was afraid that would break her trance. Instead, he put his hands slowly lower, at her waist, and then, ever-so-gently, began to pull down the warm waterlogged underclothing that had bunched around her hips, at the same time realizing that his own hands were now trembling.

And she let him.

Soon, his skilled fingers had lowered the garment all the way, allowing it to sink down below the water, between her legs, upon the murky floor of the pool. And then, mesmerized, he watched the water lap softly against the revealed globes, the fine crevice of her nude buttocks.

All along, there had been a heat rising somewhere at the core of him, a familiar brazen heat. He had focused so upon his touch of her, his delicate play of palm against skin, that he did not allow himself to know that there was a burning in his own lower extremities, that the place concealed by his wet loincloth, was heavy and alive, and pressing steadily forward.

But now it had become obvious. And it would grow more obvious to her, if he again held her against him.

Would she shudder in terror and flee, if she knew? He was not looking forward to her reaction. And yet, she must know by now.

And then, he heard her breathing solidify also, and the sound of her female lungs shudderingly expelling the air filled him with an instant wildness. Afraid to make an excessive movement, he released her for a moment nevertheless. He had to remove his own loincloth, for it, that place below, had now become the center of things. . . .

His fingers quickly freed his genitals from the folds of the wet cloth, and he allowed the piece of fabric to sink also below the surface of the steaming water.

He stood and looked down at himself, down at the results. That sensation was now overwhelming all other senses.

And then he moved behind her softly, water lapping at his bare flesh, and he lowered himself somewhat—at the same time wondering if she knew what he was doing, if she really understood—while he was sliding that part of himself lightly against the crevice of her buttocks, just below, barely touching her skin, barely skimming the surface of the water, barely moving, ah-feather-soft . . . once . . . twice . . . and then again. . . .

For the first time, she made a sound, most likely against her will, and in reflex. And then she suddenly backed up close against him, so that her nudity was tight against his crotch, positioned in fact right above it, right above the wonderful place where he wanted her. . . .

And then, just as there was the beginning headrush, he heard her whisper: “Touch me again, erotene . . . Touch me . . . I am not afraid. . . .”

His hands had taken on a life of their own. He moved, solid male animal fingers, to tug at the bindings of her halter at her back—while a sensuous fury began to rise in him—loosened it finally after several strong pulls, and then heard a small satisfying rip. The cotton gave in at last, and with sadistic joy, he caught his breath, reached forward below her breasts, and caught something heavy in two large ready palms, just as it came free from the tight restraint, just as it descended right into his fingers, yes—

A sound began forming low in his throat, but he never let it escape, never voiced anything, merely opened his lips in a straining silent Oh. For, even now he must not lose control, not yet, she was not quite ready yet. With both hands he massaged the newly freed breasts, feeling the points of her nipples, while she began to sway in rhythm against his chest, and to breathe out loud. He listened to her soft, regular moan-breaths, and without noticing it, moved himself against her, sliding back and forth from the bottom, just skimming the surface of the warm water and her round globular flesh . . . once . . . twice . . .

Enough. He stopped, knowing that he was paused precariously on the edge, knowing the inevitable approach of a mad pattern that was about to take him away, unless he ceased now.

But her breathing, her terribly female, soft, rhythmic breathing, caught him by surprise, made him again marvel, and pause, and listen to her. And because he stopped, was caught off guard, allowed himself to be lulled by the very rhythm he had just awakened in her, he was suddenly swooning. . . .

The room abruptly faded in and out around him, while he—damn idiot—felt the familiar instant of blackout. In order not to fall, he reached out and clutched her roughly by the shoulders, and just stood there, leaning his forehead stupidly against the nape of her neck, letting his long hair sweep forward, stick to her skin in blond flax strands, while all his innards, his life force focused and convulsed with intensity, then burst through, and the hot liquid began to pump through him, squirted and spilled through the tip of him in creamy rivulets against the crevice of her damn oh-so-damn rump. . . .

As though she had sensed that something was different, something was happening to him, she had grown silent, still, once again beginning to tremble under his touch.

Bitch! Now that he could think straight again, a wave of cold fury overwhelmed him, fury first at her, and then, more fairly at himself, because he had lost control—she had made him lose control. The fury and the involuntary pity moved in him simultaneously now, perversely coexisting, and he knew he had to finish what he started here with her, to conclude the game.

And so, because his mind was clear again, he straightened, and then—as though nothing had happened—gently slid his hands down her back, forcing her hips—still stained lightly with his pale excretion, though most of it had ran directly down into the water—down under the mauve water’s surface, where the astringent substance would promptly take care of any living seed. . . .

At this point, he would not be surprised if she realized he was not who she took him to be. For, no true erotene would do what he did, would lose control to that extent, before the act of intercourse even began. And yet, he hoped she was so innocent that she would never know.

He was wrong.

“Who are you?” Her voice was a frightened whisper. At the same time, softly, she extricated herself from the touch of his hands at her hips, then waded deeper into the pool, up to her chest, holding her arms modestly crossed against her breasts, still with her back to him. He watched that braid of hers, first floating along the surface, then sinking, waterlogged, below the water, watched the fine moistened curls of her hair stick to her cheeks, the curve of her neck, her half-turned throat, pale below the old tan line. . . .

And something within him, something momentarily human, surfaced, and he wanted to reach out and touch her neck gently, simply, despite all. For a moment, he needed again to rest his forehead against her warm sweaty skin, and just to remain thus indefinitely. That same urge prompted him, in a pang of honesty, to say, “I did not mean to delude you this far—Ranhé. Truly, I regret it now.”

“Then . . . you are no erotene.”

“No.”

“Then, who the hell are you?”

And because for some reason he wanted to regain from her a tiny portion of trust, he said, “The name, given to me by a woman who claimed to be my mother, is Elas.”

Hearing which, unbelievably, convulsively, she began to cry.

Ranhé felt the room spin about her, a blackness, a horror, and sobbed, with the utmost wrenching of her guts. Behind her, the man with the sun-hair stood in the mauve half-light of the chamber, and the color slid off his nude skin like liquid, drowning in the opaque surface of the pool, of which he, like a merman, was an extension.

She wept because it was the end of self-delusion, the end of many things, and she was only vaguely present within her own body. Something had burst within her, and she was being carried on the flotsam of the wild pain, like a child’s wooden doll.

Like someone else.

It was someone else’s skin, and she was locked inside, screaming silently to come out. Or else, she was not screaming, simply lingering in a vacant powerless, listless place where there was no hope, just being swept away, anchored by a remote alien dark.

She wept, because now she was faced with the truth, and there was to be no more self-denial.

Elas. . . .

In her mind, the word rang like a monumental bell in the Temple of Alhveh, lord of Empty Skies, god of death.

Elas . . . Elas . . . Elas.

And she was weak, impotent in the face of that. She had let go of the one thing within herself that allowed her to remain aside, aloof, free.

That thing was self-delusion.

What she felt for Elas, the one she knew as Elasand Vaeste, was like a wound now, a raw bleeding dark place. A place without fulfillment.

And now, this.

This man, who stood in this strange room with her, this warm-skinned beautiful alien, had taken a most intimate difficult piece of her trust, and spat it back at her, when she was already aching, pathetic and vulnerable.

She had walked with him, like a ewe to slaughter, knowing full well that something was not quite right. And yet, even here she allowed herself the luxury of self-delusion.

He was not erotene. . . . Then what? And what did it matter? She had wanted to believe that he was one, that he would do with her what she’d been unable to bring herself to do all these years, that he would use his Guild training and talent, and teach her the intimacy.

Teach her the damn intimacy! Her! As if she could still go on, deluding herself that because she was buying his time, she could also accept his services.

And yet, somewhere in the middle of it all, he had quite surprised her. He had a power, a hypnotic way, and a light touch which actually managed to seduce her . . . almost. For, of all things, she was vulnerable to a light touch.

When he had held her so closely, so warmly against his alienness, she had let go of herself willingly, would have let go all the way, if he took her there—for the events of the day had been leading up to this inevitable buildup.

But he broke his own spell. And then—what cruel twist of providence, what monster of a god had named him what it did?

Elas.

He couldn’t have known. Couldn’t have known any of it, of what was inside her mind, chewing at her gut, burrowing into the fabric of her. Or did he? Was this not a twist of fate but a joke of human making? Did he know her more than she knew herself up to this instant?

Her weeping had subsided. Sobs of a five-year-old child had receded back into her soul’s past again, stuffed back into the primal recess of her origins. Ranhé stood shivering and drained of all feeling, submerged in the warmth, and yet cold like silence, while the warm soft vapor of the pool water rose above her shoulders in the mauve dreamscape around her.

She felt a delicate touch on her shoulder, at which she did not even start, only turned her dead face very slowly, and then turned her whole body, still submerged.

The man with the sun-hair looked at her face, only inches away. “I am sorry . . .” he repeated seriously, “I don’t quite understand your reaction.”

“It is nothing. It is the name,” she replied in a wooden voice. “The name.”

“My name?” He sounded puzzled for an instant. “Does it offend you? It is Elas, short for Elasirr. Most call me Elas however—”

And then, it must have dawned on him. Something—something dawned on him. For, he allowed his words to trail off, and his eyes looked intently, boring into hers for an instant, while all his former semblance of gentleness had fled.

“I see . . .” he said. And then, there was a strange smile on his lips—thin, refined, sarcastic.

A killing smile.

For an instant, she saw indeed that this man was not at all what he seemed, that no erotene could smile like that, like the shadow of death.

And then, fearless Ranhé faced the terrifying smile head on.

“What exactly do you see—Elasirr?” she said slowly, distinctly, stressing the full name, staring into the eyes of this man with her own pale winter gaze, more calm than she had been with him all evening. Calm, for suddenly the tables were turning, and there was no more threat of intimacy of any sort, no more vulnerability. Rather, she was back in a confrontational mode, back in the role in which she excelled.

Ranhé was feeling definitely herself again.

But so was the man facing her. No more erotene. No more pretense. And she knew it.

“I see that you have certain feelings for the other Elas,” he said, taunting her, his eyes burning bright—wide like the serpent that he was—“the one you’d never dare call ‘Elas’ to his face. For, to you he would always remain ‘Lord Vaeste.’”

He surely expected her to react to this, to give certain things away.

He was wrong.

Ranhé’s expression remained blank, wooden, while she considered him. And he must have read eventually what was really in her face—a basic proud disdain.

Ranhé said nothing to him, then suddenly moved away, splashing through the warm water, past him, not caring at all any more that he saw the entirety of her nude body. She splashed up the stairs out of the pool, dripping water on the fine tiles. At the top stair of the pool, she paused for an instant, then bent to gather a palmful of water and washed her face.

He watched her as she washed off what was left of her tears.

And he looked at her strong large pale body, with all her imperfections, while she wrung the water out of her braid, then dripping, got all the way out of the pool, and began gathering up her clothes.

And all through this, she remained absolutely silent.

After she was fully clothed, and fully “daggered”—having stuck the tiny and big ones back into places on her person most people never dreamed possible (though he himself knew those places well)—Ranhé turned to him as though she had only now remembered he was still there.

Her gaze was intense, insolent, and just as sarcastic as his own. “I am sorry I dripped all over your floor,” she said. “But then, so will you, once you get out. No towels anywhere—not good, Elasirr, or whoever you are.”

And then, before he could say anything, she smiled. And that smile of hers, cold, proud, did something to his insides, something that not even her body had done.

It brought a pang of anger, surprise, admiration even.

“Thank you for your time,” she said, taking up her cloak, and with it, her long elegant sword, which she no longer cared to hide, as she was attaching it to her waist. “By the way, cloaks are wonderful things, aren’t they?” she continued, nodding at his own velvet cloak and the concealed weapon on the floor. “They cover up everything. Even irahi steel.”

She couldn’t have known his sword’s style, not even by the sheath, unless she had been an expert.

And now he knew that she was.

For she had seen through the velvet.

And for that alone, he would respect her now, more than she would ever suspect.

“Goodbye, Ranhé,” he said to her then, smiling like a demon in the mauve twilight of the room. “It has been a regretfully brief pleasure. Say hello to Elasand-re for me.”

She half-turned, her fingers on the door handle, and looked at him intensely. “I do believe I shall,” she said. “Though I doubt that Lord Vaeste would remember dealing with vermin.”

And with that she exited, slamming the door shut behind her.

Thus, she never got to see that the man with the sun-hair, who was Elasirr, began to laugh softly, and then, with a breath, submerged completely below the warm mauve waters of the pool.

When he resurfaced again, with an aggressive male splash, his blond hair was soft and plastered about his fine skull, and the waters rained down his perfect flesh like sweet drops of mauve honey.

They would meet again.

CHAPTER 12

Ranhé woke up to a hazy morning that perfectly expressed her mood. The previous night, she had returned to the Vaeste villa well after midnight, and collapsed in her room. The house had stood silent all around her as she crept back, and she never knew if the lord himself had returned from Dirvan.

The moon shone like the face of death upon her silk pillow. She lay for a long time in the silence, listening to her own breathing, feeling the weight of her still-wet braid on her neck, on her clammy flesh.

And now, the early grayness of morning was at the window. And with it a mist, seeping in from the silver outside, chilling her, pulling her out of bed.

Ranhé did not wait for a servant to knock upon her door. Her mind, awake like a sharp blade, and going over the events of the previous day, drove her with a fury.

Elas.

Now she had to contend with two of them.

Who the hell was that man, that other, and why did he seem to know her while she had no idea who he was? Should she mention any of this matter to Elasand? Would it endanger him if she didn’t?

Ranhé was dressed and ready, and downstairs, well before the servants of the villa.

She was not alone.

Elasand Vaeste sat in the reception room downstairs, still wearing his formal outfit from yesterday. Pale, with circles under his eyes, his face gaunt—he turned to her with a tired expression.

“My lord,” said Ranhé. And then she stopped. What else could she say to him, when she was thinking so much, so much.

Elas. . . .

And then he smiled at her.

“Ah, Ranhé,” he said very softly, speaking with a very light slur, “I am glad to see you. Glad. Did you have a good time? You must’ve, and I envy you. Believe me, you didn’t miss much. And luckily, I did not come in need of your services—unless you can count the lustful Her Grace herself, whose usual advances I had to beat off with every sharp spike of my wit, my logic, my reason! Damned woman.” And then he chuckled.

Ranhé looked at him silently.

“Ah-h-h,” he sighed then, putting his hands to his temples. “The Regentrix had me on edge all evening. Had to beat ‘er off with a stick. Do you know I’ve just come back now? The Palace Gates had been locked for the night, and all of us guests were locked in. Whether we wanted to be or not. Hestiam is so paranoid, that he wanted to make sure no one would come or go without his consent after midnight.”

“My lord, you should go and lie down now,” she said gently, and with a small measure of relief, a relief at she knew not what. “You are very tired.”

At which he again laughed. “Actually—I am very drunk.”

“Then you probably need help. Let me call the servants.”

But he turned his eyes to her, soft, mellow, and just stared. She was the first to look away.

“Do you know,” he said suddenly then, “that today is the Second Day of cousin Lixa’s Wedding? Yes, and the celebration goes on. My little cousin has officially bedded the Daqua, and is a real woman. Yes, a real woman, that is, if he was able to perform last night, after all that—that. Are you a real woman, Ranhé?”

At those words, she felt blood rising to her face. And she said nothing. Instead, she used the servant bell-pull to summon someone, anyone.

“I am sorry,” he said meanwhile, looking at her sideways, his cheek resting against the palm of his hand, his eyes so beautiful and clear, despite his condition. “I am sorry that I am drunk. Didn’t plan for it to happen. Can you please make sure that I am awake by noon? I am making you, Ranhé, you—you—you, personally responsible that I am up and awake and dressed by noon, because we have an—an appointment with His Damn Grace.”

“I will make sure of that,” said Ranhé softly, as servants came in to assist the Lord Vaeste, and he was all out of her hands.

She was thus resigned to an empty remainder of morning.

At half past one, with the sun brilliant over the City, the Lord Vaeste was escorted, together with Ranhé, into a small private audience chamber in the Palace, to meet with the Regent.

Elasand was still more than usually pale, but now well in control of his faculties, after having drunk several cups of strong black tea earlier in the Villa. Still, he was in a dark mood and had a sizable headache.

They were within an intricate chamber, all decorated in precious metals, that Hestiam preferred to use when privately receiving people. There were two large windows in the room, done in the arch style predominant in the rest of the Palace. The afternoon sunlight came oddly diffused into the chamber, over a mist gray cityscape low on the horizon, and a blinding clear silver sky toward the zenith.

Elasand immediately sat down on one of the sofas, while Ranhé remained standing. The servant left them alone, and went to fetch the Regent.

Within minutes, Hestiam Grelias sneaked into the room from a different tiny secret door in one of the walls, and Ranhé thought it was somewhat ridiculous of him to do that, considering how obscurely situated the chamber had been in the first place.

When Elasand saw the Regent, he arose tiredly, and inclined his head in a light bow. Hestiam looked quite hung-over himself after last night, with slitted eyes, and somewhat matted hair. His collar had been hastily buttoned one button over, leaving a silly gap, and one extra button at his throat.

“I am extremely glad to see you, Elasand-re . . .” he muttered urgently, in a conspirational tone. And then he noticed Ranhé.

“Your Grace,” said Elasand tiredly, “this is my aide and personal bodyguard. Please treat her like you would myself. All things may be spoken freely before her.”

Hestiam frowned, rubbed his forehead, staring for a moment at Ranhé’s trim figure in masculine attire. “A woman bodyguard? How piquant.” And then, equally tired, he promptly ignored her.

“Now then,” said Hestiam. “What is it that you wanted to see me about, Elasand-re? Hurry up and out with it, because I have something of my own to discuss with you, something that is of vital importance.”

“Actually, Your Grace, what I was planning to say can wait.”

“Wonderful! Then listen,” said Hestiam, “I want your opinion on what you saw—last night. What you saw in Vorn.”

“What did I see? Not much, except for the fact that he is definitely more than he lets on, and he sees, hears and understands more than is good for us. I noted his habit of silence, and also how he watches all, Your Grace and your sister.”

“You saw him staring at Deileala too, didn’t you?” Hestiam smirked. “Too bad she was so occupied by yourself last night, or else she might have paid more attention to our guest, in her own matchless way. In this situation it would’ve come in handy.”

“I remember this Lord Vorn mention how he wanted to see more of the City later. It was, I believe, the only thing of consequence—”

“Oh gods, Elasand-re!” Hestiam interrupted, squinting. He then neared Elasand, and pulled him by the hand, sitting down on the sofa. He began to speak in a breathless whisper, meanwhile clutching Vaeste’s hand, “I am scared . . . I am very very scared, Elasand-re, what can we do? What is happening to us? He is planning something, something terrible, and I don’t think I can face it, or his lord, that nameless one . . . Oh gods! This City is doomed, we have no way to defend against any serious invasion, the Army is in shambles, the call for conscription would be too late to make any difference . . . Tronaelend-Lis will fall like we’re made of paper. And we will all die, I will die! My sister, my horrible sweet sister will die, and they will dance on our graves as they sack the City—”

“I don’t know about the dancing part, but about the deaths, you might be right.”

Hestiam started like a rabbit. They glanced in the direction of the sound, and the new voice in the room.

Ranhé felt her stomach fall out from under her. She saw the man with the blond striking hair emerge from the same secret passage the Regent had used, and saunter into the room.

His hair shone like sun indeed now, in the light of day. And his eyes were lazy and half-lidded, wearing the same bored expression that she would now never forget. He wore a dark expensive outfit, and Ranhé grudgingly realized that he was not vermin at all, but rather—

“How did you get in here?” muttered Hestiam, and yet he appeared not at all surprised to see this one. “I hate it when you do that, creeping up from my back, popping up anywhere. Have you followed me here all the way from my bedchamber?”

The man with the sun-hair grinned, somewhat insolently, and walked through the room, then proceeded to sit down quite unceremoniously on the sofa, right next to Lord Vaeste. With a lazy microscopic inclination of his head, he replied, “Ah, Your Grace. Not at all. I was merely in the neighborhood, and hearing your noble voice, decided to pay my respects.”

And then he turned to Vaeste and smiled lightly. “Well, did I miss anything vital? Your favorite word, I believe, Elasand-re, ‘vital.’ And yours too, Your Grace. Vital, vital, everything is always vital for you two. Begging Your pardon, of course, Your Grace.”

All through the exchange, Ranhé stood stiffly. She was absolutely ignored.

Elasand looked at the blond man coldly, tiredly, and also seemed not at all surprised at his presence here.

“Why are you here, Elasirr?” Vaeste’s voice was faint, tinged with the strain of his headache.

“Since you’re both here, I’ll continue then,” said Hestiam.

“Deaths and dancing?” said Elasirr. “The topic, I believe.”

Hestiam frowned. “I am quite serious. And you ought to be also, since what is about to happen will affect your Guild as much as any one of us.”

“My Guild is more prepared than anyone else in this City,” said Elasirr, crossing one elegant booted leg over another, leaning back against the soft pillows of the sofa.

Elasand meanwhile, was observing him silently.

“I did not see you at the celebration yesterday,” said Hestiam, “or I would ask your opinion of the dark stranger also.”

“I was otherwise—preoccupied.” Elasirr’s gaze slipped for an instant in the direction of Ranhé, and she thought she noticed the ghost of a smile.

So, he had seen her after all. Knew she was there.

But then the blond man continued. “Your Grace, my Lord Vaeste, I nevertheless have something of note to mention regarding our dark dangerous Vorn. Something rather intriguing.”

“What?” said Hestiam, tensing.

“Why, the fact that he, your oh-so-terrible one is somehow affected by color orblight.”

“What do you mean?” said Vaeste.

“I mean,” continued the blond, “he cringes. Yesterday, during the Wedding Ceremony, at Eroh’s Temple. Was anyone else besides myself not looking at the bride only? Though, lovely creature that she is, I admit—”

“Stop,” said Elasand. “What did you see?”

Elasirr leaned forward to place his right elbow on his knee, and stared at the two men. His eyes, for an instant, lost the slitted narrow look, and sparkled like two pieces of silver, animated, alive.

“I saw that Lord Vorn of Qurth has a weakness,” he said softly. “Something that must be studied and examined from all sides. Something that we could use to our advantage. And we don’t have a moment to lose.”

“Are you saying that color light may distress him?” said Hestiam. “Possibly, he is just a barbarian that had never experienced color before, where he came from.”

“No. It was not just distress. There was an aversion, a fear in him that I could see. A real fear. And there could be no fear of that kind in one such as himself, unless there’s also a known potential for harm. Something about color affects him. And maybe, it might affect the rest of his men.”

“Were there any color orbs lit last night?” said Elasand.

Hestiam frowned, then tugged at his beard. “I actually don’t recall. There almost always are, you know. I love their bright exotic quality. But last night’s festivities were all Deileala’s doing, none of mine—Besides, Vorn again retired somewhat early, leaving me to better enjoy myself, thankfully—”

Elasand was growing more still with each passing moment. Ranhé noticed his breathing had become almost nonexistent, and he was deep in some kind of private contemplation.

“What’s on your mind, my thoughtful Elasand-re?” said Elasirr, turning to him with mocking expectancy.

Elasand took a big breath, and let it out. And then, deliberately ignoring the blond man, he addressed Hestiam. “Your Grace, I need to talk to you for a moment privately.” He turned to Ranhé, saying, “Would you mind waiting outside for a little while, freewoman?”

She nodded, stonelike, and left the chamber.

“And you also, lord.”

The blond allowed his brows to rise, and then, with a faint smile, followed Ranhé out the door, saying absolutely nothing.

As the door closed behind them, Ranhé found herself alone in the Palace hallway—indeed, reliving a nightmare—with the man whose flesh only yesterday she had felt against her skin.

The man Elasirr stepped out into the corridor, shutting the door behind them. And for a moment they were silent in the poorly illuminated twilight.

“So,” he said after a while, leaning with his back against the wall of the hallway, looking directly ahead. “Here we are.”

And then he slowly turned to stare at her.

Ranhé threw one sharp knife-gaze sideways at him, then began to pace the corridor.

At which he chuckled softly, and continued staring at her with a basilisk gaze.

“I wonder,” he said, “what you look like with your hair unbound. Softer, maybe? I never got a chance to see that last night.”

She remained silent. Her boots rang against the marble of the corridor, as she paced.

“Ranhé, oh Ranhé . . .” he pronounced softly, at last turning his head away, leaning his head back against the wall. In the shadows, his profile was like one of the faces from an ancient silver dirghe coin. She noted also a glimpse of detail—his straight brow, the slightly upturned nose with fine nostrils, the line of mouth and chin, the pulse at his throat. And then he closed his eyes, and his lashes extended against his cheeks, and she watched their pale silhouette.

Ranhé stopped pacing. She stopped to stare at that artistic profile.

He knew that she had stopped. That she was looking at him. And yet he continued facing straight ahead, his eyelids covering his eyes, pale lashes resting against cheeks.

She stood, hands folded before her, booted feet planted apart.

After ten heartbeats, they could hear each other’s breathing, and the marble silence of the corridor.

“Do you have any idea,” he began suddenly, “what His Pathetic Grace and your lord and employer are now discussing?”

“Obviously it’s something neither of us are expected to hear,” she replied, speaking for the first time.

His lashes lifted over his eyes like birds taking flight. And he turned to look at her. “Ah, gods strike me, Ranhé speaks! I was beginning to worry that I’ve permanently made you mute with indignation.”

“Not a chance,” she replied, with a blank face. “I don’t like to waste words.”

“Were you going to say—with vermin?”

Her face gave away nothing. “Who are you, really? You must be a lord, for you fraternize with lords and regents.”

He sighed, almost sadly, and then his lips curved into a sweet smile. “That, indeed, I do.”

“Then,” she said, “what have you to do with any of this business, with any of us? What role do you take?”

“Why,” he said, “surely, that of the assassin.”

And Ranhé knew him at last.

When he was left alone with Hestiam, Elasand got up, and turned his face to the view of the City in the bright window.

“Well, what is it?” said the Regent.

Elasand remained staring far away, while the day-glow danced and sank in the recesses of the dark that was his hair—all but a single pale streak.

“Your Grace,” began Elasand. “Let me start with a tale. . . .”

“Do we have time for this?” said Hestiam.

At which Elasand sadly laughed. “It only makes it somewhat easier to explain,” he said. “The tale begins when a young proud man born to one of the Noble Ten, wakes up one night from an extraordinary dream. The dream is vivid, clear, as though he had visited the place himself. And the young man is still young enough to forget his pride in lieu of wonder.”

As he was speaking, Elasand began to pace the chamber.

“Go on . . .” said the Regent, making himself comfortable on the sofa. “What is the dream about?”

“The dream is—it’s about nothing. Rather, the dream is filled with something—”

Say it, pronounce it at last. . . .

Violet.

“Well?”

Elasand stopped pacing. He stood, a gaunt elegant silhouette against the window. The Regent found that from that angle he could not see his face.

“The dream,” said Vaeste, “is about a woman . . . A goddess. The lady of Violet. She whose name is pronounced with the softest reverence—Laelith. . . .”

Hestiam’s eyes began to come awake.

“And so,” Elasand continued, “in this living dream, this true vision, the Tilirreh comes to visit the man. Or rather, he comes to visit her, comes within her radiant violet garden. And there, she fills him with such emotion, such intensity, that when he wakes, he is unable to forget. . . .”

Elasand paused. “I am that man,” he said. “And I have seen the lady. The first time had been almost two winters ago. And now I see her often. In the dream I am given a knowledge, a premonition of something that I cannot seem to grasp, something that however, I must. And it eats at me, this presence, this knowledge. It devours and haunts me, day and night . . . And I see the one called Laelith, next to whom all mortal women pale in comparison. And I know she expects me to act, and I beg her to help me retain the knowledge when I awake. . . .”

The Regent’s face was serious. “Dreams . . .” he whispered, “I too have dreams. Only, unlike yours, I see no radiant gods. My dreams only keep me from welcoming sleep, every single horrible night.”

“Your Grace,” said Elasand softly. “That’s the end of my tale. There are details, of course, but none that would make a difference. But now I must explain why I divulged this to you in the first place.”

Again, he looked away, and began to pace the room.

“I’ve heard,” he began, “how—I no longer remember—that somewhere in the deep forests of the West Lands, at least two days’ ride away from the City, there is an old shrine. I know of it, for on more than one occasion I’ve heard stories told around Tronaelend-Lis of travelers being lost, of merchant caravans straying off the correct path, and coming upon an ancient structure somewhere in the forest.

“They call it the Shrine of Light. Supposedly, once, very long ago, before any of our grandfathers were alive, the shrine had been built to honor the Seven Tilirr of Rainbow.”

Hestiam involuntarily smiled. “I’ve heard of this shrine. A pretty legend. My nurse used to tell me about it when I was a little sprite myself. But—a legend only. The travelers simply get lost, waste time, and then have to excuse their own stupidity before their superiors. So, they make up a story that they had seen the ancient shrine, all overgrown and hoary, in the deepest part of the wood. Even recently, I’ve had my idiot messengers report people having seen this fable of a place—when they are deeply in their cups, of course.”

“What if I told Your Grace of a man who had actually been to that place himself, and knows the way?”

The Regent shook his head, playing with his untrimmed beard. “Elasand-re,” he said, with an uncharacteristic calm. “What are you getting into here? Is this relevant to the current problem?”

“I believe, very much so. And I do know of someone who’d been to the Shrine of Light. You know him too, Your Grace. You might remember him as Nilmet the Philosopher.”

“Ah-h. Yes, I do recall that one. He entertained us well at Dirvan last spring, with his quirky wisdoms and tales of the Rainbow. Deileala wanted to retain him permanently at her side as a court fool, and when he refused, wanted to imprison him as a joke, just so he wouldn’t leave.”

Elasand’s lips curved. “That wouldn’t do at all for Nilmet. He’d wilt like a cut flower, if forced to stay in one place.”

Hestiam smirked. “I agree, but try telling my sister what she can or cannot have. This Nilmet is insane, of course. Not of any noble stock, yet he had his pretensions. Whatever happened to him?”

“I just saw him at a roadside inn not far from the City.”

“So,” the Regent said. “Your Nilmet claims to have seen the Shrine of Light? And you believe him? He is a tale spinner, Vaeste.”

“Your Grace—he has been there, by the very look of him. He pretended not to recognize me this last time, and I did not press to speak to him. But I overheard him talk again of the Rainbow. Under the guise of philosophy he reveals truth to those he speaks with. And from what he said, I am convinced he has been there. The shrine exists, and I can locate it.”

“And how would that serve us? What will you find at an overgrown ruin in the middle of the forest?”

“That which I never thought to seek,” said Elasand simply.

The Regent laughed. “Ah . . . Elasand-re. You are a dreamer.”

“You make it sound so futile, Your Grace.”

“Well, isn’t it? Really, what do you expect to find? A revelation? Why bother traveling so far, when you can visit the Sacred Quarter, right here in the City, and for a handsome sum, you can purchase revelations from all the gods in the pantheon?”

Elasand sighed.

Hestiam nodded his head at his own cynical words. “I know, my dear Elasand-re, I know what you would say—true revelations cannot be purchased. But then, you first have to believe they exist, and I don’t. Haven’t believed in truth or the gods, or our glorious Rainbow for a long time now. A very long time.”

Elasand neared the Regent, and then sat down next to him, looking into the other man’s eyes.

Hestiam watched the Lord Vaeste, sweeping aside for a moment his ever-present suspicion, his fear of the dark, his epicurean stupor, his self-pathos. And for a moment only, underneath it all he revealed himself to be a man worthy of the once great Family Grelias.

“Can you . . . help me?” said he, the man who bore the name Grelias, to the other. He spoke simply, terribly. Because, for a long time, he had been living in a void.

And Vaeste looked at this man, this hopeless one to whom he had sworn fealty so long ago, and whose Family he obeyed in the name of the ancient royal no-longer-existent Monteyn.

“Yes . . .” he said to the Grelias. “But for that, suspend your disbelief. As of now. And listen to me.”

A wind, carrying scents of the gardens from the outside, swept into the chamber like a capricious ghost. But its sweetness was ignored by the two men, so enraptured by words.

“I believe,” said Elasand, looking directly into the other’s eyes, “that a time of strangeness is upon us now. Lord Vorn is merely a precursor of something greater, dangerous, terrifying, inevitable. And yet, my visions, my contact with the otherworld through my dreams, is also indicative. Something so important that it has dared to infringe upon this world even in our waking moments. And this call from the other side is not to be ignored. Therefore, Your Grace, since I believe all things that happen do so for a reason, I believe that the answer to out problem lies out there—deep in the forests, somewhere in a wild remote true place.”

“So then. . . . If I ordered you to go there in my name, Elasand-re, in the name of Grelias, and in the name of this City, would you do it then, being so certain of some truth that only you seem to know?”

But Elasand, looking still into his eyes, replied softly, “No, Your Grace. I would not go there in your name, nor that of Monteyn. But I would go there for this City, and for my own sanity’s sake. And when I return, I will return with the answer.”

“How can you be so sure?” Again, there was the trace of the twilight shadow in the Regent’s words.

“I am sure of this one thing more than of anything in this world.”

Vaeste’s intensity in speaking this brought a momentary respite from fear to Hestiam. The Regent sighed, and thought for a moment of his own lost illusions. “Then go,” he almost whispered. “Go now, immediately, don’t waste a moment. Do what you alone know must be done.”

Elasand inclined his head in a short bow, and said, “I will prepare to leave this very hour, and will be on my way at dawn. And—Your Grace, thank you for giving me this chance.”

With those words, he walked over and opened the chamber door, looking into the hallway. “Come, Ranhé, and you too, Elasirr-re. Everything else is for your ears also.”

The tall woman entered, followed by the blond assassin.

“You will accompany me, Ranhé,” said Vaeste. “Tomorrow we ride outside the City on an urgent matter for His Grace. And now, I ask His Grace’s leave to get ready.”

Elasirr approached Hestiam reclining on the sofa, and said before Elasand could leave, “Not so fast, my lord.”

Elasand turned at the other blankly. “If you want to know what happened here, ask His Grace.”

“Actually, I could care less what happened between the two of you, Elasand-re. Only one matter concerns me. And you know what it is.”

“I have no time for that one, not now,” said Elasand, knowing where the conversation was heading. It was regarding that other thing, the very reason he’d originally made an appointment to see Hestiam in the first place. But seeing the Regent’s state, not to mention his own, Vaeste had changed his mind, and decided not to bring it up. But obviously Elasirr was not going to let the matter rest.

“Your Grace,” said Elasirr, standing before the Regent. “Our Lord Vaeste has forgotten to mention a certain matter to you.”

“What is it?” said Hestiam, his eyes acquiring a newly alarmed expression.

“I was going to speak with you about it some other time,” said Elasand, returning to the Regent’s side. “But I see that’s not to be. Very well, Elasirr-re. I speak on behalf of the major Guilds in this City, Your Grace.”

“What’s this?” Hestiam began to frown, straightening in his seat.

“It’s regarding something this City has found to be imperative—although now, with the coming of Vorn, it might take second place. The matter of a City-wide Guild Council.”

“Several months ago, Your Grace,” interrupted Elasirr, “You had denied this very thing to a group of Guildmasters, including myself, when we brought it up to your attention. Now, we believe, you must seriously consider the needs of this City as they must be served through such a Council. The ancient and venerable Council of Guilds had existed long before the Grelias had come to power by proxy of Monteyn. And even Your Grace has no authority to deny it as a body of political power.”

“You are insolent, Elasirr—” began Hestiam.

“I am merely passionate, Your Grace,” interrupted again the blond, his eyes like quicksilver. “And knowing Your Grace’s love of the truth, such a lapse is surely a matter of oversight, but an oversight that is to be remedied now. I realize my words are out of line, but Your Grace knows me, I am not afraid, had never been afraid of Your fair judgment and wisdom. In fact, I trust to such an extent that Your Grace will decide wisely, that I now pledge the full backing of my Guild for Your Grace’s current support, and if needed—future protection.”

“Are you saying,” muttered the Regent, “that Bilhaar will stand behind the Regency now in all things, if I were to call the Council? That all manner of underhanded suspect activity will cease on your part? No more hired vendetta murders in the Families, no more executions outside the law? Will your network of operatives continue to pit Guilds against each other by providing costly protection to all sides in convoluted layers of power hierarchies? Does it mean that you would swear a straightforward fealty to Grelias?”

“Sweet lords of Rainbow, no. . . .” Elasirr began to chuckle, then sat down unceremoniously before Hestiam on the sofa.

Both Elasand and Ranhé observed this scene with deep interest.

“What I had in mind,” continued Elasirr, “is something quite more basic, and yet less dramatic. We’ll draw up a written contract, Your Grace and I. In that contract we’ll list all matters of concern, such as the Regency’s need for strong internal alliance, and the Guilds’ need for a greater autonomy. Chancellor Lirr shall serve as moderator. And this written agreement will serve as an excellent beginning of a mutually beneficial relationship.”

The Regent sat back, and took a big breath, tugging at his beard. “Indeed. What am I to think of your insolence now, Lord Guildmaster?” He shook his head, staring at Elasirr with a mixture of consternation and a sense of inevitability.

“Well, Your Grace, my lord,” said Elasand, before the blond man would launch upon another glib response, “I see I may leave the two of you now, and begin preparations for my trip tomorrow.”

The blond’s hand shot out in a stopping gesture. “Hold it, Vaeste. We’re not done yet.” His words were commanding, more than insolent. For an instant Ranhé wondered why the Regent was allowing this man to talk in such a way, and why Elasand was also allowing him this manner. But then she remembered what was known about Bilhaar, and knew that this man before them held to a law all his own, and in some ways was the true ruler of the City.

“One of the points of this contract of ours,” said Elasirr, “is that I am to accompany the Lord Vaeste on his mysterious mission tomorrow. It’s all a matter of good faith, of course.”

“But—” started Hestiam.

“Out of the question!” said Elasand loudly.

“Come now,” said the Guildmaster of the Assassin Guild. “Are you afraid of my company, Elasand-re?”

“There is absolutely no need for your company,” said Elasand. “You’ll hinder my plans, and frankly I don’t want you there.”

“How wrong you are,” spoke the blond, his lips curving into a dangerous half-smile. “You need me there. Don’t you see, my lord, that I will be your best protection on this trip? Not only will I be responsible for your life, but furthermore I’d have no alibi to harm you in any way—for I know you still believe I am out to do you in, my friend. In that, I again insist, you are quite wrong.”

“I have a perfect bodyguard, right here at my side,” said Vaeste, glancing at Ranhé. “She has saved my life twice already, and one of these times had been fighting your very own Bilhaar.”

Elasirr allowed his suave expression to be superseded by a true frown. “My Bilhaar? How many times must I insist you are mistaken?”

“I fought a set of black-clad assassins wearing the infamous uniform,” said Ranhé very softly, all of a sudden. Everyone turned to look at her who was not to speak unless spoken to.

The man with the sun-hair turned to face her directly. “And you think those were my men?” His voice was soft, and as intense as a blade.

“I know of no other black-clad professionals,” said Ranhé, staring back at him with an utterly blank gaze.

“Even if someone were masquerading as Bilhaar,” said Elasand, “it would be senseless.”

“It makes perfect sense to me,” said Elasirr. “Or is it that you have no other enemies to think of? Someone in whose interest it would be to throw suspicion upon me, and widen the rift between us further, Vaeste?”

Hestiam watched them somewhat nervously. “I could never understand this problem the two of you always seem to have, my friends,” he said eventually.

And then, before anyone else would interrupt, the Regent continued, “It is settled then. Elasirr will accompany you, Elasand-re, on this—thing of yours, tomorrow. And as of this moment, Bilhaar will come to a definite agreement with the Regency.”

“And the Council of Guilds?”

“I promise to convene it after—after the matter with Lord Vorn is concluded,” added the Regent hurriedly.

Elasirr smiled mockingly. “Excellent, Your Grace. You see how easy it is when we all agree so well? Should’ve done it months ago. If I’d known Vorn was to be such a prominent factor, I would’ve invited him here myself. Indeed—now I believe I’ll invite instead our friend the Chancellor, who is more than proficient at drawing up contracts.”

“Yes, well. You mean, on paper? Is that really necessary—” began Hestiam.

“On wonderful tangible paper, Your Grace,” concluded Elasirr, adding, “It is for Your Grace’s peace of mind, of course.”

“Good. You do that,” said Vaeste tiredly. “It is finished, then. Your matter has been set in motion.”

Elasirr appraised him with a subtle look. “Yes, you can get out now, my good Elasand-re. Go on, get ready, I set you free. For I will see you at dawn.”

But Ranhé thought she saw something else contained in that look, something approaching in nature that what is called black, as she followed Vaeste out of the chamber.

A killing smile.

Sudden evening came down upon the Vaeste Villa, like a cloak of erotene velvet. They had dined in silence in an empty house. Most of the servants had been allowed to attend the second day of the Wedding festivities put on by the Regents. Elasand had been mercifully spared any further obligation to attend Dirvan, because of his voluntary yet Regent-approved mission the following morning.

After the meal, thoughtful, he had gone outside into the gardens of his villa, and paced in the darkness, watching the monochrome glow of light in the windows of the building. Above, the sky was boundless, an upside-down abyss. And all around, the evening wind.

Ranhé did not follow him at first. They had been silent, the two of them, ever since returning from the audience with Hestiam. Vaeste’s silence was remote, absentminded. Ranhé, however, couldn’t fathom her own mood, which was like fragile ice.

And thus she sat alone in a comfortable chamber that had been given her. And she glanced down from the window into the pit of darkness that was the evening outside, seeing shadows of the swaying gardens, the ebony foliage, and then suddenly, his silhouette.

At the sight of his shadow, her pulse began to race in her temples, and she knew, admitted to herself at last what she had been unable to face before.

Ranhé stood up, and walked to the door. She paused, feeling the cold filigree of the metal handle, while a sense of inevitability began to rise in her, something alien and cold and uncertain that originated in the solar plexus. And then she walked outside, into the corridor, down the spiraling staircase—while a carousel began to turn in her mind—and out into the gardens below.

It was not difficult to find him, despite the dark, despite the swaying silver shadows. At one end, where the path wound past lush growth, and the cultivated trees strained apart into a clearing, Elasand stood looking at the impossible dark that was the sky.

She approached silently, afraid for the first time in her life. And yet, sensitive like a night thing, he knew her coming, and turned. He was but a black demon silhouette, and so was she.

“My lord,” she said, “I am sorry to disturb you.”

“What is it, Ranhé?” His subdued voice carried in it no emotion, rather, a flatness of affect, but at the same time, gentleness.

What is it? her mind wanted to scream. What is it but that I need to be here, in the same place as you stand, having the same wind flow about me, or else I will die?

But she only said, “A soft evening, my lord. I had to come outside also to smell the wind.”

His eyes glinted, a pale monochrome reflection of the glowing windows. His face was not smiling, but she realized it was out of his own inner preoccupation, not out of disregard for her.

“Join me,” he said simply. And then added, “Although, I doubt that your bodyguard duties need extend into our company tonight.”

He misunderstood her reason for being here. And for a moment, she was willing to let him assume.

The moon was rising, a three-quarters-full swollen crescent, a section of broken orb. For a moment he remained silent, letting her simply stand there, staring at him, boots planted in the gravel, while the wind tugged at his long raven hair, at her tendrils of braid.

“Have you ever had strange dreams, Ranhé?” he spoke then, continuing to observe the gradually lightening sky, as the metallic moon sailed higher.

“Yes,” she almost whispered, thinking of that one shared dream, thinking that he did not know.

He turned to look at her then. “Have you seen gods in your dreams, ever? Or, what might be gods?”

I have seen them in yours, she wanted to say, and a bond has been forged between us, since that night.

“You have seen something, lord,” she said simply. “Is that why we are going tomorrow? To follow that dream of yours?”

He was visibly startled. But she was no longer strong enough to play such games, to withhold anything from him.

“I know everything, my lord,” she said softly. “I too have seen the violet. And I had seen the bright lady. That night, when we first met, in the White Roads Inn, I was—somehow, inexplicably—within your dream.”

“You what?”

Elasand drew close to her suddenly, grabbed hold of her shoulders, and turned her so that the moon illuminated her face with gray pallor.

“What did you just say, Mistress Ylir?”

Her eyes were opened to him. She breathed the wind, the coolness.

“That night,” she said in a barely audible voice, “I awoke in the barn of the inn and opened my eyes upon a violet world. I saw it all, and I saw you, within the transparent inn—I could see through all things then. I followed you. You walked outside, and then, somehow, you were within the other place, a garden, and there was a woman in that place, like a queen. Her hair was so liquid, so bright, and she too, was violet, and she spoke to you. . . .”

“My gods, yes!” He stared, his expression so focused upon her that Ranhé thought he could read her mind.

“I could not hear what she said to you, this lady, this queen. And neither could I hear your answers. But I could see your passion. Your words to her must have been more intimate than I was meant to hear. And all along, there was a sound, wonderful, like a great river, like bells within a stream. . . .”

“Why didn’t you tell me any of this before, Ranhé?” His eyes were inches away, earnest, glistening with liquid moonlight.

Ranhé took a deep final breath before speaking. “Because, my lord, it was not my right to speak of this. Because you did not ask. My lord—this was one of the reasons why I agreed to work for you. It had changed my mind, this sharing of your intimacy with her.”

“Oh, Ranhé,” said Elasand. “I wish I had known earlier! I wish—” And then he looked away, staring off into the night, and began to speak, strangely, quickly, like a man drowning. “This woman, Ranhé, I love her. She has been haunting me since last winter, when I first saw a glimpse of her and of the violet in a snow landscape through a frost-covered window. . . . Then, I would see her everywhere—in shadows, in a bowl of still water, in the fading sunset, in my dreams.

“At first I merely attributed this to some kind of wishful fantasy, an unattainable ideal. She was so different from the women I had known, so perfectly of the spirit. And she was beyond mortal beauty—truly, that was not what had drawn me. What she was drowned my self. She was—is love incarnate. She knows me, perfectly. And thus, I recognize her for who she is—Laelith.

“I had thought I was going insane for a while, because the frequency of those visions grew. Normally, I am a rational man, known to be aloof. For that reason, I could confide in no one. Only, because of the visions, I was growing more and more distracted in my everyday existence. When you came upon me that first time, and we fought the Bilhaar together, it had been thus. I had just barely awakened from a daydream of her when the attack came, and had been distracted enough to allow the danger threaten me and the lives of others. And yet, even then, I had not learned my lesson. The vision came back that night. That one physical dream in the White Roads Inn, was the first in which I felt myself truly transported within another place. I was with her, and I could speak with her. For the first time, I could speak! I could tell her what was about to explode within me, an urgency, a mad need. I spoke to her, and she answered me, perfect and divine. . . . She responded to my soul in a way that was more intimate than I thought possible! And yet, I knew that was not the way to be with her. Just as she was about to reveal to me something of utmost urgency, the greatest truth, the dream dissolved.”

Ranhé listened, while fever interspersed with ice moved in waves through her body. His gaze was averted, and probably he never noticed the turbulence within her.

“And that is why,” Elasand continued, “I must find out what she was trying to tell me. I must go to her. For, what she has to tell me will change more than just my life. What she has to tell me is the only hope we have, all of us, this sorrowful damned City. . . .”

Ranhé swallowed, trying to fight a constriction that was inevitably building in her throat. “Then, we are going somewhere . . . far, my lord?” she managed to whisper, while the knot again tightened, pulling at her, so that moisture began to well in her eyes, and the image of the gray moon shimmered with a pale bright auric corona, and began to double.

In that instant, Elasand turned to look at her, and it was just in time to see that single expelled tear, that damned traitor globule that had escaped from her, despite the perfect composed stillness of her face—not a single twitch in her facial muscles.

He turned, and he saw. “Why—Ranhé, are you crying?” he said softly, with genuine surprise.

“I am not . . . my lord . . . of course . . . I am. . . .”

She could not finish. If she were to say another word, the dam would burst. And that must never be. And so she was silent, and she breathed, gradually stilling that what was within her. She was ever proficient in killing that which tried to surface from within, having had years of practice.

But Elasand Vaeste—looking intently at the upturned moonlit face of this strange young woman, her dilated intense liquid eyes, the single tear crawling like a bit of the moon upon her cheek—knew at last. He recognized the longing, the divine madness in her (having carried the same within himself), and knew it was directed at him.

And for a moment he felt a pang of something for her also, and then, he felt so utterly sorry for this one, because she was feeling for him what he was feeling for another. He knew now why she was here, at his side, why she agreed to be with him, why she would never let anyone harm him.

He knew, that if she must, she would die for him.

And he knew that—no matter what she had told him about someday leaving him, about how she, unpredictable and changeable in her loyalties, would abandon him, maybe even in his hour of need, about how there were to be no promises, how she refused to swear an oath of fealty to anyone—he knew that she would never, never leave him now.

She was his, this Ranhéas Ylir, mercenary woman warrior.

She was in love with him, hopelessly, and despite herself.

And Elasand, noble and perfectly fair as always, allowed her a moment of stillness to compose herself, because he could not return those feelings, nor did he feel it was appropriate to do so. For, he was Lord Elasand Vaeste. And she was—

Who was she, indeed?

He had trusted her from the start, by instinct, because she had appeared into his life at a moment of heightened adrenaline-laced danger, and she had fought at his side. That was all he had to recommend her.

And now, there was this bond.

He must never hurt her then, for, although her loyalty was unexpected, it will now be assured, perfect. And he could only respect and try to overlook this one weakness in her—the weakness toward himself.

And as he thought these things, observing her with silent sympathy, Ranhé gathered herself at last, and completely put down the mutiny of emotions that was brewing within her.

As the moon illuminated her pallor, her liquid eyes, she lifted her hand to wipe her cheek where the tear had shone, not bothering to hide the gesture. And then she smiled, directly, openly, facing his eyes.

“Forgive me, my lord,” she said, her voice again steady. “There was something so sad in your story that it touched me, that is all. I am all right now. We have a long road ahead of us, and it is time for me to sleep, for I am now tired indeed. Tell me one thing, only, where do we go, truly?”

“We go, my Ranhé,” he replied gently, “to a place outside the City, somewhere in the forests, possibly two days’ ride away. In the old days it had been called the Shrine of Light. I believe I can find it. Within it lies the answer to my visions, and to the future of us all.”

“Then we will go there, my lord,” said she, eyes glittering with liquid intensity. “And I will be there gladly at your side. Good night . . . May you come to see the lady of violet, and may you be fulfilled.”

And saying that, she turned away, quickly, and walked along the garden path in darkness, back into the villa.

Elasand stood looking at the shadows in her wake, and he whispered, “Yes, good night. . . . May we all be fulfilled.”

And the moon, and the gardens, and the shadows, and the gentle wind of the night, all answered him with living silence.

PART III

Darkness

CHAPTER 13

Yes, I am still here, still with you.

But now it has grown very dark. And you are no longer so sure. And yet you continue to move forward—or is it inward—while behind you and ahead of you is an endless fluctuating sea of darkness and veils. . . .

More than ever, you must now strain to look, and listen.

* * *

It was still dark when a knock sounded on the door of her room. Ranhé awoke from the abyss, disoriented, her lungs drawing in the first deep breath. Nausea tugged at her as she got up, and her head throbbed from lack of proper sleep.

“Ranhé?” came Elasand’s gentle voice from the corridor.

“Yes, I am awake,” she replied hoarsely. “I will be ready in a few moments.”

“Good,” he replied. “Come downstairs when you are done, and we will eat quickly, and be on our way.”

Ranhé was true to her word. In the bathroom, by the gray light of a single candle, she used the facilities, splashed herself with cold water, and then hastily re-braided her long thick hair. Back in the sleeping chamber, she put on her old travel clothes, pulled on her own old warm boots, and arranged daggers in appropriate places about her body. Last, came her longsword, and only then she wrapped her cloak about her, concealing all.

At the foot of the stairs, Elasand met her, also dressed for travel, wearing his plain gray cloak. For a moment his eyes looked at her intently, searching for any trace of her discomposure from last night. And then, seeing her calm expression, he must have been satisfied, and smiled lightly in greeting.

“By the way, the man whom you met yesterday in the Regent’s quarters is here already. He is Elasirr, Guildmaster of the Assassin Guild, and he will travel with us—but you know that already. Do not trust him.”

“Yes,” she said. “I know.”

And with that, Ranhé entered the breakfast chamber, and saw the familiar blond, seated at the table and making himself quite at home, as he was buttering toasted bread, and biting into it with enthusiasm. He too wore very plain dark clothing, and she was almost surprised how easily his appearance had been transformed into that of a simple freeman. Only his hair, long and bright and groomed to satin, gave him away. That, and his strong beautiful hands on which two rings shone.

He saw her enter, and followed her with a stare, and possibly a smile—but she wasn’t sure, because he was busy chewing.

Giving him a curt nod, Ranhé sat down and ate hurriedly, otherwise ignoring him. When she was done, she drank down the hot strong tea, nearly scalding herself, because she wanted to be out of this room and away from him as soon as possible.

“Careful,” said the blond. “Vaeste will not begrudge you these extra minutes.” And he took another big bite of the toast, stuffing the side of his cheek, and grinning insolently at the same time. He then took a leisurely swig of tea.

“I’m done,” she said simply, looking back at him very directly, with impassive eyes. She then rose, and pulled her cloak about her, and went out into the corridor, where Elasand was waiting for them.

In a minute, Elasirr joined them, having stuffed a big chunk of bread and cheese in his pockets, and nonchalantly wiping crumbs off his cheeks.

“We have provisions packed in our travel bags,” mentioned Elasand.

“I’m sure we do,” replied the blond assassin, drawing his dark cloak around him. “But I plan to chew this stuff as we ride. Hope that doesn’t bother you, Elasand-re.”

Elasand, cool-faced, ignored that comment. “Let’s go then,” he said, and opened the door to allow in the predawn darkness.

Outside, servants held torches, and three horses were ready. Ranhé saw her own gray, and next to him she recognized Elasand’s pale great mount. The third one, greater even than that of Lord Vaeste, and dark as the night, she assumed was that of the master assassin. How appropriate.

They mounted and rode the empty predawn streets, passing in the pale darkness a bridge over the Arata, and were out of Dirvan into the common Markets area. Here, horseshoes rang against the cobblestones, and all the stalls were closed and dimmed for the night. Now and then, they passed straggling shadows of drunks, but otherwise, none dared approach them.

Elasand rode ahead, Ranhé just behind him, wary of any attempt against his life, while Elasirr brought up the rear. As they left the Markets area, Elasand turned directly South, toward the Free Quarter.

“We have no time for toll-gates,” he said, glancing backward. “Besides, with the lord of Bilhaar himself to protect our back, who have we to fear?”

“And once we’re outside the City,” came the deceptively lazy voice of Elasirr from the back, “which way exactly are we heading, Elasand-re, or is it still a secret?”

“We ride northwest.”

And then Elasand said nothing more, spurring his stallion into a gallop. He did not want to take any chances of being stopped in the dangerous Southern Quarter, even though the Guildmaster of the Assassin Guild himself was with them to guarantee safe passage.

They rode, cloaks billowing, hoofbeats thundering against stone, as the dawn wind struck their faces, and milk-pallor began to seep onto the eastern sky. At the Southern Gates of Tronaelend-Lis, guards stopped them briefly, and they reined in the horses. But one of the guards obviously recognized the man with the beacon-bright hair, and his great black stallion, and bowed his head in obeisance.

“Ride well, lord!” he cried, then growled at his fellows, “Let them by, quickly now, it’s the Lord Bilhaar!”

Elasirr, lightly holding back the great midnight beast, came up from behind. Edging forward past Elasand and taking the lead, he barely acknowledged the greeting with a raised gloved hand. Immediately, the pikes were uncrossed, and they flew through the Gates and out of the City.

Outside, the sky was pale over a mist-filled landscape, with verdant flatlands in the immediate vicinity of Tronaelend-Lis, and beyond, the beginning twisting shapes of the great forest.

The paved thoroughfare leading out of the City became a wide gravel road, with flatlands of ash grass on either side, all imbued with the ghostly pallor of mist.

Elasirr slowed his jet-black stallion into a canter, then a trot, and came alongside Elasand. “How long do we follow this road?” he said matter-of-factly, glancing sideways at Vaeste.

Elasand was in no mood to talk. Looking straight ahead, he said curtly, “For as long as it goes west.”

“Then lead on, my intense Elasand-re,” said Elasirr, and dropped further back to ride alongside Ranhé.

Stonelike, she continued watching Vaeste’s back in a semblance of indifference, yet was intensely and unpleasantly aware of the man at her side.

The sun’s disk sailed up through the vapors of the horizon like a dull monochrome orb, and the sky grew metallic with early-morning glow.

The man with the sun-hair turned his face to the light, closing his eyes momentarily with pleasure, letting the wind sweep against his pale lashes. “A-a-ah . . . I am rather glad I’m here with the two of you now, charming as you are,” he said, “than cooped up in the Palace with His Grace, the barrel-of-laughs, and the devious vixen Deileala. Not to mention that giant scarecrow, Vorn.”

Neither Elasand nor Ranhé chose to acknowledge this. But Elasirr was determined to keep talking. “It’s the Third Day of your cousin what’s-her-name’s Wedding,” he spoke to Vaeste’s back.

“It is indeed.” Elasand did not turn around.

“So—did Daqua find her pleasing?”

“Why don’t you ask him yourself,” came Vaeste’s cold ironic reply.

“I believe I will, when we return.”

At her side, without turning, Ranhé sensed the blond’s barely suppressed laughter. He was baiting Vaeste, and she began to recognize the instances of customary interplay between these two, based on antagonistic tension and something else. They went back far, the two of them, she realized. Such intimate animosity came from extensive practice.

“And you,” suddenly said Elasirr, addressing her, “how did this come about that you serve our Lord Vaeste with such loyalty? Indeed, who are you, silent, devoted Ranhé?”

She knew this time he was baiting her, sensed the double meaning behind the word “devoted.” He knew the one deep intimate thing about her, and was using it against her.

The best thing, Ranhé had learned though all her years of mercenary work, was to show no reaction at all. Especially during instants of the highest vulnerability. Another good thing was direct confrontation. She excelled at that.

“And who are you, Elasirr, Guildmaster of Bilhaar?” she said, turning her head sideways to stare at him coldly. “Whence comes your insolence, that you address the Regent and my Lord Vaeste as equals?”

Elasirr, riding at her side, smiled, like a blade being slowly drawn. “I see I was wrong, you are not silent at all. It is good that you have a tongue, for you have little else to recommend you, besides your warrior skills. Certainly not much in the way of womanhood.”

A cold ice-anger began to rise in her, compounding upon her own already present inner wound—that dark pitiful thing that she was fully aware of at last, ever since last night, ever since her conversation with Vaeste under the glowing moon.

But in that instant, Elasand’s voice came from up ahead. “Leave her alone, Elasirr,” he said loudly. “Seal your own mouth, will you, and let us ride in peace.”

“If that will please you, I am at your service,” replied Elasirr calmly, still smiling, and then threw one razor-glance at Ranhé, before looking away.

Inside, she was like a storm, cold, deadly. But because of Elasand’s timely interruption, there was no need for the storm to break. And so she remained silent, looking straight ahead.

By the middle of morning, the road had narrowed to a single wagon-width, and gravel became beaten-down dry dirt. The flatlands had ended, and they were at last within the outer rim of the forest.

Trees stood sparsely on the edges of the road, and they deepened as the forest came to surround them. They stood like filigree carved limbs of iron, and from up above, silver sprinkling sunlight came raining down through the intricate sieve of leaves in their remote crowns. Shadows and drops of sun danced all around, intermingling into all possible shades of gray, dark, and light, and occasional spiderwebs glistened in the branches with morning dew. The mists had receded completely, and the hum of the forest was lilting, filled with birdcalls and the chords of insect song.

Peace came to settle upon Ranhé, the longer they rode. She forgot her recent anger, forgot even the two men riding at her side, and simply listened to the living rich silence.

Eventually, at around noon, they came upon a clearing at the side of the road, and Elasand motioned for them to stop.

“We’ll take a small break now,” he said.

“Fine with me,” responded Elasirr, and they turned off the road.

Here, the sun was like lacework upon the forest floor—half sun, half shade. They dismounted, and gave water to the horses from the large traveling water-packs. Then, seeing that Elasirr unceremoniously took a couple of steps, turned his back to them and relieved himself into the bushes, Ranhé excused herself, and wandered off into the forest to take care of her own business. When she came back, both the men were settled against the trunks of the trees, eating the bread and dried meat from their packs of provisions. She glanced at them, as different as day and night—one pale and ebony-haired, with perfect features and clear ice eyes, the other pale of both skin and hair, and striking yet imperfect, with dark straight brows and hidden eyes. And yet, there was something like an invisible connection between them, as they looked up at her—one with softness, the other with concealed unreadable murk.

“Hungry?” asked Elasand, the one whose eyes were soft upon her—soft and gentle, she realized, ever since their intimate confrontation of the previous night. He pitied her, she suddenly realized. Pitied her, and knew what she felt toward him.

He was offering her the dry meat.

“Thank you, yes,” she said. “But I don’t eat meat. I’ll have something else.”

“You don’t eat meat?” said Elasirr as he tore off a piece of jerky with his teeth. “Why not?”

“Because I have no enmity with animals,” she replied without looking at him, and took a piece of bread from Vaeste. “And because I don’t believe we have the right to kill them as we do each other.”

Elasirr snorted mockingly. “And yet you are a warrior, and you kill human animals. Do you then eat them, since they are your enemies? For that matter, do you have an antagonistic relationship with bread and cheese? If I am your enemy, will you eat me?”

She understood yet ignored the suggestive taunt.

“I kill only as a last resort. And my human adversaries have a choice of not fighting me,” replied Ranhé in a very soft voice, as she settled across from them on the grass. “On the other hand, an assassin kills in stealth, without emotion, without honor and often from the back. It’s no wonder you eat meat.”

“You speak without full knowledge of me or my Guild. But one thing is true indeed, I kill simply as I am paid,” said the blond, then drank from his water flask. “And I eat meat also, as I please. You should too. It’ll strengthen your resolve, fire your blood-lust, and help you do your bloody job better.”

“She has done well so far, just the way she is,” said Elasand. Then, again coming to her aid verbally, “Let her be in peace, and let her do as she wants.”

Elasirr chuckled. “I see, Elasand-re, she defends you from physical harm, while you defend her from verbal attacks. Not a bad arrangement.”

“If you are done eating, we’ll be once again on our way,” stated Elasand. He got up to put away the remainder of the food, and Ranhé followed soon after, while Elasirr stood up to stretch.

As she passed Elasirr, he turned to her quickly, without Vaeste noticing. Gripping her by the shoulder painfully, he whispered into her ear, “Eat some meat, Ranhé. It’ll do you good.”

Just as quickly, he released her. Before she could react from the surprise, he had already mounted his jet-black stallion.

They mounted and once again followed the road. This time Elasirr rode in the front, and they followed.

“Elasirr,” said Vaeste suddenly. “What is the real reason you are here with me on this trip?”

“Curiosity,” said the blond man, without turning around.

Ranhé meanwhile watched his glistening silk mane of hair, wind whipping the flax tendrils against the darkness of his travel cloak. “Lord Bilhaar,” she said. “If you did not send a pack of your assassins against my lord, then who did?”

That made the blond turn his head briefly, and glance at her. “Why don’t you ask your Lord Vaeste? Ask him to recite to you his roster of ill-wishers and outright enemies. Excluding myself.”

“And why should I exclude you, Elas?” said Elasand. The use of the abbreviated form of the name that they both shared sent a pang of unexpected emotion through Ranhé.

“Because I have no reason to kill you, Elasand-re,” said Elasirr lightly. “And I am getting tired of repeating it.”

“All right. It’s possible you did not send your Bilhaar,” mused Ranhé. “So, let’s assume that someone else sent impostor non-Guild assassins against my lord. I do seem to remember that those men fighting us were not as proficient as your Guildsmen are purported to be—not that I would know, since I still hardly believe in their existence, or yours for that matter, Lord Bilhaar. Back then I attributed it to the element of surprise at my lord’s superior fighting skills. I didn’t stop to consider for a moment who they might’ve been. An oversight on my part.”

“It no longer matters,” said Elasand softly. “I am no longer careless now. It will not happen again.”

Elasirr glanced back at them momentarily, shrugging. “I may be ignorant of this mysterious enemy of yours, Vaeste. But one thing is sure—this enemy could be anyone you know, including the Regents.”

“Why should I believe anything you say?” said Elasand.

“Ah-h-h, suit yourself!” Elasirr exclaimed with some irritation. He then spurred his beast, and broke into a canter, racing far ahead of them, along the bend of the path, his long hair flying.

“Good, we’ll have a couple of moments of peace,” grumbled Elasand, continuing at the same pace, at her side. And then he turned his clear gaze upon Ranhé, saying, “Do not take the things he says to heart. He plays with all, like a cat, deceptively charming and deadly. If you can, try not to fall into the cat’s trap. Even now, I know he is up to something, that’s why he is here with us.”

“My lord,” said she softly. “What if there’s an ambush of some sort up ahead? What if this whole thing had been carefully planned?”

Elasand smiled. “No, not this time,” he said. “He knows nothing of where we go. Of that much I am sure.”

But Ranhé loosened her sword in its sheath, before they turned the bend of the road.

On the other side, there was nothing out of the ordinary. Elasirr had paused his mount at a fork in the path, his expression unreadable, and now sat in the saddle waiting for them to catch up. The main road continued to the left, while a smaller path branched off to the right, together with a deepening of the forest.

“Right or left?” Elasirr asked loudly.

Elasand looked up at the sun, and saw it beginning to dip to one side of the sky dome, toward west, more in the direction of the smaller path. “Right,” he replied, and then turned off the main road onto the smaller one.

For over an hour they rode in silence. The path was reasonably wide for two horses to pass side by side, and yet in places there were branches twisting and crossing it, so they had to remove their swords and cut through the thick growth. A rich smell of fresh tree sap arose from the severed gray branches, and wafted on the afternoon wind.

“Do you think that anything you do will prevent the war?” said Elasirr abruptly, hacking at a low branch with a short dagger that he used instead of his sword. “Is that where you go now, in search of allies for the City?”

“I don’t know if anything can prevent war,” replied Elasand. “However, there are things that can give us a chance in this war. Without them the City will not withstand a single attack.”

“Hestiam is willing to let you do his work for him. He is terrified of this Vorn. Maybe more so because he has no idea what comes after.”

Elasand was silent for a long moment, and then said, “What comes after is darkness.” And he spoke no more.

It must have been the weight of his words, for Elasirr grew pensive also, and again they rode without speaking, while the sun continued to sink toward evening.

At some point, the air grew cool, and the forest closed around them with a subliminal menace that Ranhé felt with an intuitive sense. Maybe it was the deepening silence, the lack of insects, the beginning of evening mist. They came upon a small stream running alongside the path, so this was as good a place as any to make camp for the night.

They led the horses to the water first, letting them drink a long time, then tied them to the trees, placing grain bags around their necks. Then, Elasand left, saying he’d return with kindling for a fire.

Ranhé again went some distance away to take care of her bodily functions, then returned part of the way and was washing her face in the stream. When she opened her eyes, water dripping down her lashes, Elasirr stood before her, watching her coldly, with unblinking narrowed eyes. In the gathering mists, he was like a being of the forest, while the last pale rays of the sun illuminated his back.

Crouching at the bank before the running water she stared back up at him, at his silhouette, with her expression matching cold for cold, then said, “What do you want?”

“Don’t be afraid,” he replied quietly. “I don’t want you. Did anyone tell you that you’re quite an ugly thing? Neither proper man nor woman?”

Water dripped from her face as she stared at him, allowing his words to cut into her. And then she rose, wiping her face against her sleeve, while moist tendrils of her hair that had escaped her braid stuck to her forehead and cheeks.

Standing, she still had to look up to meet his face, because of his considerable height—just like Elasand, and yet so unlike.

She was looking at his silhouette face now, and there wasn’t a trace of expression there. “Actually,” she said, “I’ve been told I’m ugly by my father, so you are not the first. He was the one who first called me a boy, because I was tall and my wrists were large. Because I was stronger and smarter than the boys of the house. And because when I was sixteen, hair grew on my cheeks and chin, like a beard.”

And then, because for some reason the expression of his face that was silhouette seemed to grow even more stonelike, she drew near to him with her face, and said, “Look at me, and see how really ugly I am. Look at my cheeks, now. . . . I didn’t really let you see my face back then, when we were in the Red Quarter, because I thought you were a true erotene, and I was too ashamed. But now, I don’t give a damn. You’re dirt, because you toyed with me back then. And if you thought I was so ugly, and yet still wanted to touch me, then you’re perverse and sick. Well? What do you say to that?”

His breathing had stilled so much that she could hear above it the silence of the forest. He said nothing, and she did not know why. And then suddenly he began to laugh.

It was the most terrible sound she had heard in her life.

It filled her with final deadly ice, a death wish. He stood, laughing openly, and his eyes were expressionless, winter-cold, terrifying. “Yes, I can see the hair on your face now, Ranhé,” he said then, smirking, his lips inches away from hers. “And yes, it makes you obscenely ugly and repulsive as sin. . . .”

And then, he suddenly had nothing else to say. She stared into his eyes, her face a mask of utter control, her own eyes dilated. Abruptly, he turned away, and then simply left her side, and headed back to their camp, walking in silent strides.

Ranhé remained standing at the stream bank. As the sun exuded its last glow upon the forest, she stood frozen, her breathing stilled, while the wind gathered around her, drying her face. And then, drawing in a deep draught of the wind, she put down all feeling within her, and headed back also.

At the place where they had stopped the horses, Elasand had built a fire. Just in time, the bright cheerful gray flames arose, for the sun had sunk, and after an instant of twilight, there was only a black sky of night.

He had put a small pot of water to boil, and threw inside some dried tea leaves, so that they could have a warm drink for the night. Vaeste and Elasirr both sat before the fire upon a large blanket that they had removed from one of the saddlebags. When she came upon them, Elasirr did not look up, but continued stirring the fire, while Elasand smiled, saying, “Come, Ranhé, sit here where it’s warm. And if you’re still chilled, then grab your own sleeping blanket. We have enough for everyone.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she replied in a barely audible voice, and went to get the blanket. Only now did she realize that her hands were shaking.

When she returned, Elasand was staring at her closely. “Are you all right?” he said, for he had noticed the deadness in her features.

“Tired, my lord. I will have the tea now, and then take the first watch.”

“No. I will take the first watch,” said Elasirr suddenly.

She glanced up to see flames reflected in his eyes, like demon-sparks. For one instant only he looked at her intently, seriously; then he calmly turned away and filled his mug with the ready tea.

Elasand was either oblivious to this new tension between them or simply chose to ignore it. “Let him take the first watch, Ranhé,” he said. “If he wakes you up in time for the second watch without killing us in the night, then I just might begin to trust him better.”

Elasirr, his profile to them, flames dancing against the light of his hair, sipped the hot tea. She watched how the strong muscles of his throat worked at each swallow, his half-lidded eyes, with the pale lashes sweeping his cheeks. And she thought of how much she hated him, this cold blond demon who had laughed at her, in that moment when her soul was most bare.

She hated him now, more so than she did when he had almost seduced her with his soft hypnotic touch, in the room with the warm pool and the mauve orb-light. . . .

Unable to think any more about it, she turned away, and received a hot mug of tea from Elasand, who for some reason was obliging her constantly now, as though he were the one serving her, and not the other way around.

They were silent, for the next half hour, while everyone finished eating and sipping the hot tea, and the forest danced around them with its blackness. The small fire continued to burn, like the center of the black universe, and they sat at its edge, huddled in the blankets.

“Your watch,” said Elasand eventually to the blond, and pulling his blanket against him, lay down in their middle, a little away from the fire. Ranhé wrapped herself also, and yet made sure that her sword was within reach of her right hand. She lay down somewhat away, on the other side of Vaeste, as far away from Elasirr as she could.

Lying on her side, she shut her eyes, but could not sleep. Eventually she could hear only the soft crackle of the fire, and Elasand’s light breathing. Staring through the concealing fringe of her lashes she saw the form of Elasirr as he got up and walked a few steps away to stretch, then settled with his back against the trunk of a nearby tree. From where she lay she could see how he threw his head back, and was staring for a long time at the bottomless night sky.

Eventually, the tension left her, a warm grogginess came to steal within, and the fire seemed to crackle comfortably in her blurring field of vision, then only in her mind. Then, at last, came soothing dark. . . .

Ranhé woke up with a start from a gentle touch on her shoulder. It was gray cold dawn, and Elasand was shaking her gently, whispering, “Wake up . . .”

She sat up with a start. “Ah! What about my watch?”

“Sh-h-h. It’s all right,” said Elasand. “Elasirr took your watch, because he told me he could not sleep, and woke me up in time for my own. He is still sleeping now.”

Looking around, she noticed in the gray twilight, the low simmering embers of last night’s fire, and the still form of the blond man, covered with the dark blanket. However, the moment she got up, he stirred, then threw off the blanket and sat up. “Damn, Vaeste . . .” he grumbled hoarsely, holding his forehead. “I barely put my head down, and it’s dawn already.”

“So why the hell did you take my watch?” said Ranhé coldly, straightening her clothes and putting away the blankets.

“Why the hell indeed,” he replied, then got up, shaking out his long pale hair, and walked off to take care of his business behind the bushes.

Ranhé threw one look at his sword that he had left lying on the blanket in the folds of his cloak. Another gesture of trust on his part? Or else, a sign of utter self-confident insolence.

“Have tea before we go,” said Elasand meanwhile, adding the last of the kindling to the low-burning fire.

Ranhé poured herself a mug as she looked at the thoughtful face of the Lord Vaeste, noting his greater pallor, as if he hadn’t slept at all through the night. Seeing her concerned gaze, he looked up, meeting her eyes, and she realized what had come to pass.

“You saw her tonight, didn’t you?” she whispered. “The lady of violet?”

In response, he smiled sadly. “I see her every night now. That is why this journey has taken on an even greater urgency.”

“How much longer until we get there, lord?” she said gently, sipping the hot tea.

He thought for a moment. “At least one day more. We may get there by nightfall.”

“Get where, Elasand-re?” came the cool low voice of Elasirr. He had returned silently, like a shadow, and had been standing behind them listening.

“I think it’s time,” he said, walking out into the light of the low fire, and filling his own mug of tea, “that you tell me everything about this trip of ours.”

Elasand watched him evenly, with his tired clear eyes.

A long pause.

“Very well,” said the Lord Vaeste. “We go another day’s ride, deeper into this forest.”

“Oh? And who is it that we meet there? Agents from our neighbors farther west, the City of Niadehm? Or is it even farther still?” Elasirr’s face took on a sarcastic look. “As you can see, Elasand-re, I know even more than you suspect. I know all your secret dealings in the name of the Regent.”

Elasand sighed. “You have me watched always, I know that also. But this time you’re really off track. It’s not Niadehm that we go to court.”

“Then who?”

“No one in fact. No one human. We go to the old Shrine of Light.”

Elasirr paused with the mug halfway to his lips. “What?” He straightened, and stood staring at the man with the raven hair. “What foolery is this, Elasand-re? You’re joking with me, aren’t you?”

“This is why I didn’t want you to come with me in the first place. I knew you wouldn’t understand,” said Vaeste.

“Understand what?” The blond neared him then, crossing the little space between them, and then dashed the contents of his mug into the fire. He stood before the Lord Vaeste, boots planted firmly, his usually lidded eyes wide open and sparkling with intensity.

“What the hell are you telling me, Elas?” he said, like a serpent. “You are telling me that we are going to an old shrine to pray? To pray, Elas? That I’ve come here with you all this way just to see you make a pilgrimage to an old nonexistent god?”

“You did not have to come,” repeated Elasand with unblinking eyes.

The blond man threw the mug down, and it cluttered against some stones on the ground. “Like hell!” he exclaimed, his face inflamed with emotion. “And it no longer matters what she hears! In fact, let her know all!” He threw a glance at Ranhé before returning his gaze to Vaeste. “You know as well as I that I always have to come with you, in this enterprise and in all others!”

Ranhé heard the strange words, feeling suddenly out of place in an intimate scene that made no sense and she was not a part of.

And then Elasand said another incomprehensible thing: “Then support me in this one thing also. It’s your duty.”

The blond looked at him, stricken.

“You can turn back now,” continued Elasand then. “And I will not think any less of you. Nor would he have thought any less of you.”

“So. . . . It comes down to this: it is always my duty to follow you, is it not?” whispered the Guildmaster of Bilhaar, with an alien expression in his eyes that somehow frightened Ranhé more than anything else he’d yet said or done. And then he exclaimed, “My duty has been clear, ever since Rendvahl Vaeste died by my hand. The old lord of a damned House, who always loved his oldest son best!”

With those words, he stomped out the fire, then grabbed the rest of his gear, threw it in back of his mount’s saddle, and turned to pick up his sword. Ranhé watched his movements with a slow dawning of comprehension, while next to her, Elasand Vaeste stood impassive.

“Let’s ride then, and let all be damned!” exclaimed Elasirr, and instantly he was in the saddle, his stallion rearing up on its hind legs, sensing a new urgency in his master. Without looking back at them, Elasirr started out alone on the path.

At the same time, dawn came to pour over the rim of the horizon obscured by the lattice of jet and silver trees. Elasand and Ranhé quickly gathered the rest of the things and mounted the horses.

As she rode along his side, Elasand mentioned, almost casually, “He is my half-brother, Ranhé. Tell no one this thing.”

“I see,” she uttered very softly, feeling a numbing cold.

“He and I share one father, Lord Rendvahl,” continued Elasand. “My mother was the legitimate wife, of noble Family blood. While Elasirr—only a few moons after I had been born, he was born of a high-class courtesan, in the House of Erotene. For that reason, Father could never acknowledge him, nor could he ever grant him the name Vaeste.”

“And is that why he killed his own father?” said Ranhé, in a voice like ice.

Elasand said nothing.

“It is a sad man that has no family name,” said Ranhé. “Is it true that he killed your father? Answer me, my lord! Is that how he came to be thus, at the head of the most terrible Guild of death? And is that why he hates you so, his own brother?”

Elasand sighed. “He is brilliant and volatile, this younger brother of mine. And yet, as a bastard, he had to earn his own name. It’s natural that he harbors a grudge. And grudges can turn into insanity.”

“A grudge!” said Ranhé. “Now, that’s an understatement. . . .”

Elasand kept his eyes on the road. For several moments there was silence.

“He is my brother,” said Elasand then dully. “And he was very young when it happened.”

“How odd,” said Ranhé, “that you do not hate him now. You are extraordinarily magnanimous, my lord. Or else, there is something you are not telling me. Something that exonerates him in your eyes.”

Once again there was a long pause of silence.

“He was raised in the House of Erotene, but after the death of my father the Assassin Guild claimed him early. Back then, it was but a minor enterprise, nothing like today. The Guild had always stood opposed to my own father’s House Vaeste. And Elasirr chose to be thus, a full enemy, because he could not be a full brother. That’s all. And now—now it’s far too late for me to hate.”

Elasand turned his face to her, his eyes earnest. “This revelation, Ranhé, it was not meant to be. I didn’t expect you to learn any of this. Very few know it, and you must never admit any knowledge of it either. Promise me!”

“I promise, lord,” she replied. And after a pause, said, “Then, was this a pretense too, when you were before the Regent, and you didn’t want your brother to accompany us on this trip?”

“Only a half-pretense,” replied Elasand. “I wanted him to come with me, but the Regent must never know of this blood bond between us. For that reason, many of my interactions with Elasirr are two-edged. Ah-h-h. . . . There’s a lot that you don’t know about him, Ranhé. And our mutual hate is also more exaggerated than most think. . . . Although, there are times when the past resurges and stands up with a fury, and then we hate one another afresh, he and I. And someday, I will tell you the whole story. But not now. And one other thing, what I had told you before, still stands—do not trust him, not for a moment.”

“As you wish, my lord,” she again said softly, while her mind was in a turmoil of new things.

They caught up with Elasirr about fifteen minutes later. He rode slowly, and barely acknowledged Elasand with a glance. Ranhé he ignored completely.

The sun was high above the trees, and the forest path had grown more narrow, so that they had to ride single file.

Surprisingly, Elasirr seemed to have regained his normal lazy high spirits, for he whistled as he hacked at the branches with his long knife. Only occasionally, when Ranhé got a chance to glimpse his face, did she see a new grim expression there, that she recognized to be a kind of despair.

They stopped for a midday meal, and no one spoke much. The deep living forest hummed around them, almost obscuring the slate-gray sky. At one point, Elasand looked up, and then said, “We should be there very soon.”

“As you say, madman,” muttered Elasirr, his profile turned to them as he ate his bread and cheese, “And how soon is it that we see the blessed Rainbow?”

Elasand looked at him and then sighed. “You’ll have to trust me on this—Elas.”

“Oh—I am trusting you beyond all sanity as it is—Elas,” retorted the blond in a like manner, only his voice was sarcastic.

And then, for hours, they said nothing more.

Toward evening, they had ridden in circles, it was beginning to seem to Ranhé. The tiny path had become a barely perceptible track upon the forest floor, and it meandered eternally, so that their heads spun from going around tree trunks and down small ravines, from cutting at the thick pale growth, and the twisting prickly branches striking their faces.

“By all the lords of Rainbow, Elasand-re!” exclaimed Elasirr at one point, “I know we’re damn lost.”

And then, because the growth all around them was so lush and thick, and riding had become impossible, he dismounted, and started to walk forward, leading his tall stallion by the reins. Elasand and Ranhé followed his lead, dismounting, and all walked forward slowly, hacking at the wilderness of growth before them.

Soon, sunset burned, sending monochrome steel shadows of tree trunks low against the earth, like stretched out twins of darkness. In the lead, Elasirr cursed loudly, as for the hundredth time a low growing branch struck his face. It had become very difficult to follow the path, especially for the larger horses.

And then, the trees thinned suddenly, fell away on both sides of the path into a small natural clearing.

Bringing up the rear, Ranhé blinked, wiping sweat and tree sap off her face, and stopped suddenly. She could go no farther, because the two men and their horses ahead of her had stopped dead in their tracks.

And then, as the last minutes of light lingered on the western sky, they saw it, a small overgrown structure of pale antique stone, moss-covered and dilapidated, standing in the center of the forest clearing.

It was neither awe-inspiring nor like a sanctum. There was nothing religious in its simple walls. And in the gathering mists of evening, it somehow resembled a tomb.

But Elasand stood, breath caught in his throat, and stared long, before at last speaking.

“We are here,” he said, as the sky became black with instant night, “and it is the place that we seek. Let us make camp.”

CHAPTER 14

Steel morning sun illuminated the pale stone structure that was supposedly the Shrine of Light. Ranhé stared thoughtfully at the gaping darkness of the entrance, where Lord Vaeste had disappeared for the last several hours, since his moment of waking soon after dawn. He had gone inside without eating, having said nothing to either her or Elasirr.

And now, she tarried outside, a loyal guard, watching the interplay of metallic sun and old weathered stone of the building, watching many-legged insects crawl along old bricks, in ebony ivy.

Elasirr had also disappeared, having wandered off somewhere in the forest around them, full of simmering anger, and having nothing else to do.

All around her was living silence.

Ranhé had settled in a cross-legged position several feet away from the entrance, upon her spread cloak. She had left her sword, as always, nearby, concealed just behind her and within reach. Soon, the heat of the day made itself felt, and she felt it, slithering gently down her spine, while a shimmer of fine sweat covered her brow.

“Is he still inside?” came a voice from behind. She was once again startled by how silently the blond assassin could move, as he stood behind her. If he wished he could have very easily struck her a mortal blow. And the fact that she had allowed him to creep up behind her made Ranhé angry at herself.

She suppressed her instinct to jump, and instead stilled herself, turning her head very slowly, with outward disdain.

“He is within,” she replied softly, her voice indifferent. “My lord had told me he is not to be disturbed. I saw him take some candles from his pouch. There’s a small ancient altar there, supposedly. He’s probably lighting the candles now.”

Elasirr snorted. “Oh, is he? Insane Elasand-re is burning candles and praying for our City’s deliverance. Gods help us indeed.”

He walked forward, stopping before her, so that his shadow fell across her face in direct opposition to the sun. His hands were folded, his feet planted apart. And he just looked at her.

“Do you know that your lord and master is stark raving mad?” he said suddenly, leaning forward to look at her even more closely, so that Ranhé blinked. “That he is obsessed with a dream, a hallucination of beauty? He’d told me about it once, you know. About the place that is violet. . . .”

“He is right,” said Ranhé suddenly. “You shouldn’t have come. It’s something that you can never understand.”

“Why? Could it be that you believe him, then?”

“Yes . . .” Her reply had been a whisper. She said nothing else.

Elasirr shook his head in a sarcastic show of amazement, then stepped away and turned his back to her. He was still obscuring the sun as he began to speak, “Your Elasand-re had told me once that I was free to do as I please, in all things. That I had no duties to him or his father’s memory, or to the House.”

He swung around to face her then. “Well, Ranhé, that in itself had bound me to him in such a way that now I can never be free—free of him or anything having to do with the damn Vaeste. I am the murdering executioner of our progenitor. I follow him in all things now, like a bound demon. When he tells me in public to leave him be, it means I have to come with him. When he insists I do something, I do nothing. When he asks for help, I struggle. And when he denies his need, I follow him and force that what he secretly needs upon him. I am his dark familiar, Ranhé. I would have you know this, so that you can begin to understand what it is between us, so that you—”

And then his words cut off. He turned away in disgust, and took several steps to place distance between them.

Ranhé watched the pale liquid mane of brightness that was his hair, watched the sun inflame it. And something prompted her to say, “I see now it was not you who had tried to kill my Lord Vaeste. Whoever had sent the impostor assassins is still out there. You, on the other hand, will never kill your brother. He has nothing to fear from you, and does not even know it.”

Elasirr, pacing nearby, laughed suddenly. “Yes, by gods! I of all people, would never kill more than one Vaeste! Patricide alone is within my means. I killed the old one, and that has soured my taste for Vaeste blood. How ironic that you see this and my brother does not. He never trusted me, and for that I am his enemy.”

“Are you?” she asked softly.

“What do you think, clever Ranhé?”

“I think,” she said, “that you are more like your half-brother than you suspect. And I am sorry that your father had never been—yours. In fact, even now it’s hard for me to believe that you killed him. Did you?”

“I killed him with my own two hands,” said Elasirr, his face profiled against the burning silver sun.

“You’re lying,” said Ranhé. “How is it that I know you’re lying? I know it, and it doesn’t matter what you or your brother say.”

“Ah, you have such noble faith in me,” said the assassin. “Think what you like.”

There was silence, resounding with the wind and sunlight.

“The man who had been my father made a clear choice,” said Elasirr with an unreadable expression, as he again approached her. “The pale-haired erotene who bore me out of mindless love for the man also made a choice. She had called me ‘Elas’ so that Rendvahl would remember always that he had two sons, not one. In the very hour of my birth, she had sealed my fate, damned me to a connection with Vaeste.”

“Do you go to see her often, this woman who is your mother?” asked Ranhé. “Is that who you visited that day in the Red Quarter?”

“My mother is blissfully dead,” said Elasirr grimly. “But I visit my half-sister Iherema, who apprenticed herself in the House of Erotene. I too had almost become one of them. I’d grown up in that House. I know all of it, their ways. That’s why you were so easily deceived by me. But the ways of erotene are less than what I—craved. And the House of Joy would never harbor a murderer in their midst.”

“So, you killed. Murdered. Call it what you will,” she said. “Is that what made you turn to the Assassin Guild?”

And hearing her say that, Elasirr began to laugh. “Turn?” he said. “Why, clever ignorant Ranhé, I am the Assassin Guild. I formed it, made the Bilhaar into what they are today. Before me, they were a minor guildless cross-section of the Southern Quarter’s lawless. Some were with the Thieves, some were trained by the Warrior Guilds. And some simply worked alone.”

“An achievement it is then, my Lord Bilhaar,” said Ranhé. “I see it makes you pathetically proud.”

In reply, the Guildmaster of Bilhaar unexpectedly neared her, and sat down on the edge of her cloak, right at her side.

Unconsciously, she stiffened. She was remembering that other time when there was proximity between them.

“Why?” she asked then. “Why really did you form this Guild of death? Whatever would induce anyone to organized destruction? And don’t tell me it was the cliche result of having killed your father, for I will not believe you—it is not enough.”

For a moment, there was a stillness that came to Elasirr’s facial features. He appeared to be gazing far away, through the depths of forest before him, toward the obscured horizon. But his eyes had no focus, were those of a blind man looking inside himself. He turned in profile to her, and if only she had looked at him then, she would have seen it, the moment of change.

“You yourself have killed. You must have some idea,” he replied, almost flippantly, as gray sun speckled his face with silver shadows from an overhanging tree bough, and insects sang in the slate grass.

But Ranhé looked ahead of her, and never saw his profile. “I have killed less than you think,” she replied softly. “Usually, my encounters end in wounding or disabling. But when I cause death, I—keep track of each time. There’s a counter within me that strikes a notch, somewhere deep. Even after a busy battle, you cannot help it—you know exactly how many deaths were caused by you. I had heard it said that the body count grows easier with time, but that’s not so. It’s only if you don’t dwell—”

“A soldier who would rather not kill? You are strange indeed, Ranhé.”

“And you have not answered my question.”

“I will answer you some other time.”

She turned to him then, and his face was only inches away. And at that proximity she saw the sunken lines of weariness below his half-lidded eyes, and the unshaved dark stubble of his hollow cheeks—not pale, but as dark as his eyebrows. It occurred to her that neither he nor Vaeste had shaved for the last two days, but she had hardly noticed. Neither had she particularly noticed that Elasirr’s silken blond hair was now unkempt and matted, as though he’d forgotten vanity for the duration of the trip.

And then she thought of herself, of what she might look like.

“What do you think of the Rainbow?” she asked him, because his proximity was bothering her more than she could bear. And because, all of a sudden, she felt a lack of air in her lungs—his presence was stifling her.

“What the hell should I think of Rainbow?” said he, raising one brow in curiosity, and turned at last to face her directly. “Are we going to talk philosophy now, or are you simply afraid of me sitting so close to you?”

A thin shiver of cold ran down her back, that conceivably, he could read her in that moment. But she knew how to answer, as always.

“And why exactly are you sitting close to me, Lord Bilhaar?” she said with unflinching eyes trained on him, with a beginning thin smile. “Do unnatural repulsive women attract you?”

“Attract?” he said. “I’ve long since stopped thinking of you as a woman, and instead find you a worthy conversationalist. I also prefer sitting on your cloak rather than on the bare ground. But if that bothers you, why then, Ranhé, I will relieve you of my company.”

And with that, he got up, shaking grass off his trousers and boots, and walked to the entrance of the old stone building.

Ranhé watched, stonelike, as he glanced inside through the doorway, then entered the structure. She thought she heard their voices, and then after several minutes, Elasirr emerged, and in his wake came Elasand, squinting from the glare of daylight.

Vaeste looked gaunt and there was a deathly absence of expression on his face. He threw one disoriented look at Ranhé, as though for a moment he did not recognize her.

“Leave your candles burning,” said Elasirr to him matter-of-factly. “And have something to eat. If the Tilirr are to hear you and reply, you will know it, whether or not you happen to be out here or inside.”

Wordlessly, Ranhé got up and went to get their provisions from one of the food bags, and also to check up on the horses. When she returned, Elasand was seated on her cloak, staring ahead. She offered him bread and meat and water, but he looked up at her and stared, making no effort to take the food.

“You must eat, my lord,” she said. “Or your strength will fail you, and you will achieve nothing.”

“I have already achieved nothing . . .” he replied coldly, then took the bread and the water flask from her hands, refusing the meat.

“You’re right not to eat this flesh,” he said suddenly, looking up at her. “It makes you cleaner, not eating it. Unlike myself. Surely that’s why she doesn’t come to me. And that’s why you, Ranhé, who’d also seen the lady, must try in my stead now!”

He put the food down, and drew open the small pouch that he carried at his waist. As Elasirr looked on with curiosity, Vaeste removed a single wax candle, and offered it to Ranhé, his eyes full of new life, of entreaty almost. “Take this, freewoman. I ask you this one thing that is beyond your call of duty. Go inside, and light the candle, and call upon her whose name is Laelith. . . .”

“But—my lord,” she responded, frowning. “What should I say? I am not religious, I have no idea what—”

“Just try!” he interrupted. “Simply call her name, speak to her, think of her. That is all that can be done now. Do it!”

His eyes, clear silver and pale as the day, were more straightforward than she had ever seen them to be. Overhead, the sun burned, and all around them the wind sang. And she could not deny him, not this time, not ever.

“Very well,” she said, taking the candle, “I will try.” And with that she turned, and took the steps toward the gray building, pausing at the dilapidated entrance at the darkness of the interior.

And then she entered the Shrine of Light.

Inside, it was cool. The darkness was indeed only twilight. As her eyes grew accustomed to the softness, Ranhé could see the interior of the single small room—the chipped stone walls, the poor wooden roof with low hanging rafters, upon which old patterns of cobwebs hung down like vaporous lace.

In the center, a little toward the back wall, stood a raised stone altar, in the form of a large simply hewn crude stone with a somewhat concave surface, rounded like a very shallow wide bowl. Its base was a wide pillar, also roughly hewn. The bowl stone rested firmly upon the pillar, and in the center of it burned a single short candle, almost gone to its quick, while the wax had coagulated in a small pool upon the stone.

The candle flame was steady, upright, for no breeze came inside this tomblike room. And yet, the air was not stifling, for the flame showed no signs of being extinguished due to lack of oxygen. She assumed there must have been an outlet somewhere in the decaying roof.

There was nothing else in this tiny room. As she glanced around her on the floor, she saw remainders of other old candles, pieces of wick string and some old dried flowers scattered on the wicker and straw of the floor, in ancient offering. On the floor before the altar there were two deep indentations that had probably been worn by the pressure of knees of other supplicants who had come here just as she had, and entreated the Tilirr.

She stood, bending her head so as not to hit the cobwebs or the low rafters, and then took her candle and drew it forth to receive the flame from Elasand’s own candle that had almost burned out. The two wicks touched, and then her candle bloomed forth with a gray radiance, continuing to burn alone. New monochrome shadows came to dance in the room as she moved the candle, thoughtlessly, and attached it firmly in the warm liquid wax that had spilled onto the altar.

Now her candle towered above the dying flame of Elasand’s own.

Ranhé felt nothing, did not know what to ask, who to invoke. There was an equal measure of silence within her mind as there had been in this simple room.

She lowered herself on her knees, in the same spot where Elasand had knelt, where hundreds of other knees had rested. Kneeling thus, the candle flame was directly horizontal to her field of vision, at the very level of her eyes.

The elongated oval of the flame stood up motionless before her, and behind it she saw the walls of the poor room, thrown in dim twilight. She stared straight ahead, focusing upon that oval of light, until it floated disembodied in her vision.

Laelith . . . she tried within her mind. You who are the violet lady of love, can you hear me?

Silence.

Ahead of her the pale oval flame floated upright. Not even the barest flickering due to wind, or even her breath (rapidly becoming audible in her temples).

She focused, trying to remember that distant sound of the faraway river, the chiming bells, the rushing stream in her mind . . . She closed her eyes, and the candle flame stood on the inside of her eyelids, an afterimage of black against pallid glow. She thought she almost saw it, on the velvet edges of her vision, the sparkling dots of inner brightness that was possibly, violet. . . .

Instead, in the absolute peace of the darkness, old memories came rushing back. And yet—these memories were not quite her own. She thought, for some reason, of the blond man who was now an assassin, and of how his father, a proud older Lord Vaeste, had once visited a pale haired beautiful erotene. She could almost visualize her, this blond woman, with the same heavy-lidded eyes that would rarely open wide, but when they did, were a pale and intense discovery, like a sudden window upon the sky.

What was it like to have such a mother, lush and vibrant, a self-confident sensual erotene? And then Ranhé saw contrasting images that she had tried to put down so long ago, of a meek woman with hair like ash—indeterminate, hueless actually, with kind soft eyes, and an exhausted face, that was more used to cringing, and yet was full of rightness. The kindest face she had ever seen, this gentle and self-effacing woman had—the woman who was her mother.

And she remembered this woman, first holding her small self, then—as years went by—cringing, hiding often, silently weeping more often than not, in a small room, long time ago. Because the dark man with the manic and yet absolutely lifeless eyes would come often to lock her in the room. The same dark man would come inside, and she would hear his voice, droning on and on with simmering hate, as he reviled the meek woman, for hours on end, until sometimes she would break down and start screaming, and would fall down on the floor, beating herself. The man himself never touched her. He would leave the room and lock the door, and Ranhé, a small child, would hide until his steps grew silent in the corridor. She would then creep up to the door, and call her mother—because a quite indescribable, most sick feeling would rise in her, a feeling that she later learned to recognize as fear—saying, over and over, “Mother, please don’t cry! Please, Mother! Please don’t cry!”

But the meek weeping would continue inside, hopeless and eternal, and it had become a drone within her mind, so that with years she began to hate its soul-wrenching sound, even more than she hated the dark man with the insane eyes, who had been her own father.

Eventually, she had grown into a tall girl, and then she also would get locked in the room with her mother, because she would say something against him, something that he found wrong. Unlike her mother, she did not remain silent for long, but would attack him with snarling words and maddened eyes. And yet, she kept her fingers clenched tight into fists at her sides, holding them there always, on the verge of an explosion that would never take place.

She never tried to raise her hands against him, for he had been her father. And that one true instinct had been instilled within her so strongly that she remembered, even in the moments of her wildest feral anger.

She had learned to be cold, rational, always remembering to stay in control. She had learned to be contrary with deceit, and to stand her ground. And eventually the dark man had grown older, so that she towered over him in her fierce youth, and it was his turn to cringe and give way before her. By that time, her mother had faded into obscurity, and even now Ranhé did not clearly remember the actual moment of her death, only a fading of sorts, like gray soft smoke dispersing, water vapor wafting into the twilight of the silver world around them.

She had grown up in one of the poorest sections of the Academic Quarter. Her father had been a scribe, and held an array of insignificant clerical posts. Despite being somewhat of a visionary, with a quick brilliant mind, he had been unable to hold down any job for long. Thus, the family would go starving often, so that Ranhé learned to value any food source, and would eat as much as she could when there was anything to eat. Later, they had found out that her father had been secretly visiting a number of other women in the City, and she had at least four half-sisters and brothers of her own, that she had never seen, nor would she ever plan to see, except for the fact that Father owed them all monetary support.

And at last, after she had become full-grown and strong, she also realized that her father, whom she had hated so fiercely for so long, was not an evil man as much as he was an ill man. His insanity had been subtle, coupled with a bitter character, and only with the passing of years did the irrationality surface enough so that she could recognize it for what it was. Then, she regretted only that her mother had never known this truth.

Her hate had burned out then, and she allowed herself pity. And at times that same early warmth that she had felt when she had been an infant had resurfaced to stir her occasionally. She tolerated her father’s outbursts, his perversity, and no longer let any of it touch her. He would grumble and scold her and she would ignore him and do as she pleased, sometimes just to spite him, because she could. It was wrong of her, and she knew it, and yet, she was taking revenge for all those endless times of her childhood, for her whimpering mother.

At the same time, puberty came to her, and with it, her body changed, and hateful hair grew everywhere—her genitals, body, stomach, breasts, and her face. When she had been a child, the adults had praised her for her thick luxuriant braid. But now there were only the comments that she had grown from a pretty little girl to a sloppy big woman. “Ugly,” her father called her, “not a girl but a hairy man.” And thus she grew to feel hairy and masculine, and somehow virile and strong, while an anger burned inside of her, directed not at anyone else but at herself.

She had tried to shave her chin and cheeks, but the hair grew back, leaving stubble. She had once taken a candle, and in the secret darkness of the cellar below their small house, she had tried to burn the hair on her face. Luckily, there was water nearby, so she could douse her face before the skin caught on fire, but her lashes and eyebrows were singed. And yet all the hair grew back again, and soon there was only the hell, the repeating pattern of growth and removal, and the constant sense in the back of her mind that she was different, she was not a woman. . . .

Not a woman.

Every time she touched her face and felt the stubble, she was reminded of it, every terrible time. And eventually the self-hatred was ingrained so deep that she stopped fighting the revulsion and gleefully embraced it. She stopped wearing women’s skirts, stopped trying to comb her long mane of hair or tie it back with soft shiny ribbons. Instead, she took boys’ clothes cast off by the neighbors, and walked around with big strides made easier by the length of her legs, her height.

While other girls her age learned the flirting looks and movements that they would later perfect and put into practice, she refused to look at a man in any other way than plain honesty. This put her on equal nonsexual footing with the young men her age. And it set her apart further from them all.

She had learned swordplay by practicing with the old soldier who lived in a small hovel next to theirs, and whose room she cleaned in exchange for the lessons. And even earlier than that, she had learned body fighting on the streets of Tronaelend-Lis’s Outer Fringes, where she ran in a gang of boys, hair tucked inside a cap, carrying a wooden stick that served well as a pretend sword. Eventually, somewhere, she had gotten a knife, and had drawn someone’s blood, and someone else had drawn hers. And when she had come home, her father—screaming at her in fury, ironically calling her a slut, and other familiar epithets—banished her from the house.

That night, Ranhé slept on the street, curled in an old blanket, hugging the long knife at her side, while blood dried on the shallow wound in her arm. She would return to the house grimly the next day—for as always father would forget everything, and greet her with an initial smile. She would return, because she knew he could not do without her, he was helpless in his wandering patterns of logic, and could not be left alone and on his own.

That had been almost ten winters ago. There was no more Father. Having grown bone-dry and withered, nearly blind, and his thoughts gone abstract to the point of incoherence, he had died softly, in his sleep. When she came that one morning to check on him, there was peace on his face. The face was noble at last, handsome and clean and free. And thus she also was free.

There were no close relatives to come for the funeral. The neighbors came to help her carry the body to the burial on the outskirts of the City, and later, they burned the candles in her tiny house, filling both empty rooms with gray firelight. When they left, she had stood alone, surrounded by monochrome candle glow, pouring against the low ceiling. Soft, flickering, blossoming candlelight everywhere, casting shadows that swayed and disappeared. . . .

A single candle, burning in her vision, through all the veils shrouding memory.

Ranhé blinked, returning to the present. She saw that the candle had grown low, nearly burned out, and the wax had pooled thickly upon the slab of stone of the primitive altar of this tiny room. Outside, in the doorway, the day had grown dim, and the shadows were long.

There was no feeling in her knees. Ranhé got up, grabbing at the floor with one hand to keep her balance, and stood up, swaying softly. She then turned away, bent her head at the doorway, and left the Shrine of Light.

Elasand had remained sitting where she had last left him. Upon seeing her, life surged in his empty eyes, and he stood up quickly and came up to her.

The sun was setting. She stared at the western sky, shielding her eyes with one palm, still groggy from memory-thoughts. Those thoughts—she had not wanted to return to them, ever, but somehow, it had happened.

“Did you—” began Elasand.

“No,” she interrupted wearily. “I am sorry, my lord, but I saw nothing, nor heard any divine voice.”

“And yet, you were inside for a remarkably long time,” said the blond assassin, coming from behind her. Once again he succeeded in startling her. Upon which, she looked down at her feet, at the grass below, stopping rather than show a reaction.

Elasand’s hopeful expression became once again lifeless. “I had failed in a greater way than I expected,” he whispered, beginning to walk away from them both.

Elasirr’s lazy gaze narrowed even further, maybe because of the bright setting-sun glare. Leaving Ranhé, he came after his half-brother, and unexpectedly touched him on the shoulder.

His contact was light, and yet Elasand stiffened, and turned back to look at him, almost in reproach.

“Let me go in there,” said Elasirr softly.

Lord Vaeste stared at him unbelieving. “What?” he whispered. “You would do this thing for me? Why?”

“Not for you, Elasand-re. I would try because it is an option. All options must be considered. I am also curious somewhat. Besides, it’s been a long time since I—prayed.”

Elasand’s expression was acute. “Go then!” he said, and reached in his candle pouch.

Elasirr took the offered candle, pausing for the briefest moment, then turned and went into the Shrine of Light.

They waited for a long time. The sun continued to swoon, sinking eventually into the western treetops, and light came faint, fractured, scattering thinly through the jet black silhouettes of branches and leaves.

Elasand sat with his head leaned forward, and Ranhé watched his raven locks close in around him like a curtain, obscuring all. So different he looked—it occurred to her suddenly—from the confident arrogant man of only two days before. And she realized that Elasand had not laughed or smiled for the duration of the time they were in the forest.

“I will build a fire now,” she said softly, and when he did not react, went to gather the dry branches, and struck a flame from the stone to ignite them. The fire burned like a beacon in the gathering twilight, and then night slammed down upon the world. With it came the customary chill.

Ranhé sat close to the fire, stirring the burning branches, inhaling the curling smoke almost gratefully, because its abrasiveness brought tears to her eyes and gave her life. She glanced occasionally at the stone building, watching the metallic fireglow spill in shadows upon the chipped walls. The entrance gaped black, and there was no sound from within.

And even later, when the tea had boiled, and she was sipping the soothing draught from her mug, the Guildmaster of the Bilhaar came silently out of the Shrine.

In the dark and firelight, he was unreadable, and there was no apparent expression in his half-lidded shadowed eyes.

“Futility,” he announced loudly, then coughed to clear his throat—dry from not speaking all these hours.

Elasand barely looked up at him, but the hope in his expression had been minimal. “I didn’t think the lady would speak to you,” he concluded. “I was not wrong.”

“Ah, damn you, Vaeste,” said Elasirr, forcing a tired grin, then neared the fire. “To hell with your Tilirr nonsense. Now, have we any food left? Pass me a mug, you—Ranhé.”

Ranhé silently filled a mug with tea and handed it to him, not bothering to react at his last derogatory remark.

Although Elasirr had made a joke of it, his face, when relaxed, eventually took on a darkness that was more than just the shadows of the night.

Soon, after they had eaten some of their supplies, and were all settled before the fire, Elasand mentioned that there was nothing else to be done, obviously.

“We head back tomorrow,” he said, staring blankly at the flames.

“Cheer up, Elasand-re,” replied Elasirr, half-mockingly. “Think of this as a pleasure excursion to the country. We’ve done nothing and learned nothing, and our quest has failed miserably. We return to Tronaelend-Lis with no blessed words from any of the Tilirr, and Hestiam Grelias will laugh thoroughly at our expense. That is, if he still remembers how to laugh, through his fear of the damn Lord Vorn.”

Elasand did not say anything in answer to that. Ranhé watched him with some concern, seeing his all-consuming apathy, the gauntness of his features.

He was dying, it suddenly occurred to her. It was a slow thing, a hunger unrelieved.

“I think I’ll sleep now,” said Elasirr. “The two of you together are such overwhelming company that I am weary beyond belief. Do me a favor and try not to disturb the trees as they grow.”

And grabbing a blanket, he stalked away to lie down away from the fire, near a thick tree trunk.

“I’ll take the first watch,” said Ranhé softly, glancing at Vaeste.

In reply, Elasand remained motionless, staring into the fire.

Flames. They moved in his field of vision, lulling with their swaying monochrome tongues, and he had grown warm, groggy, despite the gaping hole deep inside of him.

At some point, the licking ribbons of fire blurred, coagulated, and he saw a blossom of light stand in the middle of darkness. And then, like an outpouring of rich thick liquid in his field of vision, he saw the blossom begin to change, to deepen.

Violet.

The rich colors flowed from the blossom core and separated into fine strands, the filaments of her hair, deep shadows that were violet, pale highlights of lavender. She looked at him from fathomless eyes, and on the other side there were other worlds, indescribable, as was the expression of her face, the smooth vapor of her lilac skin, her lips deep like the heart of the night. . . .

Laelith! he cried with all his mind, and all of him was in that cry—all the need, the unfulfilled secret corners of his self, the confused awareness of being alone within that mind, alone.

He knew he was dreaming then, for he had reached for her, grasping with strong pale beautiful fists, while she floated away from him, on the other side of his inner tunnel, and her hair stood up in a glorious corona of lavender light.

Life surged through him. He stood in the violet tunnel, nude, feeling no coolness against his skin, feeling only a kind of slow simmering fire begin just below the surface. He had felt it only with her, this fire, this surging madness. No other had ever touched him in this way.

Laelith! He cried in snarling desperate madness, driven by the subdermal fire, until there was a sound in his temples of blood rushing, and he recognized the sound of the stream, the river that always accompanied her.

What must I do, tell me! I cannot bear any more to be apart from you! He no longer knew how his senses screamed, but felt himself rushing forward, tumbling, being carried by a whirling tornado, and all around, her streaming bright tresses. Closer, she came, and he could almost touch her, smell her warm living presence, wallow in the proximity of her breath, her lips. . . .

And then, for the first time, she spoke to him, and he could hear her words.

Her voice, like tongues of honey-fire.

Beloved. I am here. I have always been here with you. But only now at last you come to understand me.

His innards convulsed at the sound of her, at the living flowing fire of her.

What must I do to be with you, O lady? I die!

The eyes that held worlds within them suddenly wavered like smoke, and he blinked and saw their liquid glimmer.

Her tears rolled down smooth cheeks of lily-violet.

Beloved, came the gentle whisper. You must touch the Rainbow. Only then will you all be fulfilled.

And in his dream, Elasand cried out like a wounded animal, and then wept like a ridiculous madman. For she faded, and in passing he realized that in his selfish desire he had forgotten to ask her about the fate of the City, the only justifiable reason for his quest. And yet, her answer was all-sweeping, for she knew—knew his deepest soul! And he saw images of Tronaelend-Lis rush before his eyes in a kaleidoscopic dance of time and events. And suddenly, Elasand knew and saw the events ahead of them.

He recognized the gathering twilight.

The blond man lay on his back, watching through slitted eyes the abyss of dark shapes of the trees overhead. Only a little distance away was the small campfire, and its shadows were cast erratically upon the ebony succulent leaves of the great tree. He did not bother to turn his head, aware that the man and the woman were still there, seated near the fire.

The leaves, moving in the cool night wind, took on various forms in the darkness. He lay, breathing lightly, softly, thinking of the man seated next to the fire, probably like a stone statue of sorrow, the man who was Lord Vaeste, his brother. And he thought of the woman who was still and stoic, also paused silently in her own reverie before the fire, probably staring past the silver flames, while her fingers curled around the warm mug of tea.

They were fools, both of them, he thought, his mind growing heavy and muddled, while the leaves in the branches whispered and slithered, moving before his weary eyes in an endless swaying pattern.

Patterns of gray and slate charcoal interspersed with black. The sounds of night cicadas dancing in his auditory sense. Candescence and steel, black and dull grizzle, all moving like shadow soldiers across his closed eyelids—for they had closed now, and he had not even noticed. And he was beginning to spiral in the heavy warmth that came just before the nightly oblivion of sleep.

It seemed that one of the gray shadows took on a shape like a warrior of metal and darkness, flying past him on a great war stallion, becoming clearer suddenly, drawing into distinct focus, taking on a form separate from the night—

There was a warmth that suddenly gathered inside him, deep near his belly, in the lower regions, in the solar plexus. He lay, while the world seemed to spin all around and fall away, drawn by that gathering of warmth. And the soldier neared him still, no longer astride but walking, rich shadows flying past, and from somewhere, suddenly, blossomed a gathering of pinpoint stars of light.

Strange, rich living light, moving to saturate the inside of his eyelids, incomprehensible at first, until suddenly, a memory came, and with it the shock of recognition—

Red.

Elasirr shuddered, coming out of his groggy half-slumber, and yet simultaneously sinking into what was a dream—and he knew it for such.

He stared with wide-open eyes, finding himself in some other place, and yet knowing he had not truly gone, for it was an unearthly plane and he was heady, disembodied almost.

And all around him, growing brighter by the second, was a bizarre terrible glow. The world filled with an unnatural blending color, and that color was everywhere, in the imaginary sky, the very air. . . .

Red.

He looked at himself and saw his body, nude, and bathed in a radiance like a thousand Red Rivers of the Red Quarter, a thousand broken orbs of spilled light that was crimson, scarlet, vermilion, rose madder, flame.

And suddenly before him, the form of red fire became concrete, as the red warrior clad in tongues of scarlet stood before him in the scalding blood coral vapor of his dream. And this figure was the source of all this impossible red, an angry fierce inferno.

Who are you? Elasirr spoke, hearing his voice from an inner tunnel in his own mind. There was no fear in him, as always, instead, an openness. For, once again, the assassin flirted with his favorite lover, the unknown, the terror that was just beyond reach. Even in this dream state, he remained sardonic.

The form of red light closed in on him, and he thought he could see great muscle-bound arms, traces of intricate armor of ages past, antique and remote, and terrifying. And the head of the red one wore a helmet with a closed mask of vermilion flame, which then opened, and he saw a face.

The face of the red warrior was scarred with blood, and yet was beautiful like anger could be beautiful.

And he who was rage incarnate opened his eyes.

With a shock that pierced his heart for the second time, Elasirr knew him at last, the one Tilirreh who is Werail, the Passion of the world.

You know me well, came a voice like the howl of cannon and the sharp smell of gunpowder, like the clanging of sword upon shield.

What do you want, Werail? continued Elasirr insolently. You answer me now, but not when I had called upon the Tilirr in the Shrine. Why did you come instead of the lady of love?

You are mine, replied the thunder. I come to you precisely out of your need.

Elasirr, bathed in the hot flaming blood-light, threw his head back and laughed, undaunted in his dream. I need nothing, o Tilirreh! he exclaimed, especially not you!

And yet, replied the warrior wrought of shadows, you called me, as you knelt before the altar. It was my face and none other you saw in the candle burning bright like your anger.

The eyes of the red one flashed, and he reached out with a great fist of gathered blood and flame, and struck Elasirr in the chest.

Agony!

A billion splintered razors of scarlet and poppy, and Elasirr doubled over, clutching himself, falling down on his knees as angry fire-agony washed over him.

Tell me you do not feel it now? said Werail, and his own laughter came booming over the whole world.

It is your need, spoke the red man, it is your pain and fury and passion. It answers me loud and clear.

But Elasirr, proud even now, spoke words that he knew had to be said.

What of Tronaelend-Lis? asked the assassin. Tell me what must we do to save the City from a threat that is coming to us even now?

Werail looked at him and through him. And then, the thunder dimmed, and was more like a whisper, You ask, and I will indeed show you. Behold, the Enemy of the City, your Enemy! He comes to you, and you must know him beforehand . . . Now look!

And suddenly a vista stretched before Elasirr’s eyes. Still bathed in flame, he watched through a curtain of red the City that he knew so well, Tronaelend-Lis, from a bird’s-eye view.

There were towers, bathed in the crimson world-glow, and walls of stone, and familiar pinnacles. And as a bird, he flew overhead, tumbling faster than thought, passing all familiar sights—Dirvan, the Palace, the heart of the wheel, the ring of the Arata, the Quarters, the Outer Fringes, the gates of grand stone.

And outside beyond the city gates, together with the rising fiery disk of a sun that was like a drop of blood, came a serpent of pure darkness.

The serpent started out on the horizon, silhouetted against the orb of the sun, and neared, gathering thickness, along the eastern road. It was a black army, Elasirr saw.

The army numbered thousands. Greater than any known in their time, in the past hundred years. They wore armor of ebony, matte deadly iron, unpolished, and absorbing all light. They came mounted on tall great beasts that were not quite horse, not quite animal.

They bore no banners, the slithering serpent army. Instead, at the head of the serpent, between the two eyes, rode a figure of congealed absolute non-presence, a vacuum.

He is your Enemy, spoke Werail into Elasirr’s heart. And you already know his name. I show him to you now, because your need requires it.

The figure of absolute dark nothingness reposed upon a platform wrought of beast and man and machinery, a weapon of war that was also somehow an extension of his non-presence.

He is the one Vorn serves, the one whose name is not to be spoken, the Twilight One, whispered Elasirr. And a new wave of anger came to rise in him, while the eyes of Werail bore through him, somewhere on the other side of this panoramic view.

His lens narrowed, and like a bird he flew closer, swooping in to the head of the darkness, to the seated figure shaped outwardly like a man, wearing the night around him.

The Twilight One wore a helmet of fierce angular horror, matte black metal, and the visor was raised to show a skin darker even than that of Lord Vorn, features formed like carbon and coal and yet perfect in their shape.

And as Elasirr looked on, his fascination turning cold even in this dream state, the face of the Twilight One slowly turned, and the eyes focused directly on him.

They were red, the eyes.

And yet, unlike the clean burning source of all red that was Werail, this was a sickly shadow-red, deep and low like a dying ember, just before the night closes in.

And in that instant of meeting those inhuman eyes, Elasirr realized suddenly that the other had seen him, somehow.

And with that awareness, he was slammed back into a dark vortex, and all around him was only the clean-burning red that was the Tilirreh.

Werail! cried out Elasirr, forgetting pride. You must come back into the world, to help us in this struggle! The Enemy is stronger than I had ever imagined.

But the red warrior stood before his mind’s eye, and his simmering passion began to recede as he too started to turn away.

Wait! continued Elasirr, I entreat you, O Tilirreh! What must I do to persuade you to return?

I may not return, whispered the voice of low thunder, as the shadow form of color light continued walking along an invisible plane, growing smaller, more distant. For you must first touch the Rainbow. And that will never be. . . .

The red about him faded, and Elasirr heard his own voice raised in a howling cry, against his own volition, while the warmth inside him faded.

What can I do? he cried to the skies of his own mind. What is it that remains for us, then, but oblivion? Why did you show me the Enemy and then leave me? Why?

And then, in the swirling monochrome dusk, another form took shape, and a different voice sounded, like a great distant ocean of coolness.

Because this Enemy is the Enemy of us all. . . .

There was a pooling in his vision, a gathering of pixels, a swelling wave of rich light that moved in upon him, and he was suddenly swept away in a smooth great slow pattern that was different altogether.

And the light about him slowly focused into a richness, and again he recognized it with a shock, for he had also seen it before. . . .

Blue.

And with it, came a sense of many layers, cool cerulean water flowing against his bare flesh, slivering azure along his chest, and soothing the angry passion that had surfaced with the coming of Werail.

For now, Werail had gone. And in his stead was another.

Koerdis.

The Tilirreh of blue bore the shape of a man that was ageless, neither young nor old, but like a boundless sapphire sea. His eyes were cold as ice and yet perfectly fair, for here was Truth incarnate.

Look at me, spoke the Tilirreh with a voice like the passing of the ages. I am Order and Reason, and I also live within you. You called me from beyond the candle flame, as you called Werail, and because of your need, I am here. I am your pride.

Elasirr met the gaze of the terrible peaceful eyes almost unflinchingly, although in truth, he burned at the contact of gaze to gaze, truth to inner self. Koerdis, he uttered, what greater truth can you tell me then? I have seen the Enemy but not the way to defeat him. I must know, O Tilirreh!

The radiant impossible lapis ice of the eyes was upon him, chilling like winter, like a watery wind of color.

You know the answer already, spoke the blue form, stilling him with its simplicity. You were shown the Enemy, and only you alone know what you can do. Face it, now!

With that harshness, the reality was indeed there before him. And Elasirr recognized what it was that he had to do—what he could do, what he had been doing all along.

And the great aquamarine waves crashed around him then, spilling like foam, like snowflakes of blue light against his eyelids, and with a shuddering breath, Elasirr was falling, drowning, emerging from the dream into truth and with it, at last, into oblivion.

She had taken the first watch, and stared for a long silent time into the dimming fire that crackled soothingly in the night silence, and burned low.

A few feet away, Elasand had fallen motionless before the fire, lying on his side with his face turned to the night. She knew when at last he had slept from the rhythm of his breathing.

And in the distant shadows below the tree she saw the equally still form of the blond man. He lay on his back, his long pale hair swept all around him like a crown of dim light, and his breathing was stiller than silence.

From where she sat, Ranhé could not tell if the one who was the assassin slept or simply chose to maintain silence.

She was growing tired, because this day had seemed to last twice as long as normal, and because of her strange surge of memories. It always wearied her, this resurfacing of the past.

The night deepened, and somewhere up ahead, a faint crescent arose in the silver silence.

Soon, she should waken one of them. Or maybe, there was no need. Why bother taking a watch when there was no hope now for any of them? If any assassins lurked, they would do Elasand a kindness by cutting his life short.

Depression set in like a stone within her lungs. She continued looking up, watching the half-moon, and for a moment it seemed to her that the quality of the moonglow began to change. . . .

Very gradually.

Barely noticeable. . . .

The crescent shone, drawing forth a deeper richness than yesterday’s moon, despite the fact that it was waning.

The richness coagulated, and blinking, she saw something different, unique in the quality of the luminescence, something vaguely alien and yet familiar.

She could’ve sworn there was a faint human profile in the crescent moon. She blinked, rubbed her eyes, but it refused to dissipate from her stubborn tired vision. And the quality of the light had grown to an abnormal intensity, burning at her, blazing forth in a sudden explosion of glow, deep, intense—

Yellow.

The face in the crescent moon turned to her, and the sky all around transformed into an incredible field of yellow dots of brightness. Then, even more incredibly, sky and moon and stars seemed to rush with a dizzying speed down upon her head, so that Ranhé cringed involuntarily, and felt herself slipping backwards, sinking weightlessly, swooning against the cold grass floor of the forest.

The wave of dizziness refused to go away. She lay, holding on to the earth below her. And suddenly, the face of the moon took on a distinct form, and was attached to a human body.

He was limber and graceful, the man-in-the-moon, and he bounded down from the sky like a trickster, to stand before her. He had a radiant exuberant face crowned by a flowing mane of golden hair that stood up on its ends and extended into the sky of saffron, blending. . . .

She thought there was a chorus of topaz wind that sounded like reed pipes, and it had grown so bright that this could not possibly be true night any longer, but a dream.

Who are you? she whispered, lying on her back, watching the smiling glorious man who stood up above her, with hair wilder than sunlight. The vaporous dandelion filaments of his hair stirred like winds in all directions and swept the night away from the heaven.

Must you ask? said the yellow god, the radiant Tilirreh who was indeed Dersenne. Sun and marigolds danced in his eyes, and he leaned forward then, obscuring her vision of all else.

Oh . . . I know you now! uttered Ranhé, breath catching in her throat, and the sense of vertigo having grown stronger. For he was now right above her, his face floating above her head like a disembodied sun, his miraculous eyes inches and yet universes away—deep, soft, gentle.

She wanted to drown beneath that face, sink so low into the earth that stalks of flax would grow forth and rise through her no longer human body upward, toward him, toward the ocher radiant cupola of sky.

I am here, for you brought me here, sounded the voice of the Tilirreh, sweet as honey flowing in the sun, like drops of ancient amber.

I called you? whispered Ranhé. But—I only called upon the lady of violet. Not for myself. For my Lord Elasand.

For him and not for yourself? The face above her smiled, and she could almost feel his breath upon her cheek, like the summer wind flowing over a field of ripe wheat.

I wanted him—fulfilled at last, she replied with wonder, half-conscious of her own words, for his sweet gilded lips were so nearby, distracting her, taking her away from all meaning.

You! said the yellow being of Sacrament. It is you who has the need. Your fulfillment is merely on the other side of the sacramental candle, and you need only reach out to receive it!

But what of my lord, who hungers for his immortal love? uttered Ranhé. What of the City that awaits our return without even being aware of our leaving, and whose hope we seek to bear with us home?

But the golden one looked at her with utter softness, and again she heard his words, this time louder than the wind, and grand like the sky.

Be fulfilled! Come to me, come closer, and touch the Rainbow! Only you!

And with that, the face obscured all her vision, and she felt a soft and then infinite pressure upon her lips, a kiss that drew forth her breath, as she rose up to receive it and drown at the same time.

And as she sank into pure liquid gold of the dream enveloping her, she saw the two eyes gaze deep within her own, fathoming her soul, and quickening her spirit with inspiration.

Thus, Dersenne gave of himself the tiniest invisible splinter, and she would have it with her now, to take with her, to bear.

Its name was hope.

CHAPTER 15

They left the Shrine of Light just as the dawning sun lit up the treetops, riding back to the City.

There had been the strangest rich silence between them since the moment of awakening. And then, as they moved through the thicket of branches, retracing their steps, Elasand said, “Our quest has not been in vain. I dreamt of Laelith and she showed me what it is that lies before us.”

“I, too, dreamt of Tilirr,” responded Elasirr, looking straight ahead as he rode. “And I was shown the face of the Enemy.”

Ranhé remained silent for some moments after that. Ever since her eyes had opened this morning, there was a new brilliance she saw in all things, an edge to the light. The sun made her squint from a more than customary intensity, as though she could see something in it, a reflection of a face.

And then she dared to say it.

“I dreamt,” she began, “also.”

And then, again, there was only silence between them.

No need for words.

All around, the forest seethed with noisy fierce life.

At the end of the second day of self-absorbed perfect silence, they had come out of the forest and upon the outskirts of Tronaelend-Lis.

It was late evening, and the shadows were lengthening upon the wide gravel road. The City would be just ahead, another half hour through the flatlands, and soon they would view its familiar grouping of spires and structural forms from beyond the great walls.

Something was amiss.

Ranhé saw it immediately, and she pointed it out to the other two—the strange beaten-in patterns on the road, ever since they’d come upon the main City road that merged with another one from the east.

There were tracks in the gravel, at times so heavy that it had pressed into the underlying muddy earth, and clumps of hard mud were turned up often, destroying the clean surface.

Tracks of hundreds of beasts, great and heavy beyond belief, judging by their diameter. Tracks of wheels wider than two put together of the greatest load-cart this City had known. Imprints of numerous feet made by heavy metallic soles.

An army had passed here.

Elasirr stared thoughtfully at the ground as they rode, slowing down their pace. At times, he dismounted, and walked alongside, leading his great stallion, and at times he crouched before something particular he wanted to see up close. Once, he paused to compare a track made by his own mount’s hoofprint to a greater one in the road. It turned out that most of the beasts’ hoofprints were at least one half greater than the black stallion’s own. Ranhé did not want to imagine what manner of animal could make such tracks, for Elasirr’s stallion was one of the biggest she had ever seen.

“How many?” asked Elasand grimly.

“I’d say, seven thousand cavalry, two or three thousand on foot, the rest made up of army gear, and possibly a number of war machines manned by several hundred. Altogether, about ten thousand.” Elasirr’s expression was ice, and his dark brows drawn. He mounted and once again they rode.

“Gods help us,” whispered Elasand. “It’s beginning, then.”

“It has long since begun, Elasand-re. Open your eyes!” hissed Elasirr, and urged his mount into a faster pace.

They galloped then, hooves barely touching the ground, and the wind sang a wild litany, while the sunset gathered.

Ranhé, lying forward, close against her horse’s neck, saw the flying shapes of lonely trees go past them along the road, while the flatland blurred all around.

They saw it all at once, the blackness.

The pale City walls of stone stood out in sharp contrast against the ebony formations, like a ring of black, a dark serpent coiled about the City in a siege.

And yet, it was not a siege, for the Southern Gates, closest to them, stood gaping, wide open.

Apparently, the City had long since fallen to the enemy.

“Damn Hestiam to the skies!” exclaimed the Guildmaster of Bilhaar, reigning in his mount sharply. “He could not resist even one day, but immediately opened wide like a whore to them!”

“Hold your judgment,” said Elasand through his teeth. “We don’t know what came to pass here.”

“We don’t need to know. We’ve been absent for five days only. If memory serves me, the Grelias fool was willing to wait for your return, Vaeste. He trusted you.”

“Look!” said Ranhé meanwhile. “Quickly, now, what should we do? This is impossible, but they have spotted us!”

Indeed, although they had paused hundreds of feet away from the gates, and should have been quite beyond the enemy’s sight, a detachment of black-clad soldiers came to separate from the seething dark mass of war that was before them, and headed toward them. The dark warriors were mounted on quadruped beasts that were not horse but some other thing, elephantine and yet reptilian in some form, for the beasts were scaled. Sunset shone dimly against the planes of their backs, but shone not at all from the armor of those who rode them.

And then the reason for the impossibility was revealed. On both sides of the road, dark vaguely human shapes were rising. They emerged from burrowed ditches cleverly hidden by the tall field grass, and by their stirring they were a signal to those at the gates.

“Halt!” whispered Elasirr, glancing quickly at his companions. “Make no move. Remember what happened to our soldiers at the Inner Gates of the Palace, when Vorn came to us? It’s said they tried to resist him, but were somehow struck down with a power of the mind. We cannot risk that now. We know nothing of them as yet, nothing of what they can really do.”

“We can turn back and ride like hell?” offered Ranhé, her blood quickening, the rational mercenary in her coming awake.

“No, too late. For they will pursue, and those great-legged beasts would catch us,” said the Lord Vaeste. “We must go only forward, or wait. There is no choice.”

And they sat the horses in a semblance of calm, waiting for the detachment of black to arrive, while the dark road sentries remained motionless in their places, with weapons drawn menacingly but making no move toward them.

In moments the enemy detachment arrived.

There was one that must have been their captain, for he rode before his men, and his helmet was distinguished by a taller horned crest. His beast trod softly and yet with surprising speed, like a scaled lion. And up close, it towered over the horses, having an added height of about two feet. From this height the captain looked down, disguised by his visor, and his voice came hollow and deep, with an alien tone and accent.

“Who are you?” he boomed. “What business have you at the gates of our new City called Twilight?”

Elasand spoke in an equally loud poised voice. “I am Lord Elasand Vaeste and this City, called Tronaelend-Lis, is very much mine! In whose name do you speak, man?”

“You are Vaeste?” uttered the dark warrior. “Then you are to follow me, for the Twilight One who is my lord has been waiting for you. Come! You and yours will not be harmed!”

“I certainly hope not,” said Elasirr under his breath, but was completely ignored, while the dark captain turned his back on them and started back toward the Southern Gates of the City, in full insolent confidence expecting them to follow.

Great, scaled beasts moved in on two sides of them, and from the back, so they were effectively surrounded. And if she turned her head, Ranhé could see the sable riders, carrying tall iron pikes, looming like a forest all around them. She had glimpses of armor, leather bindings, strong sinewy legs of the beasts, like tree trunks shod with metal hooves. They moved silently and yet covered a lot of ground.

At the Gates, the captain stepped away, allowing Elasand to ride forward and into Tronaelend-Lis. Ranhé and Elasirr followed, subdued into silence by the unknown.

There was silence too, beyond the Gates. Impossible unheard-of quiet was everywhere, for the large square was empty of all normal street traffic, and there was no one about except for the tall black-clad shapes.

They were everywhere, she saw now, shadows of them detached from buildings as they stood silently, on guard, or rode on the great silent beasts.

And there was something else—the quality of the light. The sun had almost set, and in preparation for the night, street torches burned along the corners, and in most other normal places.

But none of the orb streetlights had been lit. They stood, like dark posts, barren. And the glassy orbs held within them opaque darkness.

She noted the difference without them, a missing element, a lackluster. She’d never thought how normal it was to have the City illuminated by the various monochrome orbs, and how much fullness and life they gave to the night.

The invasion, it this could be called such, must have been bloodless, or else did not leave any traces of visible struggle from the City’s residents. Indeed, as Ranhé watched with her practiced eyes, she saw occasional faces peeking from obscured windows of buildings overlooking the Gates square. And one by one, citizens must have lit torches or candles inside, for there were traces of glimmer behind heavy curtains.

Within moments of brief twilight, night fell upon Tronaelend-Lis.

After waiting only a little as the dark soldiers consulted among themselves, the captain that had originally spoken returned and said curtly that they were to follow him.

“Where to?” asked Elasand. “Are we prisoners?”

But the dark one said nothing in reply, and Ranhé could almost imagine a smirk underneath his visor.

And with that, they began moving toward the heart of the City.

In the streets dull torchlight illuminated their way, and only one or two ordinary passerby could be seen, hurrying desperately on their business. Because of the dark, the captain removed his visor, and Ranhé had a brief glimpse of a swarthy face with dull soulless eyes, before he again turned away.

They passed through the Southern Quarter—it was so well behaved today that anyone loaded with valuables could have leisurely walked through it unscathed. The quasi-legal Guilds were obviously hiding. They too were victims of this circumstance.

Past the Markets, then across an Arata bridge they rode into Dirvan, while a chill began, for an evening wind moved against the skin coldly.

The Outer Gardens, interspersed with the occasional noble Villa, stood on all sides. To one side, from afar, Ranhé saw the familiar ancient dome of the small structure, shining polished ebony in the night, the Mausoleum of the last Monteyn King. The black scaled beasts carrying their escorts and they, moved along the gravel soft path to the Inner Gates, where more black alien ones now stood guard.

The dark captain stopped and cried out a greeting to the guards, “I bring what the Twilight One has been expecting. This one is Vaeste, the one our Master seeks!”

Immediately, they were taken within, and were inside the Palace grounds.

At some point, Ranhé was pushed down from her mount, and the others also, and their horses taken away. She had a brief impulse to struggle, but seeing the motionless almost mechanized form of the soldier that forced her, she thought it best to go along, for now. For she had yet to fully understand this enemy.

The Palace of the Regents stood before them, illuminated only with dull torchglow in the recesses outside the front colonnade, and overhead, the slim glimmer of the rising crescent moon. They were led within past more door guards, through a number of ornate entrances, into the shadowed depth of the Palace. None of the regular servants could be seen.

At the doors of one large reception hall, the enemy captain paused, consulting in a whisper with those who were guarding the entrance. He mentioned the word “Vaeste,” and again it worked its magic upon those who stood before them.

The doors were opened wide, allowing in bright torchlight, while black soldiers moved to stand on both sides.

“Enter, Vaeste!” said the captain. “You are expected.”

Elasand stepped forward. Ranhé followed, like his shadow, and Elasirr was not too far behind.

The hall was lit with the bare minimum of torches, but blazed nevertheless, because of the predominance of mirrors set in the walls and niches. In the back, against the Northern wall, there was the customary twin throne, and on both sides stood a double row of giant guards, black-clad, with glimpses of facial skin like charcoal, beneath helmets of dull kettle-black iron. Sheathed longswords reached to the floor from their waists, enormous wrists resting on the pommels.

Ranhé allowed her gaze to fly forward to the very end of this black alley of human form, where someone was occupying one of the upraised thrones. That someone was like a mirage of gray torchlight, like a being drawn on the other side of a curtain of heat, for the air between him and their perception of him seemed to waiver momentarily. His form almost refused to take focus.

And when Ranhé forced the visual focus at last, she saw a tall lean man seated deep in the grand throne. He was dressed in pure ebony silk and satin and wore a coat of fur-lined deep velvet that draped serpentine against the armrests of the throne, and poured its darkness onto the dais floor. Unlike the giant warriors guarding him, he was elegant, slender-boned, with a skin as dark as theirs, but smooth like a ribbon of night gossamer.

He was beautiful, the Twilight One.

Ranhé found herself staring at the carved planes of his face, the impossible perfect lines of dark. Only there were no traces of hair anywhere on him. A smooth bare skull, no brows, only fine lines to mark the recesses of his eye sockets. Not even a shadow of eyelashes to fringe his perfect closed lids, gleaming softly under the torches like cultured pearls.

The eyes were closed. He remained seated back against the ample throne, still and impassive, gloved fingers resting against the armrests. There was no living breath in him.

Elasand walked forward, past the guards, through the center of the hall. Ranhé felt a twinge of pride, seeing him move thus, fearless, perfectly straight, his midnight hair with its single pale lock flowing down his back, his head held high, his face almost bearing a suppressed smile.

Elasand stopped before the throne, feet planted apart. His voice was suddenly unrecognizable to her in its intensity, in its power. “I am the Lord Elasand Vaeste. You seek me? What has happened to this City?”

The Twilight One opened his eyes.

Beauty fled. In its place came nauseating sickness, for his eyes were dull simmering coals, and there was nothing human about them. They held no expression. They were dead.

The dead eyes observed the tall man standing proudly before him.

Silence, long and crawling with decay.

“Vaeste . . .” whispered an alien voice.

“What has happened to this City?” Elasand repeated. “And what of the Regents?”

“All is mine,” replied the alien, his words slithering through the farthest recesses of the room with sepulchral cold. “I am Feale. Lord of Qurth, and now lord of this City. Your Regent has in wisdom bowed before me, and for that his life has been spared, together with that of his sister.”

“They are your prisoners, then. Show me the Regent! I want to see that he indeed lives!”

A wind seemed to run through the great hall. And then, a slow terrible smile grew on the face of Feale. He drew forward, and stared down directly at Lord Vaeste.

“You make demands upon me? What will you give me in return, Lord Vaeste?”

“You tell me,” said Elasand, and then, just as terribly, smiled. “Why did you seek me? I must have something that you want.”

Feale’s smile did not change.

“You are direct, Vaeste. I like your manner. Well then, let me explain to you that Hestiam Grelias and his sister are my guests. I have them in polite custody, together with the Chancellor Rollen Lirr, the Minister General, Raelin Barsadt, and various heads of your noble Ten Families. While they are with me, I will treat them all as honored guests, just as they treated my Lord Vorn. Indeed, this City knows very well that I can be an excellent host. Not a life has been lost for that reason.”

“You impress me indeed, Feale,” said Elasand. At his easy utterance of the name, Ranhé noticed how many of the black guards almost cringed.

“I am glad that you understand,” said the dark being on the throne. “And now, Vaeste, be as wise as your Regent. Swear an oath of fealty to me, the new lord of this City that I have named Twilight. And in return, I will make you my Minister, second only to my right hand, Lord Araht Vorn, whom you know already.”

“What a startling request,” said Elasand. “Why should I swear to you, an enemy who invaded my home and has my Liege Lord the Regent and the rest of the government in custody? In fact, this is so unusual that I begin to wonder what it is you really want, Feale, Lord of Qurth? Why not just kill us all, starting with the Regents? And why myself? What is so unique that only I can give you?”

“You know what it is I want,” whispered the Twilight One.

“Actually,” said Elasand sarcastically, “I have no idea.”

“Your knowledge. I want it, Vaeste. Your knowledge of certain things. Hestiam had told me all, told me of the nature of your trip into the forest.”

“Oh, he told you that, did he?” Elasand said very quietly, anger beginning. “What exactly did he tell you, in his fear?”

And the dead eyes remained upon him, while Feale seemed to consider the nature of this man standing so undaunted.

“He told me of your ancient bloodline,” said he at last.

“I see . . .” said Elasand softly. “And if I refuse to swear to you?”

“Then the man that had been your Regent dies. And after him, all the rest of his Court, my guests, one by one.”

“What if I don’t give a damn?” Elasand smirked. “In fact, what if I tell you to go ahead, O Twilight One, and kill them all?”

And at that Feale laughed, like old stones crumbling. “Oh, but you will never say that, Vaeste, for I know you now.”

“Do you?” said Elasand.

“You are not my prisoner,” responded the dark one. “Never you. I give you one day to decide. And when you make your decision, it will be in all truth, in complete loyalty to me. Go now, think it over, and come back to me tomorrow just after sunset. And if you think you can plot against me in one day, I tell you now not to waste your effort, for you can do nothing. But—you may plot all you like, if it eases you. One way or another you will come to me. You are all mine now. I merely ask you to come to me willingly. It will spare you and all the others much—pain.”

“How do I know that you have not killed everyone already? Show me your prisoners, or I will not even bother with anything you say.”

Feale observed him, for one long instant. And then again a thin smile came to curve his perfectly formed onyx lips.

“Very well. You will see one of them before you go. You may even whisper words of hope together, and make plans for escape. Now, proceed! I will have your answer tomorrow! And be wise, Vaeste. Think carefully, before you decide.”

“That I will indeed, Qurth!” exclaimed Elasand, and without any show of obeisance, turned his back and walked out of the hall.

Outside, they were taken by another smaller escort through a variety of winding Palace corridors, to a small guarded door. Upon opening the door, they were allowed to enter, the door shut firmly behind them, and a lock turned.

Inside, in a small chamber, a hunched figure sat next to the fire in a desperate position of hopelessness. He turned, and Ranhé recognized Chancellor Lirr, the older man who had for all practical purposes ran the government of the City.

“Lirr!” exclaimed Elasand. “I was hoping it would be you I’d see. Whatever has happened here? In the name of all gods, we’ve been away for five days only!”

“My Lord Vaeste!” Life surged in the wearied features of the Chancellor’s face. He turned, and then his eyes widened, for he had seen Elasirr also. “And you too, my Lord Bilhaar! It’s impossible to even begin!”

“Have they hurt you? And what of Hestiam?” said Elasand, drawing near, and seating himself on the couch.

The Chancellor shook his head negatively, then moved his hand to point to the comfortable room. “No, my lord, not at all, as yet. In fact, they have His Grace and Her Grace simply locked up in their quarters. I had seen them myself, I can vouch for that, for they let me see His Grace even this morning, when he asked for me. Food is being brought to us. All seems precariously well, except for the fact we cannot go anywhere.”

Elasirr meanwhile sat down at the sofa next to the fire, and sighing, stretched his booted feet up on a small table. “Now then, Lirr,” he said. “Pardon my stink, but I’ve been in a forest for the last five days without a bath, communing with nature and the gods. For that reason, I want you to start from the beginning and tell us exactly what the hell has happened here? Who are these Qurthe invaders? How did this City fall without a fight?”

The fire burned warm and gray in the hearth, dancing in reflection upon the older Chancellor’s face, his liquid sad eyes.

“It came to pass on the third day of the Wedding Celebration. The Regents had been busy with their normal frivolous revels, and in fact the whole City took it like a state holiday—you remember, don’t you? Well, suddenly, our guest, Lord Vorn, in whose very honor this feast has supposedly been declared, comes up to Hestiam, in the middle of a dinner feast, announcing that his Twilight lord is here. Naturally, at first Hestiam thinks it a joke, and is incoherent, but as soon as these horrible black-armored warriors begin entering the halls of the Palace, well, he simply faints back in his seat, pale as death, and allows it all to happen.”

“Was there no warning of any sort?” said Elasand. “Didn’t the City attempt to fight?”

The Chancellor laughed sadly. “Fight? You realize, Elasand-re, you’re talking about this City, about us, the haven of bureaucratic red tape, where nothing ever gets done? Our Military Guilds are off in their own little world, following their narrow-minded daily agenda, as though we are of no concern. And the Grelias are of course blind to all but their immediate pleasure.

“Well, the Grelias were useless. We had no warning system, the guards at the gates did not even have time to relay the message that an army stood outside the City—though not for lack of trying—because, they had to follow a damn protocol—yes, protocol of reporting authority! And it turned out, the one commanding officer in charge, at the very top of this reporting hierarchy, was off wenching on his day off! In fact, the news of the Qurthe outside our doors were carried more readily by street urchins running through the Markets! The whole population of the City had effectively hid by the time the reveling denizens of the Palace were even aware of what had happened in the span of about two hours! By sundown, Elasand-re, the enemy was inside the Palace!”

Elasirr shook his head unbelievingly, smoothing his forehead with his fingers. “This is the kind of thing I was afraid of, this is exactly why I had wanted the Council of Guilds to take charge of things—but no matter now, that is far too late to bemoan now.”

“And the Grelias,” continued Chancellor Lirr. “At first, we were all herded into one of the grand halls, and made to wait for their damned Twilight One. Very tense. Giant black warriors everywhere. Hestiam was half faint, while Deileala stalked about the hall like an unleashed panther. I swear, that woman was like a mad fishwife from the Markets, I’d never known she could use such language. At one point she marched up to Vorn, who had been in the room with us, and demanded to see his lord and master. Well, Vorn turned to her, stared intensely, and simply said, ‘Silence, or I will kill you.’ At which point she spat at his feet but luckily did not push her luck—”

“My lord,” interrupted Elasand softly, “I need to know one thing. Were you there when Hestiam—talked to Feale? About myself. And how much exactly did he tell him?”

“Yes,” added Elasirr. “What exactly does our Enemy know?”

Chancellor Lirr looked at the two men before him. Firelight added contrast of shadows to his expression. “Feale questioned Hestiam about the Guildmaster of the Light Guild,” he said in a near whisper, looking at Elasand. “I don’t know if we are being secretly observed now, if someone is listening in on our conversation.”

“Assume they are,” said Elasirr, his eyes dilating fully, and taking on a dark demonic glow.

“Continue,” said Elasand.

“Well, my lords, it appears Feale knows something about the Light Guild, maybe even more than we do,” resumed Lirr in a low voice. “Notice how no color orbs are lit anywhere in the City. Do you not find it strange?”

“Indeed,” whispered Elasand.

“Well, orbs are forbidden. And even more odd—they had sent a special Qurthe division of guards to surround the Light Quarter, and supposedly breach it. However, from what I guess, they had not been successful, for the Inner City has barricaded itself. Or, possibly Feale had not insisted they try to breach its defenses—yet. But it’s definite that no one is allowed to enter or leave the Inner City.”

“Interesting,” said Elasand. “And so, has the Guildmaster of the Light Guild been found effectively missing through all this activity?”

“Missing is the word,” said Lirr. “And for that reason, Feale had a very—persuasive, shall we say—conversation with the Regent, basically frightening him to death, and forcing him to mention incidentally that you, Elasand-re, have been gone from this City all this time, and that the nature of your pilgrimage has been to the Shrine of Light.”

“Damned idiot Hestiam,” hissed Elasirr. “If he weren’t already in his grave position, I would kill him myself for that.”

“My lord,” said the Chancellor. “If Feale does not locate the Guildmaster of the Light Guild soon, Hestiam will be killed as surely as any of us. It is the only thing that keeps us all alive now, this promise that Hestiam made.”

“I thought Feale wanted Vaeste for another reason,” said Elasand. “He’d made me an offer, and given a day to consider it.”

“Feale wants anyone and anything possibly related to the Light Guild,” responded Lirr. He looked at Elasand intensely, bit his lip, and then whispered, “This means that you will all be watched very closely all day, my lord. That is why you have not been made prisoner, not because Feale is graciously giving you time to think over his offer. He expects to see someone make a move this day, tonight, and tomorrow morning. He’ll watch everywhere you go, everything you do.”

“Excellent! Let him,” said Vaeste. “Well then, it appears we must give Feale something to observe.”

He turned to Ranhé suddenly, saying, “Freewoman, I want you to do an errand for me, once again something outside your bodyguard duties. I want you to go to my aunt in the Beis Villa and make sure she is all right. It is almost ten o’clock now. Then, since we are all free to go about as we please for one blessed day, I want you to meet me and Elasirr later tonight, at about an hour before midnight, at the Toll Gates of the Inner City. Yes, I am saying it loud enough so that anyone can overhear—we will meet at the Light Quarter.”

They got up then, saying farewell to the Chancellor, and Elasand knocked upon the door. It opened so immediately that it was obvious someone’s ear had been placed against it on the other side. Two Qurthe soldiers then silently escorted them through the Palace, and outside, even returning them their own horses.

Ranhé, who had thought she’d never see hers again, was happier than possible, and mounted quickly.

In the faint moonlight at the Inner Gates, Elasand and the blond man waved her a farewell, and she rode away quickly, to obey Vaeste’s request.

At the Beis Villa, Dame Molhveth had been nearly hysterical upon seeing Ranhé, and regaled her with a tumble of questions regarding Elasand’s well-being.

“Don’t be afraid, he lives.” Ranhé smiled. “And he wanted me to tell you all is as well as can be, under the circumstances. He will see you as soon as he can himself, but for now I must return to him.”

“Tell Elas I pray for him, every minute!” gasped the elderly dame. “We are all well for the moment, my dear. And Lixa is with the Daqua in her new home, and she too is well, I suppose. Only, those horrible dark soldiers are everywhere, and I don’t know what they will do to us—”

Having consoled Dame Beis with her steady confident smile, Ranhé did not refuse a hasty meal, and then was on her way, out of Dirvan, riding like quicksilver through the night City. Over the Arata bridge she flew, then was lost to general sight in the shadows of the great Marketplace, where occasional pathetic forms of the homeless were seen lurking, as well as the ever-present soldiers of Qurth.

Ranhé was counting on the very fact that she was being observed. As Elasand had implied, she acted openly, and made her way directly north, where lay the Light Quarter. She did not imagine what kind of game Vaeste had in mind for the Qurthe, but now was not the time to question it.

The northern Markets ended before a tall walled section of Tronaelend-Lis called the Inner City. The unusual walls loomed monolithic in the dim moonlight, like a mountain of dark, effectively isolating this Quarter in its own inner acropolis. Torches burned in sconces at the Toll Gates, while the orbs in the streetlamps were devoid of color light. Instead of the normal guards consisting of guildsmen, there was a division of ebony warriors who stood like great night statues in a perimeter of twenty feet of the Gates that were tightly shut, and apparently bolted from the inside.

In their oddly condescending manner, which she was beginning to grow accustomed to, the Qurthe did not react to her arrival. But Ranhé was sure that if she made a move to approach the Gates, they would countermove to prevent her. For now, she was but an annoyance, like a fly that was not to be swatted unless she landed on their turf. In fact, there were a number of street urchins harmlessly running between the shadows and the lit areas of the Markets, not too far from where she was. The street denizens of the City had learned very quickly that they would be ignored as long as they did not get in the way of the invader.

Reining in her horse to a walk, she rode about fifty feet away from the Inner City Gates, her long travel cloak billowing in the night wind. Except for the subdued street life, there was no one about. No sign of Lord Vaeste.

Ranhé continued to wait, circling slowly in the vicinity of the Gates. And she thought.

All the signs were pointing to him, Elasand. If anyone was the Guildmaster of the Light Guild, then it could be none other than himself. Why did she not think of this sooner? Why did she not consider his role in all this strange political extended family of Tronaelend-Lis? It made perfect sense now. And it made sense that he would have enough enemies that would want to kill him. The fact that he maintained a relatively low profile, and only casually associated himself with the Light Guild, was a clever precautionary pattern. That way, no one, not even the Regents, would ever be sure. And not even his own relatives would know enough to be implicated or used as pawns against him.

A small rock clattered at the feet of her mount. It seemed one of the running urchins had thrown it, clattering all the way to her feet, and then had disappeared into the shadows of one of the nearby small alleys of the bordering Sacred Quarter, to the northeast of the Inner City.

Ranhé was not a fool. She waited for about five minutes, while a pulse began to beat within her temples. And then, casually, she circled wider and wider, and then somehow made her way to the same alley where the urchin had disappeared, and urged her horse forward, to be swallowed by the dark between two narrow walls.

The urchin was there, waiting for her. She saw nothing but a movement, a shadow and two glittering eyes. Seeing her, he motioned with his hand, and Ranhé quickly dismounted, and led her horse slowly into the alley.

She turned a corner, and a strong arm came to encircle her, while a palm was clamped against her mouth at the same time as a familiar voice hissed in her ear, “You are safe, Ranhé, you’ve done well.”

She gasped, but made no sound, and he released her. She saw a tall cloaked shape, head covered with a hood, and from beneath the dark covering, a glimmer of pale blond hair in the moonglow. So, this was not Vaeste but the master assassin. However, for one instant only, she thought she heard the blood similarity in his voice, had nearly taken him for Elasand.

“Where is my lord?” she whispered.

“You will see him very shortly,” replied Elasirr. “I am here to take you into the Inner City, where Elasand-re expects us both. Do you trust me?”

“Do I have a choice?” she responded, even now feeling the old surge of animosity toward this one.

“Good,” he said in a light whisper. Then he handed over the reins of her horse to the urchin, who was to take care of it until they returned.

“Don’t worry.” Elasirr grinned. She could see a flash of pale teeth. “The boy’ll take excellent care of your mount, for he knows if he does not, I’ll kill him.”

“I see,” she hissed back. “I suppose threats always work well.”

Elasirr only smirked, and then, in the shadows, she saw him open a tiny low door in the wall of the alley, a door where she did not see one before. “Come!” he whispered, bent his head down and disappeared inside.

Wordlessly Ranhé followed, feeling a sort of excitement begin to mount in her, for what she saw was a new secret of the City, unfolding. . . .

Inside, it was pitch black. At first. And then, as her eyes began to grow accustomed to the dark, she slowly began to make out the soft glow of moonlight seeping in from the outside through the thin crack below the door. With that, she saw that they stood within a tiny dry-smelling claustrophobic cell, and Elasirr had to keep his head down in order not to bump the low wooden ceiling.

She then felt the strong pressure of his hand take her own, at which a sort of sensory awareness ran through her fingers and outward through her, while at the same time he began to speak in a low urgent whisper, and his opaque face was very near her own.

“Listen to me, Ranhé. Where we are about to go is a place most obscure. You must promise beforehand that you will say nothing to anyone ever about this, about how we get there. Promise this in the name of Elasand-re Vaeste, and I know you will not lie. For if you break your word, I too make a promise now, that I will kill you—no matter what we have been through together, no matter what you might think of me, I will destroy you, warrior woman!”

She snorted. “Yes, I do believe you’d go to the ends of the earth to do that, my Lord Bilhaar. Really, no need for you to hiss in my face, now, I promise to be silent about this always.”

And in answer to that, he chuckled softly, and pressed her hand, tightening his own fingers about hers in an iron grip. Suddenly he bent down, and with his hand pulled at some hidden switch upon the floor. In that instant, the floorboards fell inward in a square section of utter darkness, and she saw short stairs leading down into an unknown subterranean hell.

“Go on,” he said, releasing her hand. “And I will follow.”

And silently, she nodded, then took hold of the floorboards, and began her descent into the unknown darkness.

She moved by feel only, gripping the sides of the stairway, and overhead she began to hear his own descent, while the opening to the outside world had come closed again, for she could hear him turn some kind of internal lock.

There were strong echoes in this place, suggesting stone.

“Keep going,” she heard him whisper from above. “Another twenty feet, and you will hit level ground. Wait for me.”

“Really, think I should?” she whispered back. “What if I get a crazy urge to venture out on my own somewhere in this abysmal dark? Where are we exactly, anyway?”

From above, his soft laughter. “You, Ranhé, are in the bowels of the City. Welcome to the sewers!”

“I don’t smell anything,” she said, while her feet suddenly felt an ending to the stairs, and she was on solid ground. “Only damp. . . .”

She stepped away from the stairs in the dark, giving him room, and then felt his quick practiced movements, as he leaped the last several feet onto the floor.

Then, there was the striking of stone against stone, and she saw a bright pinpoint of light that bloomed into a candle flame. It illuminated a stone corridor thrown into dancing shadows, and Elasirr’s striking face. He had drawn his travel hood back, revealing the flowing matted mane of his sun-hair, and stood looking at Ranhé with unblinking eyes. “Ready?”

She nodded, and he proceeded to move down the length of the corridor that stretched out in shadow before them, holding the candle to light their way. At about twenty feet, the tunnel branched into three, and Elasirr took the right-most one.

“That way”—he pointed to the middle corridor—“are the real sewers. If we keep going, it will stink soon enough.”

“You seem to know this place well,” she ventured, but then realized this was not too surprising for an assassin.

“I make it my business to know most of this City,” he replied, seriously. “Both above and under ground. Do you know where we are now?”

“No,” she said.

“We’re just below the Markets, before the Inner City entrance. We’re almost there. Qurthe are probably standing right above our heads.”

And indeed, about fifty more feet, and their tunnel ended before a doorway hewn in stone. Before it stood Elasand Vaeste leaning against the wall, while a lit torch sat in a wall sconce.

“You made good time,” said Elasand, stepping forward, an almost-smile on his lips. He looked at Ranhé intently, saying, “How is my aunt?”

“She is perfectly fine, my lord. I told her you are well also.”

“Good.” He grinned then. Ranhé noted with surprise that there was an almost nervous expression on his face, as he looked between her and Elasirr, and then back again, gathering himself for something.

“Well?” he said. “Are we ready?”

In answer, Elasirr merely nodded, his face composed.

“My lord,” she began suddenly. “If there is something you are about to reveal to me in secret about yourself, then I probably know already. In fact, I’ve suspected as much, and I promise beforehand that you have nothing to fear from me, for I will be silent—”

“Ranhé,” Elasand sighed. He turned to her then, looking with intense eyes into her own. “Ranhé, freewoman, are you able to keep the best-kept secret in the City?”

“I think I am capable, my lord,” she replied, looking openly into his eyes.

“Then, meet the Guildmaster of the Light Guild, for he stands now before you.” And with those words, Lord Vaeste turned, pointing with his hand to the man standing at his side—the man with the sun-hair.

For a moment, Ranhé’s mouth fell open.

She stared at the man who she’d known all this time as the Guildmaster of the Assassin Guild, and he watched her in turn, with a light amusement.

“But—” said Ranhé. “How can that be? You are the Lord Bilhaar!”

“I am,” said Elasirr. “And I also rule the Light Guild.”

“But what of you, Lord Vaeste? I thought all this time that you were the Guildmaster, I was so sure—”

“Precisely,” replied Elasirr. “That’s what everyone is supposed to think. Elasand-re has been my decoy in that for years.”

Ranhé stood shaking her head unbelievingly. “But—” she persisted. “How can an assassin head the Light Guild? How can you be responsible for two Guilds at once, two of the most powerful Guilds in Tronaelend-Lis?”

Elasirr smiled—amused, sardonic, and yet like a sharp blade. “I can only be responsible for one indeed.” He mused, “For in truth, there is no Assassin Guild. It is but a cover for the Light Guild. And Bilhaar is merely the elite warrior guard for the Light Guild, that had been formed since the start to protect the integrity of the Guild, and to guard the ultimate secrets of color light and Rainbow. For that reason, Bilhaar and the Light Guild are one and the same.”

“Now, with that out of the way,” said Elasand with a smile of some relief, “would you mind opening the door, Elas, so we can go inside?”

And in reply, the Guildmaster of the Light Guild smiled at them both, torchlight shining demonic on his face, and reached forward to touch a secret lock.

The heavy door opened silently, and they entered the Inner City.

CHAPTER 16

The first thing Ranhé saw, with an unexpected pang of joy, was a soft familiar pasted-on glow of orange. A large low brightness came to fill a room from one orb in the corner. The room was large, with walls of indeterminate matte stone, a great airy open space, and it branched off in a number of open corridors.

There were many people in the room, and several immediately turned and headed their way. One of them, a bearded older man, greeted Elasirr with an upraised hand, saying, “At last, my lord! We were beginning to be concerned.”

“All is well, Marihke,” responded Elasirr, walking to the center of the chamber, and effectively drawing everyone’s attention. At his side, Elasand and Ranhé stepped forward also.

There were voices everywhere, the mention of “Guildmaster,” and then the busy room was silent.

“It has started,” said Elasirr loudly to the room in general. His face was fierce with an emotion that Ranhé had never seen him wear. “We will meet in about a half-hour’s time, to discuss the options before us as a Guild, and the options for the City as a whole. The invader is stronger than I had thought, and there will be days of fear before us. We must get to work without wasting a moment. I will see you all in the meeting room.”

And with that, he again nodded to all in general, and then motioned to Elasand and Ranhé to follow him.

They walked through a large clean passageway that led slowly upwards on an incline, and Ranhé realized they were once again approaching ground level, this time within the safe territory of the Inner City. Everywhere, she saw a network of other passageways and corridors, all well lit, and peopled by a great number of busy individuals, men and women, all energetic, performing a variety of tasks. They passed open chambers, where quantities of vitreous materials were shaped into all manner of orbs, and she realized that orbs were merely hollow simple spheres of glass. In other places, she saw Guildsmen working on various arrays of color light, brilliant, incredible—rooms full of orbs of pure blue, of all possible shades, or pure green.

Interestingly, there were almost no doors in this place. Every chamber opened freely upon another, as though once one was within this forbidden Quarter, all secrecy was dropped in favor of common interaction. Persons would enter one room to consult with others, then return to their own work-stations.

“Why are they working now, when it is almost midnight?” Ranhé inquired almost shyly of Elasirr, without looking at him, as they walked.

He glanced at her, and she could not read his look at all, she suddenly realized. “The Guild works around the clock, always,” he said simply. “Not just because we are currently under enemy occupation, and not because we are driven to it by necessity, but because the nature of light makes varied creative demands upon the light artisans. Many here work while they have the willpower simmering within them, then sleep freely when they grow tired, which could be any time, day or night. Such irregularity is inherent in the talent of those who wield color.”

“Why, my lord?” said Ranhé. “If I may ask? Or is it not something I might know?”

Elasirr considered her for a silent span of seconds, then suddenly stopped, saying, “Why don’t you come and I’ll show you.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Elasand. “Do you think it’s possible she too may have it?”

“I will test her,” said Elasirr, “for, yes, it is possible. And we need every new talent we can get. After all, she also saw something in the forest—What was it that you did see, Ranhé? You’ve never exactly told us.”

“I dreamt of one of the Tilirr,” she replied tentatively, remembering with the strongest pull, fields of dandelion gold.

“This may or may not mean something,” said Elasirr brusquely, as he turned to a different passageway, and they emerged in a small chamber.

There was a single small table in the center, next to it, a chair, and upon the table, one small orb, about the size of a human fist.

“Sit down, freewoman,” said Elasirr coldly. “What I want you to do is fill this orb with color light.”

Ranhé sat down at the chair, raising her right brow in amusement. “You must be joking. And how am I supposed to do that, my Lord Guildmaster?”

“Your question invokes the very basic principle of the Light Guild,” said Elasirr. He then drew closer, leaning forward to look at her, while Elasand continued standing some steps away.

“What is color, Ranhé?” said Elasirr, looking into her eyes.

“Hell if I know,” she said, on the defensive, staring up at him with a thin smile.

“Color is a way of perceiving light,” said Elasirr. “Any light. When you stare at the sun, or at a candle flame, Ranhé, what you should be seeing is some kind of color, naturally. What you see instead is only the contrast of bright and dim.”

“I don’t understand,” she said, seeing his intense serious look, while her own smile left her face. “Are you telling me that we should all be seeing colors every time we look at light? But how can that be?”

“Yes,” he said. “And not only that. We should be seeing colors every time we look at any visible object—any object upon which even the smallest measure of light falls.”

“But we do not, Ranhé,” said Elasand. “Somehow, we do not see that which we naturally should, which is within our ability, our nature! The fact that we can see color at all, even if it is only within orbs, attests to this potential ability of ours.”

“Color is a property of light, an extension of it,” continued the Guildmaster of the Light Guild, “and it appears that we had lost this natural ability to perceive this property when the Rainbow fell.”

“The Rainbow? I thought that was merely philosophy, or a sacred belief.”

Elasirr sighed then, and placed his hand on her shoulder gently. “No,” he whispered, “Rainbow is our history. It is the basis of the Light Guild, for at the time of the Fall, we were the only ones who were able to hold on to its memory. The memory of colors is preserved by us, from generation to generation. It is preserved within the human mind. And with time, we have developed techniques of forcing the memory to its surface. Only, the single thing we can do with it is perpetuate it. We are capable of ‘remembering’ the perception of three primary colors and three secondary, with only a small number of intermediate variations. Thus, we can fill orbs with these colors, but we can do nothing else. It is not magic that we do, but an exercise of the mind, a gathering of the consciousness that is within us, that is passed on through generations in the human species. And it is not real color that we create, but a memory of the color, for we have no way of knowing which real color is appropriate for any given object. In a way, we manipulate light energy into the illusion of the real thing. That is why color appears ‘pasted’ onto things—because it’s not really there as it should be. It is temporarily forced upon the world by our very strength of will and memory. Ah, this is quite difficult to put into words. Let me instead show you.”

He paused, then put his hand on the dull glass orb.

Ranhé watched a slow brightening begin in the area of his fingertips, and then suddenly, the orb blazed forth like a lightning flash with pale utter violet. When the flash settled, the orb glowed a soft steady lavender, and its illumination transformed the whole room. Ranhé could feel its instant warmth emanating from the smooth glass, although her own fingers were inches away.

“You are seeing my memory, Ranhé,” said Elasirr. “My memory of a color that I have been taught is violet. If I had never seen it, I would not have been able to reproduce it. That is the knowledge I have as Guildmaster, the knowledge of every single color in the collective memory of the Guild, passed on to me by my predecessor—my father Rendvahl Vaeste.”

“So that is why Feale wanted Vaeste,” she whispered, as some things began to click into place. “But what of my Lord Elasand?”

“I too have the ability,” said Lord Vaeste softly, glancing at his half-brother. “But our father had made a mistake of judgment, and by then it was too late to rectify it. His secondborn son, not I, had the truer talent. It is a talent of memory, Ranhé.”

“It is said,” continued Elasirr, “at the time of the Fall—which by the way still remains somewhat of a mystery to us—when color was a natural property of the world, of our perception, Vaeste took it upon themselves to focus on preserving it. One of our ancestors spent countless days concentrating his will upon open flames, upon all sources of naturally occurring light energy, until he somehow focused it into the colors that we have now. To contain the energy, he had ordered glass orbs to be built. The original orbs were seven in number. They are with us still within the walls of the Light Guild. They remain lit always, the energy within maintained by Masters. Lit once long ago by a Vaeste, they are to remain thus permanently, for as long as this Guild exists, since they are the only source of color memory for us now. When Guildmembers go to create new orbs, they must first gaze upon the Original Seven, and thus re-create the true color from that which they perceive. Unfortunately, one of the seven, the one that had once contained white, is no longer lit. We can thus no longer make true white light, for its memory has been lost to us.”

“Can you yourself then re-create every color, my lord?”

“Yes. Only I can do that to the fullest extent. Other Masters have better memories of several specific colors, and that is what they do on a regular basis. But only my brother and I can create them all at will, without first gazing at the Original orbs.”

“Not true,” added Lord Vaeste. “I may not always be relied upon to do this. Only he can. That is why he is the Guildmaster.”

“You are too modest, Elas,” said Elasirr, “and as always, too noble for my tastes. For, despite all, I am Bilhaar.”

“What exactly is Bilhaar, then?” began Ranhé. “I am still quite confused. Are you and my Lord Vaeste enemies? Or is everything merely a front?”

“Bilhaar are ruthless, loyal, and most dangerous to any enemies of the Guild. That is still the same, as far as your understanding is concerned,” responded Elasirr. “But for now, enough explanations, freewoman. Sometime later you will find out more. What I want you to do now is try to fill this orb with any color you can, simply from a memory you might have. Visualize it, form the light within your mind, and then just release it. Gather the energy and make it live within this glass.”

And with that, the orb suddenly went dull, devoid of the violet.

“You are jesting, my lord,” began to protest Ranhé, but Elasirr’s look was sharp as a drawn blade, and he simply waited.

She stared at the glass orb. “What am I supposed to do exactly?”

“You are afraid,” whispered Elasirr, almost taunting her. “Don’t be afraid, don’t stall. Simply will it to be!”

“But I can’t—”

“Do it! Or are you more feeble than I thought?”

Anger surged through her, the familiar old anger at him, a resentment. Biting her lip, she stared at the orb.

She tried to remember. Red. Green. Orange. Violet. Blue. She remembered traces of visual images—the crimson of the Red Quarter, the orange of the White Roads Inn where she’d seen a cook serve vegetable soup bathed in the monochrome glow, the violet of the brilliant night with a lady and the sounds of the stream—

But the only thing that seemed to come to her was a topaz sky. . . . That, and two joyful fathomless eyes. . . . A man winking at her from the crescent harvest moon. . . .

She allowed that moon to fill her mind, and the sky, full of dots of yellow. She put her fingers forward, angry, proud, wounded to the quick by some old anger, an old memory, a longing.

The warmth grew within her, spreading through her fingers. Soon, it moved outward, spilling, slithering. And with wonder Ranhé gazed at the orb before her, which was suddenly filling with warm yellow honey—or, no, it was not honey, but pure scalding fierce yellow light!

Ranhé cried out, for her fingers burned somehow, and yet she could not stop, could not regulate the warm blazing glow pouring out of her. . . .

“Enough, Ranhé—”

She could hear the words spoken, from the corner of her eye could see the man with the sun-hair drawing closer to her, beginning to once again grasp her shoulder, this time, firmly. She could see Elasand on the other side, raising his hand to shield his eyes.

“Enough! Stop it, Ranhé! Stop!”

But she was caught up in the smooth honey flow.

And then, with a loud shattering, the glass orb broke. Mesmerized, furious somehow, sensually pulsing with her own power, Ranhé could not take her eyes away from the sphere of pure energy that floated on the surface of the table, blazing brighter than any orb she had seen. Her fingers, still burning, began to bleed where bits of glass had embedded in her flesh. She did not feel, but was floating, like the ball of dandelion fire, weightless, just above the table—

Someone was shaking her. She felt her senses snapping back into her being, and suddenly, she was her own self.

The yellow fire was extinguished. Elasirr stood on one side of her, his hand digging into her shoulder, and his other hand was drawn cool over her forehead. “Enough,” he was saying over and over strangely, gently, soothingly, “Peace . . . enough, Ranhé.”

“You have the talent indeed,” said Elasand meanwhile, smiling at her. “It does not surprise me in the least. It might explain why I had been so drawn to trust you from the start. It was my blood reaching out to you. And I had always suspected something else. You are more than my loyal bodyguard. You are one of us now, Ranhé. One of the Light Guild.”

It was well after midnight when they had gone to the great meeting chamber inside one of the structures of the monolithic Inner City. Still in her travel clothes, Ranhé was more tired than she had ever been in her life, and yet the adrenaline kept her wound up to a feverish state. After all the events of the day, and then the evening, sleep was farthest from her mind, although her body was saddle-sore, and her stomach rumbled with hunger. Not to mention, she stank to high heaven, not having bathed for over five days now, and there were shards of glass in her fingers.

Her two travel companions were in a similar state. At some point, someone had brought them food, and they ate hungrily, in the span of minutes, waiting for the Guild to gather in this room.

When the hall was filled to the point that there was only standing room, Elasirr stepped forward to a small stage-like dais that was in the center. His expression was weary beyond belief, his face smudged with travel dust, and he did not stand on ceremony at all, as he began to speak. And yet, none would doubt that he was a confident leader of them all. His manner, Ranhé discovered, was simple, earnest, and there was something utterly sympathetic in the way he glanced about the room, meeting specific people’s eyes. Those gathered here were apparently his family. For they also looked upon him not with fear or intimidation from a possible threat of a ruthless assassin, but with a strange true emotion, which she recognized as hope.

“The Qurthe have surrounded the Inner City,” Elasirr was saying. “And today, I myself had seen the face of Feale who is their lord, the Twilight One. To tell you all the truth, I don’t think he is a true man. He appears human, and wears a semblance of one of us. And yet, there is something so remote in him, that reeks of the grave. Until we know what he really is, we are unable to completely fight him.

“And yet again, we do know one thing—our enemy is afraid of us, afraid of the Light Guild, and consequently afraid of color. Even now he waits and does not destroy the Regents, because he has not found out the truth of the Guildmaster of the Light Guild. He suspects this man here, Lord Vaeste, because of his direct ties to the ancient lineage.”

Elasirr paused, nodding to the sea of faces. And in that instant many hands were raised, as Guildmembers began yelling out questions to him.

“What will happen to the Regency, Lord Guildmaster?” asked Teryr, a young fair-haired guildsman with an earnest face.

“Will the Qurthe attempt to breach our walls and take away the secrets of color light?” echoed his younger brother Ukrt.

“How much time do we have?” another guildsman, Pual, asked.

“And what of the Military?”

“What of the other Guilds? Can we join forces with them to fight this enemy and free the City?”

And then, a woman called Theri brought up the saddest question of all: “Can we even fight this enemy? And if we do, what hope do we have of succeeding? What will become of us?”

In answer, Elasirr raised his hand for silence. And then, he said loudly, angrily, “Yes! We will indeed fight. Are any of you willing to live in a City called Twilight?”

At that, angry cheers went up. But again, he raised his hand, continuing, “But—we will fight carefully, starting on a small scale, starting to erode and undermine the Qurthe. We will work with all the resources this City has to offer. I myself will go to mobilize the Guilds, and we will unite for this one cause, if not any other. But for the moment, our first duty is to buy time. Tomorrow, we will begin by stalling, and my half-brother, Lord Elasand Vaeste, will go before the Enemy as planned, and attempt to delude him further, for as long as he is able. At the same time, he will attempt to learn more about the nature of our enemy. Now—I am in no state to continue anything. The hour has grown late, and I will rest for a couple of hours before beginning my work. Lord Vaeste must rest also, for we have just returned from a quest which has taught us a great deal about what we all face as a people. The rest of you—business as usual. Only—be ready any time, for action, upon my signal.”

He ended, then without another word stepped down from the dais. Men and women crowded on both sides of him, some still trying to ask questions, but one bearded man, whom Ranhé recognized as Marihke, stepped in between the Guildmaster and the people, and repeated loudly that the Guildmaster will now retire to rest.

The meeting hall began to empty, while Elasirr, his gaze dull with weariness, searched out Elasand and Ranhé in the back of the room.

“Go back to the Vaeste Villa, Elas,” he said, moving a pale lock of dirty matted hair from his face. “Go back and rest, both of you. And you, Ranhé—clean your bleeding hand well, and bind it. I will have need of you and your able hand soon enough.”

“I might see you after the new day dawns—which should now be in a few hours, Elasirr,” replied Elasand, looking at his half-brother seriously. “And—I wish you luck in meeting with the Guilds. You will need it.”

“Not as much luck as you’ll need, when you again walk into the Enemy’s lair tomorrow,” said Elasirr, showing his killing smile. “Now, get out of here, out of my Quarter, Elasand-re, and take your minion with you before she breaks any more orbs.”

He turned then, without another word, leaving them both in the emptying hall.

Ranhé considered the odd fact that she was still unsure whether or not the blond man spoke in jest, when he addressed them in that tone.

Elasand sighed, also tiredly. “After all that had happened today, all that you’ve learned,” he said suddenly, “you must still not trust him, Ranhé.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but Elasand raised his hand, effectively silencing her.

“No,” he said. “Not now, not here. But sometime I will tell you why you must not trust him, ever, this brother of mine with the sweet demon tongue. Now, let’s go home.”

Ranhé awoke unreasonably late, with the bright silver day-glare coming from the window. She was back in the Vaeste Villa in Dirvan, where they had returned last night. They had first retraced their way via the underground catacombs, then emerged from the same alley where the urchin had first taken her. Their horses were being held ready by a number of ragged street boys—all obviously involved with the Guild.

And now was the noon hour. She quickly went into the bathroom, where she took a thorough shower—something she had been too tired to do last night—washing off the dirt, stink, and the essence of the forest. Shower water ran like silver down her long, heavy hair, which she had unbraided and scrubbed well with clean-smelling soap. She also scrubbed mercilessly, despite the pain, the fingers of her right hand from which she had earlier removed small bits of razor-sharp glass—remnants of yesterday’s orb. She washed her face, and with a pang of familiar self-hate, her already sore fingers ran over the stubble of her face, her chin, the hateful prickling. . . . But there was no time to remove it, or to dwell on it now, for there was too much left to do this day, and she must hurry.

Dressed and ready, her hurt hand lightly bound, and her hair once more gathered into a tight smooth braid, she came downstairs and found Elasand dressed for Court, and eating a midday meal. There was a new polish about him, a feverish brilliance in his pale eyes. His own neatly combed hair sparkled like sable silk, and the single pale streak glittered like a bolt of pale electricity.

She also noticed that a longsword leaned against the table, ready to be taken up.

“I hope you rested well, my lord, for you look better today,” she said to him, smiling.

He looked up at her, with an amused, feverish expression. “Why, thank you, Ranhé. I’m glad you approve. Although I wasn’t able to sleep at all. But a good bath and a meal can keep one going for another day at least. Now then, how shall we while away the afternoon, waiting for my appointment after sunset? I know—I will tell you more about the Guild of Light and the Rainbow.”

When the shadows were long, a convoy of black Qurthe soldiers came to the Villa to escort Lord Vaeste to the Palace.

“Stay here,” Elasand told her. “Be ready to act upon my return.” And then he went outside, straight and proud, surrounded by the dark ones. She noticed he had not taken his longsword with him—it would only have served to provoke suspicion, and would likely have been confiscated.

For once Ranhé did not obey his instructions. If I wait, my lord, you would be dead, she thought.

Instead, she took the back entrance outside, losing herself to view in the shadows of the Outer Gardens. There she tarried, while street torches were lit one by one, as the City prepared for the night.

Only then did she venture to make her way, by stealth, into the Palace.

Ranhé knew how to walk silently and, even more important, knew how to make it appear that she belonged in any given place. She also excelled at climbing—walls, trees, buildings. As she flitted about like a shadow in the dark thicket of bushes near the Inner Gates leading to the Inner Gardens and Palace, she envisioned a clear-cut visual path before her. She would scale a tree here, jump on the second floor of the colonnade balcony here, and be on the other side. The six Qurthe soldiers, like ebony statues guarding the entrance, would never imagine anyone with the audacity to climb a tree and then walk right over their heads on a precariously thin ledge of polished slippery marble. Thus, as she made her silent way, no one even looked up.

Ranhé had taken no hindering cloak or longsword with her. Instead, she had stuck two extra-long daggers in the inside folds of her boots. The still-aching fingers of her right hand would hinder her slightly, but it was only a minor hurt, and she was used to such, having put on thick gloves. On the other side of the Inner Walls, she found a pattern of stonework that would serve her well as footholds until she could jump onto another tall tree growing close to the walls.

Once on the ground she crouched low and stole across the Inner Gardens to the Palace Walls. No moon as yet tonight—good, for the darkness served to blanket her. And the difficult part was ahead. How to find Lord Vaeste, and how to be able to assist him despite a Palace full of enemy guards?

The answer was again, sneak, and climb, and pray to any and all gods.

Lord Elasand Vaeste stood before a shadowed being seated in a dark small chamber before a window open onto night.

This time, the Twilight One had chosen to receive him not in the grandeur of one of the Palace Halls, but in a small dark place, with only the vague distant torchlight of the Inner Gardens below to illuminate his silhouette.

“Vaeste. . . . Do I have your answer?” issued a hollow slither of a whisper.

“My answer to you depends on certain conditions,” responded Elasand in a measured voice, standing a little away from the entrance, with two giant black guards on each side.

In the evening darkness came a low soft sound vaguely resembling laughter. The being’s silhouette shook lightly, and then he turned, and suddenly, like a night beast, two alien eyes were trained upon Vaeste. They were hypnotic, phosphorescent.

“Conditions?” whispered Feale. “You have conditions for me? Let me hear them, then.”

“I require a guarantee of safety for certain individuals,” said Elasand. “Foremost, the Regents, brother and sister, the Chancellor Lirr, the Minister General Barsadt, and all members of the Noble Ten Families that you hold.”

“Is that all?” the hollow voice mocked him. “That is easily done, Lord Vaeste. But I will make an exception. The Regent himself must die. And so must his Heir.”

“His Heir?”

“There is a sickly young boy. He was found near the Regent’s Quarters, hidden by a nurse. They call him Lissean Grelias. I was told he is terminally ill already, so he should not be a great loss.”

“You have young Heir Lissean!” exclaimed Elasand while a wave of pity and memory came to him, images of a small silent child.

And with it came anger.

“No!” he said, his voice rising. “The Heir and the Regent must both be spared. Promise me this in writing, and only then will you have my answer!”

“If I promise you this, will you be mine, Vaeste?” whispered the voice out of the darkness.

And Elasand was faced with having to answer directly at last.

Ranhé inched along a narrow latticed edge of the Palace Wall, on her way toward a third-story balcony. The moon had just come out, only a fine slither of a crescent, and its tin glow was faint upon the world.

At one point, she was drawn to listen intently, because she thought she heard a familiar female voice rising in distress from a window that she passed. But it did not matter. She could not help even if she wanted to, for she hung on precariously, and must inch forward.

She did not know then what was taking place just on the other side of these walls.

Deileala Grelias sat hunched, with her feet up, on a wide canopied bed in a chamber given her. A single candle burned in a silver holder upon a boudoir table, before a filigreed mirror.

The Regentrix was somewhat in disarray, for only a single change of clothes had been given her, a dress and a nightgown. Her full heavy hair had long since come loose from its sculptured dressing, and no serving woman had been allowed to assist her for several days now. On her own she could only brush it and bind it in back of her in a thick gathered tail.

Her meal tray stood half-eaten upon another table nearby. She was not a fool, the Regentrix, and knew it was wise to eat in order to keep her strength up, even though her appetite had long since gone, and there were perpetual snakes of nervousness crawling at her innards, chewing away at her gut.

She did not know her fate. That was the hardest part. When the incredible instantaneous invasion had happened, she had been at first ready to explode in fury at her brother’s ineffectiveness, the vitiation of the City’s infrastructure, their lack of a standing army. Not even afraid for a moment—for the audacity of anyone thinking to harm her, the Regentrix, was still beyond the realm of possibility in her mind—she was full of helpless rage. And then she recalled images of Chancellor Lirr, whom she at best despised, harping away at her and Hestiam, dropping small weak impotent suggestions. “Strengthen the Army, give power to the Guilds, participate in the Government!” he would tell them—had been telling them for years.

And yet, he was a weakling in his own right. His suggestions had fallen on deaf, self-centered ears. For, although Deileala wanted control, wanted power, wanted a hand in ruling, she was also lazy. And she had been too thickly embroiled in the fascinating daily odyssey of pleasuring her own self.

A knock sounded on the door. Startled, Deileala smoothed back her hair, straightened the diaphanous gauze nightgown upon her shoulders, and said loudly, haughtily, “Enter! And do take this tray away. I am done eating, and this is beginning to rot!”

The door opened, and then closed again, and there was silence. Deileala sat with her back to it, not even deigning to turn around. But when she sensed that someone stood within, someone different from the regular servant, she slowly forced herself to look sideways. And then, breath stilled in her throat.

Lord Vorn stood within the chamber. She had not seen him since the day of the occupation, when he had taken charge of a room full of frightened people, herself included. She remembered his threatening words to her, spoken in a steady, low voice of power.

He wore no arms today, only a tunic of dark velvet, with expensive metal bindings at the throat. His skin was swarthy, as with all the Qurthe. His face, like a chiseled giant boulder. His form gigantic. His hair, black and rich and beautiful.

For black is beautiful, sublime.

And in his strange huge grand way, he was beautiful, she realized suddenly, and unfortunately for herself. For, she did not want to think of him as anything but a foul barbarian beast which he was, had to be. . . .

“What do you want?” she said loudly, putting all her self-control into a commanding voice.

He stood, his dark bottomless eyes trained steadily, intently upon her. He disregarded her question completely.

And then, because she knew men so well, Deileala recognized the nature of that steady unflinching look in his eyes. Something akin to an instant of triumph surged through her in that moment, for she knew she had that kind of effect on him.

And the next instant, came fear.

She had never been forced before. Not that way. She had insinuated herself upon men she had desired, had seduced, cajoled, maddened, soothed, teased them all. And she had used various personal threats to get a host of men into her bed—all with the exception of a handful, the most prominent being Elasand Vaeste.

The candle flame was suddenly snuffed out.

With it, came the dark, and a surge of real terror.

She cried out, not meaning to, because she still had her pride, the Regentrix of Tronaelend-Lis.

In the semi-dark, silhouetted against the dim metallic glow of the weak moon outside the window, there was movement in the room. She felt a strength, saw a form of perfect beautiful black obscure the window, then felt a great weight upon the bed.

She was taken in a grasp of power. She struggled, but it was like beating against a wall of the dark night mountain. His hands contained in them forces of ancient stone, and they reached to destroy the thin illusory fabric of her garment, to press her vulnerability like a soft mollusk within its delicate shell.

She was surrounded, wrapped in a cocoon of inevitability from all sides, and soon felt a vaguely warm male texture of skin, the stone planes of his body, the very richness of him. . . .

And then, because he was within all her senses, a heat began to rise in her, a familiar low dark base heat, as she slid against the surface of him, the oblique volcanic darkness.

Then, the ultimate violation. He was embedded within her, and she surged in terror, moving against her own volition, for she felt her heat yet rising unto eternity, swallowing her up despite herself, while the demon was atop of her and within her, and moving within her very mind.

She died then, sank away into a terrible death of pleasure and hatred and fury, convulsing eventually, as it all ended, and for once did not call dark self-despising names upon herself, for there was no longer herself, only himself. And he, this impossible demon lover of her secret dreams had come to make her feel helpless and out of control, and terrified, and small. . . .

She lay silent, much later, against his dark giant form, her skin beaded with dew, her eyes shut tight with the final inevitability and sadness of having known, at last, such terrible fulfillment. And then, gently, she felt an utmost soft pressure upon her lips, as he came to lean over her, and drink her mouth, and breathe the scent and shadows of her thick hair.

And like the side of a mountain, the very dark living earth, she felt and heard the steady beat in his chest, a beat of a demon heart against her traitor own.

“Feale,” said Elasand, “I will swear to obey you as my liege as soon as I have a written contract that will guarantee me the safety of all your prisoners, and will spell out in detail your plans for this City. Only then will I tell you the whereabouts of the one known as the Guildmaster of the Light Guild.”

Again came a low terrible laughter.

And then, “Enough,” said the dark one. “I am done playing with you. You think you can lie to me? Tell me now if you are the one I seek, if you are the Guildmaster. And if not you, who is he? Speak!”

The voice had grown from a whisper to a booming terror. Somehow echoes of it came to resound within Elasand’s mind. And with it, for the first time in his life, came a pang of uncertainty, and the beginning of fear.

The darkness of the room served to amplify the psychic feel of confusion. Truly, for an instant, Elasand blinked, and was not even sure whether he was looking at Feale or not, for the dark silhouette seemed to double in his eyesight, waver like an image beyond a layer of hot air.

He was feeling weak, impotent. Who was he anyway, but a single puny man before this terrible lord? The Twilight One was so much stronger than he, so much greater, all-encompassing. Even to gaze upon him hurt his feeble human eyes. Another instant, and his very sight was gone, and he stood blind, seeing only a blot of faint glimmer where supposedly was the window of this chamber, seeing no shadows even, no movement, nothing.

Only a hypnotic pair of eyes. They alone were steady, while the whole world around him spun like a slowing carousel. They were his anchors now, they would be his source of relief, they would center him and tie him to reality.

And then a memory came to him, like a drop of pure reason, a memory of other eyes, pale, intimate, fathomless windows upon another world of indescribable true violet.

And with that memory, he was steadied suddenly, could once again see clearly in the twilight of the room before him, could see the dark very real silhouette of his Enemy.

And Elasand knew what to do. He understood suddenly by what means the Enemy could wield power against him, and by what means he could withstand the attack that came insidiously within the mind.

He focused his memory of what he loved best, his memory of her, and with that raised his hand before him, palm upward, drawing upon a deep power and knowledge within himself. As he did thus, warmth gathered in his solar plexus—rich, exhilarating—and then spread through all his extremities, focusing upon his hand. It poured forward so that his fingers bloomed with fire, and then suddenly a bolt of pure violet ignited from his fingertips, and sat like a disembodied sun upon his palm.

The room was thrown into sudden lavender brilliance, and together with violent shadows upon the walls, the dark form of his Enemy started back for an instant. Within his smooth bare skull, the Enemy’s phosphoric pupilless eyes narrowed from the light. But then, just as suddenly, he put his own ebony hand forward, with beautiful chiseled fingers of a corpse, and upon his dark palm gathered a spherical hole of blackness, of absolute vacuum.

He then appeared to toss it forward like a feather, and the black sphere floated into the air and converged suddenly upon Elasand’s own palm.

A hiss, and violet beauty was extinguished. However, the sphere of darkness was gone also, for the two opposites apparently canceled each other out.

The room was back to normal night twilight, and Elasand heard Feale’s deep soft dead laughter.

“A pretty demonstration,” said the dark one. “Now, Vaeste, that we know a bit more about one another, I suggest you think well what you are about to do. I can destroy you and your puny Light Guild with one breath of my being. Instead, I simply ask you to reveal your knowledge to me without a struggle. I will come to it eventually. But if you try to fight me, you will only postpone the inevitable and destroy yourself and all that is yours.”

“What are you?” said Elasand. “What are you really, that calls itself Feale?”

But there was no answer from the dark form. Instead, the Twilight One slowly reached out to Elasand, and started to place his slender beautiful black hand upon his forehead.

In an instant flash of awareness, Elasand knew as surely as anything that if the hand touched him, he would not be able to fight any longer, and it would be his end.

And so, with a burst of adrenaline, he did the only thing he could under the circumstances.

He ran.

The two black guards did not know what hit them, as he spun around suddenly, slamming one of them hard in the abdomen, and knocking the other back with a wicked jab of the fist. Then in the span of a second, as one guard doubled over with pain and the other staggered backward, Elasand thrust himself past them, kicked out the door, and was out in the corridor.

This was mindless, ridiculous reflex. He knew it was such, but it was too late, and so he had to go on. And so he ran through the stillness of the corridor, his boots clattering against fine marble, hearing yells begin to build on all sides. Up ahead, there were approaching Qurthe soldiers. Up ahead, and behind him. . . .

He slammed forward, turned a corner, turned another. Lucky for him, no one had expected him to attempt this escape, not here, not in the very heart of the Palace, and this section was relatively unguarded.

Damn! His memory did not serve him well, where the hell was he? This place was like a maze, and he had never been through all the Palace, never knew all the ins and outs, all the secret turns of this structure like his demon half-brother knew it. Damn! For once, he wished Elasirr was here at his side.

He needed a sword. Another corridor, and he would face the black guards. A sword would at least give him a last fighting chance. For, he was a cornered beast, and he knew it.

Up ahead, a narrow passage loomed, without any visible outlets, illuminated with wall torches. On one side, the Palace inner wall, embellished with delicate mosaic and tapestries. On the other, an exquisite colonnade balcony, a place he could possibly use to climb outside, to jump—anything!

Up ahead, voices, running footsteps. The same from behind. They were coming from both directions, and he had nowhere to go but out on that narrow balcony, and to jump down, who knew how far down, very likely to his death—

A squeak in the wall, just behind him. Elasand whirled around just as a small door opened, a door that had not been there before. A hand grabbed his shoulder, pulling him around with unexpected force, throwing him off balance. As he sank backward, nearly tumbling into the secret dark recess of the wall, a familiar female voice hissed violently, “Shut up, and don’t even breathe, my lord!”

Ranhé pulled him tight into a small crevice-like space, with hardly any room to breathe, and closed the tiny door behind them unto utter dark. His temples were still beating madly, but he was smart enough not to make a sound, while a ridiculous joy surged forth in him. Somehow, impossibly, Ranhé was here, his loyal disobedient Ranhé!

There were shouts in the passage outside as Qurthe soldiers arrived. They spoke a strange barely understandable dialect of the Tongue; several harsh commands were given to search the corridor, for he couldn’t have gone far.

“Check the balcony!” someone said. And then another deeper voice of authority cried out for them to search the walls.

Elasand and Ranhé, breath held in their throats, heard with a sinking feeling how there were loud taps on the walls, only inches away, and tapestries that would possibly conceal a passage were being lifted and ripped off their hangers.

Luckily, the tiny cubicle in which they were concealed appeared seamless, and opened only from within.

Eventually, the sounds of searching moved farther away. Ranhé and Elasand remained quiet. Both knew that someone on the outside could very well be secretly waiting, to hear their lightest noise.

And then as their beating pulses stilled they felt a light draft coming from one of the walls. Elasand pressed inward, and silently the wall receded before him, and they were now within a pitch-black inner passage. So, these were those secret catacombs within the Palace, thought Elasand, the ones Elasirr was so familiar with!

Elasand felt in the dark for Ranhé’s hand, and fumbling slightly, they moved noiselessly into the corridor, feeling the floor with their feet, following the draft, the flow of damp air. The passage started to slope downward, and eventually the sounds of the Palace had grown remote enough for it to be safe to speak.

Elasand removed a flame-stone from a pocket and struck a small fire, which illuminated the passage before them, and nearby, a dead torch in a wall sconce. Lighting the torch, they proceeded again, deeper down.

“Why did you come for me?” said Elasand gruffly, pretending outer displeasure, while on the inside hope danced within him, and ridiculously, he wanted to reach forward and hug her.

“Don’t tell me you are displeased, my lord!” Ranhé grinned, her eyes reflecting the torchlight.

“How did you know?” he continued. “How did you know where to find me?”

“Believe it or not,” said Ranhé, “there I was, crawling along the outside of the Palace, hanging on for dear life and cursing you very loudly in my mind, yes indeed, cursing you for making me do this thing, my lord. When suddenly, what do I see, but a flash of very bright definite violet in one of the windows! Yes, the only instance of color light anywhere in the City! Who else could it be but you?”

“He can put out color light . . .” whispered Elasand suddenly, remembering, and with the memory came a surge of debilitating doubt. “Our Enemy is stronger that any one of us.”

“Well then, damn him,” said Ranhé fiercely. “We must do something about it!” And she continued to walk forward, undaunted. Seeing her confidence, Elasand could not help but continue forward also.

They had no idea where they were, where they were going. This was the system connected to the sewers, Ranhé knew, remembering Elasirr’s words. They must keep going, and eventually, somewhere, the passages would again lead to the surface.

At some point indeed, about an hour later, the ground began to incline upwards. They had come to a dead end, and with it, a door. The old lock was rusty, indicating that it had probably not been used in quite some time. Not a good sign. Who knows where we are?

Elasand applied force, and eventually the lock gave with a jolt. They opened the door upon fresh air, and monochrome night.

They were within an overhang of another balcony, while a section of paler darkness, the sky, glowed overhead to the right.

“Where in Rainbow’s name are we?” whispered Elasand, quickly putting out the torch, so that they were in natural darkness, and looking at the ebony shapes of buildings around them.

Ranhé said: “I think, sir, we’re southeast of Dirvan, in the Academic Quarter. That building with the angled roof is the Lyceum.”

“Quite correct, Ranhé. You do know this City well.”

The voice had come from some ways away, and a tall cloaked man stood before them, disengaging from the walls, from night itself.

“Elasirr!” exclaimed Lord Vaeste.

“It took you long enough,” said the Guildmaster, nearing them, so that Ranhé saw a pale serious face illuminated by the dim moon. He was not smiling.

“How did you know we would be here? How—” began Vaeste.

“I knew where the passage surfaces,” replied the cloaked man. “Since my men had been following you all day, they’ve notified me as soon as it was obvious you had escaped in the Palace. I have eyes everywhere, Elas, especially among the servants in the Palace. And I am particularly glad that your bodyguard had enough brains to follow you and to find the hidden door in the wall.”

“Actually,” said Ranhé, “I have no idea how I came upon it. I’d just climbed upon that same balcony from the outer ledge, and saw the little door ajar in the wall. Hearing voices, I hid there.”

“That door had been left open for you,” replied Elasirr. “For, my Palace eyes had also seen the flash of violet very nearby. Good work, Elas—though a little too dramatic.”

Ranhé’s brow arose, but she said nothing to that.

“Now then,” said Elasirr. “We must hurry. Come along with me, for obviously the two of you have nowhere to go now. Your Villa, Elasand-re, has been surrounded and thoroughly searched. It remains occupied.”

“Gods!” exclaimed Elasand. “What of the Beis Villa—”

“Your aunt the Dame Beis is safely within the Inner City,” replied Elasirr with a brief smile. “And I’ve spent the day talking convincingly with a number of other Guildmasters that are still at large. Aren’t you going to ask me how that went? But—let’s start moving, we can talk on the way.”

With that, he motioned for them to follow, and started out walking in the small pitch-black street, to cross a square to the building that Ranhé had recognized correctly to be the Lyceum.

No one was out and about at this time, especially in the Academic Quarter, where most business closed before sundown.

At the walls of the Lyceum structure, Elasirr disappeared around a corner, and when they followed, he stood before another secret open doorway. They dove inside, and were once again swallowed by pitch black. Elasirr shut the door tight behind them, and suddenly there was a bright flash, and a ball of blue fire appeared, floating steadily in midair, and effectively illuminating the dim corridor for many feet all around.

“Ah, what a relief to be able to do that freely when one needs light,” said Elasirr almost cheerfully, glancing sideways at Ranhé, while the ball of light floated ahead of them, illuminating their way. “You wouldn’t believe how much I’d wanted to do that when we were out there in the forest. But then, you didn’t know any of this. And neither did I know if you were to be trusted.”

“Oh,” said Ranhé, walking alongside the two of them. “And am I to be trusted now, Lord Guildmaster?”

He only glanced at her in answer, then continued walking ahead through the catacombs. At his side, Elasand strode with a deathly tired expression. He was truly on his last reserves.

Aware of Vaeste’s condition, Elasirr attempted to lighten the mood a little. “To your left,” he said casually, as they rounded a corner, “behind this very wall, is the City Treasury. Yes, that mysterious elusive place where all the valuables of this government are effectively stored.”

“Ah, at this point I’d rather it were a bathroom,” said Ranhé through her teeth. “I’d give all treasures for that. I’m dying, my lords.”

At which Elasirr chuckled, and the echoes took up his deep voice and carried it far in the darkness ahead.

In the Inner City, which they had once again reached through the underground, they were taken to some living quarters and given a good meal.

“Go to sleep, Elas!” Elasirr said to the Lord Vaeste, and for once the other did not argue, took to bed, and was asleep within minutes.

It turned out that the large chamber was Elasirr’s own personal sleeping quarters, and Elasand now occupied his own bed.

“And you, freewoman,” said Elasirr. “I would let you rest also, but first there are some people you must meet.”

“Must I?” said Ranhé. “And do you yourself ever sleep, my lord—Elasirr?”

He looked at her closely, than seeing that she was only half-jesting, he told her to follow him into a room next door.

It was a smaller chamber, but it also was comfortably furnished and contained a bed and several couches.

“Here,” said he, pointing to the bed. “You sleep here. And I will rest also, so that all meetings will be postponed till the new day. Tomorrow you’ll meet them, the Masters who work with color light and who will work with you.”

“We have taken up all your beds . . .” she said, somewhat embarrassed. “Where will you sleep?”

“This couch is as good as any,” replied Elasirr. “I will move it into the other room, if my being here makes you uncomfortable—freewoman.”

There was a pale green orb lit in the corner. Bathed in its vivid light, Ranhé stared back at him undaunted, saying, “Look, you don’t bother me. Haven’t we shared enough nights in the forest, lord?”

“Ah, but this is not the forest,” he replied, while a sudden deviously charming smile illuminated his face, a different kind of smile, quite unlike his usual. His sun-hair, clean and brushed back, streamed radiant about his shoulders. And for a moment, just for a moment, she did feel a surge of something uncomfortable, an odd sense pass through her.

“All right,” said Ranhé. “Just tell me where the bathroom is.”

When she had come back from the lavatory, he had lain down already, on the couch farthest to the wall, on his back, hands tucked under his head, and the green monochrome was burning low, just enough to illuminate her way.

Except for her boots, Ranhé did not bother undressing, and lay down on the bed stiffly, turning her back to him, and drawing a light blanket about herself.

A minute of silence, while she tried to calm her somehow loudly beating temples, and to slow her breathing.

And then, “Good night, Ranhé,” came his soft voice, while at the same time the green orb was extinguished into utter darkness.

“Good night,” she replied.

And then, in the velvet soft darkness, she remained as damnedly awake as she could be. From afar, she could hear remote living sounds of the Guild at work. She could hear her own temples pound softly. The creaking of the bed. The rustling of her pillow. All, microscopic unreal irrelevant sounds.

From across the room, she could hear his steady even breathing.

She lay, still as death, forcing this stillness upon herself, afraid to turn, to stretch, to make the least sound. At some point her thigh itched, but she was afraid to move and scratch the place. She heard his own couch creak several times as he moved. And once there was a sigh, a yawn, as he breathed deeply, tiredly.

Then, as the minutes passed, the night deepened, and she remained obsessed with her own breathing, his breathing, she noticed a difference in him. The sound of his breath had slowed, grown light and regular, and she knew that he slept at last.

For some reason that awareness also served to relax her, to ease her tensed muscles, so that she too could start breathing lightly, and eventually let go, no longer concerned that he would hear her.

She lay, her eyelids pressed shut lightly, and soon, as soothing groggy warmth began to gather, she thought she saw pricklings of tiny dots of pure sweet yellow, while the insides of her eyelids were illuminated with a familiar soothing sky.

Images tumbled then, in succession, and she knew she was dreaming then, for she thought she lay beneath a great open dandelion sky, she was the very grass growing in a golden field. There was a moon glowing bright overhead, and then—no, it was the middle of day, or rather, a bright dawn, and the sun floated high overhead, a yellow sun with two intimate eyes.

The man-in-the-sun turned to look down upon her with an exuberant smile, while his hair streamed forth to inflame the whole sky with burning tongues of fire.

And then, glorious, he began to fall, sweeping down upon her like a bird whose wings spanned the universe. And as the god fell, the sky rushed down with him, thousands of pulses of yellow brightness.

Dersenne! she cried, drawing her arms open wide to receive him, and then, as mad joy came to overflow in her, to hold him tight with her own strong arms, to hold the fire, the very sun in her embrace, to look upon his face only inches away from her own.

The world turned upside down, and it was he, the god, that now lay upon the golden grass, gazing enraptured up at her, while she leaned over him, her hair loosened from its braid falling down in darker richness to mingle with his scalding honey fire, his river of yellow hair, her face pressing down upon his sweet cheek, touching his lips, then drawing her lips down lower to caress his strong pale warm throat with its rising pulse-beat. Her fingers danced upon his living flesh, and rose higher again to sweep his face, to touch the strong darkness of his brows, so perfectly straight, the somehow imperfect line of his slightly upturned nose, the soft fine lips, while he moaned—

The dream rushed away from her, as Ranhé found herself awake, and overwhelmingly within her own body, in a dark room. But somehow, unbelievably, there was something different, wrong.

There was another body beneath her, strong, male, warm. For, she was no longer in her own bed but had somehow sleepwalked across the room, and was lying on top of him, embracing the man with the sun-hair—not Dersenne, but the other one, the one who she’d never thought she’d touch again, the one who’d called her “ugly” and who’d deceived her once with his erotene touch—

Horror, embarrassment filled her, but somehow, she was beyond that. She was burning, could not stop, was already too far gone from the sensuous madness of the dream. And so she pinned him down madly, no longer caring, digging her strong hands into his long silken locks of sun-hair—

Elasirr awoke sharply from a touch in the darkness. Disoriented from a muddle of dream, he did not know, at first, and then, remembering, recognized her outline in the dark with his night-sensitive eyes.

“Ranhé?” he whispered sleepily, beginning to sit up. “Is something wrong?”

But she did not answer.

Instead, there was something strange about her dim outline, a slowness with which she moved, with which she suddenly leaned down over him, so that for a moment he felt a twinge of worry, and tried to remember where he had left his sword. . . .

“Ranhé . . .” he whispered again. “What’s wrong? What are you doing—”

But then, like a shock, a bolt of electricity, he felt her soft strong hands against his shoulder and cheek, and then, felt the ultimate surprise of a warm moist touch of lips upon his throat, as she had leaned forward, and then lay over him, pressing her warm body against his.

Something happened to him then, at that touch. Weakened by sleep, by the night, by the very surprise of her, he felt himself swooning back against the pillow, simultaneously pierced with a pang of hot awareness, as his own body suddenly refused to obey him, and he melted downward, while a burning instant fierceness surged in his loins.

Breath escaped his lips in a helpless moan, and he threw his head back then, rising up uncontrollably toward her touch, her lips like a sweet vampire’s upon his neck. And then her fingers were in his hair, pulling him to her, and his own hands came alive, wildly, as he grabbed hold of her with a grip like a vise, a sudden unexpected sweet prey fallen into his very own grasp.

“Dersenne . . .” she whispered lightly then, and he realized with a stab of unbelieving regret that she was actually asleep, that it was not him she thought she was embracing. . . .

But it no longer mattered.

He was aflame, and he held her now, of her own free will, as she had come to him. He held her feverishly and caressed her, fingers pulling at her braid, undoing it fiercely at last—ah, he had always wanted to feel her hair loose—and was working her jacket off her body, then her shirt, and then that ridiculous wrap that she used to bind her breasts whose fullness he now crushed. . . .

All the meanwhile, she gasped suddenly, fingers still digging into his long hair, and went still.

Apparently, she had wakened.

But obviously, it did not matter either. Because suddenly, furiously, she was again upon him, her lips coming down on his own, while with shuddering breath he crushed her body to him, primal in the night, and his own clothes were being torn off, and he was wallowing against her soft hot skin, no longer considering the situation, no longer capable of thought, no longer aware of anything but this sweet mad struggling fierce woman in his arms.

CHAPTER 17

Sharp icy nascent dawn. Glow, like milk and ashes, seeped in from a tiny window.

Elasirr awoke with a shudder, feeling the chill crawl along his bare skin, the side of him, along his strong curve of spine. Lying face forward, entangled in his own soft long strands of flax hair, face and lips puffy with sleep, with something else—

The memory slammed upon him, and he was awake like a wild animal, sharp, acute, aware with every cell of his being.

His right hand reached to the side, searching for—

Not there.

She was not there.

He remembered a tumult of dark lush sensual patterns in the night. Something intimate in the absolute dark. He remembered moving against a strong female body, holding her wild, almost hysterical at one point, as she simultaneously held him and struggled against him, and he was never quite sure how it had come to pass that they were together thus, flesh on flesh. Except at one point she cried out, and it was an alien sound, and it was a sound he had not understood then, being out of control, moving, and only now did he know what it had been—

The sound of fear.

And now, he remembered it, the vague incomprehensible moment of her fear, her sudden stillness as she went limp, while he, the madman, continued doing what he was doing, moving how he pleased, moving within her, fiercely, beyond control, until the eventual resolution of his lust. . . .

Gods forgive him then, for what he had done.

She had been virgin. He should have remembered that, just for a moment, just enough to know what he had done to her.

For in that last moment she had shown fear, and he did not heed her, did not take responsibility for what he could.

And now, in the cold anemic dawn, it had not been the cold that had woken him. It had been, instead, the cold awareness that had come to him even then through his dreams, a sound of pitiful muffled weeping.

He could hear it now, the soft hopeless sounds, the sobs held back, deeply muffled, coming from the bathroom next door.

He sat up, his innards filled with a load of ice. He did not move, but sat, naked, on the couch where he had lain. Where he had lain within her.

Moments passed.

And then, steeling the chill in his soul, his face like a wall, he made himself get up, still naked, and move across the room silently.

He softly moved the door to the bathroom ajar.

She was in the corner, crouching naked on the pale tile floor, with her legs tightly drawn together, and up to her chin, her arms wrapped around her ankles. Her long hair was down all about her in a tousled stringy curtain of pathos.

Her head was leaned somewhat back—softly, impotently, against the cool wall with her cheek. But when he came in, she stiffened, her breath drawn in with a shudder, and she crouched forward, upon herself, and went absolutely silent and still.

Her face, tear-smudged. Her eyes—the true innocent eyes that he had thought so acutely beautiful—they stared at him, opaque emotionless glass. . . .

For an instant he could not say anything, only looked at her, his own pupils dilated.

And then he whispered, “Ranhé. . . .”

His heart pounded. Only, it was like it came from within someone else’s body.

She looked up at him, all stillness.

Breathe, Ranhé! Curse you, breathe, breathe! he wanted to yell out at her, to shake her, and make her breathe. And then maybe, if she screamed at him, tore at him with her hands, he would take her to him, hold her like a second skin, fuse her tight with his angry warmth, let her sink within his ocean. . . .

But she said nothing.

And the chill gathered within him, because of her silence, so that he, too, went still, was frozen with self-directed horror, was made into the very walls of the building, heartless, cold, remote. . . .

And then, she began to laugh.

Ranhé shook with a fever as an impossible sobbing laughter came to her, as she saw him thus standing over her, the man with the sun-hair.

He was motionless, with nothing at all in his pale eyes. No sympathy, no warmth. And his voice, when he had said her name softly, was low, empty, devoid of anything, resounding like a piece of wood.

A dead man filled with silence, like the walls.

Not even a grain of human pity now, as he observed her, after what had come to pass between them.

She had thought, for some wild moments in the night, that he had actually wanted her, was glad of her presence, accepting all of her to the last. But it must have been her own wishful happy madness, a wild hope that had filled her like the airy expanse of yellow radiance, that had overtaken her reason, made her believe beyond all belief in things impossible, under a great streaming golden sky.

And now she sat thus, sprawled on the floor, having awoken to truth, having cried out all she had to cry with, and now was only laughing at herself.

She laughed at what she had become.

One of the human race. A woman, like any other. No longer the self-inflicted pariah of intimate contact. Indeed, how mundane and terrifying. And what had changed within her, this new Ranhéas Ylir, besides the one inner piercing of a unique, human, female core?

Nothing. Nothing had changed truly. And yet, there was that intangible loss of distance—that, more so than any hymeneal shield—which will now be with her always, and would be yet another memory from which she continued to spring and progress as a being, a soul, an ember, and burn on into her own eternity.

Stupid philosophical maudlin Ranhé. Nothing you’ll say or think will change one thing. And that is the self-hatred.

But there was still one bit of pride left.

And so, she grew quiet again, taking in great impossible stilling breaths, and then whispered hoarsely, “What are you looking at? Have you come to look at the ugly stupid bitch Ranhéas Ylir who has made a mess of your bathroom, who’d come to maul your beautiful male body in the night? Ugly stupid crazy bitch. . . .”

And again she laughed, unable to stop, throwing her head back, gurgling, beginning to shake once more.

And yet, he stood silent, just looking at her.

After some time, gasping, she controlled her hysterical laughter, rubbed the still bandaged fingers of her right hand against the mess of her face, and then said softly, firmly, this time under absolute control, “I’m sorry, my lord. Must you always be the one to see me cry? Will you ever forgive me?”

And then he spoke. His voice was still undetermined, wooden, but not his meaning. “I am the one who must ask forgiveness. I am the one,” he said, “I am the one who deserves now to die.”

And with that, he turned away from her, while the shock of his unexpected words cut through her, and he shut the bathroom door behind him softly.

Ranhé was once again left alone in the milky predawn dark.

She had turned on the shower, and let the cool shocking stream run over her, washing off the last of the sweat, his sweat, his warmth, their mingled flesh. As the shower water became warmer, more soothing, she washed her body, and that part of her, down below, still hurting, where her own blood had leaked, having come out after he had been inside her and left a part of himself. For, something had been broken then, and she knew very well what it was. . . .

She did not blame him for that, not at all. After all, she had come to him herself, she had wanted this to happen all along, wanted him.

Yes, she had wanted him.

Secretly, despite herself. Ever since he’d held her once, and she had seen his sleek male hateful beauty in that soft erotene chamber with a pool, bathed in sweet mauve glow. That same mauve light that only he could make.

And it all did not matter now. It was over. She had been taken, like a woman, like she originally wanted to be. Taken beyond her wildest hope, by a golden god and a blond man.

For one moment, she had let herself think she had been fulfilled.

And she must only thank him, this perfect, unreachable lord, that he’d deigned to touch her, to condescend to her body thus—her base sad excuse for womanhood.

Ranhé dried herself, pulled a plain towel over her, and came out, stilling her face, ready for anything.

The room was empty.

He had gone somewhere, for she saw his boots were missing, and some of his clothes. Her own clothes had been damaged partially, especially the blouse. She took up her clothing, strewn across his own sleeping couch, and quickly put on what she could, once again binding her breasts. Her blouse had been torn somewhat, but she could fix it later, and the rip on her jacket’s seam hardly mattered at this point.

She remembered suddenly—Elasand! How was it possible that she could forget? How could she, even for a moment, when he had been in her thoughts always, like a warm intimate blanket, like a part of herself?

And even more impossible—how much had he heard, if anything, in the night? Softly, she tiptoed around the corner and looked in to the main inner sleeping chamber, and with a pang saw him, her Lord Vaeste, stretched out senselessly upon the bed, still deeply asleep.

She paused then. She stood and watched his earnest soft sleeping expression in the half-light.

So. He’d heard nothing. Good, she thought. Then let this remain a sorry secret between me and the other, the one who rules this Guild.

Some time later, a soft knock sounded on the door. With a blank expression, Ranhé came to open it, expecting Elasirr, but it was the man called Marihke, dark-bearded and serious.

“My Lord Guildmaster is unavailable now, but he bade me to tell you to come to have something to eat, and then, I will take you to a place of work, and show you what is necessary.”

“I will come. Lord Vaeste still sleeps, but I will come.” she replied coldly, as though nothing had happened, and followed the man into the passage.

There was a chamber, like a hollowed out spiral shell of a sea creature, with a ceiling that was soft, matte, formed of plaster and nonreflective concave material.

Within were gathered several people, and Marihke had told her she was meeting the Masters of the Light Guild, those who had the strongest ability to work color light.

Surprisingly, she recognized most of them. These were mostly of the Noble Ten, and she had seen their faces briefly in the crowd of the Temple of Eroh, during the Wedding of Beis and Daqua.

She remembered having seen there a slim upright young woman with hair like flax, who was introduced to her as Tegra, and who was in fact one of the Daqua.

“Tegra, as appropriate to her Family’s color, works with orange,” said Marihke, as the woman nodded and smiled lightly at Ranhé. “So does this man, Gilimas Prada. He, by the way, is one of the richest merchants in this City, and has invested considerably in the workings of the Guild. Gilimas finances our materials and our labor. Indeed, our clothes, this room, have been paid for from a Prada coffer.” Marihke was pointing to a stocky middle aged man, who also nodded to her in greeting.

“You fail to mention that I do this for my own selfish reason,” said Gilimas. “I will gladly give all I have to understand the mysteries of color.”

Another surprise—Ranhé recognized the one called the Phoenix, the strange multisexual being called Carliserall Lirr, related scandalously to the Chancellor Lirr himself.

Today, Carliserall was a man. Dressed in a lean jacket and trousers, with pale brilliant hair groomed to a shine rivaling that of Elasirr’s own, Carliserall approached her with a charming smile on a face of impossible beauty.

“Welcome to our inner sanctum of light, and all such other nonsense,” said the Phoenix in a rich low alto. “Welcome, you who dress like a man yet are a woman. We are somewhat alike, I see.”

Ranhé was stricken by those words. For a moment she could say nothing, only helplessly met the gaze of ambiguity, of two wise eyes—male and female, flippant and serious at the same time.

Ranhé’s world was blurring, and this deceptive quiet was but the eye of the storm, and she was within it, at precisely this odd unexpected instant.

Because observing Carliserall was like looking at herself from the outside—and yet not quite. For while Carliserall epitomized the ultimate ambiguity, Ranhé was a masculine woman, and there was only the anguish of being that, never any true doubt. The realization came to Ranhé, the blunt simple truth.

Carliserall saw her state, and gifted her with a look of true sympathy, as none other ever could. “Accept it. Be yourself,” the Phoenix said then softly.

And the blurring world came to a soft standstill.

Ranhé regained her ability of speech.

“I am sorry your uncle the Chancellor is held by the Qurthe,” she said, looking up somewhat at Carliserall’s lean sensuous height, while the simple words echoed in her mind.

Be yourself. . . .

“Ah, don’t be sorry, even for a moment,” said Carliserall, looking at her with intense caressing eyes. “We will have him back, you’ll see. Despite the fact that Feale had it announced just now throughout the City, that all prisoners will die by nightfall, unless the Guildmaster of the Light Guild turns himself in.” Carliserall’s perfect left brow rose. “Not a chance of that, eh?” And then, another overwhelming smile.

Be yourself. . . .

Ranhé could not help but be charmed by the confidence the Phoenix exuded.

“By the way,” said Carliserall, “I work with violet and blue.”

“I also create blue,” said another man in a strong calm voice, and Ranhé saw the priest who had performed the marriage Ceremony, Preinad Olvan: a man with ascetic eyes.

And then Marihke introduced two of the Khirmoel, who also worked with green, which coincided with their Family’s color. One, a young woman of a somewhat sad countenance, well dressed and with coiled braids of hair, was introduced as Erin. Next to her stood her uncle, a man of impressive height and bearing, holding a carved walking stick, and moving with a pronounced limp. He was Baelinte Khirmoel, and Ranhé recalled his taunting silly comments during the Wedding of Beis and Daqua. So this was the mad poet, and she remembered now that she had heard of him, for he was known in the City as a wickedly eloquent master of words. Though, there had been nothing eloquent about his outburst at the Wedding, rather a childish desire to incite hostility. It was a wonder that he was now in the same room with Tegra Daqua. Ranhé noticed that neither of the two acknowledged the other’s presence.

“Join us, my dear,” Baelinte said to Ranhé and smiled, and it was like the sun suddenly entering the chamber, filling it with summer. “Come, and we will see what we can make of you. It depends of course on what you can make of us.” And he gave her a conspirational wink.

Finally, a petite, pretty young woman approached, with a shy smile. There was something remotely familiar about her, and then Ranhé realized what it was—a resemblance to Elasand. For this one was a cousin, Cyanolis Vaeste.

“Cyanolis has a talent for most colors, as do the Vaeste,” said Marihke. “She can create all but red and yellow. I myself work with red. I am Marihke Sar, by the way,” he added, smiling wryly, “known outside this Guild as a Bilhaar murderer. Oh, and finally, this man, like yourself, can create yellow. He also does orange and red.”

Ranhé turned and saw a tall familiar gawky man whom she recognized immediately from the White Roads Inn. “You!” she said, unable to hold back a grin.

“Good to see you again, Ranhéas Ylir!” replied Nilmet Vallen, known as the Philosopher. He approached, and took her hand in a warm greeting.

“Acquaintances?” inquired Marihke, raising his brows. “Well met indeed, then.”

And then, Marihke raised his hand up for attention. “Masters!” he said. “We have before us another untrained talent. She has proved that she is capable of calling forth yellow. We must see what else, if anything, she might be able to do. And then, we must make her ready to use her talent as one of the Guild.”

And then they all formed a circle around her, while smiling Nilmet stepped forward, and again taking Ranhé’s hand, looked into her eyes.

“Now then,” he said, “First, you must remember and think of nothing but yellow light. . . .”

An hour later, Ranhé was capable of forming a bright sphere of yellow radiance, easily, and on cue. She was able to make the sphere float in the air before her, to move where she willed it to go, to shrink and to expand in diameter. She was able to take an empty glass orb, and put the light within it, make it reside within the boundaries of thin glass—a mere guideline, not a physical necessity, she realized now.

It was not too difficult to do, this gathering of light. All she had to do was remember one image, like a focal anchor within her mind. And she thought, each time, lightly, of the topaz field beneath a radiant golden sky.

Soon, Nilmet stepped away from her, satisfied, while the rest of the Masters had been looking on. “Now,” said Nilmet, “we would test you further, Ranhé. You learned control of this so quickly that I wonder if there’s an even greater ability within you—that of a Master. All of us here are Masters because of the intensity of our talent, or because of our ability to work with more than one color.”

“I doubt I can do any more,” she began, while her thoughts uncontrollably wandered, and a dull ache tightened behind her eyes, to remind her who she was now, and that nothing had changed.

“You can try,” said Marihke. All of a sudden, there was a sphere of red floating in the air before her, at eye level. He nodded to it, then said, “Look and remember. Now, try to re-create it.”

Ranhé blinked, and the light was gone from the room, which was again bathed in monochrome twilight. She tried to remember the image, but all that came to her was the Red River of the Red Quarter, the street of pure crimson light populated with the City’s nightlife.

A single orb stood out in her mind, across the street from the Rose Teahouse, glowing with joy before the steep colonnade of steps of the House of Erotene. That House—it had seemed a Temple when she had ascended it once, where she had first seen the god with the sun-hair.

Self-hatred surged within her, and then an anger that she thought of him, even for an instant.

The anger burst through her, ran in a passion of feeling through her extremities, and with it, a fireball ignited, three feet in diameter, of a brilliant scalding scarlet.

The Masters had to take a step back. Marihke quickly stretched his hand out, and the fireball came to him, and then, still moving, began to shrink within the recesses of his palm.

It hissed, and not a spark remained.

“Very impressive,” said Marihke. “I suspected you were Master level.” He turned then to the group. “Anyone else?”

Tegra stepped forward, nodding to Ranhé, and raised her two palms together before her, in a gesture similar to that of gathering a scoop of water.

Within Tegra’s palms suddenly came an orange glow. And then, pure light seemed to flow, like true water, through her fingers, down her arms and elbows, and sprinkled in droplets upon the matte floor of the chamber, pooling into a puddle of glorious persimmon brilliance at her feet. Still holding her hands out, Tegra said, “Light does not have to be spherical. Behold! You can form it into any shape you like.” Her smile was feather-light, reserved, and then the light was gone from the room.

Ranhé’s brows rose. She pulled her wandering thoughts back from the distant plane of alienation, and forced herself to think of the brightness. Truly, it still stood within her eyelids, an afterimage, and she recalled vaguely, in another life, the warmth of a roadside inn, as she put her hands forward.

The glow began in her palm. Its heat was overwhelming, it tickled her fingers, and soon, if she didn’t let go, it would scald her, and so she must throw it forth, away from her—

And so she tossed the contents of her palms. And suddenly, like a fountainhead, it burst forth, a shower of tiny droplets of orange, microscopic fireworks, rising high overhead, and sprinkling all throughout the room in a cascade of light.

Their voices arose then, for the fireworks burned above their heads, and the sight made many draw in their breath.

“Now, try this!” said a loud expressive baritone, as Baelinte Khirmoel moved in from the circle, simultaneously throwing a narrow contesting glance at Tegra Daqua.

He closed his eyes, and did not lift a finger, but suddenly, the cascading shower of orange sparks began to change in midair, flowing into another hue, that of brilliant green. What he did was change the very color of the already existing light.

Ranhé took up his challenge wordlessly. She concentrated, her memory of orange still overpowering, and forced the particles of green light to fluctuate back to orange, just as they still floated down softly, before they even touched the ground.

“Very good,” said Tegra to Ranhé, meanwhile giving Baelinte a narrow look of her own, like a satiated cat.

And then Ranhé, filled with the vibrant energy still within her—together with that distant ache—felt something strange happening. It seemed, for the span of seconds, that the heat level of her entire body was rising, was stifling her. She stood, suddenly gasping for breath, at a loss of what to do, how to relieve this tingling fiery pressure inside, a gathering of explosive forces.

Noticing her difficulty, Marihke again stepped forth, frowning with concern, and said gently, “Ranhé? Can you hear me? Is there a great buildup within you now that you cannot seem to alleviate? If so, then listen quickly: you must force the energy outside of you immediately, force the flow out somehow. Do it quickly, for it is dangerous to you, do it any way you can! Release the energy via light! Now!”

And Ranhé obeyed him, simultaneously feeling herself burn, go up in flames, at the same time seeing on the periphery of her vision Lord Vaeste come inside the room. He entered and stopped, and was looking at her. And then, like a flood, she released the great volcanic eruption of gathered energy outside herself.

She stood, a human torch of light, framed by an aura of rapidly mutating colors—all six of them, pulsing through the whole range of the forgotten spectrum.

“Are you sure there is no Vaeste blood within you somewhere?” said Elasand, walking toward her through the Circle, just as the last of her fury of flames had been extinguished. His gaze was incredulous, and he looked at her with an intense searching clarity. His face was serious, drawn somewhat, but he appeared better rested today.

“Not a drop, my lord.” She smiled somewhat shyly, feeling completely drained. “I come of common stock, quite unlike you.”

“Then it is truly incredible,” he continued. “Does Elasirr know yet what you can do with light?”

“I think not—yet.”

At that point, a young guildsman, Ukrt, came into the chamber, and heads turned to look at the strange expression of his face. “Master Marihke!” he spoke in a stumbling manner. “And the rest of you! Pardon me, but you must go look outside.”

“What is it?” responded Marihke.

But Ukrt’s eyes were terrified. “Look outside, Masters!” he was saying. “Come now, quickly, look outside at the sky!”

“Indeed!” said Elasand, coming out of his distracted state. “This is the reason I’ve come here in the first place. There is something unusual happening outside! Come, all of you!”

He began walking to the door. Ranhé threw one look back at Marihke, then followed, while the others did also.

They came out of the spiral chamber into a passageway with soft matte walls, typical of most inner decor of the Guild. The corridor led to an outside entrance within the grounds of the Inner City.

Elasand opened the door, and stepped outside.

He stepped into twilight.

The same predawn faint glimmer on the horizon. The buildings were steeped in evening shadows, and the sky—an ashen obscure void.

There was no cloud mass obscuring the sun. No unusual mist. But the air itself was thick somehow, thick with gathered dusk.

“What time is it?” someone asked.

“An hour before noon,” replied Elasand softly, staring up into the strange terrifying sky.

“Where is the sun?” someone else exclaimed. “I cannot see the sun! Why, it still looks like dawn, like it did when I left my bed this morning.”

Ranhé turned her face up, as a cool wind gathered, and then she spied it, the sickly disk near zenith. “There . . .” she whispered. “There is your sun! It is strangely obscured, dull.”

“It is the Enemy’s work.”

The voice came from behind, and she turned slowly, seeing him.

Elasirr stood behind them all, having appeared once again with utmost silence. His face was impassive, and he barely acknowledged her with a narrow glance of empty eyes. Turning to Elasand, he said, “The attack has begun. It has been spoken everywhere, all across the City, and those who work for me have verified it. Feale has promised to eliminate the Regents and all other prisoners, before the day is over, unless I, the Guildmaster, come to him. Only, as you can see, the day is over before it even started.”

“Which means,” finished Elasand, “that we have no time at all to act.”

“Wrong.” Elasirr looked at the people watching him with great concern, at the sky that was like a soup bowl of darkness, at the sun disk that resembled now, more than anything, an extinguished phantom orb of glass.

“We must get to work now,” he said. “This is but the first strike. At last, the war is come upon us.”

And they stood, silent, hearing him speak thus, in a City that was now truly Twilight.

In the hollow spiral chamber of light, they stood, the Nine Masters of the Guild, forming a clean circle along the circular perimeter. In the middle stood the Guildmaster, the Lord Vaeste, and the woman mercenary who was now one of them.

“You will accompany us as we do this thing, Ranhé,” Elasand had told her then. “We need your ability to reinforce us as we attempt this, for inexplicably you seem to be able to draw upon color light as easily as my family Vaeste.”

“What must I do, my lord?” she whispered, echoes of her voice fading softly in the silent chamber.

“You must be able to join into a link that we are about to form, help maintain that circumference of light, and then, you will follow us within . . .” said Elasirr, looking at her with shadowed empty eyes.

“Within? Where?” she echoed, looking back also, vacantly and past him, like a well of inner night.

“You have already been there with me once,” said Lord Vaeste. “It is an otherplace that I myself had gone to often, not of this world but another. A place you saw through a filter of violet. This time though, we go farther than before, and we go by means of our own will and control.”

And then Elasand turned away, and nodded toward his half-brother.

Noting his silence, Elasirr motioned to the Circle behind them, and suddenly, there was light.

Each man and woman stood with hands lightly spread away from the body, palms upward, and from the fingers of each came an undifferentiated radiance. It flowed outward to fill all space between them with a fog of brightness.

They had linked in a specific order, noted Ranhé. Marihke stood with his back directly south, and onto both sides of him poured forth red. On his right stood Gilimas, and he was a source of orange. The colors, where their outer perimeters of presence touched, strangely, did not blend, but continuously blurred through each other, in an attempt to supersede, to overlap, like water and oil.

To the right of Gilimas stood Nilmet, and he poured forth a strong brilliant yellow. Next, counterclockwise, Baelinte blazed in a deep aura of green, then came Carliserall the Phoenix in simmering blue, and Cyanolis, choosing, of all the colors, to form violet.

Elasand looked at his cousin for a moment, then stepped forward within the perimeter of the circle. He stood with his back to the north chamber wall, and suddenly he too was violet, intensifying the radiance that came from Cyanolis.

On the right of Elasand was the priest, Preinad Olvan, drawn in a corona of blue, then Erin, weaving a soft homogeny of green.

Elasirr looked at Ranhé. “Go on. Fill this place with the color you—like so well.”

She did not need to be told twice. Stepping to Erin’s side, and before Tegra who formed orange, she trained her gaze across the circle, on the opposite side where Nilmet stood in topaz glow. And then, from within her, it resounded, and she was a sympathetic torch of yellow.

It felt odd, standing within the Circle. A permanent warmth gathered, building within her, and she hardly noticed how the Guildmaster himself, being the last one remaining outside their circumference, moved in on the other side of Tegra Daqua, next to Marihke Sar, to complete the Circle at last. And suddenly he too blazed forth, in intense crimson.

He and Marihke were the red poles, while Elasand and Cyanolis completed the violet poles of gathered brightness. It grew, rose about them, and suddenly, it seemed to Ranhé, they all stood under the roof of a brilliant waterfall of light.

And this light, it was strange, furious, unable to coexist with itself, and it danced—formed of distinct photons of separate colors—none merging, all swirling like a blizzard of antagonistic heterogeneous particles that refused to blend.

For, the truth lay therein, Ranhé suddenly realized. It was the blending that would change the nature of light, the inherent flow of one into another, a universal bond.

Indeed, she herself was like those light particles—poor sorrowful lonely dust motes that would never come together with each other in a fusion that was the final goal.

Yet, it was, possibly, her very own choice.

Elasirr’s voice broke into her dizzying color-filled thoughts.

“Werail!” he cried, himself a red burning demon with sun-hair. “We call upon you and all the others, O Tilirreh! Allow us to enter your place of silence!”

And there was suddenly a great pull upon her personal warmth, the energy that wielded the light, a scalding jerk, as though the ground itself was being pulled from under her feet.

Elasirr’s touch. She could almost feel its intimacy, though he stood at least ten paces away.

For he had taken over her light, and was now transforming the colors of the whole Circle.

The Circle, blazed into a single blinding band of red.

And then Ranhé felt herself losing consciousness, for it was being sucked into a vortex of brilliance, and she was drowning, falling, falling. . . .

Werail stood on a barren red plain. The world was red. From above, blazed a brilliant terrible red sun.

They stood on the plain before him, and cast dark shadows, like burning coal.

There were three of them. Of all the Circle, only they could wield all of the colors. Thus, they had the freedom to move between worlds.

“Lord!” spoke the shadowmaker that was Elasirr. “You once showed me the Enemy, and thus I was prepared. Come back with us to the world, Werail! Your presence will dispel the darkness that gathers all around us now.”

I have told you this once already. I may not . . . replied the red one, in a voice that resounded more hollow than his whole barren world.

It is beyond me. The Rainbow is incomplete.

And then, in a maelstrom of red fury, the world began to dissolve before them, and again, Ranhé felt a swooning, as she jumped. . . .

Into a place with an orange sky.

Melixevven of orange joy was a woman with laughing lips and untamed hair, like a head of dandelion.

The pixie soared before them in the brightness of that sky, and they too floated, disembodied—or rather, unanchored to land.

For, there was no land, no earth in this world.

Only sky.

Come! cried Melixevven in a voice like carbonated water, acute, stinging, and clear as glass. And they flew with her, hurtling through the boundless void of mandarin sky, like flying fish. Or maybe, it was but the air that rushed against them, and they were stationary, in this world without a physical frame of reference.

“Where do you take us, Tilirreh?” cried Elasand, and disembodied Ranhé thought she heard from him a note of despair.

Come, fly with me! cried the goddess, as she sped ahead of them, her extremities flaming with a comet tail of sparks in the supernatural wind. Her bubbling voice again echoed, her laughter bounced in the crystalline void, and she flew onward, unto eternity. . . .

“Stop!” cried Elasirr. “Come back with us to the true world, O Tilirreh!”

At which the orange one laughed, throwing her head back, saying, Oh, but don’t you know this is the one true world? It is but yours that is a pale specter, that is the dying place of dwindling truth?

“Then come back with us, lady,” whispered Ranhé, “and restore the truth as it once was.”

And the bright one heard her whisper.

If I were to come alone, it would kill me, you know, responded the laughing voice, and Ranhé was not sure why she still laughed.

I may come only after Werail, but before Dersenne, Melixevven whispered back directly into Ranhé’s heart. But they would not have me. Without the Rainbow, we cannot touch. Only you can touch us.

And again she laughed, spinning through a universe of pumpkin gold, radiant, sunless, and yet brightness itself.

And with her spinning, they were flung also, outward, into a funnel of indescribable centrifugal energy. . . .

Yellow exuberance.

Ranhé’s heart surged within her suddenly gold body, and she stood in that same intimate field of brilliant ripe grass, beneath a sky formed out of his hair.

The man-in-the-sky filled the universe, and his intimate gaze pierced Ranhé, while his face smiled.

Next to her, Elasirr threw a golden hand up to shield himself from the sudden brilliance, as he stared up into the giant in the sky, saying in a strangely deadened voice, “Dersenne! Why did you leave the world we come from? What made you leave us, O Tilirreh?”

The yellow one looked down upon the one who had asked the question.

I did not leave, said Dersenne gently. Rather, you have all receded. The distance between us became a singular void, and now I may not even reach behind me and feel Melixevven, nor can I venture forward and meet Fiadolmle. Our ties have become severed, and our worlds may not come into contact, only overlap.

There was sorrow in his words, but the living voice soared like a morning lark into the expanse of heaven, and could not help but inspire. For he was the lord of Sacrament.

“My sweet lord,” whispered Ranhé, “I understand now, why you cannot come back. But I would know why this took place, those hundreds of years ago. What made the Rainbow recede from our world, and take with it most of the truth?”

I am not the one to answer such, my joy, the gold one replied, maybe to her alone, intimate as mist within her inner ear. But you must first ask a different question.

Ask: what is the Rainbow?

And after that, there was only silence upon fields ripe as dandelion gauze.

Ranhé blinked, and then she, and the two others were taken up, and pulled upon the wind, and then they jumped. . . .

And landed in the world’s green Forest.

They lay, thrust into the earth itself, feeling roots extend into richness of soil, tendrils of grass growing from their own flesh, entwining with the vines of others, joining.

Ranhé sensed—lying in the deep thicket, via the entwined limbs of her transformed being—the breathing of Elasand’s lungs, and the beating of Elasirr’s heart.

And beyond, she also sensed the rich overwhelming presence of the woman who extended to embrace and encompass them, who was the very forest itself, Fiadolmle, the lady of Birth.

Overhead, the sky was an unrolled bolt of deep jade velvet, spreading like thick honey to pool in the cracks of the horizon. At its apex was set a verdigris sun, pouring exhilaration upon the forest.

“Fiadolmle!” whispered Elasand. “What is the Rainbow?”

The leaves moved in with succulence, and a shimmering voice came to flow through them, like sap running through the stems of the plants.

Rainbow is union . . . said the green one. And the final joining results in white. But that cannot be again, ever. For Andelas is no more, and without him, we may not join, only coexist.

“Andelas, the Tilirreh of white!” exclaimed Vaeste. “I know of his mystery, but little of the truth surrounding it. It is said in our world that he left, and took the rest of the Tilirr with him. . . .”

He left, and we had to follow. And now, he is gone so far that even we cannot extend ourselves to feel his presence. . . .

“But why?” continued Elasand. “Why did he leave us? What was it, those centuries ago, that made him abandon our world and make it incomplete?”

And Fiadolmle’s sweet growing vines wrapped softly around Elasand’s cheek in a whispering caress of succulent leaves.

It is the same reason that you would leave the beloved house of your birth. You have grown and matured, while the house has stayed the same, and did not change with you. What was once sweet pleasure, now oppresses. What had once been clean and new, is now worn and old and filled with decay. What had once held memories of peace, now only reeks of death. What had once filled a vital need, is now a burden. Would you not leave?

Her gentle whisper ended. And yet, the leaves continued to grow preternaturally. Vines crawled forth, and offshoots were breaking into new full branches all around them, obscuring all sight with their rich abundance, while overhead the green sky shimmered like endless spilled velvet.

Ranhé had to close her eyes. And then she felt herself jumping into an elsewhere. . . .

When she opened her eyes, she saw a horizon.

It was a line bisecting the world in two. A blue world of sea and sky.

She floated like a swan upon the surface of the still deep water, and next to her were two others. There was a brilliant azure light upon the waters, shining down from an unseen source.

Ranhé looked up, and saw it was the sky itself, a great mass of electric day-fire, that reflected back upon itself from the cyan waters, in an endless source of rebounding illumination.

Just ahead of her, something burst forth from the water, in a foaming pale spray of a fountain, and she saw a man, ultramarine like the foam, surface, and take powerful strokes to flow toward them.

He tread water lightly, and yet his extremities appeared at some point to dwindle into the wetness itself, become translucent with liquidity.

“Koerdis!” said Elasirr, himself now a merman, swimming alongside her, while the great pale mane of his hair spread around him like seaweed. On her other side, Elasand’s dark hair flowed like rich cerulean currents against the waves.

Why are you here? said a voice like the deep itself.

“We ask you to give us the truth,” responded Elasirr. “What can be done to restore the Rainbow? How can Andelas, who left us, be persuaded to return?”

Around them the ocean swelled. Koerdis glided near them, his sleek perfect body moving in rhythm with the water. His eyes, when Ranhé caught a glimpse of them, were bottomless intense darkness, like the ocean depths. And yet, it was a clean warm velvet richness that was inside them, and he looked within her as he spoke, so that she found it both pleasurable to meet that gaze, and impossible to fathom it.

Truth is what I give, said the flowing blue one. You ask about Andelas, and yet, the answer is before you, even now.

“What do you mean?” whispered Ranhé.

Look above you, said the azure god. And then, look below and around you. Where is the source of light? Take away the sky, and the ocean will be in darkness. Take away the ocean, and the sky will not shine.

“But what is the original catalyst, the source of this light?” asked Elasirr.

I am, of course. For, this is my world.

“And if you were to leave it, O Tilirreh, then what?”

Then this world would not exist, for it is only an extension of myself. Only this does not apply to the world you call your own. Your world is an extension of all of us, and thus no single one of us can fully destroy it, nor fully restore it. Not even Andelas. For, your world has long since taken on a life of its own. It exists outside our sphere now, and will, unto eternity.

And speaking thus, Koerdis thrust forward suddenly, and with a lunge drew forth, exploding out of the waters. And then he stood upright. And nude, perfect, terrifying, he walked upon the aquamarine waves.

Treading water, they watched in shocked silence, saw the soles of his feet skim along the mirror surface, as he moved away from them, leaving footprints of brilliant pale foam.

“Wait, Koerdis!” cried Elasirr, angry, his voice resounding with despair. “You have not answered us! You are the second to last! You of all I had hoped will give us the truth, you who are the lord of Truth!”

And the receding blue figure paused for an instant, and Koerdis turned his face to watch them, for one last time.

Truth is once again before you . . . sounded his voice from afar, like an ocean swell. The sky, the waters, they shine it forth. What is the source of light? Recognize it as a paradox!

And once again, he turned his intensity away from them, and continued walking. And in his wake, they thought the waters sang, rippled, and whispered. And it resounded, like the light upon the sky and waves—Rainbow is a paradox.

And suddenly then, the ocean rose on all sides, and they felt its funneling force, and they were being pulled within.

The waters closed over their heads, and the last they remembered, gasping for desperate air, was blue silence, as they jumped. . . .

Into violet.

They stood within a bower of a garden of sweet flowering shrubs, abounding with amethyst blossoms of a million petals, with delicate fern of the palest fine lavender, with heliotrope roses and swirling hyacinth.

From above shone a full otherworldly moon.

In the center, upon a bed of tiny purple bell-flowers, sat a woman, with tresses long and ripping like a running stream.

Her form was gentle glowing fire. And her hair sang.

At Ranhé’s side, Elasand gasped suddenly, and moved forward, and then fell on his knees before the one who was indeed Laelith, the gentle lady of the Way Things Are.

With a strange painful tug upon her innards, Ranhé watched her Lord Vaeste fall before the violet one, watched his face transform, his cool beauty melt into absolute rapture as he gazed upon her, the Tilirreh of Love. And she did not see how, at the same time as she watched the radiant face of Elasand, another was watching her own face, her own expression.

Elasirr looked upon the moment of pain that was visible upon the face of Ranhé. And his own face was transformed. Indeed, all of their faces were now filled with it, with acuteness of naked emotion, with nothing now to hide it, no worldly reserve, no pride, no concern. All were bathed in the equating smoothness of the lavender glow.

“My lady,” whispered Elasand Vaeste, kneeling before the incarnation of his dream. “My lady.” And he could say nothing else, only stared, never taking his eyes away from the sight of her.

And then, the violet one smiled. With that smile, the light in the garden intensified, and the blossoms turned their heads, opening further, while buds broke open into new flowers.

The air, like a perfect lilac dawn, was clamoring with the sound of a running stream, a great river, and from afar, a light tinkle of bells. Those bells, realized Ranhé, were but lilies-of-the-valley, their tiny heads moving in time to the gossamer wind.

You are with me, all of you, at last, sounded the intimate voice of the goddess. And this is where it all begins and ends. For, Koerdis is just behind me, and ahead, Werail. And so, what have you learned?

Elasirr, his eyes open wide, an odd smirk taking hold of his lips, pronounced loudly and mockingly, “I don’t know about my brother here—who even now is enraptured and wallows mindlessly at your feet, O Tilirreh—but I have learned only that the mystery of the Rainbow lies within a paradox. Am I right?”

But Laelith looked directly into Elasirr’s eyes, and suddenly the mocking smile faded from his face. In its place, Ranhé saw, was only raw pain. And something else, something that resonated within her own being, and which she recognized with the bitter ease of long familiarity.

Self-hatred.

He hated himself, this man with the sun-hair, with the proud angry eyes, and his charming killing smile, the man who wore so many masks—that of the Guildmaster of the Light Guild, and the master assassin, lord of Bilhaar, that of one who had the power and the responsibility for the City of Dreams, Tronaelend-Lis, the City that had now been thrust into Twilight.

And this man, Elasirr, bastard son of Vaeste, stood revealed in his personal entirety, before the one who was violet.

Ranhé found that suddenly she could not bear the sight of his face, could not bear the agony etched in its lines.

Her own inner past paled in comparison. She remembered again, mercurial glimpses of her mother, her father, her child self. She remembered the daily hollow cold that grew and settled within her with the years, the alienation. But in the face of this man, Elasirr, she saw a naked wound. Even now it bled, and there was nothing to alleviate it, in the soft merciless lavender glow.

He was the assassin, and he was the lifegiver, she knew at last. He took away, and he created. And now he was all alone, before the one who revealed the way things are.

“Laelith!” exclaimed Ranhé, with sudden inexplicable agitation. “Stop! He cannot bear it, he cannot look within your eyes anymore. Leave him be!”

And then, the eyes of the lady were at last upon her, and she felt, with a moment of piercing, her own heart break.

“Laelith . . .” she whispered then, “Please, pity them both. Pity him who loves you. And him who hates himself. I ask nothing for myself, because there’s nothing for me here. I know that very well, lady, I bear no illusions, not even in your beautiful perfect intimate garden.”

No illusions, my poor child? Not even one? whispered the warm voice. Not even your secret dream of fulfillment? For yes, I know it, I know it all. All that is within you is also within me.

“Not even that one,” replied Ranhé sadly. “Illusions create hope. And it is hope that hurts so much.”

And yet you must have hope, or you may not exist. Even now, all of you are here in supplication on behalf of your outer lives, your City, your responsibilities. And yet the one supplication that I truly hear from each one of you, is the personal supplication on behalf of oneself.

“It is true,” said Elasand suddenly, the one who had been silent all along. “True, O lady, that I selfishly stand before you, and all I can think of is yourself and myself—not my City, not my fellow men. I love you, Laelith! And without you, I can go on no longer.”

And with those words, he hung his head, kneeling in a bower of soft lilac grass. In back of him stood the man with the sun-hair, his eyes also averted, looking neither right nor left, but straight ahead, somewhere upon the moonlit violet sky. And on the other side stood Ranhé, simple, quiet, resigned.

The woman with the glowing tresses got up slowly from her soft place in the grass. She rose, taller than any of them, dressed in a sheer gossamer gown that trailed to the floor, and ended in nothing, in vaporous night.

Her face was peace. Her eyes, more remote than any of the other Tilirr, windows upon an elsewhere.

She neared Elasand, still kneeling before her. And she reached out her pale hand and placed it upon his raven head.

He started at her touch, and a visible tremor came to run through his whole body. He threw his head back, looking up at her with mad joy.

And Laelith bent forward then, her glowing hair falling about them like a curtain, obscuring them into intimacy, and she took his face between her two palms, and then brought her lips down upon his upturned own.

She kissed him, and in that instant he died. He sank away, blanked out into the oblivion of impossibility—for, such is the price of fulfillment.

And when the next instant he came to life again, she was already remote, having stepped away from him, and stood now before his half-brother.

Come, said the goddess to Elasirr, looking impossibly into his eyes. Let me kiss you and heal you also.

But he watched her with proud tragic eyes, and he said, “No! Do not come near me, O Tilirreh! I want nothing of you.”

But Laelith smiled. And she drew forth her hand, placing it upon his forehead.

At her touch, Elasirr felt warm lightning fill him and pierce him. He closed his eyes involuntarily, his lips parting, a breath expelled from within.

And then, the lips of the violet one were upon his own, and he too knew the instant of oblivion, and with it joy and peace.

But only for a moment.

For, Laelith stood before Ranhé now. Only, before she could do anything, Ranhé suddenly reached out with her own hands, and she took the right hand of the goddess. And then, feeling it burn within her two own, she brought it up to her lips. And she kissed the hand of Laelith.

“Thank you, O lady,” she whispered, “for touching them both with your love!”

And when she looked up again, she saw that the eyes of Laelith cried. Tears like drops of dew came down the pale smooth cheeks.

Thank you, poor child, said the voice of her who was love incarnate. It is you who I will tell the last thing, the last truth.

Within Rainbow lies a paradox of the future, the present, and the past.

Let this knowledge serve you, when it comes time for the final battle. For it, the struggle, will be one both outside and within yourself. Go now, with my blessings. And may you be some day fulfilled!

And in that instant, the figure of Laelith blazed into an impossible light, and it seemed that the moon came hurtling down from the sky upon the garden of violet.

The world convulsed around them, while light sang a fierce wind song, and they began to recede, recede, and then they jumped. . . .

Ranhé opened her eyes with a shuddering breath, finding herself standing within the Circle. Around them danced violet light, like within the heart of a waterfall. It danced, and then receded, gently, fading. And then, they remained in the monochrome hueless gray dusk of the chamber.

The Circle broke. With it, some of the Masters staggered, having lost an inordinate amount of energy.

The Guildmaster stepped once more to the center, his face drained, and hollows beneath his eyes.

They all looked upon him. And what they saw was not hope, but rather, a madness.

“We have seen the Tilirr,” spoke Elasirr loudly, brashly. “And they have answered our prayers. Thus, with the new knowledge given us, we attack now.”

He paused, looking at them all, and his gaze, though tired, was strong and ageless. “Now, go!” he concluded. “Go and rest and regather your strength. We will need all of it in the fight.”

At his words, the Masters began to leave the room. On the other side of the chamber, Lord Vaeste, motionless, sunken in apathy, leaned against the wall. When nearly everyone had gone, he straightened, and neared Elasirr, saying, “Why did you lie to them, Elas? Why did you tell them we have a secret knowledge of something from the Tilirr, when in truth we have nothing, and there is no hope?”

“Because,” replied Elasirr in a whisper, regarding him closely, “I had to tell them something. To give them strength for the struggle ahead.”

“A struggle.” Elasand laughed bitterly. “Why bother?”

“Unlike you, Elasand-re, I don’t give up!”

And with that the Guildmaster turned and left them both, alone in the chamber.

It was an illusion of safety, being within the Inner City. Ranhé returned to the bedchamber where she had spent the night, and found that the door to the inner room had been shut from the inside. Elasirr must have taken his own bed to rest, at least for an hour. And thus she decided to wander and explore the compound, the endless corridors of this hidden sanctum of light.

About an hour later, Marihke Sar came upon her, with a worried expression on his face. “Everyone is looking for you, freewoman! Come along, you are wanted, there is work to do.”

He led her to one of the rooms that she had recognized, at the very entrance of the Inner City, the place they had entered first, coming here. There she saw Elasirr, dressed in plain black clothing, a dark hood over his pale hair, and a long dagger at his waist, waiting for her.

His expression was once more, like a wall. After all that had happened between them.

“Where is my Lord Vaeste?” she asked impassively, not meeting his gaze.

“The last time I looked, he was again sleeping in my bed. No doubt dreaming of his violet Laelith,” said he remotely. “He is not to be bothered, so I must instead take you.”

“Me? Don’t you have enough minions of your own?” Her voice was tired and thus did not hide its edge.

“You are the only other with the complete ability to work all color light,” said Elasirr, looking finally into her eyes. “Even if I wanted to take someone else, I have no choice, and I have no time to wait for Elas to get ahold of himself. He has fallen so low that he is now useless. And yes, we are going to Dirvan. And we will attempt to rescue the Regents and the other unfortunate prisoners—not in that order of priority. For, surely, no one would believe I am doing this for the filthy pigs Grelias alone.”

“I see. Just the two of us? So, you are quite insane, Lord Guildmaster.”

But already he had turned away, and was heading toward the door that led outside to the underground catacombs.

Silently, Ranhé followed.

Outside, the abnormal sun had begun sinking in the twilight morass of the thick dull sky. If it were a normal day, then it would still be a rather bright time, not too far from sunset. But as things stood, it was already as dark as evening, and torches had remained lit all since morning, throughout the City.

They had walked swiftly through the twisting underground passages below the City. Ranhé followed Elasirr silently. He walked, carrying a small torch, and at last the ground rose again. They stopped before a narrow stairwell, and Elasirr gave her the torch, then started to climb ahead. About twenty feet up, he pressed a release hatch, then slowly opened the ceiling, and noiselessly disappeared above. Ranhé waited for his silent hand signal, as agreed, then climbed also, first extinguishing the torch, so as not to give them away.

She emerged and found herself on a shadowed garden path, somewhere in Dirvan.

Elasirr lowered the sewer door behind them, then stamped around lightly, beating down the earth so it did not appear so newly disturbed.

“Why did we come out here?” whispered Ranhé. “Why not walk all the way beneath the Palace, then open a door inside the prisoners’ own chamber?”

“Because,” hissed Elasirr, “as of two hours ago, my Palace eyes have told me, most of the trapdoors leading into the underground network near where the prisoners are being held have been discovered. Feale moves fast. Already, Qurthe are in the underground passages. Soon, they will know the way to the Inner City.”

“Gods! Why didn’t you mention that earlier?”

Elasirr looked at her in the dim light, his face a mask. “Why should I? Every moment of hope that I leave my people, conserves our strength,” he said. “Those who need to know, know already. Those who don’t will know only if worst comes to worst.”

“You are a strange man, my lord,” Ranhé whispered then. “Even now, I don’t know whether to believe you fully or not at all.”

“I don’t care what you believe,” he responded. “Now, come, we have no time to waste. And if we are discovered, remember, I am merely Lord Bilhaar. And be ready to create color light upon my command.”

They raced like shadows through the Outer Gardens. Ranhé found it an actual challenge to keep up with him, sleek and silent, his brilliant hair tucked beneath and obscured by a dark hood.

On both sides, lush ebony growth strained forward, as they moved. Several times they had to stop, growing silent as the trees, as they heard voices of randomly patrolling dark soldiers walk past, speaking with the heavy accents in their dialect.

At some point, they passed the Tomb of the King, hidden away in a bower of dark cypress, shadows of the faint sickly sun flowing pallid against antique silver marble.

Ranhé looked back at the Tomb as they moved, and she noted how Elasirr did also, throwing an almost wistful look behind him.

And all of a sudden, he whispered, “I only wish it were a Monteyn I served, not this pale drab excuse for a ruler called Hestiam.”

“Yes,” she responded, “I also wish. . . .”

Her words trailed off. But yet, their gazes managed to meet, for one true instant of intimate communication, remembering all that had taken place between them, all of it, if only for a moment.

The moment passed. And again they were but remote strangers, harboring only cold between them.

At the Inner Gates of the Palace, there was a blackness of guards. Their number had doubled since the last time she’d passed here, only a day ago.

They also saw bodies, abandoned to rot, lying near the gates. Bodies of those who were of this City. Some of them were but street children.

Ranhé felt a pang in her heart, thinking of the urchin who had held her horse for her, only two nights ago.

She felt Elasirr’s light touch on her arm, and her first instinct was to nearly recoil—memories of his touch, his flesh in the smothering dark.

But she steeled herself, and watched his hand gestures, as he pointed a way for her, through the remainder of the gardens, and up to the Gates.

There was a line of shadows, a pattern of relative dark through which one could walk and be unobserved, if careful. Ranhé initially thought to climb a tree, as she had done the last time, and thus jump the gates. But today the guards were positioned so that they would see any movement upon the balustrade up above, and the twilight was still bright enough everywhere else.

There was nothing else they could do but take in deep silencing breaths and simply walk forward. And thus, she stilled herself from long practice, and moved more silently than ever before, thinking thoughts of nonpresence.

I am not here . . . Nothing is here.

She was halfway across the line of dark when a Qurth soldier turned his ebony masked helmet toward her, almost by instinct. She froze, closing her eyes, turning inward somehow. And Elasirr sucked in his breath with a sudden cold fear for her, a sudden wild pang.

But then, it seemed like the woman faded. He looked, and saw only shadows of growing tree trunks cast against the garden floor, against a cross-section of the gravel path. Unbelievingly he stared, knowing she was there, and yet she was not.

Nothing is here . . . I am not . . .

Ranhé managed to cross the distance, and stilled near an overhang, against the Inner Wall itself. It was now Elasirr’s turn.

He crept forward quickly, unflinchingly. And yet, at one point there was a pause, as once again a guard felt something, and turned to stare at the very spot where Elasirr stood.

Ranhé’s temples pounded.

Not here! Nothing . . . not here . . . her thoughts flung outward, almost concrete in their desire to blanket, to obscure.

Nothing . . . darkness.

And suddenly, as she thought it, there was a strange previously unfelt welling of a force within her. It felt initially like the gathering warmth that resulted in color light.

Only, this one was a cool welling of darkness.

She felt it flow outward from her, gathering like a patch of black smoke in her palms. She looked down at her hands incredulously, and then, by sheer instinct, cupped it in her palm and threw it, at the same time focusing it in the direction of Elasirr.

She threw and willed it to grow and unfurl, a patch of opaque darkness, and to envelop him with its safe nonpresence.

And the dark smoke obeyed.

The Qurthe stilled for a moment, but it was obvious, even to his suspicious gaze, that there was nothing there—only dark vapor and shadows. That and the swaying growth of the garden. His attention was again distracted.

Meanwhile Elasirr stood frozen, ready for anything, blanketed by the soothing dark.

When he reached her, in the shadows at the foot of the wall, there was an intense expression in his eyes, a question. And yet he held his silence, and they continued toward the Palace.

Deileala Grelias sat bowed upon her great, canopied bed, an empty look in her eyes. From the outside, through the great open window, she could see the dull ah-so-depressing weakling orb, the setting gray sun, veiled by the thick twilight air of the City.

Suddenly, a scratching soft noise sounded. Somewhere in back of her.

She tensed, thinking, It is him, Vorn.

To the back of her bed, one of the tapestries moved outward and to the side on the right wall. More scratching.

She watched it in wicked silence, ready for anything, her fingers clutching nervously at the silk bedding.

The hanging moved on the wall, and a panel slid out. From behind it came a man, cowled in a hood.

She opened her mouth to scream, but the strange gesture of his upraised hand stilled her just in time.

“Your Grace!” came a whisper of a somehow familiar voice, and Deileala recognized him then, with a great swell of joy, this man who had lazy secretive eyes, who had casually lain with her upon more than one occasion—the assassin lord.

Behind him, another face peeked into the chamber, also vaguely familiar. Where had she seen this face—ah, this was the irritating woman bodyguard who had stood at Lord Vaeste’s side. Only, what was she, of all people, doing here?

Before Deileala allowed her thoughts to further tumble, Elasirr came forward, putting a single gloved finger up to his lips in a gesture of silence. He then motioned for her to move, and Deileala did not need to be told twice.

She stepped daintily toward him, and suddenly flung herself forward, wrapped her hands about his neck, hugging him tight, and whispered, “Thank the gods! I am more than happy to see you, my beautiful assassin!”

Elasirr grinned down at her, easily producing his perpetual smirk that Ranhé came to recognize now for the insolent front that he put on before those who did not know his true role.

“Come, Your Grace” was all he whispered, putting a finger against her lips and effectively silencing any more of her words.

But the Regentrix was not as easily put off. “Where are you taking me?” she whispered. “And what of Hestiam? Or Lirr, or Barsadt?”

But in reply she was pulled into the safe darkness of the secret passageway, gleefully thinking of the guards outside her door that would never know. And if they did, it would be far too late.

In the passage, it was explained to her that her chamber was the only one accessible in this manner. To Elasirr’s great regret, it had turned out that all the other prisoners were either too closely guarded, or too far from the network of passages. And Hestiam himself—he explained to Deileala—was being held in a room with two guards constantly in his presence.

“We will come back for the others separately. For now, at least one of the Grelias is free,” said Elasirr. “Frankly, we need to have your presence to give focus to the resistance.”

“Resistance?” echoed Deileala weakly, in surprise, as they moved quickly through a short inner corridor.

“Yes,” replied Elasirr firmly. “Now I will ask you to shut your pretty mouth and keep it so, Your Grace, until I tell you it is safe.”

From the outside, through the inner walls, they could hear definite Qurthe voices in the Palace corridors. And they were approaching.

One of them Deileala would know in her dreams.

“Vorn!” she gasped, but in that instant, Elasirr put a gloved hand against her mouth, and they froze into silence.

And in the dark, Ranhé felt her hand involuntarily sliding to the hilt of one of her hidden daggers.

The most difficult part was getting the Regentrix out of the Palace unnoticed. Once outside in the Inner Gardens, they had to lower her down slowly with a rope, against a long steep overhang of Inner Wall. Surprisingly, she understood the gravity of their situation, and remained cooperative, without even crying out when she scraped her scantily clad knees and elbows against the stones, and landed on the ground painfully, nearly twisting her ankle.

At some point, true evening began, for the sun-disk had sunk out of sight beyond the filigree horizon.

The Outer Gardens, thrown into sudden utter blackness.

Not a single torch burning here, on this remote side of the walls. Even the guards were remote, for this section of wall should have been unpassable.

They stood, all three of them, on the ground, pressing close to the Inner Walls, three shapes of darkness. All they had to do now was find their way back through the Outer Dirvan toward the same sewer trapdoor, somewhere near a gravel path.

The dark shape that was Elasirr leaned close to Ranhé’s ear and barely mouthed, “Now would be a good time for you to enhance the darkness around us. I saw what you did on our way here, how you created a black nothing which protected me from the Qurthe’s sight. Whatever the hell it is that you did—do that again.”

And Ranhé nodded silently, and focused, seeing the dark unfurl from within her like a cool soft safe thing.

No one is here . . . Nothing.

And under the strange blanket of translucence—a mere thickening of twilight, a change in the gradation of shadow in the place they occupied—they began to move carefully through the pitch-black gardens.

Such thick unpassable dark it was that the Regentrix continuously tripped, and cried out softly. Finally Elasirr had to lead her by the hand, while Ranhé brought up the rear.

“I have no shoes!” Deileala hissed at one point. “They took all my shoes away. I’m doing the best I can under these filthy circumstances!”

“Only a little longer, Your Grace . . .” said Ranhé, while her thoughts continuously wrought the black fog around them.

After some time in the darkness they came once again upon the dimly visible silhouette of the old Mausoleum.

“Ah, the Tomb,” whispered Deileala, panting with uncustomary exertion. “I simply need to rest! The floor is smooth cool marble here, I remember. . . . Just give me a moment.”

And saying that, she limped over to the shallow steps of the structure, and sat down on the top stair, to examine the wounded soles of her feet.

Elasirr followed her, then entered the domed overhang of the Mausoleum, and paused before the actual centerpiece casket. He stood, arms folded at his chest, and stared before him into the shadowed dark obscuring the grand stone pillar dais.

Ranhé came up the steps slowly behind them. She watched the Regentrix fuss over her stubbed toes. And then, something also prompted her to approach the casket in the center.

They stood, both of them, observing the darkness. Overhead, the sky was an abysmal void, but the crescent sliver of the moon had newly arisen, and poured a sickly almost phosphorescent glow upon the pale polished marble, falling from up above through the skylight. From there, it cast a circular spot of weak glimmer upon the glass of the casket, and the face of the dead King.

Ranhé felt herself inordinately drawn to it, to the face. She could barely make it out from where she stood, because of the railing and the gaping space between the dais, and could only see a pallid blotch.

And then she started somewhat, because Elasirr began to speak, softly, and she had not heard such sadness in him before.

“Here lies the last Monteyn,” he said. “What mockery, for us to see what we may never have!”

“I am rested now,” said Deileala meanwhile, standing up shakily. “We can continue. . . .”

But he appeared not to hear her.

“He only sleeps, they say. He is not dead really, but is stilled in a condition near death, Stasis . . .” muttered Elasirr, under his breath.

There was a wild light in his eyes.

As the crescent glowed down upon them in gray dullness, Ranhé and Deileala watched—in horrible fascination—the assassin move suddenly, as he neared the railing, and then deftly climbed it and leaped across the separation, landing upon the marble carved border of the dais, near the glass casket itself.

He leaned for an instant, pausing, hugging the glass with his hands, as he stood precariously upon the edge.

“What are you doing, my lord?” gasped Ranhé.

But Elasirr remained, in horrible silence, staring at the face of the King, leaning over him.

The skylight poured weak light upon him, upon the smooth glass. Reflections of the moon stared back at Elasirr, and he thought for a moment that he saw shadows cast by his own eyes, their fever glow.

There was a sudden stillness within him—a madness coupled with a chill and a heat, both rising simultaneously. He felt he could not breathe, as he looked upon the wax face-mask that was the pale skin of the dead man. The pale shadow of stubble on his cheeks, almost living.

“So real . . .” whispered Elasirr. “He is—”

“It’s no time for philosophy, Elas,” said Deileala, wiping her forehead tiredly, and beginning to shiver in the cold evening wind—for she was wearing only a fine shift.

“My lord?” said Ranhé again.

But he ignored them both, leaning over the corpse of Monteyn. He stared intensely, frozen by the weight of a new decision that took form before him, even as a part of him was in terror at the very thought.

“What are you waiting for, my dear?” mocked Deileala. “Maybe he’s the answer we’re looking for. Go ahead and break the glass, and just maybe our beloved antique will wake? Or, do you think I should go and kiss him on his cold lips?” She snorted, then continued, “I am freezing cold, and I would like for you to finish rescuing me now, my pretty Bilhaar. Come!”

Only Ranhé, sensitive to the nature of his look, the moment of choice before him, saw it coming when it did—the blow.

Elasirr straightened suddenly, strung tense as an arrow, still balancing on the edge of the dais. His right hand slipped to his long knife and drew it from its holder.

“Elasirr!” Ranhé cried out, just as he raised the knife, putting both hands on the hilt, his head upraised, weak moonlight sliding over his stark face, his eyelids closed. . . .

And then he struck down. It was a precise, violent, perfect move of hand combat, the point of the blade hitting the glass of the casket just in the center balance point.

His downstroke was swift and clever and forceful enough to break the glass, yet was cut short so as not to harm the body below.

The glass shattered.

Deileala gave a weak scream, putting her hands to her face, unbelieving, while Ranhé found herself in a clenched position, ready to spring forward, and yet could not move.

The crescent glowed down upon them. It glowed upon the broken shards—they reflected a million miniature crescents. It glowed upon the stilled silhouette of the man standing with his head hung low, a long dagger lowered at his side.

Air had rushed in to sweep the ancient skin, pale and long-dead, and untouched for such an impossible span of time. Evening wind moved upon the cold cheeks, the tendrils of the dead man’s brilliant pale hair, the antique metal armor.

A silent pause of interminable measure.

And then Elasirr went insane. Breathing hard, leaning forward, he pulled at the broken glass with his gloved fingers, started to clear the fragments, throwing them all around into the abyss on all the sides of the dais, using his dagger to pry at the glass that was still standing, chipping away carefully at the exposed area around the face, for here the glass must not land and harm the dead man’s skin.

“Oh Blessed Rainbow! What have you done!” whispered Deileala. Her normally confident look was replaced with genuine fear. “It’s a sacrilege! I can’t believe you did this! Nothing warranted such a thing! What have you done, madman!”

Ranhé meanwhile, still silent, her mind stilled by the cold reality of what had just happened, moved forward slowly, and then, also climbed the railing of the fence. And then, she jumped the abyss, and landed on the dais next to Elasirr. Stilling her breath, gripping herself from the inside, she allowed her gloved fingers to reach forward. And then she touched him also, the sacred metal armor of he who had lain undisturbed for over two centuries.

“All right,” Elasirr was muttering, his voice strained, angry, alien, as he continued to break off the glass. “Awake, Monteyn! Awake, our King! Come back to us, breathe, damn you!”

Ranhé reached forward, and started to clear the glass on the other side.

“Here . . . Help me . . .” Elasirr pointed to her, and she saw that his face was terrible.

She continued to touch the shards, to pick off carefully, while her gaze was afraid to slide higher, to actually look at him who lay before her, only inches away.

Soon, they were done, and, with Deileala beginning to sob nearby, Elasirr turned his feverish attention to the body before them.

Removing his gloves, he paused, breathing hard, and then reached out with his bare fingers to feel the dead one’s cheek.

It was cold.

“Take off your gloves!” whispered Elasirr furiously, turning to Ranhé. “Quickly, touch him, yes, right here! Do you—feel anything?”

She obeyed, and put her trembling fingers forward to touch the skin of history.

There was a moment of inner shock, of understanding. Not so much of any living sense, just a feeling of horror combined with awe, with a stilling, forever-preserved moment of intensity.

She had touched him, the dead King of Tronaelend-Lis, the legend.

And he was cold, and dead.

No hope could exist now. There was nothing left of her illusion, harbored in a most precious inner place, since childhood. It was killed by the harshness of truth, of the utter reality before her.

“Do you feel anything?!”

And despite all she wanted to say, despite her will and need and being, she had to admit to the truth, even now. Even now, as her old world lay forever shattered before her, in shards of perfect strong ancient glass that faithfully reflected the plural faces of the thin moon. . . .

“No . . .” she whispered in a voice lighter than a breath of air. “No . . . He is cold, Elasirr.”

And then, with a growl, the man with the obscured sun-hair threw himself forward and down, burying his face upon the ancient armored breast of his long-dead last King.

“I am sorry . . .” she added, even more softly, maybe not even out loud, but only to herself, in her own mind. . . .

But Elasirr’s body shook in silent sobs, for there was nothing he or anyone could do now, and this was the end.

The wind came soft to touch the pale hair that had escaped from under the assassin’s hood and now lay against the dull black armor of Monteyn. Still weeping, he moved his hands to grasp the great armored gloves of the King, squeezed them, wrung himself over the body, still without making a sound.

He looked up at last, and his face was contorted. And yet, Ranhé, her own expression frozen with utmost cold, watched him impassively. For, only this very dawn, their positions had been reversed. He had watched her, as she sprawled on a floor, crying out her soul.

Hard to believe that all of this had happened this same day.

“He really is dead, isn’t he?” came the stumbling voice of Deileala. They had almost forgotten she was there. Slowly she had come up and stood holding the railing, sniffling, tears streaming down her face. “I’d always thought when I was a little girl, that someday, maybe not even in my lifetime, he’d magically come to life again. He’d been there for as long as I could remember, in his beautiful open coffin.”

Elasirr looked up. Fury and anguish was written in him, the self-hatred intensified a hundredfold.

“What have I done?” he hissed, like an ancient serpent, staring into vacant space. “What have I done? He is dead!”

And then, again he fell upon the body, started shaking the dull armor, put both of his hands on the hollow cheeks, smoothed the dead man’s high beautiful forehead, felt for a barest trace of pulse at his throat.

“Wake, our King! In the name of all the Tilirr and the Rainbow! Damn you, but you must! It had been promised us that you will come and you will be there for us at the end of the age! This is the end, damn you to hell! Damn me! You must come back!”

But the body was motionless, and Elasirr had only managed to dislodge his smoothly laid out hair upon the antique silk pillow.

With trembling fingers, Ranhé felt the dead man’s lips.

He had been beautiful and young, when he had died, this Alliran Monteyn. Indeed, as she looked closely at the waxen pallor, there was something of Elasirr in his features, but also a kind of tranquility that the assassin lord had never possessed.

Elasirr stood back then. All life had gone out of his eyes, and his face glistened with tears, for that reason appearing even more demonic. “Enough then,” he said, his voice cracking. “I have done enough. All for nothing, of course. I should’ve let him be. But I had to try this thing, this one last idiotic horrible thing, with these dark times upon us. After all, we really have nothing to lose. . . . Nothing. Not less than before, you know.”

“That’s right, Elas,” said Deileala, softly, soothingly almost. “Nothing has changed. Come! Let us go from here quickly, before the guards come, hearing this commotion. The Qurthe—they would’ve defiled his grave sooner or later anyway.”

Ranhé was surprised at the soft wisdom of her words. Surprised that the Regentrix was capable of such. But then, Deileala was probably being selfish, true to herself, the instinct for self-preservation taking over all shock.

And then Elasirr leaned forward for the last time, and placed a kiss on the dead King’s forehead. With that, he drew away quickly, balancing for the jump, and cleared the space from the dais to the railing. He never looked back again.

Ranhé still stood near the body. The air had turned cold. Or, was it but the stillness in her mind, the utter grief?

The face of the dead one was inches away. She could see the shadow of stubble, the skin of his lips. How well preserved he had been by those ancient healers of ages ago. . . .

Not in Stasis, he. It was merely death, the soft caretaker, that had settled over him. And they never knew.

They, the City itself never knew. They were, all of them, practicing beautiful self-delusion.

And that had given them hope once, and built up a legend. And now, the glass was shattered, and with it, probably some perfect chemical balance that had kept him thus. And thus, the corpse would proceed to rot at a more normal rate.

Only—it would now rot in a City called Twilight. . . .

Silent tears came welling in the corners of her eyes, and a knot formed in her throat. She pitied him, this dead doomed King, no longer a perfect magic icon of hope. And she pitied the man Elasirr, who had dared to take a chance, and as a result, took their final beauty away from them. And she pitied this City, that would now fall before the Enemy as surely as the twilight slowly settled thicker all around them. Even the moon waned, and soon, in a matter of days, would dwindle into nothing.

But the moon would surely outlast them all.

And Ranhé lowered her face over the face of the King, and she placed her lips upon his cold ones, feeling a great shock of ice, of terror, for she was kissing the ancient face of death itself. . . .

They were cold as stone, the lips. She lingered only for a moment, sickened and compelled at the same time by the nature of the moment itself.

And then, from somewhere else, came Elasirr’s voice of despair, and he was calling her, it seemed. And so, she raised herself, feeling a second shock, that of separation from the cold death, a parting from the last shred of hope.

She gripped the platform upon which he lay eternally sleeping in his great black armor. And using it for leverage, she jumped off, grabbing the railing of the outer fence, then climbed over, was on the other side.

They stood, Deileala and Elasirr, stone silent, facing her. She too, was silent. And they walked like shadows, never looking behind them, down the steps of cool defiled marble, and upon the gravel of the Garden path. Soon, they would reach the place where there was a trapdoor to lead them to safety of the Inner City.

But safety no longer mattered, for it was relative. Nothing any longer mattered.

The night all around thickened into a single knot.

Many hours later, dawn came slowly, seeping in over the Outer Gardens. Mists still rolled about, blanketing the foliage, the marble statuary, the distant streak of the Arata.

There had been moving shadows occasionally, shadows that were revealed in the thin weak glimmer as patrolling black Qurthe, seething over Dirvan.

No one else was about. The vagrants and the street folk had learned their lesson, and kept well away from the Enemy. Indeed, no one walked the streets of this City.

In the grove of cypress, beneath a domed marble overhang, a body in black armor lay on an upraised dais. Pieces of glass were spilled all around, and a couple of shards still lay against the dull ancient metal.

For the first time in centuries, a mist licked against the wax-pale dead skin, vapor curling softly, beading with a sheen of dew upon black dull armor, the ornate carvings.

Dew had formed in tiny droplets, and glistened on the cheeks and forehead of an ancient corpse. It had soaked up his metallic-pale fine hair. It had kissed the dry cold lips.

Mildew, a precursor to rot.

Dawn.

And then, the first ray of the sun struck the sky. It transformed, still thrown into darkness on the western horizon against the black filigree of trees, while the east was flooding with a decidedly pale but significant glimmer.

The rim of the dull sun-disk cast its weakling metallic illumination upon the world placed in permanent twilight.

It cast its virgin light upon the pale face of the dead King.

There was an instant of strange brightness.

And the corpse shuddered suddenly, bathed in the dawn’s light.

Deep inside, a slow deep beat began, a pump. It was his reactivated heart. It began a movement of something liquid and sluggish in long-dormant veins.

Lungs convulsed, pulled in a great draught of vaporous air. The corpse was breathing now. It breathed thus, for the duration of some minutes, while blood moved through subdermal artery tunnels, sluggish at first, then quicker, warming him. . . .

And then, the eyelids quivered, and opened over two pale still vacant eyes.

The steel dawn sky was the first thing he saw.

It swirled around him, turgid and thick with unnatural twilight, and yet, not a cloud in sight. He watched it, letting the images come before him, at first uncomprehending. For, the images were alien somehow.

And then, as his memories were triggered, he began to remember and to become aware. . . . He remembered, and his hands encased in gloves, moved at his chest, fingers twitched.

He was almost fully aware now, still disoriented, but no longer a corpse.

Alliran Monteyn slowly drew his clumsy stiff hands up to touch the dew on his skin, to wipe his eyelids.

And then, as the sun came up, he sat up slowly, and looked around him at the strange silver world, and knew at last.

PART IV

Rainbow

CHAPTER 18

Could it be? The veils are thinning.

Suddenly, as you fly ahead, you can almost see through the murk, and there it is, the mystery, just before you, close enough to touch.

The veils have grown into gray monochrome smoke.

You are so very near.

And yet. . . .

* * *

“Wake up, Elas!” The insistent voice came through his dreams, and Elasirr felt someone’s hand on his shoulder. He did not understand what it was, who it was that wanted him to be awake. He did not remember why he needed to be awake, when all he wanted was to remain thus, motionless, languid—

In the weak half-light of dawn, he blinked and saw the serious face of Elasand leaning over him. And he was sprawled in a chair in his own quarters, his back and arm muscles cramped from sleeping in an uncustomary position.

Then, in that same weak light, he noticed (with an inner pang, a focusing awareness of her) the motionless form of Ranhé huddled on the couch, wrapped in her cloak. Meanwhile, on the small bed in the corner lay another woman, fast asleep, with petite well-manicured hands and shadowed marvelous hair, dressed in nothing but a gauze shift and half-covered by a light blanket.

Elasirr sat up, flooded by memories of the previous night. All peace fled, as he remembered what he’d done, what horribly pointless sacrilege. Indeed, all had turned out pointless. The other prisoners were still in Feale’s hold, so their venture had truly been for nothing. Deileala was hardly the prize he’d cared to save.

“Elas,” said Elasand, “I’m sorry, but I can’t let you rest any more at this point. We can’t wait any longer. The Enemy is supposedly on the move. Your men report that Qurthe were seen massing in the subterranean corridors, and their movements have changed in nature. Something is about to happen.”

Elasirr blinked, wiped his eyes. He stared, trying to understand what was so different about Vaeste, his expression. His eyes were intense, focused, alert. His gaze was strong, no longer moving off into an abstracted other place. Only yesterday he had collapsed, in a show of weakness, of hopelessness. But this was a new unexpected Elasand.

“Why do you stare?” Vaeste said then, noticing the other’s searching look.

“I am not sure,” replied Elasirr in a voice still touched with sleep, and he then stood up.

“Do you see something in me, brother?” said Elasand suddenly, “Something that was not there before?”

“The question is, do you see something newly dark and hopeless in me?” replied the Guildmaster.

They faced one another in the twilight.

“I’d never asked this before. Even now there are—things between us. Unresolved things. But—I ask you to forgive my inaction, my weakness,” whispered Elasand. “You’ve seen me despair and pine with desire for the impossible. I spent the whole night fighting it within me, struggling with waves of something interminable and cold. And then, out of nothing else to do, just before dawn, I filled an orb with orange light, and called upon Melixevven herself, to give me a moment of joy. For, I was losing myself completely, falling away from reality.”

Elasand paused. His eyes then filled with an inspired intensity of focus, as he continued, “Well, as soon as the color bloomed forth and filled the room, my despair was gone! And I realized suddenly that it had been the Enemy at work, all along. He had sent this weakness upon me, under cover of soft soothing dark, a gentle insidious weakness and welling of despair and confusion, playing upon my own predisposition. So subtle the attack, so well chosen, that I wouldn’t have known it if something hadn’t prompted me to try invoking color.”

“So. It wasn’t your own will yesterday, but a psychic attack upon you?” said Elasirr. “Hard to believe.”

“I know. But I ask you to believe . . . Yesterday I told you that it was all pointless, accused you of lying to the Masters, but now, I understand perfectly. I agree that our greatest weapon is hope. And—I now know of a way to fight the Enemy, know how he truly strikes.”

Elasirr let out a heavy breath. “Ah, Elasand-re,” he sighed. “It is now my turn to be weak. If you only knew. What I had done.”

“You have done only what I would’ve done under the circumstances,” intruded the low voice of Ranhé.

They turned, and saw that she had sat up quietly from where she slept, her hair falling out of her braid, her face exhausted with little sleep.

“Lord Vaeste,” she said. “He did something quite insane last night. But somehow I understand his reasons for it.”

“Indeed.” Elasirr spoke almost casually, throwing her one sharp glance, then turning away. “When we were in the Outer Gardens with the Regentrix, we stopped at the Tomb of the King. Only for a moment, really. Just to allow her to rest. There, I broke the glass coffin of the Monteyn.”

“You what?”

“I was sure that—because of my will, my need, my very audacity—he’d come back to life,” whispered Elasirr. He was looking directly at Elasand, smiling, anger blazing within him, and with it, bitter soft laughter. “And so, Elas, I defiled his grave!”

For a moment, Elasand was stricken. “What happened?” was all he managed to say unbelievingly. “Did he—”

“Did he what? Nothing happened,” interrupted Ranhé softly. “He was cold as a rock, a true corpse. Nothing magic, nothing sacred. Only a poor dead man. I myself touched him.”

There was a sound of a bed creaking, and they turned to see Deileala moving, then sitting up also, pulling up the blanket to cover herself.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” said Vaeste calmly. “It’s a good thing indeed that you are with us here.”

“Really? Spare me the pretense,” said Deileala, blinking sleepily. “I know what all of you are thinking. You’d rather this were Hestiam or Lirr, or anyone other than useless me. Even now, they might be dead already. But I am glad to be here, truly, more than any one of you can imagine. For, now, I swear to you all, we will take Feale and his dark ones, and I myself will rip his heart out if he happens to have one! And I promise, you will not once regret having Deileala Grelias in your midst!”

Elasirr smiled bitterly. “Well said, Your Grace. Such fierce words, as always. Oh, I believe you.” And then he added, “By the way, welcome to the Inner City. I regret I have nothing better to offer Your Grace than this lodging, my own personal quarters.”

And only now did the Regentrix pause to think, and then she stared intently at him, saying, “Your own quarters? You? Could it be that you are the Guildmaster of this place and not Elasand-re Vaeste? But—I’d been so sure that he was the one—”

“My brother is the one who is lord here,” said Vaeste.

“Your brother? What in the world?” Deileala stared.

“It’s a long story and there’s not much time, Your Grace,” said Elasirr. “I leave it up to him to explain to you all the mysteries of the Light Guild. But now, there is work to do. And in many ways, we are already too late.”

From the outside, the weakling dawn intensified.

It is said that when a City fights to defend itself, it does so as one beast. All Cities have their own particular way that unifies those who live inside its mother walls.

Streets were empty in Tronaelend-Lis. But the houses, everywhere, had eyes.

And below the streets, where the sewers ran with rot, the corridors were busy as a hive. In the Southern Quarter, where there was only one universal law, that of Bilhaar—which was indeed, as one knows now, but illusion, a front for the Light Guild—the other Guilds sent messengers between them, and information was carried back and forth, regarding the Enemy.

However, it appeared that the Enemy knew this very well, and yet let it slide, as though such insurrection was insignificant enough not to warrant any repercussion.

Indeed, slowly, subtly, over the passage of days, Dirvan and its closest perimeter was now off limits for the underground—unpassable due to Qurthe infiltration.

There was something remarkable about this Enemy, the Qurthe. They were so insidious that some superstitious folk started referring to them as shadows.

There had also been a remarkably small number of deaths in the City, as a consequence. The token few—often simple homeless—were slaughtered and left on the streets, not so much for acts of resistance but for no specific reason at all. They functioned as reminders of the Qurthe presence. And most of those who lived here were untouched. Instead, a strange new apathy came to permeate the City, a slow deadening of sense, of all desire, together with a thick rolling fog of supernatural twilight.

The apathy bred confusion, an atmosphere of psychic fear, and ultimately inaction. Thus, they all sat in their own homes behind locked doors, shuttered windows, and drawn curtains, in the dark, afraid even to light conventional candles. All City commerce ceased, the Markets remained closed, and food distribution became inordinately difficult. Not all felt this shortage yet, since many—especially the older and the invalid—were too afraid to even venture outside in search of food.

Thus the City starved behind voluntarily locked doors, in the dark, for seven days.

Until the unnatural dawn of the eighth.

Rough hands shook Hestiam out of the cold deep abyss. He had been dreaming of something obscurely physical, body shapes and swaying limbs, and an overlaying monochrome pallor, depression.

He came awake gasping, confusion muddling his senses, and then saw the Qurthe, their dark impassive faces silhouetted against the dawn of the window, leaning over him.

Even after several days in their constant presence, he still cringed. Half-rising on his bed, he drew back, staring with dilated eyes at the opened door and past the guards at the opaque form that had entered.

The Twilight One was here, the edges of his outline blurring in the eternal dusk. Once again, it seemed to Hestiam, he was seeing a mirage, watching through a curtain of hot warping air, and the form on the other side was not quite there, never quite where he thought it to be.

“What do you want from me?” whispered the Regent in the unnatural silence, his voice cracking with sleep, fearing that silence of theirs more than anything else. “Where is my sister? And the others?”

The demonic form stood above him, leaning down, and from somewhere came an alien voice. “Are you ready to die, Hestiam Grelias?”

Panic rose in Hestiam, and at the same time a cold numbing of his extremities. It was cold here, so shuddering cold in this little dark room.

And then, in the twilight, he was hypnotized by two phosphorescent inhuman eyes.

Hestiam felt the cold reach out, deepen within him, and he could no longer feel his hands, could barely expand his diaphragm to breathe. Terror was rising all around him in tendrils of smoke. He was fainting.

“Please . . .” he whispered, not caring that it sounded weak and pathetic. “Please, I don’t want to die . . . I’ll do anything . . . Just don’t kill me.”

The eyes watched him.

“Where is Deileala?” mumbled Hestiam. “I want her, please, let me see my sister . . . Or at least, let me see Lirr! You’ve let me talk to him before. Even yesterday, you allowed me—”

“Your sister is no longer here.”

“What do you mean?”

But the soulless eyes continued looking through him.

A knot began to rise in Hestiam’s throat, as for the first time in a long time, he felt like a little boy, just wanting to burst out weeping, to bury his face in the pillow, and maybe feel Deileala’s soothing warm hand against his curling hair.

“Please don’t . . . Please, I don’t want to die . . .” was all he managed to mutter, over and over again.

Confusion rose in him, interspersed with fear, waves of dusk and nausea, and the form of Feale shimmered before his eyes.

“All will die today,” said the form in the twilight. “Even now, they gather in the secret places, gather their weak forces, thinking to fight me, to make a stand today. Yes, I know it all. But they don’t know I see every move they make, every finger that is lifted, every secret intimate doubting thought.”

“Who?” whispered Hestiam in a shaking voice. “Who are they that gather?”

“The Light Guild,” replied Feale, leaning even closer to look into the Regent’s dilated eyes. “The Light Guild prepares to ride against me even now.”

And then in the dusk, the Enemy smiled.

In the Outer Gardens of Dirvan, mists were dispersing, as the obscured weak sun slowly mounted the sky. A man in dull black armor stood on the marble steps of a small domed structure that had been his Tomb.

He was motionless, except for the wind touching his long pale tendrils of hair. He stared ahead of him, into the distance, past the sculpted trunks of ebony trees, past cultivated shrubbery of hueless grays, beyond the distant sparkling Arata that today reflected a weaker sun.

He stood, and as the diluted sun came down upon his form, if one were to look closely, there was a strange auric radiance, a corona around his outline. His silhouette seemed to waver, because the air around him held light, gathered it from the weak luminary in the sky, and intensified it, until strange eddies of color appeared to form from that light, and followed him.

The colors danced and, convoluting, replaced one another like snakes of aerial vapor, like oil spilled upon a body of water.

He stood, breathing soft and deep with ancient lungs, watching the panoramic monochrome sight before him with unblinking pale eyes, somewhat vacant—eyes of a newborn child, or an old man remembering.

Unnatural silence and dusk filled the Military Quarter. Two hours before noon, and yet the darkness rivaled the autumn early-evening twilight.

The Army Barracks, an old stone and wood structural complex, bisected in the center by the Fringes Thoroughfare, had stood empty for decades, and had been used as temporary shelter for the homeless and a playground by street urchins.

Today, something was different.

Since dawn, cloaked forms had been seen passing the streets and alleys on their way here.

From the nearby Guild House of the Warrior Guild, groups of five and ten, armed with swords, seemed to appear as though out of thin air, and walked carefully to the old Barracks. From the opposite sides, where stood the Guild House of the Military Guild, came another steady trickle of humanity.

Apparently there were no Qurthe patrols here, in the Quarter. An insult, for the Enemy did not think them a threat.

Interspersed with the common soldiers, there were frequent black-clad masked figures, carrying their signature two swords—the Bilhaar. What an uncommon sight! Bilhaar never mingled with others, were only rumored to be seen during actual assassination encounters. This was indeed a first.

The members of the Military and Warrior Guilds were wary of the assassins in their midst. All stood aside to let the black ones pass. However, as the crowds thickened, there was little room left to keep them apart, and so the varied multitude stood close together in the open Barracks parade ground. It was a crowd imbued with extraordinary silence.

Finally, a bearded man, dressed in the black uniform of Bilhaar, mounted a block to stand above the crowd, and took the mask off his face.

“I am Marihke Sar!” he cried, and waves of hushed utterances passed through the gathering at the sound of his name. “You know me, all of you, not by face, but by reputation. I am the right hand man of the one who leads the Assassin Guild. He asked me to speak for him now, for he is already on his way to where all of us will be going soon. The golden hell! Dirvan, where the Enemy sits!”

More hushed voices in the crowd, full of inquiry.

“Yes, don’t be surprised. The Assassin Guild stands with all of you against the invader!” he continued.

“How can we trust you, murderer?” a warrior cried from somewhere up in front. “Only days ago I had fought one of your assassination attempts upon a noble lord I serve! I still have unhealed wounds from your blades!”

Marihke looked disdainfully in his direction. “You are lucky then, man. Lucky that we let you live in that encounter. And if you’d been better trained, and conscripted with a real Army, then you might have fared even better against us. And had there been a real Army and a real government, the enemy of your lord would have had the services of a strong civil judiciary force instead of having to resort to our dubious clandestine services to destroy him. Which brings me to my point.”

And then he again addressed the general multitude. “We Bilhaar, your guilty conscience and enforcer, your sword arm, and your hired shield, your dark law and your executioner, are on the side of all of you today, ready to fight for this City, to take back Tronaelend-Lis from the Qurthe!”

“How can we fight something we cannot touch?” cried another man from the crowd. “Look around you. It’s dark during day, the Twilight One’s doing! What have we to fight that? What have you, with your double swords and your fancy tactics? Nothing!”

“Not true!” cried Marihke, his voice rising with force. “We have the Light Guild, and it is the only thing the Enemy fears!”

“Then show us the Guildmaster! Let him come forth at last!” they cried from the multitude. “Let him reveal his face to us, and lead us in battle! We follow the Light Guild, not Bilhaar!”

Voices swelled all around, furious, passionate, hopeless.

Marihke stood before them in silence, waiting for them to have their say. But seeing that no one was willing to stop their outcries, he raised his hands up in a calming gesture, palms outward before him.

And was again ignored. The crowd’s momentum had risen to exclude his moment of authority.

For that reason, Marihke resorted to something that Elasirr had warned him to try only if all else failed.

His hands still upraised, he brought the palms together, and willed the familiar energy to gather from the center just above his abdomen, and flow into his fingertips.

And then he released it.

The crowd gasped as one, as the sphere of red light exploded from his hands and rose three feet in the air above his head. It was at least five feet in diameter, and it blazed with steady incredible fury, a fallen sun.

And as universal silence came to them, Marihke began to speak, this time heeded by everyone, while the red fire blazed above him, and tinted his severe features with pasted-on color light: “It is time, O City, that you know the truth, for the end is nearly upon us! Know then, that the Bilhaar and the Light Guild are one and the same!”

And the multitude roared.

The Gates of the Inner City stood wide open, for the first time in eight days. The Guild had begun the attack by sheer force of surprise, and succeeded. Immediately upon the opening of the Gates from the inside, several of the Masters wrought spheres of orange and red, no more than half a dozen in number, and directed them to float through the thick dusky air at the guards. It was interesting to observe their reaction to the light—the first experiment of using color in battle against the Qurthe, thought Ranhé. The dark warriors stood back instantly, on reflex, shielding their eyes, and were thus distracted enough that the Guild soldiers could strike them with plain steel, and met hardly any resistance.

Elasirr rode in the forefront of the City forces, Lord Vaeste and Ranhé at his side. Their company included the Masters, select highest-ranking Bilhaar, and other non-assassin trained soldiers of the Guild—altogether only several hundred in number, all equipped with swords and small fist-sized glass orbs, as yet empty of light. On the way to Dirvan, they were to meet with the greater resistance reinforcements from the Military Quarter, composed of the Military and the rest of the City Guilds, that were supposed to have been organized and led by Marihke Sar. And they were to light and distribute the orbs to Marihke’s resistance army.

The gray sun had nearly risen to zenith in the murky sky, but its weak radiance barely warmed their skin.

They wore light cavalry armor consisting of metal link vests and strong leather bindings, light helmets of dull steel alloy, elbow gloves, and uniform trousers. Gilimas Prada had given up a considerable sum of anonymous gray jewels to various Guilds, in order to equip them thus. The armor was rather antique, procured from some old stores from the Military Quarter, and unused for at least several decades. It was thus unreliable, and all had been warned not to depend upon it for superior protection from blows.

Their swords, however, were new, modern razor-sharp steel, especially those of the Bilhaar. Even now, the Sword Guild continued to produce weapons of premium quality, because the demand was always there—not for mass-scale warfare, but for personal conflicts and assassinations.

These swords had served them well already, at the Inner City Gates.

When the Qurthe were struck down, they bled ordinary human blood. Even in confusion, many had been difficult to fell, like huge tree trunks. Another difficulty had been the piercing of their dull black iron armor, almost invincible to ordinary blows.

Only, here Bilhaar came to the rescue. They struck fiercely, with lightning speed, and only they could pierce the armor upon the first sword-blow. Other soldiers used, on the average, three blows before reaching leather and skin and flesh.

Three of the Bilhaar, a tall lithe guildsman Jimor and the brothers Teryr and Ukrt, dispatched six of the Qurthe with quick merciless strokes of their long blades, moving them in tandem, while behind them followed wild-maned Pual, and he shaped a fine web of yellow light from his upturned palms and threw it like a net to Nottom, another guildsman, who in turn passed it to a guildswoman in light leather armor, Yog-Jade, and they made a triangle of radiance that stood overhead, with the dull sun-disk paling in the background. It completely immobilized the remaining Qurthe guards.

In a matter of minutes they had freed the entrance to the Quarter, and then continued onward, leaving behind them the dead bodies of a small division of Qurthe who had been guarding the Gates all these days.

The Guildmaster and Lord Vaeste had refrained from this first exploratory strike. Instead, Elasirr had pranced in a circle, observing, while underneath him his great ebony stallion strained like a pulled-back bowstring.

When all was done, in a matter of minutes, they regrouped, and again rode out into the square before the Inner City, into the great empty Markets area.

In the distance, through gray thick air, they saw movement approaching directly from the East where lay the Military Quarter.

“Marihke is advancing,” said Elasand, the skin of his face showing pale from beneath the dark steel helmet. “And it’s time for us to converge upon them.”

“Yes,” said Elasirr impassively. “It is time.”

Off in the other direction, from the south, past the Markets, past the Arata, lay Dirvan, the heart of the City, blanketed in dusk and ebony of the Gardens.

From there came nothing but silence.

All vaporous, still. Distant motionless silhouettes.

“Where is the Enemy?” whispered Ranhé, staring into the southern empty horizon, shielding her eyes from the constant weak sun-glow. “Why doesn’t he send his forces against us here, in the open? What does he wait for? What does he expect?”

“Good question,” said Elasand. “I think Feale waits for us to come to him. Or else—”

“Or else, he toys with us,” concluded Elasirr. “We constitute no threat. He has the upper hand, with several thousand soldiers camped outside the City, and as many patrolling the inside. Our resistance is no more than a joke for him. Even with the ability to forge color light, we are still outnumbered.”

“My lord,” said Ranhé, reining in her mount to draw closer. “If such is the attitude you hold and this army holds, then there is no point at all in fighting. We are fools! Let us turn back now, go into hiding, and come up with some other more constructive and indirect means to retake the City.”

“Thus speaks the mercenary in you,” said Elasand softly, his eyes coming alive with anger. “I am rather surprised at you, Ranhé. And yet, I shouldn’t be. For some time now I had grown to trust you, and you have proved your constancy to me. It has become too easy to rely on you always being there. But was any of it genuine? I should never forget your words to me once, long ago. . . . You are loyal to nothing and no one. Even now, it’s so hard to digest, this possibility. I wonder, how much do you honestly feel for this City of ours?”

“Does it matter?” she retorted. “I am still here, my Lord Vaeste, and will serve you while I may. You choose to misunderstand me. My suggestion was only in bitter jest. . . .”

“If so, it was poorly timed!” said Elasand, angry still.

But Elasirr turned to her, his eyes half-lidded as always, his gaze hidden, and he examined her blankly, without judgment, as she sat in the saddle, facing him silently.

The wind was strong here in the open space of the Markets, blowing in their eyes. Elasirr’s pale blazing hair was gathered behind him underneath his helmet, but the air currents tugged at the fine flaxen strands from behind.

She watched those pale soft strands of hair, flowing in the wind.

For a moment, Ranhé’s mind wandered, and she found herself disembodied, taken out of this time and place, simply looking at the man before her, and next to him his raven-haired idealistic brother with the pale beautiful eyes. Once, those eyes of Elasand Vaeste had touched her, wounded her. And yet, it was not he, but this one, the man with the secretive gaze of the assassin, who somehow appeared to understand her. He, and not the Lord Vaeste—who now accused her of something so far from her true intent—he was the one who now watched her, trying to fathom the true motives underlying her words.

“Actually, you’re right, we’re fools,” he replied blankly, looking into her eyes. “And yet, it’s too late to do anything else. We cannot turn back. This was meant to be.”

“But how can you know?” she tried again.

“I know, for I saw this come to pass. In the forest, at the old shrine. I saw some of it.”

“Then—you must know the outcome of this battle?”

But Elasirr turned away from her in that instant, and directed his stallion forward. Elasand meanwhile, still looked at her with reproachful eyes, and then said curtly, “Come along.”

“I am sorry. I will now be silent and humorless, unto oblivion,” she added, urging her mount to follow.

And then, she saw what it was that made Elasirr begin to move.

Directly south of them, at the bright reflective strip of the Arata, a blackness began to form.

It was moving directly for them.

Black poured forth from Dirvan along the bridges over the canal, and obscured the pallid marble. Black took shape in the distance and solidified into a cavalry, like a moving wall, with the great scaled beasts moving in the forefront, and mounted upon their backs were the Qurthe warriors.

Sun fell upon them and was dissolved in the swarthy armor, their cold iron, the sea of great pikes, their crested helmets.

All dull hueless, shapeless. All uniform, a flowing river of boulders, of mud, of volcanic ash. Twilight moving upon them, deepening into true night.

The Enemy was moving directly north of Dirvan, toward them.

Heading straight for the Inner City.

Gray dull sky outside. The sun, an orb of insipid glow, floating near zenith.

Hestiam Grelias stood near the window, looking out. Next to him, Chancellor Lirr was pacing tiredly, with folded hands, stepping gingerly between the two black guards standing near the door, and the other three lined up near the north wall.

In the corner, in a large comfortable chair, drowned a small figure of a young boy. He sat huddled in the chair, his feet propped beneath him, arms wrapped around his knees tightly. He had longish soft hair of an indeterminate shade of darkness, and deathly pale skin. His eyes were dull, empty of any expression.

“How are you holding up, Lissean?” said the Chancellor gently, pausing to look at the boy.

The boy’s eyes focused momentarily, as though his soul was pulled into his body only at the sound of his name being called. “I am fine, sir,” he replied softly, and then grew vacant again.

Hestiam turned back to stare at him nervously for a moment, before again resuming his observation of the sight outside. “Any moment now,” he whispered. “Any moment, and he will walk in to torture me.”

“You must have strength, Your Grace,” responded Lirr.

“What’s the point? He said we will all die today. That’s why he brought the two of you here . . . So that he can torture me with death—yours, mine—”

“I am not afraid,” said Lissean suddenly.

At that moment, the door opened.

Feale came inside softly, a figure of sable elegance. Slim he was, like a slender demon, and tall.

Chancellor Lirr watched impassively the smooth blackness of his skull, the beautiful shape of the brows above the eye sockets.

Hestiam froze and took a step back.

“Don’t be afraid, Your Grace,” said Lirr. “That is exactly what he wants you to feel. He has power where there is fear.”

Feale turned to face the Chancellor, and he in turn felt himself freezing suddenly, immobilized on the inside. “Do you not fear me?” his serpent voice sounded.

Lirr felt his skin crawl. But he said, “I am not afraid of you, no.”

Eyes watched him out of a face of shimmering darkness. “Then you do not see me . . .” said the hollow voice. “Look at me, Rollen Lirr, and be afraid.”

“No!” said Lirr, while cold welled, took hold of him. “I will not!”

But the Enemy continued watching, and the gaze of his eyes was the source of fear itself, of immobility.

Something painful started to expand within Lirr’s chest. He fought it, fought the sense of a great rock pressing against his lungs, blocking out the flow of air.

“Lirr?” said Hestiam. “Lirr? What is happening?”

But his voice had grown so remote, and the Chancellor no longer heard him, tiny beads of sweat breaking out over his gray skin, fighting that overwhelming boulder of granite, the cold pressing upon him, the inordinate cold.

It is not for you, Grelias, but for this City that I do this. . . .

And because he continued resisting, to the very end, the cold had become paramount within him. . . .

The body of Rollen Lirr crumpled lifeless to the floor.

Hestiam cried out, panic rising, but the guards converged upon him, and he was held back within a painful grip on both sides.

“He should have been afraid,” whispered Feale.

“Oh, but I am! Afraid, yes! Please! Please, don’t!” whimpered Hestiam, tears beginning to run down his face into his beard.

In that instant, there was a fluttering movement somewhat in back of them, as the boy jumped up from his chair, and sprung forward like a cat.

Feale stood with his back turned, and Lissean’s blow landed in the very center, between the shoulder blades. He had been concealing a small razor-sharp knife in the soles of his shoes, and now that bright blade was embedded deeply within the dark form.

Alhveh, Lord of Empty Skies and Death, help me!

Feale went still.

Hestiam’s whimpering dwindled into shock, while guards released him, and also froze, watching the Twilight One.

Slowly Feale turned around and faced the boy who stood behind him with dilated eyes.

Lissean stared at him, and then said, “I am not afraid of you, monster! Die!”

And then Feale reached behind him with one slender dark hand, and pulled the small blade out of himself.

He did not even blink. In the place where the blade had entered, there was no blood, only a gaping sliver of darkness. And, as Hestiam watched it in absolute terror, the wound began to close, and even the clothing appeared seamless, as though nothing had touched him.

Feale stood facing the boy, holding the slim dagger whose blade was bright and clean.

Alhveh . . .

The boy’s expression slowly darkened, and he whispered, “What are you?”

“I cannot die, you know,” said Feale, while a thin beautiful smile slowly grew on his lips. “Poor child. Nothing you can do may kill me.”

“Who are you?” again whispered Lissean, and this time his brave voice cracked, while a tear began to roll down his cheek.

And Feale reached forward to place a slender finger of darkness against that tear.

“Poor fearless child . . . Yes, you must cry now. . . .”

And Lissean drew back, weeping, while Hestiam watched, like an impotent coward, silent, afraid even to breathe.

Ranhé watched from the corner of her eyes as the Lord Vaeste, to her left, bared his sword from its sheath with one precise movement, and sat his saddle, waiting. Only for a moment she saw his shining terrible expression. Something tugged inside her chest, a painful connection, from her to him. Only for a moment—because her helmet restricted the visual field before her, a slow precursor to chaos. . . .

Up ahead, the Qurthe. A low gathering sonic rumble. A black wall of bristling scales of their beasts, and the long pikes, approaching, drawing nearer with each heartbeat. It seemed like a grand caterpillar rolling sideways at them, inevitable, with a million trunks that were beasts’ feet, a million protrusions, sharp angles, edges of blade, polygon and parabolic curves—all unforgiving darkness.

A deep primal depression arose. They could all feel it, encroaching, quite physical, with the advent of the Enemy.

Apathy . . . Uncertainty . . . Fear . . . That was the real first attack.

From the east, Marihke and the rest of the City forces moved into position, having reached them before the Enemy did. And now their ranks quadrupled, and the two divisions merged swiftly, with planned precision. Having turned about, they now faced the Enemy.

The Guildmaster was in the forefront. He sat his saddle motionlessly, not having made a move to draw his sword, staring straight ahead with an impassive gaze that Ranhé found stonelike and frightening, and new in him. For, she had seen him reflect many moods—demonic, bored, charming, sadistic, mercurial, astringent, even vulnerable—but never one of death.

She knew what the Light Guild had been instructed to do upon his signal, and was ready with her own small glass orb that she’d taken out to hold before her in the gloved palm of her hand.

The Qurthe war engine was so close now that it was possible to distinguish individual beasts and riders in the front ranks.

In their center came the giant.

Ranhé remembered him well, from the one occasion she had to see him, the swarthy muscular superman with utterly black eyes and a voice not unlike a ghost.

Lord Araht Vorn.

He rode now at the lead of the greatest black army this City had ever seen, just as he had once promised, the precursor to the Twilight One who came after him, the one whose name was not to be pronounced.

They were so close now. Only a hundred feet away. Heaviness emanated from them like a cloud of newly cremated ashes.

Elasirr raised a gloved right hand, palm upward. Wait, just a little closer. . . .

Despair. . . .

She could see the front angular formation, with Lord Vorn at the crux.

Wait. . . .

She saw Lord Vorn’s helmet, the flash of his great pike held aloft, perfectly vertical in his left hand, and his extended battlesword, only twenty feet away. . . .

Now!

Elasirr’s upraised gloved hand exploded with orange lightning, while at the same time, all the Masters who were in the front ranks, held forth the orbs, and the other guildsmen in the rows just behind them, and so on—and like bursts of water in a great fountain, colors exploded everywhere, to fill the glass reservoirs with solid light.

Within a heartbeat, the front line became a great necklace of varied color jewels. It stood as a boundary between the rest of the resistance and the approaching dark.

Ranhé breathed deep, gathering from somewhere inside herself the still unfamiliar energy. And then she let it out through her fingers. Her glass orb instantly blazed violent scalding yellow, shining brighter than the controlled orbs of the other Masters around her. In her eagerness and adrenaline-laced panic, she had overcompensated.

Immediately, as they had been instructed, she turned behind her, and handed her burning orb to the Guildsman just flanking her, who in turn received her orb, shielding his eyes from its glare, and together with his own, passed it on backward, down the ranks. These orbs were meant for the rest of the army, the non-Guildmembers, those who could not make their own color light.

She and the Masters in the front row were to create light without orbs to contain them. . . . For, without color, the depression (which had now become a solid, rich, thick, tangible thing) would muddle all thought and make all resistance impossible.

But merely staring at the colors eased the apathy. It brought enough momentary clarity and truth to allow movement, action.

In that instant, the Qurthe struck.

Upon the appearance of color, they had paused for a span of heartbeats.

And then, they continued their approach.

As though nothing had happened.

How different were these warriors from the ones at the Gates of the Inner City.

Elasand, having handed over his radiant violet orb to someone behind him, raised his sword, and suddenly the whole blade was enveloped with violet light. With a cry, he moved forward, and was the first of them to meet the black metal of the Enemy.

Ranhé, watching his back carefully, moved in line behind him, like a shield. And in the next instant of flurry, a great faceless black rider was before her, and she struck his pike away by reflex, with the back of her sword. At the same time, her mount nearly reared up, for the scaled beast came crashing past, as all of their ranks mingled then, and it was one melee of jet vacuum and color brightness. . . .

Off to the side, past Lord Vaeste, who was parrying a Qurthe sword with his own burning violet one, she saw Elasirr. He, no longer human, two Bilhaar blades drawn—both of razor-sharp irahi steel—was striking another Qurthe, cutting through the dull ebony iron of his chest plate with dispassionate precision, cutting him down until the dark one actually fell, while his riderless mount stumbled, rocking upon its elephantine scaled bulk, and careered sideways and somewhere behind. . . .

All a few feet away from the great form of Vorn.

She could see him in flashes, as clearly as she saw Elasirr, and he was making his way directly toward the Guildmaster.

But in that moment, she could do nothing but stay seated in the saddle, and strike at the dark forms that came at them from the front, strike and parry, and be the living shield for the man whom she had pledged to serve. And she realized suddenly that she’d forgotten another weapon at her disposal—her ability to create color light.

And as all had turned into slow motion, all movements dull with apathy, mechanized, all but her breath, pounding in her temples, she had enough presence to draw forth the strange energy deep inside, and think of ripe fields of wheat underneath a blazing topaz sky. . . .

Dersenne! Help me!

Upon which, her fingers ignited, while the blade of her sword began to burn.

With it, a sense of reality returned, and she could move again.

The man in ancient black armor, framed by a strange corona of color light, walked down the gently sloping steps of marble from the Mausoleum, and paused for a moment, hearing from the distance the sounds of battle.

He stopped, because only a few feet away, alien-shaped beasts rode the gravel path, and mounted upon them were sable warriors in impenetrable armor. They bore no banners to identify them, no markings on their armor. And yet he knew as surely as he knew his own name that they did not belong to this City, were somehow alien, an invader, an enemy. His enemy.

They did not see him. He stood, shielded by several tall ebony cypresses, and watched their hurried progress down the path of the Outer Gardens (which he recognized at last, and now knew exactly where he was).

And then, as the company moved out of view, he resumed walking, still unsure of his final destination, but drawn forward somehow.

His muscles felt stiff and heavy as old lead. But as he walked, they regained a portion of normal feeling, including the old pain in the area of his chest and abdomen.

He stopped again, remembering it, the pain. Yes, it was still there, the old illness that had first come upon him very gradually, it seemed, and had at last gotten so unbearable that he had sought the doctors. And the physicians of the Palace had all concluded it was a cancerous growth within him, and there was nothing much they could do. For that reason, they had promised to perform something which he had at first gravely resisted.

But the Council had insisted eventually, having voted him down, for they had all loved him so well—their young just King. . . . He was to comply, and he was to be placed in a suspended state.

They had called it Stasis. At least, that’s the term they used to describe it to him. He wouldn’t be dead, not really, they said. He would simply fall asleep, and then, be “suspended,” all of his living biological activity halted in a single moment of time, including the cancer.

And then, they told him, he would wake up in the future.

Some day, there would be physicians who would know the way to cure him, and then he would be brought around.

“But for what?” he’d said. “Who would need an ancient anachronism for a King? I would rather die like all other men, and have my body turn to dust. I care not that I am still young. It is my time, and I bow to the will of gods.”

And yet, he had cared. Even as he had spoken the words, he knew with a momentary sense of suffocation, that he was not prepared for death, not yet. Not in the prime of his life.

And yet—was this Stasis not a death in itself? There had been no guarantee, and one of the doctors had admitted it to him in secret, admitted that he might never wake again.

The vapid sun came down softly upon him, as he stood thus, thinking, remembering. . . . And it occurred to him suddenly, with a bright shock of terror, that this was the future, and he had awakened, or been awakened somehow, and yet, none of it was as he had expected, none of it was real.

For, this was not his world. It couldn’t be! What was this gray darkness? What stifling terrible filter had been placed upon his eyes like a curtain, that the only things he could see were shades of black and gray?

He stood, and brought his gloved fingers up before his eyes, staring at them, staring at the monochrome gradations of dark and light, at the impossible.

In that moment, there came a soft movement somewhere to his left, and he saw two men walking slowly—no, creeping upon the path. They were dressed unlike the others, those black ones who had just ridden by. They seemed ordinary, belonging to the City, the style of their clothing somewhat different, but not enough to stand out. They were spies.

One of the men held a short bared sword in a tight fist, and the other, looking around him constantly, walked in the front.

He was the one who turned suddenly, and glanced directly at the ancient one.

He froze. Behind him, his fellow also went motionless, and then, seeing what the other saw, his eyes widened, and his jaw dropped in shock.

They stared, both of them, stared directly at him as he stood.

They had recognized him, the form out of legend. Not so much his face, as that antique dark steel armor. They had seen it several times, when children, from a distance, under glass. And the impression had stayed with them. They would not mistake it for anything. . . .

The strange bright light that stood in small moving eddies all around him, the color aura. . . . The fact that he was only a few feet away from the Tomb—

With a stifled harsh outcry, the first one of the men jerked forward suddenly, and then began to run. He ran, heedless of the fact that somewhere just ahead was the Enemy.

The second man remained frozen for the span of several seconds, and his eyes were round and incredulous. The short bared sword had dropped from his hand and landed softly on the gravel.

The man in antique armor stepped forward then, and came closer to the terrified one.

“Oh gods! Oh gods! Who are you? Who—” the other began to mutter. “Who, in the name of the Rainbow, who are you?”

And then, came a soft voice—rusty at first, for the vocal cords have been unused for centuries:

“I . . . am your . . . King.”

And the other man fell forward on his knees, beginning to mutter senselessly about the end of the world, and bowed with his face into the gravel and the silver grass of Outer Dirvan, at the feet of Alliran Monteyn.

The Qurthe had pushed them backward, like a strong tidal force, back along the open space of the Markets, toward the Inner City.

Ranhé found herself forced together with the others, and separated from Elasand. And now she was fighting alongside several other Masters, one of which was Nilmet. In flashes she remembered his words at the inn, that he would never kill. But it was all so irrelevant now, the world turning upside down. The Philosopher stubbornly continued to hold his weapon, and his blade cut just as did hers. . . .

There was also Gilimas, the bearded man who had been the richest man in the City and now played the soldier like all the rest of them. There was the bizarre reality of Vaeste’s petite cousin, Cyanolis, a courtesan with a light sword who managed to hold her own against giant dark forms of dull steel. There were the familiar Bilhaar, among them young Ukrt and Teryr, and the wiry youth Tarateal, their cousin, who not only sliced with the tandem longswords, but wielded the arin sling at close range, bringing down the enemy soldiers with surprising accuracy. And there were a number of guildsmen she did not know, all struggling against numerous Qurthe warriors, both mounted and on foot, that had come from all sides, it seemed, like faceless terrors out of the deepest nightmare. . . .

Color had proved to be a dubious weapon. It seemed to affect the Enemy less than it invigorated the one creating the color. Thus, it was a better shield, a thing to clarify one’s senses, to keep one focused upon the battle, and to beat off the apathy.

Her sword arm ached, and her shield arm was numb, while the antiquated shield itself was battered into scraps. From overhead, the slow impotent sun had heated up the metal parts of her armor, and sweat gathered within, pouring down her body, plastering her tendrils of hair to her brow. Air came heavy in her lungs. . . .

And yet, her sword continued to burn, enveloped in yellow, and she kept her eyes focused upon its clarity, as she continued to strike all around her, no longer distinguishing separate dark riders, no longer knowing the limbs before her.

At some point, she lost track of the Guildmaster, and Vorn also had seemed to be taken elsewhere by the tide of battle. She was now somewhere on the side of the open Markets area, and Elasand was still within her sight, fighting fiercely, with no other guildsmen to protect him.

“Follow me!” she cried hoarsely, during a moment of respite, choking on her own breath, to Nilmet. “We must get closer to the Lord Vaeste! Come!”

Nilmet had a long bloody gash at the side of his cheek that ran down along his throat. And yet, he grinned at her, brandishing his sword quite clumsily, and nodded, while beating away a Qurthe rider’s blow.

It was a miracle that both of them were still alive.

She must be bleeding too, and yet she did not feel it. This was what hell must be. . . . A place where you simply could not stop to take a breath, could not stop, for that would be your end. Just keep moving, keep raising the sword arm, and strike, parry, strike, or else someone will strike you.

The Twilight One rode a great ebony beast. His armor was ornate like the night, and sun came down and disappeared in the matte dull surface of its vacuum.

Behind him, on a lesser beast, came Hestiam, dressed in bare cotton trousers and tunic, his body shackled at the waist to the girdings of his mount, while just behind him was the young boy Lissean, chained in turn to the former Regent of Tronaelend-Lis.

All around them, a sea of mounted warriors, a wall of pikes and sable shields, with no insignia upon them, yet clearly Qurthe.

They had left the Inner Gates of the Palace and were in the Outer Gardens of Dirvan.

The world stood in a gray haze before them, with the Gardens seen through a filter of ashes.

All shapes, surreal.

No sound, except for the passage of the warbeasts, and the striking of metal joints. Overhead, the indifferent weakling sun.

The gravel path before them had become worn, uprooted, from the many tracks of beast and warrior.

A few feet to the right, Hestiam noted, lifting his dull gaze of apathy, was the familiar domed roof of the Mausoleum, where lay the last Monteyn King. And for a moment, a strange sense came to him, a sense of nostalgia, tugging at his innards, an old familiar hope, a lightness that almost managed to cast off his layer of apathy. He remembered the stories, remembered seeing the antique form under glass.

But the feeling passed, just as they had passed the Tomb, riding onward, toward the burning fragmented-mirror black surface of the Arata, and somewhere up ahead, hell. . . .

The Twilight One was riding forth to join a battle which he had already won. He—someone—had said, all will die tonight.

And Hestiam, mesmerized by his own awareness of inevitability, was making himself ready, even now.

Elasand Vaeste reined in his stallion amid fallen bodies, both Qurthe and his fellow guildsmen. He turned, saw an overwhelming black shape loom before him, obscuring the sun.

The great, scaled beast reared up on its hind legs, and atop it sat the one whose crested helmet had eluded him for some time now.

“Vorn!” cried Elasand, as his temples again picked up a beat, and there was a salty taste in his mouth. He gathered himself, and his sword blade still burned glorious steady violet.

The black Qurth came down upon him hard, and parrying him, Elasand heard a dull thud, and a cracking of bone. And then, he felt a heaviness, as the whole world seemed to tilt to the side, while his own horse collapsed beneath him.

He had enough presence of mind to roll free, so as not to be pinned down by the bulk of his own beast, and the trampling of the enemy’s giant monstrous one.

He hit the ground with a solid thud (while agony shot through him), then scrambled up, flaming sword still in hand.

There was a roaring in his mind, and a wet warmth at his left side, far below the ribs, near the waist.

Somewhere. . . .

From somewhere far, there came screams, harsh, human. And then, unbelievably, the black giant just left him, battering onward as though he was no longer of any consequence.

Elasand stood upright, staggering, leaning on his sword, in a relative clearing.

But not for long. Now that he was down, on foot, they were coming upon him from all sides, and soon he would be in the center of a singular metal and iron darkness.

Vorn struck him down effortlessly, and was about to finish the job. The one called Vaeste staggered helpless before him, his sword flame only a minor repulsing distraction, that would not matter, not now.

But in that moment, he thought he saw her.

Like a mirage, toward the back. . . .

Yes, there!

He had been watching the field of battle, hoping against all hope that she would be there, somehow, hoping that she would come to witness.

He would again glimpse her rich paleness, and then he would take her away from it, take her, and ride madly, away.

And there, somewhere toward the City army’s flanks, he thought he saw a glimpse of her, just as he was about to finish off this Vaeste.

Dropping everything, Vorn pushed onward, past all, like a battering ram, riding hard, for surely he saw her face, was not mistaken to see her.

Deileala Grelias, the former Regentrix of Tronaelend-Lis.

Yes, she would come, of all people, to watch the battle.

She was off to the side, near the lesser buildings of the Markets Square, and around her, a small number of guards. She was mounted on a gray horse, wrapped in a pale satin cloak, bare-headed, and the wind danced in her shadow-soft hair.

Even now, the sight of her convulsed him. He would never forget it, the softness, having breathed in her unique female scent, having touched her rounded resilient flesh, her undulating fierceness in the night.

He rode forward, beating the resistance soldiers away from him with the ease of insanity, his great sword crashing down upon them, closer. . . .

Soon, he could see her face, her turned head, her startled unbelieving expression.

The two guards had come forward to block his way, to protect her, but he decapitated one with a mere flick of his monstrous sword, and threw off the other, it did not matter how or where.

He was silent, breathing rapidly and harshly underneath the closed visor, but she recognized him nevertheless, recognized his great form.

With a light scream she attempted to escape, urging her small gray horse into a light helpless canter.

But he came at her, his beast pounding, moving up alongside her, and then, reached forward with the other great gauntlet, bent down and forward, and took hold of her waist. . . .

She was pulled from her own running mount and was crushed against blood-splattered wicked iron armor, against black leather bindings, and underneath it all, against a single pounding male heart. . . .

She struggled, like a wild animal, against his grip of iron. But she was his now, his prize, as the Twilight One had long promised him. Nothing would take her away, nothing.

Vorn lifted the visor of his helmet, and she looked up in that instant, meeting the gaze of his deep midnight eyes, without a flicker of life, of meaning, only intensity.

She ceased her struggle, froze, watching those demon eyes, the sweat-slicked dark skin, inches away, as he stared at her.

Then, he brought his face forward, pressed his dark warm lips upon hers. And she was swooning suddenly, while a sensual pang came rushing through her, remembering what had come to pass, once, upon satin sheets, in the dark. . . .

His beast continued to pound forward, aimlessly now. She was locked in his steel embrace, and her thoughts turned like a carousel inside her mind, the possibilities rushing by. . . . All need for fulfillment, all regret, confusion, terror, instinct, pity—all fought for supremacy within her.

While, at the same time, her right hand fumbled with the small thing at her waist, hidden away and sharp, that she had concealed for a moment such as this, a moment where she might have to fight her own self, her own doubt.

How sweet was this strange demon’s embrace. Unlike any she ever had, all-encompassing, and deep like the earth itself. So intoxicating and inevitable, that she involuntarily brought her hands up and around his neck, from behind, meanwhile drinking the ecstatic male breath from his lips, and her fingers insinuated into his tight curling locks of hair, holding him tight to her, close and tight, for the last time. . . .

She tasted him thus, as she plunged the small, sharp, deadly instrument, a tiny woman’s dagger, into the small of his neck, right below the skull, where he was bare of leather bindings, or helmet, where he would never have been touched otherwise, except by an intimate embrace.

She could feel his instant of tensing, the pause. His lips came away from her, and his eyes met hers with a look that did not accuse, but watched for an instant, unbelieving.

Then, blood gurgled at the corner of his mouth, blood that was black and human.

He sighed, like a demon child, and then released her. And with her, released his hold on the reins, slumping forward suddenly. The momentum of the mount rocked him backward, so he fell prone to the ground.

Somehow, she remained seated in the saddle atop his beast, while for several feet, Vorn’s body was dragged against the ground. Then, regaining control of her mind, she took the reins feverishly, and kicked forward, so that his body was freed of the stirrup and bindings. And as he fell away at last, she put the knuckles of her left hand to her mouth, and bit them, and then began to sob, wildly, horribly, as she had never wept before.

“Bitch! Damn you . . .” she gasped between wrenching sobs.

The Regentrix wept, because she had killed her demon lover, her Enemy, her very need, her personal obsession. But even more so, she wept because she was now truly free, at last.

Elasand had taken hold of a Qurthe battlesword with both hands, in a deadly grip. He had lost his shield some time ago, broken the slender blade of his longsword, and grabbed a dead man’s weapon that was closest to him.

His side was bleeding profusely, and he could already feel the languid stupor that was gathering, and soon would overwhelm him. And yet, he had to continue to stand, because two more enemy riders were bearing down on him.

“My lord!”

He swung around, disoriented, squinting his eyes, and saw Ranhé riding toward him from the other direction, and behind her, several others of the Light Guild.

“Hold on, only for a little longer, my lord!”

And then she was at his side, reining in her mount sharply, splattered with blood, but seemingly unhurt, while her own sword continued to burn a garish brilliant yellow.

“I am surprised—at you—Ranhé—” he stuttered, looking up at her, breath catching in his throat. “That you still would fight for me.”

“What else would I do?” she exclaimed angrily then, for the first time raising her voice at him.

“But you are loyal to no one, you said—you said so to me once—you said—” He was raving, in delirium.

“My lord, you are a rare fool! Is this any time to discuss loyalty? Watch out behind you!”

And as she spoke, he turned and then simultaneously ignited the Qurthe blade with violet brilliance—the sight of which managed to clear his mind just a little—and brought it up in a parry, to counter a blow from one of the dark warriors that had come upon him.

Ranhé immediately moved in to intercept, at the same time telling him to fall back, and she engaged the enemy soldier.

“Vorn is down!” she cried out the bit of news to him, in between blows. “And the Guildmaster is nowhere to be seen! But Marihke has rallied a strike on the other side of the Markets, and the resistance forces seem to be making some headway there.”

He staggered, still reeling from the force of the parried blow, while from the other side came another enemy warrior, and then, more guildsmen appeared as their reinforcements.

But then a silence from behind them. All turned, involuntarily, pausing in their battle, even the Qurthe.

Like a parting sea, the Qurthe made way, retreating on both sides, allowing passage to a great beast and the one who sat in the ornate saddle, higher than all others.

Feale the Twilight One rode directly toward them, and all behind him, a tidal wave of absolute darkness, a thick wall of soldiers and warbeasts, all bearing down.

Ranhé cursed, then finished off the Qurthe with one final quick strike—he had hesitated also, looking at his approaching lord, and it cost him his life.

“Get behind me, my lord!” she exclaimed then, and bent forward, her gloved hand outstretched to him. “Hurry! My horse can carry us both—”

“No!” Elasand roared then, because blood sounded like a swell of an ocean in his temples. “No, get away from me! He is mine—go, save yourself, freewoman!”

“Don’t be an idiot, you are about to pass out!” She grabbed hold of his shoulder, but he shrugged her off, with more remaining strength than she suspected, and then glanced in her direction with wild eyes.

“Do you want to die, my lord? Is that it?” she screamed at him, furious, while cold began to gather within her.

The moment slowed, and she thought she saw his soul in that gaze.

Let me be, his eyes said. Let me do what I must.

And brimming with that now overwhelming inner cold that may have been sorrow, or perhaps fear, she finally nodded in helpless acquiescence—for even now she could not deny him—and reining in her steed, moved aside and just behind him.

Thus, the wounded man stood alone before the Twilight One.

The first thing that happened was the disappearance of violet. Elasand’s sword, blazing one second with the brilliance of color, went dull and ordinary the next. Light had sputtered, like a blown-out candle, and was no more.

Overhead, the twilight sun.

All around, motionless gray air.

Elasand stood, blood draining away from his face, while dark seemed to grow into a mountain before him, and its source was the form—vaguely human—atop the warbeast. It, the darkness, curled into tendrils of fine vapor, and just spread, pouring outward into an aura, solidifying, and effectively blocking out all sun, whatever weak essence of it had been left.

And then the cloud of darkness continued to pour downward, and at him.

With a harsh cry, Lord Vaeste raised his sword, and focused all his remaining will into a memory. . . .

Laelith.

Immediately, he was a human torch, igniting with violet fire. Fire ran throughout him, and continued outward, sweeping the sword blade, and then past, like a beam of perfect lightning, at the dark form of Feale atop his great beast.

Ranhé caught her breath. For an instant, it seemed the light would actually reach the Enemy, would touch him, burn him away into perfect oblivion.

But the Twilight One lifted his hand, and pointed a single finger. Black lightning, like an afterimage, a perfect antithesis, started from him and moved to intercept the violet light midway, and then, eating away at it, began to move back upon the still burning form of Elasand.

“Feale!”

The sound of the name cut through the thickness of the air, and resounded with fear among the Qurthe. The black fire paused its advance, and hung like smoke in the air, at the boundary of Elasand’s violet form. The Twilight One turned slowly and looked at the one who had spoken.

The Guildmaster of the Light Guild was just behind Ranhé. He was alone, his blade bared and intact, and he sat calm and straight-backed in the saddle of his great ebony stallion.

“Feale,” he repeated in a surprisingly quiet voice that managed to carry. “Leave this one be. It is not him you want, but myself. I rule the Light Guild.”

“I have seen you before,” said the Twilight One, the hiss of a serpent.

“Yes. You’ve seen me many times, but did not know me, even at Vaeste’s side. Remarkable, how blind and stupid you’ve been.”

A pause of silence, only the whispering slithering sound of the wind, a thickening of the air around them.

And then the Twilight One smiled. “You,” he said. “You are the one. Only, it doesn’t matter now. I will have all of you. All of you are here, at last.”

“In that, you speak true, son of a bitch! We are here!”

Ranhé started, hearing the harsh voice of Marihke Sar and his crude outcry, and turning around, saw that flanking him rode all the remaining Masters of the Guild. They had come, out of nowhere, and had slowly infiltrated and passed the perimeter of the Qurthe forces, their light temporarily extinguished, to join the Guildmaster.

“Now!” exclaimed Elasirr, and in that instant, color fire erupted all around, as each of the Masters ignited and released their light, directing it at the form of the Twilight One.

It was an absolute surprise attack, Ranhé realized, for even she had not known. However, she had enough presence of mind to join them.

Elasirr pointed his sword at the Enemy, and with a crackle of electricity, a bolt of blue radiance shot forward through him, and at the black cloud that stood around Feale. From behind him, simultaneously, came a rain of orange as Tegra Daqua, wearing light armor, spread her fingers and became a fountainhead of light. Giant green spheres erupted from the two Khirmoel, Baelinte and Erin, like comets, and fell upon the Enemy, while at the same time, Carliserall Lirr, who today was a slender woman, also wearing mail, sent forth a spinning funnel of violet wind, that rose high overhead in the shape of a twister and began descending upon the black form of the Enemy. More fireballs erupted, as Gilimas Prada bombarded the enemy with orange spinning spheres, and Cyanolis Vaeste followed up with blue strands of lightning that landed like ribbons to wind about the source of darkness. Nilmet, only a few steps away from Ranhé, began to pour forth a brilliant yellow, and Ranhé joined him, focusing upon his stream of light, so that it doubled, like a great rushing river, and fell with a crackle upon the Enemy. And Elasand, standing weakly, his form still engulfed in violet flames, joined their onslaught by forcing the light around him into an arrow of radiance that took flight and sailed at the darkness.

Their fireworks were spectacular, and lasted, it seemed, for several minutes. Color had engulfed the dull cloud around the form of Feale, and had turned the battlefield into a bright garish carnival of madness, beneath a weakling sun.

And yet, it was all laughable.

Ranhé noted—somewhere in the back of her mind, as one half of her awareness focused on the channeling of the energy—that the color light merely swept the outlines of darkness, raged, and yet could not penetrate. The form of the Twilight One remained unaffected, impossibly untouched.

And as their beautiful useless fires died away, they stood, drained, and looked with amazement upon the Enemy, who continued to smile down upon them.

“Now,” said Feale. “You are all mine.”

And Ranhé understood suddenly what he meant. She was tired, drained of the inner force that had created color, and at the same time had served to maintain her inner clarity, her sense of reality and truth. And now—now that she had poured most of it outside herself, there was almost nothing left, nothing in her energy reserves to defend herself.

Nothing to maintain her sanity against the dark.

Feale lifted his right hand, and filled it with night. And then he brought it down upon them all, in the blink of an eye.

Cold. . . .

The psychic blow came down, being quite invisible, and yet quite physical, like a heavy giant palm crushing them against the earth. Seated in her saddle, Ranhé felt its sudden impact, felt herself being pressed down, and sensed the sudden debilitating loss in her own muscles, in the muscles of the horse underneath her.

From the corner of her eye, she saw how this same strike affected all of them, saw Tegra Daqua make a pained sound and fall forward, doubled over in her saddle. She saw Marihke grab his throat, as though an invisible hand was choking him, and Carliserall Lirr sway, barely able to stay seated.

Elasand fell. He lay silent, on his last strength, the outlines of his form still vaguely exuding violet.

And then it too dimmed. He lay, somehow vaguely conscious, still impossibly aware, through a haze of encroaching dark. Having hit the ground heavily, his chain mail now pressed at him from all sides, stifling him in bands of iron, crushing his very rib cage, as he felt the ground against his cheek, his own salty blood.

Only the Guildmaster appeared unaffected. He sat straight in his saddle, and watched the Guildsmen collapse all around him, and beyond, the motionless hypnotized Qurthe.

“I see what you can do,” he said in a loud impassive voice to Feale. “Now, release them all, and confront me, at last.”

Atop his warbeast who was elephantine darkness, Feale laughed, throwing back his head in a caricature of human abandon. His hollow laughter sent ghostly echoes all around, and soft hallucinations of wind.

And then, Feale disappeared.

One blink of an eye, and he was no longer in the grand ebony saddle.

Another blink, and he stood on the ground, in the small clearing, just before the fallen Lord Vaeste.

Feale wore skintight elegant armor, and yet his outlines again appeared to waver like a mirage. In his gloved right hand was a long black sword of midnight iron. It had not been there only a second ago.

“Come down and join me, you who rule the Light Guild,” he hissed softly, and there was a strange sweetness to it, Ranhé thought, a sweetness of corruption. At the same time, she felt the psychic pressure lifted from her, as the great invisible palm released her chest, and she could once again sit up straight in the saddle.

On the ground, lying in a growing pool of his own blood, Elasand groaned, then attempted to raise his head, sensing momentary relief from the psychic onslaught. As he lay, he could see metal-shod feet, at ground level, watched them stepping in the pale dust.

Elasirr meanwhile, did not waste a second, and having dismounted lightly, was now on the ground before the dark one, his two Bilhaar swords flashing pale and deadly in both hands.

Feale leaned his head to the side in an odd human gesture, observing him with amusement, and again smiled. He stood, feet planted apart, and said, “Would you like this duel, Guildmaster? Would it please you to think you died well?”

“My lord!” suddenly came a weak voice of a child from somewhere up above, behind the Qurthe ranks. “My lord, be on your guard, for he cannot be killed! I struck him down once, and he still lives! He is not human, he cannot die!”

Without looking up, Elasirr recognized the voice of the boy-Heir, Lissean Grelias. So, the child had been dragged here, into the thick of battle. Then Hestiam must be here also. Whatever good that would do them.

“I thank you for the warning!” said Elasirr loudly. And then, without any warning of his own, his larger sword streaked forward, and sliced at the body of Feale, entering some resilient darkness at chest level, and just as quickly was retrieved again.

“Ah . . . Strike me again,” slithered the voice mockingly, with pleasure, just as Elasirr watched, incredulous, the gaping wound begin to smoke with thick ebony richness, and close up in the Enemy’s chest.

“Damn you!” spat Elasirr, and again he thrust before him, this time with both blades.

All watched the blades pierce the form of the dark one. The longer blade sliced horizontally, cleanly severing Feale’s neck. For an instant, the head hovered several inches above the body, so that one could see through the slit and all the way to the other side.

And then the head, lips still smiling, descended upon the severed neck, healed instantaneously, and was again whole.

“What are you?” whispered Elasirr harshly.

“What will you have me be?” replied laughing darkness.

Elasirr, breath catching in his throat with the cold beginning of inevitability, said grimly, while circling the form of his Enemy, “I will have you dead. I am not afraid of you, Feale. If it’s fear that makes you invincible, then you have no edge over me.”

Feale, elegant, stood back, moving in a graceful parody of Elasirr’s own Bilhaar dance.

“Fear?” he mocked. “No. Neither fear, nor lack of it matters. And yes, you are fearless . . . even to the last.”

“Is it anger, then?”

“Not even that. Besides, your anger, Guildmaster, is well under control.”

“You think you know me?” hissed Elasirr, taunting the Enemy with a killing smile. “Then why don’t you strike me, at last?”

“As you wish . . .” whispered Feale.

And unexpectedly, he took a step to the side, not toward Elasirr, but toward the form of Lord Vaeste. His black blade of vacuum arose above his head in a single-handed smooth blow. And then he brought it down, in terrible slow motion. . . .

Ranhé cried out, the only one to make a sound as the blade fell. It landed deep and slow, into the lower back of the one who lay at their feet.

Agony! So, this is all, then. . . . This is. . . .

Laelith. . . .

There was one shudder. All things took on one last intense focus.

Laelith!

With one eye, lying face on the side, he took it all in—the ground, and the dust, splattered with ebony drops of blood, softly illuminated by a weakling sun.

Laelith.

And Elasand was motionless and silent, at last.

No!

In Ranhé’s vision, spinning earth and sky.

“No!” exclaimed Elasirr at the same time, a howl of desperate fury, and surged forward madly at the Enemy, no longer thinking, no longer impassive.

But like a mirage, the Enemy shimmered and moved out of reach.

No! Elasand!

Ranhé did not know who it was that was crying. She did not know whether it was she or some other that was voicing the terrible guttural sound from within, as she swung forward from her saddle, dropping her sword (its yellow light extinguished instantly), and came at them, at the bizarre trio out of her nightmare.

No! Elasand!

She was on her knees, having thrown herself forward upon the smooth paved ground of the Markets square, only inches away from the feet of the thing that had struck him, her Lord Vaeste.

She had known all along it would be very likely that he would die in this battle—for he’d had that look of completion, of ending in his eyes. But—not like this.

She looked up, momentarily, and registered, with one part of her awareness, the bloated disk of the dying noonday sun—somewhere high up above.

He will never again see this sun. . . .

There was a dark silhouette with phosphoric alien eyes, looking down upon her, his thin curved lips.

She took hold of the bleeding body, registering the small sharp detail. The broken small links of the chain mail. His raven strands of hair, long and soft (she had never touched them, only now would she know they were soft—locks like silk). Hair, stained with deep black wetness. Instantaneous awareness of all of him. She was leaned over his body, pulling at it with both hands, then lowering herself to lie over him, over the wetness, while the world began to spin all around, imbued with that precise focused awareness. And she just repeated his name, over and over again, mouthing with her lips only, not with her voice, rocking back and forth, while her own blood drained all away from her, drained down somewhere, away from her lower extremities, and into an unspeakable void. . . .

Elasand! Elasand. Elasand . . .

He was dead, and with him, died the City. Suddenly, very clearly, nothing mattered anymore.

And she lay upon his corpse, oblivious. She did not care, in that instant, that the one who was Feale raised his demon blade for the second time, and started to bring it down slowly, precisely, upon her own lowered head.

Elasirr cried out for the second time, his voice inhuman.

Suddenly, she felt strong fierce arms grab hold of her, and she was pulled backward roughly, thrust away like a thing of straw. It was all a matter of a heartbeat, as she found herself rolling on the ground, and out of the way of blackness, which in turn came down, and struck another.

The blade had struck another in her place.

Elasirr!

“Gods, no!” she cried. “No! Gods, if you can hear me, if you exist, then no!”

She whirled around, and saw him.

The Guildmaster had gone very still suddenly. He had dropped his blades, his proud Bilhaar blades, so that he could instead take hold of her. . . .

He swayed. And then he came down on his knees. She saw a single focused look of his darkened eyes.

“This . . .” he whispered. “I had seen . . . this . . . come to pass. . . .”

And then he was silent, his head lowered forward, still on his knees, bleeding a few steps away from his brother. He, at least, still lived.

There was a cold wind gathering, pitch black as the void. It grew within Ranhé, first soft with vapor tendrils, then thickening into absolute night. She drew upon it, upon the insanity, folding it within her into a tangible form, and though she was drained, she could still mold it, pour it out from her self. . . . Not color, but—

Blackness.

Ranhé, crouched on the ground, then slowly arose, and stood facing the Enemy.

Elasand . . .

She made it come from her lips, like a soft breath, the darkness—soothing, peaceful dark. So easy to manipulate, for it was a part of her.

It sailed forward, like a kiss on the wind, like strange deathly ectoplasm, only black, and it wound about the form of Feale.

It had drawn his attention.

ElasandElasandElasand. . . .

In her mind, his name had become strung together.

“You . . .” whispered the dark serpent. “You are . . . different. Like myself. Who are you?”

elasandelasandelasand. . . .

She said nothing, but simply breathed forth the soft encroaching dark, like tendrils of rich twilight, letting it flow and wind softly like cobwebs around the outline of the Enemy.

And then, she forced it like a knot, to gather and cling to his own darkness, and mold it, move it farther away.

The cloud of twilight that stemmed from Feale and massed around them all began to shrink. She forced it, forced the dark back upon him, clearing the air for several feet, so that again they could see the weak sun overhead.

“You are not strong enough . . .” the Enemy whispered then, appearing to stand before her, so close that she could see the dull phosphor of his eyes.

And with that, he swept her into absolute night.

There was no frame of reference. Ranhéas Ylir stood in a black void, feeling no ground beneath her feet. Her lungs took in some thickness, no longer air. She was growing cold and numb. And the darkness that she was manipulating had grown beyond her embryonic scope. And yet, through it all, she could still see his eyes, glowing, and he was all around her, on the inside of her, enmeshed within the very fabric of the dark.

Within her mind.

No!

Nothing matters.

She sees herself small and young, as she had been. Mother crying in a locked room. She can hear her father’s droning voice which she hates and pities, for he is only ill, and his cruelty is not his fault. She feels the prickly stubble on her cheeks, and the sudden utter stifling sense of destiny, of being unable to escape it, the damned hair, ever, this—unable to escape the confines of her own body which she hates. She is not a woman, and yet she is. It, the hair, makes her untouchable, hateful.

It sets her apart.

Or maybe it widens her range of self; womanhood stretches into maleness and the lines are blurred, the same way as light stretches deeper into the shadows and then becomes darkness. It is a movement past the ordinary boundaries into the enhanced elevated place approaching union.

She hears the voice of the Phoenix, Be yourself.

No, she sets herself apart, hates herself, with the only shred of dignity, for that is all she can do to live.

She does not want to live now.

Nothing.

“I am you,” whispers the Enemy. “Look deep, and find me within yourself. You are made of the fabric of my being. You are mine, had always been. How can you fight yourself?”

Be yourself, the Phoenix speaks, beginning to weep.

And Ranhé weeps also.

I cannot fight myself, and yet I cannot be myself!

She shudders with sobs, bends forward, down, becomes fetal, small.

What are you?

The Phoenix regards her.

And Ranhé, grown small and sobbing, thinks.

If my right hand, which is myself, strikes against my will, I will lift my left hand and cut off my right, she thinks. It will hurt. . . . It will hurt unbearably. And yet, I must.

If darkness is at the core of my heart, of my being, then I must rip it out. And if in doing that I die, so be it.

And she takes it, takes the darkness, the Enemy, that which has always been a part of herself, that which she hates, gathering the night within her (hatred against the self, against that dark void, seethes inside even now, while the Phoenix screams), and she smothers it tight with her will. And as the black recedes, deep somewhere, deep, deep, so does her being, her self, the Enemy. . . .

And as Ranhéas Ylir strikes inward, she smothers the deepest part of herself that is darkness, smothers and kills herself. With herself, she is without mercy, up to the very end. . . .

The Phoenix dies then, choking in the last embers.

She dies also.

elasandelasAndelasAndelas . . . Andelas.

Dies.

Andelas!

In the darkness, from the implosion-death within her, comes a sudden brilliant flash.

The simplicity of balance.

The flash explodes, apparently from inside her, and no other place. Burning her dead retina, searing her with a moment of unique realization.

Andelas!

And from the Phoenix-self unfurling its great new wings of flame, Ranhéas Ylir is reborn.

It was bright, very sharp and bright. She saw it, akin to the face of the sun. Only, this was more intense.

Brighter even than the sun.

Clearer than the sun, in its greatest moment of zenith, superimposed upon the cleanest cloudless sky.

A light of infinite purity, one that she had never seen before.

White.

Somehow, she knew it, without ever having seen it before. She knew that white had also been within her always, hidden deep, and it represented the only constant against which she drew unconscious comparisons of all other visible light. It came now, surging into her being in place of the personal dark that she had destroyed, or rather, learned to control. . . .

For, in that place, there could never be a vacuum.

Either a predominance of light or dark. Black or white. One or the other.

Or maybe, an equal measure of both.

White was now reborn into her outer conscious, born of the deepest darkness, and in antithesis to it. She herself brought it to the surface, having dug it out of the morass of ancient inborn truth that hides within the most acute places of us all.

She had broken through, in that instant of chaos. As a diver returning from a fathomless unexplored lagoon, she came back with a pearl of white. For, her will had refused to succumb to the nothing, to the suicidal force. Instead, a new reality was created around her, filling the vacuum, and she brought the new reality with her into the world.

Andelas! she cried, equipped with a wider awareness, filled with the sudden fullness of her new self that was both female and male, light and dark, giving a name to the source of light and thus anchoring it in the present, Andelas, deliver me!

And the source of the brightest glory answered her, at the same time as it began to expand, obliterating the darkness, defusing it into paler hues of twilight, and then into the palest gray shadow, adding a sudden extra dimension to the known spectrum, at its extreme edge of brightness.

I am here, said a voice inside her mind, a voice without character or definition or human reference.

Perfect, and utterly alien.

And then, she was back in the present reality of the battle, her eyes still carrying an afterimage of white, imprinted forever now in memory, and never again to be forgotten or put aside, never again to sink back into the personal dark.

And with the filter of white, standing permanently in her eyes, she looked at the Enemy, at the dull suddenly insignificant glow of his eyes.

He—it, the Enemy—cringed suddenly. Meeting that gaze that had just come back imbued with the richness from another world, his own eyes narrowed, seeing in her that what was so bright and deadly. The eyes blinked, once, twice.

And then the phosphoric eyes closed for the last time, and Feale began to fade.

Yes, fade. . . .

Light and effervescent as thick twilight vapor. As simple as a shadow fades in the blooming of true light.

At the same time, a shudder went through the corpse of Elasand, who lay at her feet, and she felt some brightness leave her in a burst of inner energy, and enter him, fill and imbue him with something tangible.

Elasand’s chest convulsed, then took on a rhythm. The body began to breathe, and his wounds closed up in a blink of pale radiance.

He breathed. He raised his head, and then raised the rest of himself, propping his weight on his elbows, then rising slowly and yet effortlessly to his knees.

Elasand stood upright.

Only a step away, his bleeding half-brother stared at him incredulously, forgetting his own hurt, seeing only the miracle.

But Elasand, standing up tall and suddenly perfect, was no longer anything or anyone they had once known.

His bloodied helmet had fallen from his head, and his long hair came about his shoulders in a mass of clean raven flow. He stood, and turned in Ranhé’s direction.

She looked at him and saw his eyes.

They were different.

“I am here,” repeated Andelas. “You have found me deep within yourself. You have remembered. You have called me back, and I am here at last.”

CHAPTER 19

The sun was illuminating him, the upright body of a man who had been Elasand, and who was now someone else, a Tilirreh. And yet, sun itself was much too dim upon his form. It paled next to the steady aura of never before seen brightness which stood about him, an inch away from his skin, igniting his outlines with acute contrast of a new color that they could not name.

At the same time, there was a pale vapid shadow of darkness, only a few feet away, and even now it was fading into a ghostly insignificance. That shadow had been the Enemy, Feale.

“What are you?” whispered Elasirr harshly. “What has come to pass?” He attempted to rise, holding back an outcry of pain, and Ranhé, herself like a dreamwalker, moved toward him, and took him around the waist, helping him to stand upright. There was a deep bleeding gash running from his shoulder all the way to his chest on the right side of his body, having pierced the old chain mail.

But the hush which had fallen over the battlefield at the appearance of Feale had come to an end. The Qurthe, foot soldiers and cavalry, had thrown off the stupor that their Twilight One had cast over the entire square, and now were again striking at the resistance forces of Tronaelend-Lis.

And yet, it was rather strange, for they seemed not to notice the bizarre disintegration of their dark lord.

As though they did not remember him existing.

Elasirr glanced at the tall warbeast that had borne Feale, and now stood dull and motionless, just a few steps away, without a rider. Even it did not appear to remember or miss its master.

Beyond were more Qurthe cavalry. And among them—Elasirr suddenly remembered—somewhere beyond the forest of their darkness, were the Regent and the young Lissean Grelias, both in unknown condition, both still prisoners of the Qurthe. Making a supreme effort (for one of his lungs was damaged and was rapidly filling with blood—even now he could feel it stifling him), Elasirr cried out in a loud voice that was immediately cut off by a fit of involuntary coughing, “Bilhaar! If any of you hear me, help the Regent and Heir Grelias! They are here, you must help—”

“Quiet! Stop moving like that!” growled Ranhé in his ear, her arms firm around his waist and shoulders. “You’ll bleed faster, you damned fool! They already know about the Regent. Marihke, Gilimas, others are on their way. . . .” And then she added, in an alien voice, her face averted, “Why did you take the blow meant for me? Why did you save my life, Lord Guildmaster?”

“Be silent yourself!” he gasped angrily, and blood came seeping from his lips, as he was again overtaken by coughing, was growing dizzy.

“You are hurt,” said the voice of Vaeste just behind him, but the speaker was someone else.

Coughing, Elasirr turned around, stared at him, eyes narrow with pain. “And you should be dead,” he whispered. “You are not my brother!”

“He is one of the Tilirr,” said Ranhé softly.

“Indeed! The corpse is a god? I don’t know what you did—either of you—but the Enemy—where is he?” Elasirr turned to her again, speaking with short breath.

But she had no time to reply, because in that moment, the nearest Qurthe soldiers were upon them. And Ranhé, still supporting Elasirr with one hand, leaned forward awkwardly, and picked up someone’s sword—any sword from the ground.

“We may be quite dead within seconds . . .” hissed Elasirr, grinning through his agony. “But at least, be kind enough to give me one of my own swords also—there, this is one. . . . On the other side, at the feet of this unnamed god who stands immobile, inhabiting my brother’s poor body.”

Ranhé leaned forward again, bending at the feet of the Tilirreh (even now she avoided facing him, avoided looking into the eyes of the one who had died and torn out her soul once already—no need to see the once intimate face that was now remote and alien), and picked up a Bilhaar sword, then handed it to Elasirr with a stinging intense look. “I will stand and fight for you now,” she whispered. “There’s no need for you—”

“You are hurt,” repeated the Tilirreh.

“I am bleeding like a pig, yes,” retorted the Guildmaster. “And so are a thousand others. Who are you, O Tilirreh?”

And the god in Elasand’s form neared him suddenly, saying, “I am Andelas.”

And then he reached forward with one gauntleted hand, past Ranhé, and placed it directly upon the gaping wound at the shoulder of Elasirr.

Warm lightning. . . .

Marihke and several other guildsmen neared them from both sides, engaging half a dozen Qurthe warriors, while Elasirr stared in wonder at the pale familiar face only inches away from his own, and watched white light gather and run from the hand of the Tilirreh into his own flesh. With it came warmth, and an abundance of energy. He was growing strong again.

Ranhé let go of him—which he didn’t even notice now, being able to stand on his own—and was fighting a mounted Qurth who appeared to be a captain, from the crest on his helmet. She struck at the legs of his beast, and skillfully managed to divert him away from where the Guildmaster stood vulnerable. At that point some of the mounted Bilhaar came to her assistance.

Warm flow of electric current . . . warm. . . .

“Andelas!” whispered Elasirr with a mixture of mockery and wonder. “How is it that you are here among us? And now, of all times?”

“She called me here,” replied the Tilirreh with a soft smile of Elasand’s face, while warmth continued coursing through his fingers. “And is this not the best time?”

There was joy on the pale transfigured face of Elasand-Andelas, and he cast one bright glance aside, to look at a faintest shadow that still shimmered quite near them.

“Feale . . . It’s he, isn’t it? You did this to him? What manner of illusion, or madness, or nonsense is this?” spoke Elasirr. “And yet, I still see what is left of him, a shadow—”

“Sh-h-h. Do not use his name. Even though he is no longer anchored here, naming him still has the strength to invoke and make him linger. And that is no longer a thing for this Age,” said Andelas. “I cast him out. He is now no longer of this world, and may not return while I am here. He is not dead, for like me, he cannot die. But it’s now my time here, my millennium once again, and not his. The end to Twilight.”

Elasirr breathed a strong fierce deep draught of air into healed lungs. Blood had long ceased flowing from him, and his chest, beneath the torn mail and soaking bloodied undershirt, was smooth and scarless, with only a silk sheen of pale short hair.

“I thank you, Tilirreh,” he said dreamily, looking into Elasand’s beautiful pale eyes, seeing only his half-brother’s face, a face that had brought out so many conflicting emotions in him before. A face that now tugged at some painful nerve.

And then, something else strange happened. From afar came a rumble. It had begun to build gradually, and now it echoed in waves throughout the square—the sound of voices upraised, and yet a sound lacking the raw agony of battle. Soldiers cried in excitement, and it was a different sound, filled with hope and a kind of wonder.

Marihke, with his impassive Bilhaar precision, had just finished off another enemy soldier, striking cleanly with the sword to sever flesh and bone. He was soaked in midnight blood. Now, he drew back, reining in his horse, pausing to wipe his face and beard with the side of his gauntlet, and addressed Elasirr, who stood immobile, still linked with the healing touch of the one inhabiting his brother’s flesh.

“My Lord Guildmaster! They say something unbelievable is taking place! Even our enemy is moving aside! There, over the bridge of the Arata, someone miraculous approaches us!”

“Who is it?”

“They say,” another one of the Bilhaar cried out, “it’s the King! The last Monteyn himself has come back! He has awakened and come to deliver us from the invader!”

Elasirr froze.

“Take my horse, my lord,” urged Marihke. “You will be able to see better!” As he spoke, Marihke barely glanced at Elasand standing next to Elasirr, as though there was nothing unusual about the sight of Lord Vaeste alive and in perfect health, only minutes after he had been lying dead on the ground.

In that same instant, a few steps away, something had faded completely. A shadow of a shadow.

And then, nothing.

No memory of it in the minds of all, except for Elasirr and Ranhé. Apparently they were also the only ones aware that Elasand was now someone else.

“Look at the strange colors coming from him!” exclaimed Nilmet, pointing to the figure in the distance. “His form seems to be on fire with light!”

Oddly, he did not appear to notice the other wonder right here in front of him, the strange auric color surrounding Lord Vaeste. Indeed, thought Ranhé, how brightly white he burns!

“I don’t understand,” whispered Elasirr, and glanced at Elasand in shock. “Is it your doing, Andelas?”

In Elasand’s face, the alien eyes appeared to smile.

“No,” said the god. “This is strictly your doing. You set this in motion.”

“Set what in motion? When I broke the glass on that casket, nothing happened! I stood and called him, and howled at his grave! And he lay there, cold and dead!”

But Elasand-Andelas was now silent, and observed Elasirr out of pale alien eyes.

Elasirr frowned, wiping sweat from his cold brow, and stood holding a sword that Ranhé had handed him. Fortunately, no enemy soldiers seemed to be moving at him; the Bilhaar and the Masters of the Guild had effectively surrounded him in a circle of safety.

And thus, Elasirr allowed the implication of the new possibilities to come over him all at once, like a psychic avalanche, daze him, stifle him. For indeed, their world was once again turning upside down within the span of minutes.

Ranhé briefly glanced at the one who was now Elasand, at his bright aura (she could not bear to gaze long at him, but not because of the light). She stepped back, lowering her bloodstained sword, while a hundred different feelings rushed through her, underneath her impassive surface.

The cries of wonder rose to shut out all sounds of battle in the square. The Qurthe were falling back toward the center that was Dirvan. They rallied round several of their captains—those faceless fierce warriors wearing crested helmets. And yet there was no leader to direct them, despite their terrifying superiority.

No leader, only a memory of a shadow. . . .

And soon, no memory at all.

He rode the pale animal they had given him, stiff-backed because of the weight of the ceremonial black armor that had been meant for a dead man’s burial, not a living relic’s triumphant advent.

His thoughts, still muddled. Or maybe it was the constant overpowering optical illusion of encroaching blindness, or intense claustrophobic perception of dark and light, black and monochromatic gray. No matter where he cast his gaze—even when he glanced up through this cream-thick fog in the air at the strange pale weak mockery of a sun—all he could see was this singular storm-hued landscape of unrelieved gradations of day to night.

No, this monochromatic sepulcher of universal twilight was not his world.

The men, mindless with awe and a kind of worshipful fear, had taken him to a secret place in Dirvan—yes, he still knew Dirvan, recognized it for what it was, the heart of the City. Although what surprised him for a moment, made him pause with dizzy consideration of reality, was the number of bridges overhanging the old Arata Canal. In his time there had been only two, to the north and south, to minimize traffic through the Royal Outer Gardens, and for a greater degree of security. Or so he’d been told by his advisors—he, who was a well-loved young King. In his time, there was a wider line of ceremonial distance drawn between the Royal House and Aristocracy, and the rest of the City multitudes.

In his time.

And what in all gods’ name was this? When was this? How many decades had passed? How many hundreds of years? Millennia? For, a world cannot change its fundamental nature to such an extent, in less than some time period off the human scale, a stretch of existence unimaginable. . . . Or, so he thought.

Somewhere in their secret hiding place, which led below ground into a strange network of catacombs, he was greeted by a group of startled people, armed and ready for combat, who looked at him with awed dilated eyes filled with almost childish emotion. There, he had his first taste of water in centuries, in a small cup that a young woman had carried up to him with trembling fingers.

The water had tasted cool and bland. A dash of hueless silver in a translucent glass. Somehow it reminded him with a pang of his former life.

“Are you at war?” he had asked them in a hoarse stiff voice of an ancient (and they wondered at his archaic speech and dialect). “Who is the Enemy of this City?” And then, with a shy pause, added, “And who rules the City now in my place, who is your present King?”

They looked at each other, expressions unreadable, faces dim in the underground twilight. “We have no King,” they said (and he wondered at the strange unfamiliarity of some of their words and pronunciation). “You were the last one we’ve had. There is a Regent of the Grelias, but he has gone somewhere, having been taken by the Enemy, and thus lost to us.”

“The Enemy,” he repeated, looking intensely into their faces. “Who is it?”

But the silence in their eyes was peculiar. And then, after a long pause someone said, “Your Sovereign Grace—we do not know. . . .”

At which he frowned, drawing together his fine pale brows in emotion for the first time since awakening to this gray nightmare. And for the first time, he winced in pain (again, that cancer eating at his insides).

“If you do not know the nature of your Enemy,” he spoke then softly, “why do you fight at all?”

“We don’t remember. . . .”

And then Alliran Monteyn, seeing only integrity and confusion in their faces, asked another question that he finally dared voice.

“Why is it,” he said, lifting his gloved hand up to examine it momentarily in comparison, a hand upon which danced a constant multi-hued field of static, “why is it that all I see around me is a gray world? And yet, I know I am not mad, nor am I blind, for there is a glimmer around me of light, of color. Can you also see it? Why has happened to the world? Where is the fullness of color?”

“Color? You mean, this?” said a man, and suddenly a ball of orange light came to hang at eye level before him, out of the thin air.

Alliran Monteyn stared at it, at the floating ghost of the sun before him in shocked silence, never having seen anything like it, nor imagined such a disembodied essence of light.

“No . . .” he replied, “Never like this. This is wrong. . . .”

“You mean, Your Sovereign Grace, color like the miraculous dancing light that surrounds you?”

“I do not know . . . What is it that you see around me?”

And then he knew it. “You fight because of this, do you not?” he said loudly then. “You fight because you know that you lack this truth, this essence? Take me to the battle, then! I must see it for myself, see this Enemy, and do what must be done!”

And they obeyed without question, with awe, for the first time in all their lives, for they once again had a fingerhold upon that ancient essence, a small first glimmer.

They had again a King.

The harsh guttural battle cries of the Qurthe, the shrieks of the Bilhaar, the sound of cold iron beating against steel, the moans of the wounded, the hiss of breath out of dying lungs—the sound was one sound, one unique manifold sound of war. And it suddenly eroded into quiet. Then, silence stood at the scene of battle, except for the occasional helpless groans of those already dying.

The Qurthe war machine halted, and the City resistance forces too. A universal pause, and like waves upon a thunderous ocean they parted ranks before a figure of brightness.

Elasirr stood with a transfigured gaze, watching the approach of a man in dull antique armor, as dark as that of the Qurthe, riding atop a pale gray mare. And yet, the outlines of his form were as bright as all the colors ever seen, all dancing around him in eddies of light, a field of fine static.

He wore no helmet, and the weak sun shone down upon his long abundant hair, pale and metallic, and much like Elasirr’s own luxurious mane.

His face was young. Now that it was animated with life, and no longer a wax effigy, the face was that of a youth, quite a bit younger than the Guildmaster, and in his early prime.

And yet the face contained a paradox. Youth and antiquity. Wizened knowledge and a stamp of innocence. The ages had played a trick upon him, imprinting time itself in the shadows below his eyes, in the deep gaze. While at the same time, youth broke through to continue its journey that had been oddly interrupted for centuries.

And light had also marked him with the essence of a bygone age. It stood around him, the endless ceaseless living flicker of glory, the mother-of-pearl meandering energy, wrought of color and sharpness.

It was the soul, the essence of the world.

A bit of the Rainbow.

And he, the ancient King, had brought it back with him, into this newer place of dull silver shadows, a world with a weak gray sun.

Elasirr took a step toward him. But there were no words in him, nothing to utter, in the face of wonder.

But the one who had been Elasand came forward, past the stricken blond man, and his own outlines were sharp with a fine glimmer of utter brightness that was white.

He stretched his hand in welcome, saying “Come!” to the King on the pale mare.

And suddenly, all could see him, the one that was now Elasand, all recognized his brightness. For, the veil of apathy had come off, and they could now glance several degrees deeper into the fabric of the world.

A swell of voices, a shuddering breath of the crowd. People looked upon the two bright ones. Those of the Qurthe soldiers who were nearest, blinked, drawing hands to their faces to lift the visors off their dull metal helmets. They too stared, ebony foreign eyes out of swarthy-skinned human faces.

“Come!” Andelas said again, and he walked to meet the King. “You are here, and thus, I am here also.” And saying that, he took the bridle of the mare, stopping it, and gazed up at Alliran Monteyn, with warm brilliant white eyes.

The King met the gaze of a man who had come before him from the parted crowd, who was different somehow, alien and yet familiar. And now, this man was before him, was stretching his hand toward him, and involuntarily—the King could not help it—his own hand, clad in dull ancient armor and gloved in chain-link, came forward.

The King leaned down from his saddle (while blood began to sing in him, and a dull rushing of a faraway river, a crystal stream flowed in his temples). And then he put his hand forward, and took the outstretched palm of the stranger.

The world convulsed.

No, it was simply a bolt of electricity rushing through him—through them both. An involuntary moan came from the King’s lips—or was it the other’s lips, or maybe, from the lips of everyone present.

Rushing . . . The world, rushing, spinning into one complete thing . . . connection . . . two circuits of energy joining, reestablishing the once broken link.

All is right now . . .

All, as it should be.

“Who are you?” said Alliran Monteyn, still holding the hand of the stranger, then releasing it unwillingly, straightening again in his saddle.

But the other only smiled. Raven-dark hair framed a pale beautiful alien face.

And then the King felt the sudden change within himself.

A lightness. . . .

The touch had healed him. For, there was no longer the dull pain, not a trace of cancerous malady within him. As though it had never existed.

“You know who I am now,” softly replied the stranger with the raven hair.

“Yes!” uttered the King. “You are the Lord of the Rainbow!”

“And you are the King whose time is now!”

A roar of the crowd.

“It is time!” cried Andelas, stepping back from the King, stepping away from all. His figure, sharp with the outline of light, began to grow brighter suddenly, and the aura around him extended several feet beyond. It glared, incandescent, eclipsing the sun overhead—it, poor sun, had been long forgotten by all—and it illuminated faces of soldiers, simple and ordinary, and yet different today.

Because for the first time in their lives, they were illuminated with white light.

They stared, all of them, Elasirr, Ranhé, Masters of the Light Guild, Bilhaar, and commoners. They looked, and their pupils narrowed protectively from the new radiance. They gazed, and they could see the Tilirreh in their midst, and the ancient King.

“You have healed me. Just as it was promised to me,” said Alliran Monteyn to the one that was Andelas. “And yet, I have been brought here for another reason, I see now. Not a personal reason, as I first was told, back in another time.”

“My gods,” whispered Elasirr suddenly. “It is the paradox that they had told us about, when we were within their own worlds. . . . The paradox of existence. One could not be without the other. That’s why none of the Tilirr could return before!”

Ranhé, standing a few feet away, looked at him, seeing his face simultaneously illuminated by the glory of the one who stood before them, and by the dawning of understanding.

And she smiled on the inside, because she had known this for some time now, ever since she first touched white.

“True,” said Andelas to the King. “I healed you because that is in my nature. And yet, without your presence in this world, I could never have returned on my own, no matter that all of you mortals called me as one! It was you, taken from a place and time of Rainbow, who had anchored me here, in this time and place, in this world. For, you carry a part of myself inside you. And by healing you, I heal and reinforce myself. Thus, I am fully present among you once again. And the gates are open. We come now, in our fullness, and we bring with us the Rainbow!”

The incarnated god turned his human face up to the dull sunlight, and let the wind sweep over him, bathing him with its soft presence.

“Tilirr!” cried the god to the skies, and in the silence of the place of battle, his voice of a man carried out and beyond, became a shrill cry of a hawk, a whisper of a hummingbird, and then trailed off in a breath somewhere far, on the wind, and resounded in the mind.

“Lords of Rainbow! I have come here before you, and I call upon you to return!”

“Werail!”

Ranhé blinked, because there was a bright flash, and it struck her eyes with intensity, with real pain.

A flash as bright as the world.

Red.

There was a burning upon the face of the sun. They looked up as one, the soldiers, for the sun was now a fireball of strange intense crimson, an impossible sight. It had become a great red orb, pulsing with volcanic brilliance.

The sky bled red, a flood of it, fading out into monochrome black at the edges of the horizon. And it was a smooth transition, for the light blended evenly, was swallowed and integrated by the very fabric of the air above them, sank and permeated the cloudless abyss overhead.

A man stood before Andelas, a great figure of scarlet, somewhat transparent, for one could see through him to the other side, like a ghost. And yet, he was no shade, but a warrior, dressed in ancient armor—armor that was far older than that of the King himself, armor out of the deepest antiquity of the human age.

At last, impossibly, I come! thundered Werail, and his face ignited with a fierce smile of joy. He reached forward eagerly, and Andelas touched him on the fingertips, drawing him in, pulling him by one pale white hand. In that place where they came together was a small spark.

And in that instant, all soldiers who lay bleeding on the field of battle were given an instant of recognition. They looked and saw that the blood which flowed from their wounds, which gleamed wet upon their blades of steel, which poured in rivulets upon the ground of the square, was red—blood was red in nature, not ebony. They saw it now, as clearly and impossibly as only moments ago they had been blind. They saw that it had always been thus, this blood. It held color inside itself, the color of pain and intensity, of passion and life. Color was anchored within it, and they recognized it now, the richness. . . .

The red one laughed then, with a deep bass of power, and began to dissolve literally into the air around him, spilling eddies of scarlet fire. Only echoes of his voice remained for moments afterward.

But the world remained red, and the sun pulsed like a heart.

Andelas, bathed in the red blood glow, said, “Melixevven!”

Another explosion, this one orange, and in place of Werail stood a slim young woman with tight curls like dandelion, and a mischievous volatile smile. She cried with laughter, reached forward to touch Andelas, and a tingling spark flowed between them. She giggled with pleasure, and drew her transparent arms up to feel the sun’s warmth upon her tangerine skin. The sun pulsed in succession from red to orange, while the sky was persimmon in zenith, and flowed in perfect homogenous transition to blood red at the horizon.

It is good to be back! exclaimed she of the pixie smile, and her voice bubbled like a spring, bringing smiles to their lips, and a definite hue to their skin, like warm summer peach. Melixevven spun, hands outflung, and her little girl form dissolved also into the air, in a funnel of a bright tornado.

The world was in a dichotomy of orange and red, a universe of flame.

Andelas gazed at the flames of the air, and said, “Dersenne!”

And there was universal gold. The sun bubbled forth topaz light like a bowl of boiling honey, and in seconds it spilled evenly, permeating the sky.

It shimmered, and became his hair, streaming outward to the edges of the horizon, and the man-in-the-sun smiled down upon them, then suddenly began to fall. . . .

The crowd in the square shrank involuntarily, breath struck from each man or woman, for the sensation of vertigo was incredible—sky rushing toward them, or they, the whole of Tronaelend-Lis, flying up to meet the sky.

And Dersenne transformed as he fell, growing smaller, growing mortal, and then landed with his feet on the ground, the size of a human man, clad in nothing but his long sun-hair. He took the hand of Andelas, and in that instant pale yellow lightning fractured the honey sky with hairlines of power.

Ranhé thought she saw him pause and look at her for a moment, with intimate eyes, gifting her with the essence of inspiration, so that she wanted to laugh and weep simultaneously, and yet could do neither. She stood at Elasirr’s side and watched the god silently, her face impassive and stilled in the profundity of experience.

And she thought she heard the whisper in her mind, I am here now, always. Always, within you. Therefore, be yourself!

Then, like a bit of amber, Dersenne’s form dissolved also into the air, leaving the sun rich like that same amber stone.

The sun now pulsed with a wider spectrum of red, orange, and yellow. And Ranhé suddenly saw another instance of the yellow, saw it shining forever, in Elasirr’s bright hair.

Andelas lowered his gaze upon the earth below him, and spoke, “Fiadolmle!”

There were green fireworks in the sky.

Somewhere in the ranks of the guildsmen, a woman’s voice burst out in a sob of emotion. Erin Khirmoel sat in the saddle, tears streaming down her cheeks, underneath the metal visor of her helmet, for she was seeing the green rich velvet sky of her dream, her childhood dream fulfilled. . . .

Elasirr looked on into the distance where Dirvan sprawled in the heart of the City, and he saw the fireworks of malachite rain down upon the Gardens, and the color blend with the growth of cypress and cedar, green supplanting black. The trees were suddenly brilliant olive, and the grass danced in the pallid light like a carpet of jade.

A woman, like a bountiful forest, stood before Andelas. She drew forth her supple hand, touching his palm, and where their palms had come together, a branch sprouted, and upon it a green jewel of a flower, a blossom of pure emerald hue.

The woman took the blossom, and brought it to her lips, and the emerald petals came apart, wafting on the wind like an autumnal fall, while at the same time she paled, shimmering, and began to melt into the fabric of the world.

The sun’s spectrum expanded, pulsing red, orange, yellow, and green. And the distant gardens remained verdant like Fiadolmle.

Andelas smiled, and called forth, “Koerdis!”

A flash of electricity, and blue rain came down upon their heads, a downpour of light. It washed the scene of battle, droplets of sky water, pieces of sky, tumbling down in an endless paradox of origin, mingling with the red blood spilled on the ground, diluting it into azure softness. . . .

A man formed of that very intangible rain, great and translucent, with hair like sea foam. He moved his liquid fingers and reached to touch the hand of Andelas, leaving in his wake a sprinkling of dew.

I come in the fullness of truth, in the living breath. Thus spoke Koerdis, his voice cleansing like a downpour.

At the same time, the sun, at last, was washed of its veil of twilight. And now, it was spilling over, like an overfilled cup, with a liquid light that traversed the sky, and imbued it with a permanent hue of cerulean.

Koerdis dissolved like salt into the intangible fabric of heaven, and his essence remained, as they stared overhead, and watched the airy expanse. And yet, there it was, the blue, also hidden in the dark shadows below, lurking in the crevices, sliding along the earth. . . .

The sun now pulsed red, orange, yellow, green, and blue. And the wind was blue also—seemingly colorless, and yet permeated with its hidden soul.

Andelas looked around him, with the eyes of Elasand, and saw their receptive expressions, each one and all. And then, because they were ready, he whispered, “Laelith!”

The sun opened, bright as a rose, into violet. Gentle lavender poured upon the universe in even languor, smooth like cream mists over a hidden forest swamp. Sweet light came to blanket the sky, and before Andelas bloomed a woman, more beautiful than hope.

I come to you in silence . . . whispered she, and took the outstretched hand of Andelas with both her own, drawing small lilac fingers softly over his white palm.

With her touch, silence indeed came over the battlefield.

Soldiers who had fought for this City, Qurthe soldiers who had come to wreak destruction here, upon someone else’s orders—each was alone suddenly, aware of the beating of his own heart, the sweat pouring softly over tired flesh, the aching of torn skin, slashed muscle, the flowing of moist life juices, potent and red.

Each was aware of his own flesh, and the state of the enemy’s flesh, as if there were no boundaries of identity, and the other’s flesh, pain, and life, was his own. Here, a dark-skinned Qurth drew in breath sharply, because his long heavy sword of iron bit into his own arm—no, the arm of the City soldier opposite him, the one with the pale skin and watery blue eyes. Here, a Bilhaar wiped his own neck, rubbed it unconsciously, in an attempt to remove the choking, the stifling sense of drowning that had come to him suddenly—no, it had come to the dark-haired alien invader, the soldier whose neck he held in a tight noose with cruel rope and leather.

Here, among a pile of war rubble, discarded weapons and broken carts, an old soldier with worn City armor lay dying, breathing deeply and raspingly while he still could, sweat glittering at his pale temples, while the contents of his gaping stomach twisted like the innards of a torn overripe fruit, spilling forth like discarded remains of harvest. And standing over the soldier, a young Qurthe giant paused, a grimace of sudden sensation drawn on his bared face, his helmet discarded. He stood, feeling cramps of agony within his own abdomen, cramps within his laboring lungs, and he too drew the slow rasping hypnotic breaths. . . .

Ranhé watched enthralled, the form of hyacinth pallor, the woman holding between her own two palms the pale elegant ones of Andelas, or maybe Elasand. . . .

For there was a shadow, a familiar instant of clarity in his eyes, mortal and for a moment very human, as the white god looked through mortal eyes upon her who was love.

This, their only time.

This would be the only time that Elasand’s hands would hold and feel the hands of his violet dream. And seeing him alien and yet so achingly the same, Ranhé felt a knot forming in her own throat, and she wanted to weep and howl, the remainder of the small child in a dark room, the last of her that could remember the old emptiness, the unfulfilled hole deep within. . . .

But she was silent, Ranhéas Ylir, as silent in her true sympathy as the one called Laelith, for in that instant she too fathomed the nature of violet.

I have come and will be with you for as long as you know and can feel . . . silence . . . whispered the voice, and then dissipated on the wind, while she also began to melt, dissolve, become the soft veil of mist upon the world.

In the end, the world was only slightly different, softer and yet more pronounced, acute in places.

Sensitivity was heightened.

And the sun pounded a heartbeat of red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and violet.

Andelas looked around at them all, his outlines brilliant and painful to observe.

“It is done now . . .” he whispered, and yet even the farthest soldier heard him. “We are here. Look around you and remember us as we are, so that never again will you forget!”

And in an instant, the eyes of the god met those of Ranhé, and looked within her with utmost understanding.

You . . . his thought said. You are different in your fullness of self, and you will never forget. They will forget, however. Eventually, as it always is, each millennium. There will be a time of darkness, a swing of the pendulum. And throughout, only your kind will remain steadfast to the truth, the knowledge buried deep inside you, the knowledge to call me back again. Remember that, you who are Lady of Black, and thus alone can recognize the light. . . .

Ranhé heard him, and yet, maybe it had been nothing, an echo?

But she was never to know, because then Andelas smiled at them all, and cried out his own name.

What came next, few remembered with true clarity. Only that there was much light, brilliant, universal, never before seen. And the sun, they said, swelled suddenly, and filled the whole dome of heaven, then collapsed upon itself in an outpouring of liquid rhapsodic brilliance—while they could only stand, shielding their eyes, shutting their eyelids, and yet seeing all as though there was nothing over their eyes, while their retinas burned. . . .

Then, in the tumult of the burning white sky, the aura had left the outlines of the corpse that had been Elasand, and for a moment the corpse was still and upright.

And then, he moved.

Human, astounded, healed of his mortal wounds, the man called Elasand Vaeste stood in a clearing of battle, in a place somewhere in the Markets Square of the great City of Dreams. He was alive and well, and before him loomed in the saddle an equally astounded ancient young King.

“Your Sovereign Grace!” said Elasand, finding these strange words issuing from his lips, as though another still spoke through him.

And then, Lord Vaeste came down on his knees, bowing before the last and first Monteyn. And with him bowed the multitudes.

Overhead, the white blinding sun began a dance of hues, pulsing with each color of the Rainbow.

Sunset. Strange, remote, filled with a burst of orange and yellow, flowing smoothly into an indigo opposite horizon. It was all gaudy, alien to the eyes.

They walked through the silence of the Markets Square of Tronaelend-Lis, after the battle.

Ahead walked Lord Elasand Vaeste, the tall man with raven hair, shadowed with blue, and a serious different expression. A few steps behind came his half-brother, the Guildmaster of a Guild that no longer held any relevance in this world of garish sunset.

They were looking for the living and the dead.

Somewhere in the distance was the silhouette of another man, walking apart from all. He was the one whose face everyone could still hardly look upon without superstitious awe, and who was now their King. It was upon his orders that they and many others—both of this City, and the Qurthe, no longer an enemy—were here now, witnessing this place of death, searching for any that still breathed, that might need help.

There were so many fallen here. . . .

So many familiar faces of death. Faces of fallen Bilhaar they knew. Faces of others they would now never come to know.

At one point, Elasand Vaeste paused. Even now, his initial look was vague, somewhat dazed, almost drunken with overwhelming experience. He would retain that look always now, for none could be the same afterward. He stood, locked in odd stillness at the sight of a dead man, recognizing a Master of the Light Guild.

“This one . . . was a great poet of this City . . .” he whispered. “One of the few true ones, if not the only one. He was a child and a warrior of words, often mad ones. And now, he will be—silent. What utter senseless evil has been wrought.”

Elasirr looked where his half-brother paused, and saw the wild-maned Baelinte Khirmoel, a man with a silver-sharp tongue, wry, quirky, manic. His broken body lay over another, protecting in his last moment the slender body of a woman, also wearing war mail, a woman who should never have been in this battle, who should never have died.

In death, Tegra Daqua’s pale flax hair, yellow and fine like Dersenne’s own locks, mingled with the darkness of the Khirmoel who had so hated to love her. Their eyes, both blue like the air above. Open, stilled skyward. In a common peace, at last.

With difficulty, Elasand turned away from the sight, and continued walking.

“Elas . . .” said one brother to the other softly, the one whose mane of hair burned lilac and gold like the sunset.

Elasand turned, expressionless and alien.

“What are you thinking now? Do you think of the one who was within you? Do you remember?” Elasirr said.

“I don’t know,” replied Elasand after a pause. “He is like the blending of colors now. I can’t remember how it was before.”

And then Vaeste continued walking in silence until he came upon a corpse of a giant in dull black armor lying on his back.

The face of the dead man was illuminated by the sunset, contrasting red and orange highlights smoothing his large features into a stillness and beauty. His skin was deep brown, the color of the earth, crimson stained his neck, pooled around him on the ground, and his opened eyes were fathomless black-brown, oddly soft and innocent. It was not death that was the source of the innocence, rather that a burden of illusion was gone.

“He almost killed me,” Elasand said, in the same tired voice devoid of feeling. He was examining the dead man’s face. “A worthy adversary. I regret not knowing him as he really was. Because we never knew this man who was Lord Araht Vorn—only that which possessed him.”

“I wonder how he died,” whispered Elasirr.

And then the blond man gave a bitter laugh, and wiped his brow, and squinted his eyes against the wind of sunset. “Sometimes it is best not to know. When our father was dying, and I stood at his side arguing the Bilhaar cause, I did not take the time to listen to his dying breath and his last croaked words. He slipped away before I was done talking, and in my idiot passion I hated him for leaving me forever without an answer. But now I know that in doing this, in leaving me without direction, he forced me to make the decision I alone could.”

Elasand slowly looked away from the dead man and stared at his brother. “So you persisted with doing things your own way, and that is why the Bilhaar became the bringers of merciless retribution instead of being guardians of the Guilds?”

Again Elasirr laughed. “As always you choose to interpret it this way. If the Bilhaar had not been merciless, there would have been no mercy left to defend in all of Tronaelend-Lis.”

“And yet if our father had lived, the Bilhaar would not have been your kind of Bilhaar.”

“I know,” Elasirr said. “The Guild would have wallowed in its own juices like the others, caring only for its own internal affairs while it grew in impotence. Fortunately it happened that Bilhaar honed their blades and did what had to be done, and forged bonds of influence all throughout. We ruled the city, Elas. We cleansed it and buried it and took the final blame.”

“We’ll never agree on this, you know,” said Vaeste. “Even now if our father heard this—”

“Rendvahl Vaeste always knew he had one reasonable son, and one fool,” said Elasirr ruefully. “It is a good thing that the fool’s will came to shape the Guild. It would have destroyed him to know it, so yes, I killed him too with my acts and my consequent decisions. And I would do it again with no regrets. I promised him to support and follow you as the eldest brother, the lord of the Family, to watch over you, and in that one thing I have not failed. But I have killed him in all other ways.”

Elasand had grown very still, and his eyes were liquid with emotion. “What really came to pass all those years ago, brother?” he whispered. “Will you ever tell me? Please. . . .”

Elasirr took a big breath and let it out. He threw his head back, letting the evening wind wash over him. And then he looked at Vaeste.

His half-brother returned his look in silence, with suddenly receptive eyes.

“Well, then. Although, I never once imagined such a day would come, a day when I could speak of it.” Elasirr took a step closer, so that he could face the other, their eyes inches away. Elasand’s eyes were odd, pale sky-blue, he noticed even now, incidentally. . . .

“I had promised to my mother, the courtesan whom you despise, who is dead and thus beyond reproach,” he continued, “I had promised never to speak of it ‘unless the Rainbow comes.’”

“I never despised your mother,” said Elasand softly, his face stained with golden sunset.

“Nevertheless. Rainbow is here, is come upon us. And my promise to her is nullified. I am free to scream the truth out at last, to vent it to the skies, if I wanted to. The truth about him.”

“Your word had always been perfect and true.”

“My word, may it be damned! It is what you know that matters to me now.”

Elasand was silent, watching him.

“Truth has been eating at me, and my pride also,” Elasirr said. “For years, I’ve wallowed in their odd sweet combination, oddly satisfied to know that deep inside I was not at fault, not guilty and yet condemned, as I had been in eyes of those select few who truly knew me all these years—you, the Chancellor, a couple of the guildsmen. It also served my purposes well, to be thought a patricide and thus capable of anything—the damned younger bastard brother.”

Elasand observed him with an expression that was impossible to describe.

And then Elasirr said, “I didn’t kill our father. Contrary to what I’ve been saying to you all these years. I was not even the incidental cause of his death. When I had come upon my mother, weeping in her boudoir, wallowing upon the silken bed, Rendvahl Vaeste was already dying. It was her knife in his chest, her hand that had stabbed him in jealous madness. Because although he continued to visit her, she was sure now that it was your mother, Elasand, his legal wife, that he truly loved—as if reciprocal love should be the concern of an erotene. Poor deluded madwoman, my mother.

“I held our father. I watched him fade and listened as he begged me to forget what has been done and to care for her, and for you and for the Guild. He gave the Guild to me in those moments, Elas, entrusted it into my keeping. I started to tell him of my plans, and would have told him all, but when I looked next, he was gone.

“Seeing how distraught my mother was, her suddenly clear madness—being still an idiot boy myself and still capable of feeling, I took pity upon her. I took her blame upon myself. She cried as she held me, in such wonderful gratitude. It had meant more to me then, for she had never cried and held me thus before. It made me proud. Besides, I had hardly known my father, hardly knew how to pity or miss his passing. Even when the House of Erotene disowned me, had me excluded for murder—even then I was triumphant and proud. I became unique, strong, harboring this secret within me; I became the epitome of Bilhaar. My whole life was formed from that point onward when I took the blame, expecting to take this secret to my grave. But now—now the Rainbow burns all around us, and it hardly matters at all that my father had died, or how he died, or who was to blame. And—that is all of it. Now—you know.”

Elasirr grew silent.

But Elasand put his hand forward, and touched his shoulder in an odd gentle gesture.

“I suspected, and I am glad to hear the truth from you,” he said to the blond man.

“And I am glad to finally speak it. It all matters so little now,” said Elasirr. “But back then—the servants of the House of Erotene witnessed the murderous insane act of my mother. Not all had known, but enough. And the House of Erotene feared, above all else, scandal. My mother, a commoner, would have been put to death, by law. But I, having Vaeste’s own blood, was only to be ostracized. Thus, my admission of guilt was oh so opportune to everyone’s plans. And it saved that unfortunate woman. It saved my mother’s life.”

They looked at each other, while the sunset blazed around them, in new truth.

“There is another thing,” whispered Elasirr. “I never sent Bilhaar to murder you. That, I know you still doubt. But now you must believe me.”

Elasand looked at him earnestly. “I believe you, at last. That incident will remain a mystery.”

“Maybe Deileala? She might’ve sent the clumsy assassins. I know in her possessiveness she is not above resorting to murder of those she wants most.”

“I don’t know.”

“Then, until you do know, remain on your guard,” said Elasirr. “But never again from me.”

The King walked over the battlefield, stepping gently over the bodies of the fallen. His gaze was so remote, so deep in thought, while overhead the sky poured forth a vermilion and orange sunset.

Ranhé was just behind him. She had paused, crouched to check a severely wounded soldier—this one Qurthe—who muttered at her, muttered words in a strongly foreign dialect, words of delirium.

“Peace . . .” she told him, willed him to feel it, and the dying man understood, grew still, watching her out of expressive black eyes. She saw them, black, fathomless, innocent. And deep within her, some fellow blackness answered, a soft gentle dark—intimate and hidden and subdued, which only she would know about.

She put a cool palm over the soldier’s forehead, and he died softly, taking the peace and the color of night from her soothing palm.

In that moment, the King in dull ancient armor stopped. And then he came toward her, walking around the corpses and the broken machinery of war.

“You,” he said.

Still crouching, she looked up, seeing his pale dreaming eyes. They were trained upon her.

“You,” he repeated. “What is your name, lady warrior?”

She straightened, then stood before him with an inclination of her head. “Ranhéas Ylir, Your Sovereign Grace. Not a lady, only a freewoman.”

“Oh, but you are more,” said the King. And then he smiled at her with his sad eyes.

“Lady Ranhéas Ylir,” said Alliran Monteyn, “Lady Ylir of Black. I know you. I know what role you’ve played, and what you’ve done.”

“Your Sovereign Grace? Whatever do you mean?”

But the King only continued smiling, and then he nodded, saying, “Come, Lady Ylir—as I will call you, as you will be from now on. Come walk with me, so that we may both remember and honor these needlessly fallen.”

And thus she walked with the Monteyn, alive and sad, and torn out of his own time into this new place. And suddenly she remembered the feel of his once cold lips beneath her own, remembered a kiss bestowed upon a corpse in a broken glass casket, underneath a pale sliver of a monochrome moon.

She had enough faith to kiss him then, more than even she herself had suspected.

Did he know this also, she wondered? Had he, somehow, miraculously, known?

At the edge of the square, very near the circle of the Arata, they had come upon a strange sight. Hundreds of motionless Qurthe warbeasts were lined up in formation, and those who rode them sat the saddles, frozen in dream-like atrophy. Their pikes were still aloft, but most had their swords concealed in scabbards. Many had taken their helmets off, revealing tight black curling hair inherent in their race—so black it was shadowed with blue. Wind bathed their dark brown skins, dried their battle sweat, and the sunset washed them in tongues of lavender and gold flame, as they remained thus, waiting.

Their highest-ranking captain, a man with a handsome impassive face, the large rounded features of his race, and eyes rich with warm darkness and honesty, had also removed his crested helmet, and seeing the King walking toward him, rode forward slowly, leading his great beast.

For a moment, several of those who had been Bilhaar, who walked some distance away in the square, felt a moment of alarm. The Monteyn was all alone, except for a single companion. Would the Qurth take this opportunity to strike down their ancient sacred icon, their newly regained King?

But the Qurth dismounted, and walked respectfully the remainder of the distance toward the Monteyn. And when only a few feet away, he brought his hand up and lowered his head of tight curls, in an unfamiliar but recognizable gesture of salute.

“I am at your mercy, bright lord of this City!” said the captain in a heavy slurred dialect. “I have no notion why we are here. I appear to be the superior commanding officer, and yet, I remember no orders, no lord I serve. It probably sounds quite mad, but I do not know why we have been fighting you here.”

And suddenly, the Qurth came down on his knees, and again bowed his head.

The King looked at him, and then said softly, “Rise, soldier. It is true, you are subject to my will, but we have no reason to fight. There is no war. And there are no enemies here. Take your people, and return to your homeland. We bear you no grudge, for this has been a day of miracles—the first Day of a new Age.”

The captain looked up, an expression of wonder in his eyes. “My lord!” he said again, then rose, nodding in sharp military honor, and with his own variety of awe.

“Before you leave,” said the King, smiling at him with sad eyes, “I give you and your soldiers permission to walk this place of battle, to take back those who still live, and to bear home your dead. Now, go!”

At that, the Qurth obeyed, and was off, to give orders to those under his command. Soon, Qurthe soldiers were seen on foot, walking the square, mingling with those of the City in odd camaraderie, brought together to remove the evidence of their senseless battle and to honor the dead with silence.

The King remained still for a moment, watching them all, and Ranhé, following him as asked, saw tears glistening in his pale lapis ancient young eyes.

“A day of miracles,” he repeated again, this time to himself.

CHAPTER 20

The violent sunset had quenched itself over the western horizon, but strange bluish-indigo dusk hung and lingered long after stars had come out over Tronaelend-Lis. And below, in the City streets, jewels of color light had come to sprinkle the fabric of urban velvet, more bright and impossible than anything seen before this day—before the wonders had come to this world.

In the fading honey light, dark shapes of war machinery, cavalry and foot soldiers of the Qurthe, rolled through the City streets, and out through the many City Gates. The ones that had remained outside the walls, surrounding Tronaelend-Lis, were the first to leave—already a thin streak of blackness curving and slipping along the eastern road into the distance of the forested horizon, on their way to a distant alien land, their home. They were allowed to pass silently, unmolested by any of the City residents under strict orders of the King. They were leaving now, softly, gently, like the coming of the first blue-tinged twilight. Already, their strange presence was melting from the ephemeral memory of those who dwelled here.

And then, night came over the violated City, and they slept, leaving the terrible scene of the Markets Square for the next day. This, the first night of the new Age.

Tomorrow, with the dawn, they would bury the dead.

The new dawn arrived. It commenced with familiar soft silver mists, but erupted suddenly into a garish brilliant rose, then yellow, then gods only knew what.

People awoke, drew the shutters of their windows open and stared through slitted eyes upon a brilliant shocking morning, with a blue sky—yes, the whole expanse overhead was like an overpowering world-spanning blue monochrome—and upon this impossible sky floated a violent pulsing sun! It, the sun, slowly changed color, moving through the whole visible spectrum, and returned upon itself, throwing the world into momentary dizzying shades of red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and violet—as though clouds passed over it constantly, and left shadows of varied hues to trail upon the land.

Most of the day was spent thus, pausing, wondering at things everyone normally took for granted, at sights that were all of a sudden remarkable, beautiful, scalding to the eye.

And of course, there was the undeniable horror or wonder of the mutating sun.

And when the evening came, it was almost a relief. Here, soothing softly hued blue and violet dark was easier on the eye, gentler to observe.

Once again, color orbs burned bright and multi-hued throughout the Quarters, but they no longer seemed magical. Instead, what drew the attention were the walls of the buildings, the soft blues and greens of the shrubbery, the hint of warm brown in the earth, the sheen of yellow in the windowpanes illuminated by unexpectedly golden candlelight. Forms of trees were suddenly drenched with richness of deep reds and utter black greens along the trunks and leaves, blue shadows running along the deep crevices between the bricks of limestone, granite, or marble.

Dirvan burned like a bonfire in the night. Pinpoints of color flickered upon the rich sparkling ebony syrup of the Arata which reflected an upside-down royal island floating upon the indigo of the evening sky.

In the Palace, all were gathered, the Noble Ten, and all the lesser aristocracy, to attend a ceremony for the Monteyn King.

He received them in a place unused for hundreds of years, that had been kept shut and unaired, for it had contained within the Monteyn Throne—the great Royal Hall of pale azure marble, veined with lilac and silver. Alliran Monteyn sat now upon a single dais Throne, the same one he himself had been the last to occupy, nearly three centuries before. He was clad in white and wore a band of gold upon his brow, that was not nearly as bright as the hair that flowed down his shoulders.

And yet, his young face was pale and solemn. When he received the former Regent Hestiam Grelias and his sister, there was hardly a shadow of a smile upon his lips.

The previous day Hestiam had been discovered quite unharmed—except for badly chafed wrists tied with crude rope—huddled in the saddle of a tall Qurthe warbeast, and next to him, the small boy Lissean. They were both found unattended and forgotten, for the Qurthe soldiers had gone to walk the scene of battle, to recover their wounded. In fact, if it had not been for Hestiam’s whimpering (unlike Lissean’s stoic silence), Deileala, riding another giant warbeast, would never have discovered her brother. And it was the Regentrix, storm-faced and horrible like a fury from the wild ride upon the greatest beast there was, who had cut through their bindings with a sword she had managed to procure, and then dragged her brother down, freeing him with a look of strange dark silence. Her silence, then, and even now, she refused to explain. Not even after they had stood in awe, witnessing the return of the Tilirr, the pulsing of the sun, the lightning and sky fire.

And now they stood before the Monteyn King. Hestiam had been made presentable, but somewhat humble, while Deileala chose to appear more insolent than ever. Despite her petite physique, she had been made insane from the battle—or so she claimed—and now insisted upon wearing masculine clothing, like a delusional thinking herself a warrior goddess.

Hestiam took a step forward and then sank on his knees before the Monteyn Throne. This was the first time in his life he was kneeling before anyone. Next to him, Deileala came down on her knees more gracefully, in silence.

“Your Sovereign Grace! I relinquish to you Tronaelend-Lis!” Hestiam pronounced loudly, in a slightly shaking voice.

Alliran Monteyn observed from his raised seat the top of the older man’s inclined head, his dark beard. His answer came in a tired simple voice. “Very well. The Regency is dissolved.”

And then he added, “Rise, Lord Hestiam Grelias, and Lady Deileala Grelias. And now stand aside and join the ranks of your peers.”

Upon his pronouncement, the Grelias brother and sister arose, bowed their heads, and then walked with the remainder of their former dignity to the right of the dais to stand next to many of the other Noble Ten. Hestiam looked relieved in fact, while Deileala’s face was ice-cold and impassive.

Alliran Monteyn looked upon all those gathered, searching for a face in the crowd—a newly familiar face the sight of which even now filled him with strange energy, from the memory of a god it contained. And then he saw it, framed by hair like a raven’s wing, with a single pale streak running through.

“Lord Elasand Vaeste!” said the King. “Come forth, so that I may honor you.”

Elasand, wearing fine dark velvet, stepped forward, and bowed deeply before the Throne.

Alliran looked at him, and then a soft smile warmed his pale gold features. “Looking upon you, I will always think of the one who was within you so briefly.”

Alliran’s face grew odd, his gaze suddenly detached, as though for a moment he was many miles—or years—away.

In the front of the gathered crowd, a tall man also clad in fine black, and with sun-bright hair rivaling that of the King, observed the lapse, and leaned forward to whisper in the ear of a woman dressed in a subdued masculine manner, in dark fine cloth, her shadow-brown hair bound in a single tight braid.

“The King has a justifiable tendency to become lost in memories,” he quipped. “He will always be thus, I predict. How will he manage to rule this City? Even now, he has the undoubtedly noble but absent demeanor of a sorrowing poet.”

Ranhé turned her head slowly and unobtrusively to stare at the speaker, and then whispered, “Quiet, or the poet will have you publicly reprimanded for disrespecting him!”

“For a newly made lady, you still hiss quite effectively—Lady Ylir!”

But she ignored that remark, and turned her back to him. Elasirr did not know that it was because she had once again seen the urgency of his eyes upon her, and now had to avert her own. She had been long aware of the way his relentless gaze stung the back of her neck, all throughout this gathering. And now, because she knew he continued to stare, to watch her—undaunted and, in that very intensity, somehow vulnerable—she had to look away and hide a shadow of a smile.

She could not smile at him yet, directly, not at this one. But somehow, it was quite satisfying to have that gaze locked upon her, every time she turned away, every time he thought she did not know.

Indeed, this had been a day of miracles in more than one sense. For, when she had come downstairs in the morning, and saw them both in the front hall of the Vaeste Villa, Elasirr merely averted his unreadable eyes, but Elasand, in his more direct manner, had looked at her appraisingly, differently somehow.

Maybe it was to be attributed to what had happened to him. For Elasand was indeed a subtly changed man. No trace of miraculously healed wounds on his body. But there were other intangible signs. His attention span was intensified, his gaze deepened, and a restlessness that had been in his vaguest mannerisms all throughout the time she knew him was now replaced by a sense of harmony.

Elasand looked upon her in a way she had never thought he would. A gaze of appraisal. What did it mean?

“Elasirr, Guildmaster of the Light Guild and Bilhaar, come forth!”

Ranhé was nudged out of her reverie to see Elasirr walk forward and stand before the King, next to his half-brother.

But before the Monteyn could say another word, Elasirr bowed curtly, and then, with one glance at Elasand, began to speak: “Your Sovereign Grace! I cherish your honor upon me, but I must first bring to your attention the unbearable state of affairs of this City, which in your absence had been allowed to run to the ground by the selfish incompetence of the former Regent and his lovely whore of a sister! It is obviously not to Your Sovereign Grace’s knowledge, since you’ve been stuck in a casket these last couple of hundred years, but Tronaelend-Lis has long demanded a major reorganization of resources—always denied by Grelias—the primary being the Guilds. I ask Your Sovereign Grace to convene the Council of Guilds, so long denied to us! This Council was a strong body of political power in your own time, and its advice valued and taken often in fact by Your Sovereign Grace—”

“Enough! Well said, but enough.”

The King raised his hand to silence Elasirr’s tirade. Tiredly, but with some amusement, he gazed at the man with such a brazen tongue, who had continued to stare back so directly at him.

“I will be happy to let you handle all this Guilds business in an official capacity starting tomorrow,” said the King suddenly. “Provided that Bilhaar is no longer the Assassin Guild, and is dissolved as a body into the greater Light Guild. I will have no assassins in the ranks of my advisors, no matter how clever-spoken or glib, no matter how well meaning and noble, and no matter that they nearly single-handedly organized and led the Resistance of this City.”

Elasirr stared in growing surprise.

“Is it true,” asked the Monteyn gently, “that you, Guildmaster, are the bastard son of Rendvahl Vaeste who was also the father of the present lord? And is it true that you’re the younger half-brother to this man standing next to you?”

“It is true, Your Sovereign Grace,” said Elasirr in a quieter but yet impassive voice.

At this, there were whisperings in the crowd.

“Lord Vaeste,” the King addressed the raven-haired brother. “Is your heart set on being the Heir to your father? Or would you prefer to be my Chancellor here at Court?”

Elasand, with his new deeper perceptive gaze, smiled softly, then glanced momentarily at his brother. “I had never liked being at Court, Your Sovereign Grace. But I admit it was a Court of Grelias. But now I believe I would like to be near Your Sovereign Grace, and I would be honored to remain at the Court of Monteyn.”

“I am glad,” said the King. “Then you are now mine, Elasand-re. I pronounce you my Lord Chancellor Vaeste, to replace the honorably fallen Lirr. And you, Guildmaster with the insolent tongue—which I quite like, by the way, for it portends honesty—you, I pronounce the new Lord and Heir Vaeste. Come forward, Lord Chancellor Elasand Vaeste, and Lord Elasirr Vaeste, so I may touch you with the sword, and so that you may be the first to swear loyalty to Monteyn.”

Elasirr’s expression, was almost humorous to observe, thought Ranhé, watching the scene of fealty being enacted.

And then her own name was called.

She walked into the brilliantly illuminated center before the Throne dais, feeling suddenly the eyes of the whole world upon her.

A moment not unlike that just before a battle. Time slows down, all things, all responses, each breath becomes magnified, intensified, more acute.

“Lady Ranhéas Ylir! I pronounce you head of a new Eleventh House, the Family Ylir. And your color will be Black, in memory of what this world had seen.”

Black is not a color, only the absence of light. . . .

She stood, petrified somehow, listening with only one half of her mind to the voice of the Monteyn King, seeing only with one half of her vision the brilliant golden candlelight.

With her other half, she saw an old ghetto hovel of granite and limestone, a place filled with candlelight, a wake. She was sitting, surrounded by those candles, alone. Only an hour after her father’s body had been lowered into the ground, in a simple wood casket. Her father, a lowly scribe who had been mad and cruel and pathetic and beloved. Her mother, crying softly, pitifully in a locked room somewhere in the remote corner of her memory childhood.

These were the people of the “house” of Ylir. These two, who had engendered her and unwittingly tortured and loved and once again tortured her, in the anonymous silence of the poor masses—just two souls taken at random, out of this great fathomless City—these would never know or care about the honor being bestowed upon them by a resurrected Monteyn King. For, to them, he would always be but an ancient wax-puppet from that Tomb, the place they used to often walk by, all their lives, when they too had been children, for as long as they could remember, bathed by a monochrome silver sun. . . .

She stood, coming again to herself. Then she bowed with a soft smile of respect upon her lips. And she repeated the oath of fealty—forgetting for once in her life that she did not swear loyalty to anyone—speaking in a voice devoid of feeling, words of promise to this new and old King.

When it was done, she returned from the bright light and stood aside in the ranks of the aristocracy, now their equal.

Yet she felt abysmally and sadly the same.

Soon, others were called to swear before the King, before the antique banner of white and gold that had upon it an embroidered image of a Winged Bird—a Phoenix surely—its wings outspread in flight. . . . Only an hour ago, the banner had been removed from storage, unwrapped with care and dusted off, and the Bird was now seen soaring once again toward the sky.

“How does it feel to be Lady Ylir?”

She started, finding her thoughts had wandered once again (that bird, flying, somehow calling her), and found herself looking into the pale beautiful eyes of the man she never thought she would again see alive. Even now, she met his gaze with a hurtful pang of emotional intensity.

“Well, how do you feel, Lady Ranhéas Ylir?” he repeated softly, his face close to hers, looking into her eyes.

“I don’t know my lord—Lord Chancellor Vaeste. . . .”

“You will know soon enough. When you have the chance to hold and rule the estate gifted you by the King. He has favored you, you realize. He thinks unusually well of you.”

“And I think well of him,” she whispered, letting the strange new warmth and intimacy of his words come licking over her, soothing like sun-warmed honey.

Their attention was drawn suddenly by the sight of a man and a woman who stepped forward before the Monteyn, and bowed their heads. The first was Harlian Daqua. And at his side, his new bride of less than two weeks, Elasand’s cousin, Lixa Beis. And suddenly it was Lixa who stepped forward, and lifted her moon-serpentine face to gaze up at the King.

“Your Sovereign Grace,” she said quietly and yet firmly. “We come before you now begging your mercy despite all. We have been wed before the Grelias, in a ceremony that was but a weak charade set up for the benefit of our former Qurthe enemy, a ceremony that went against our deepest wills. We ask you now, despite the wills of both our Families, to dissolve this union that has never been and never will be consummated.”

And Harlian Daqua echoed her, saying, “Yes, it is true, Your Sovereign Grace. We have been betrothed blindly, and our hearts have never been in this union.”

“Is it because you already love someone else?” said the King simply.

And both Harlian and Lixa, suddenly, unexpectedly spoke in unison, “Yes.”

“So be it,” said the King. “Let this be a day of true judgment. And let no Daqua or Beis protest my decision in this. I declare this union nullified. You are free, both of you, to love as you will.”

“Once again, naive words of a poet,” whispered Elasirr’s voice from behind into Ranhé’s ear.

But in that moment, another was presented before the King, and the resulting silence was profound.

She came forward lightly, this lady, and was veiled heavily. And then two noblewomen at her side lifted the gauze and lace from her face, revealing a young maiden of unearthly beauty, with hair soft and gently yellow-white, and skin like cream. Her eyes, framed by dark sable lashes and perfect brows, were downcast, and her lips, like the sunset.

“Lady Imogenn Olvan, Your Sovereign Grace . . .” a man’s voice pronounced. “She has been chosen, of all the fairest daughters of this City, to be your Queen.”

For a moment, the King maintained the universal silence. Only a slight quiver of a facial muscle. He looked at her, all amusement—if ever it truly was there—swiftly leaving his face, so that for a moment they who had brought her here thought they had made a terrible mistake.

And then he uttered, in a voice barely above a whisper, “Reiera. . . . Could it be, you are she? No . . . of course, not. . . .”

The young woman raised her eyes for the first time to look at the King, and then said in a barely audible voice, “Your Sovereign Grace. I am Imogenn. If you will have me.”

But the King never allowed her to finish her words. Instead, he got up from his Throne, and came down the steps of the dais, and took her small pale hands into his own. For a long moment he stared into her eyes, and again whispered, “You are . . . so much like her . . . my betrothed who is now long gone, like dust of the centuries. . . . But—forgive me, Lady Imogenn. I know nothing of you, nothing except that you are lovely and fragile as another was ages ago. And yet, it seems, time comes and returns upon us all, and fulfills all things, allowing that which we need most to catch up with us. Yes, you of all will be my Queen!”

“More poetic fodder for our royal bard. Now he’ll sing praises to his new lady for the rest of our days,” came Elasirr’s soft biting voice from behind Ranhé, and once again she turned lightly, and barely acknowledged him.

Elasand meanwhile, observed her very intently, seeing maybe for the first time, this woman standing at his side. And he knew something at last, something that had long been half-formed, in great conflict with his formal convictions, his outlook, his stubborn nature, something that had been brewing inside him, and now had a chance to emerge.

“Ranhé,” whispered Chancellor Vaeste, close to her other ear, “I would speak with you tomorrow about something very important. Promise to come to me. At noon. You must promise me this, my loyal Lady Ylir.”

“Yes,” she replied, without hesitation, looking in that instant into his eyes, her face, her cheek only inches away from his own.

And with that, the second night of this new Age settled warmly over the City.

She came the next day, as promised.

The Monteyn’s gift to her was a villa in the midst of Dirvan, formerly belonging to Grelias who in turn had confiscated it decades ago under the guise of Regental stewardship, as they had dealt with all of the Monteyn belongings. It had been small and virtually unused, but due to a Grelias whim, a small permanent retinue of live-in servants was always maintained.

And now, it was the Ylir Villa.

Ranhé had awoken in a deep fine bed that was unbelievably and completely hers. For a moment she recalled a thought she’d carried around with her, long before any of this had happened—a wish to have a house of her own, illuminated by white light. She had been naive, then.

And now, here she was, her wish fulfilled.

Thinking small irony-ridden thoughts, tired somehow, Ranhé dressed in her own set of clothes, and spent the morning walking in the small but perfect garden protected by a tall private fence. Here, she gazed long at the bizarre green of the leaves, and at the recurring shadows of varied pulsing colors that the sun cast in its continuous spectral cycle.

Just before noon, she left through a small private gate of the garden, without notifying any of her (yes, her own!) servants. It was but a short walk through the vast lush Outer Gardens to the Vaeste Villa.

She was informed that Elasand Vaeste was in a small room on the second floor. She ascended the stairs, her boots clicking softly, the neck of her shirt somehow feeling tight about her throat. In the corridor around the corner, she nearly collided with a man with sun-hair, and then stopped dead in her tracks.

“You!” It came out of her stupidly, involuntarily. “What are you doing here?”

Elasirr may or may not have been startled. But the only thing he did was stop in all silence and block her way. Then, he stood aside. His eyes were impassive.

“I now live here,” he said. “Remember, I am the Lord Vaeste.”

“Oh. . . .” The word tumbled out of her. Again, she was stupid, stupid.

“You’re going to see him,” said Elasirr, watching her with calm eyes. “If so, he is in this room behind me. I was just leaving. We’ve spent a good deal of this morning talking, he and I, as two strangers who are now brothers should.”

“Good,” said Ranhé. “It’s as it should be. Trust has been missing between you. Maybe now—”

Again, stupid. . . .

But he did not seem to think her words were inappropriate. “Thank you,” he said softly, “for everything—Lady Ylir.”

And the way he said her name made her tremble. Secretly, so far and deep in her mind. . . . Her name. . . . She heard it being pronounced like a precious thing.

“Well, go on,” he said. “Go on to see my brother. He is waiting for you.”

Ranhé took a step forward. And then, again she stopped, and looked directly up into his eyes. “And do you know, by any chance, what this might be about? What does the new Chancellor Vaeste want with me?”

Elasirr’s face was unreadable, like smooth pale stone. “I would think you know already.”

“I may know. But I still ask. I ask you.”

“Why? In this, I’m not of any consequence, Ranhé. If you must, I am merely the brother of the man you love. There, is that what you’ve wanted to hear? Go to him.”

Something flickered along the features of her face. “Yes,” she said. “That’s possibly what I’ve needed to hear. And yes, I go to him now. Only, no. One small correction. I go to speak with the brother of the man I love.”

And with that, never looking back to see Elasirr’s reaction, she stepped past him violently, stepped forward, and opened the door.

Elasand was looking through the window at the gardens below. His face, as he turned to her, his silk ebony hair, was highlighted by the changing shadows of yellow, then green, then blue, as the sun continued its pulse.

“Ranhé!” he said with a quick smile, which made his face light up.

“My Lord Chancellor,” she responded, entering, and involuntarily slamming the door behind her. And then she stopped in somewhat awkward silence. “You told me to come. And I am here, as I promised.”

“Ranhé!” he repeated, and then came forward, and stopped right before her. “Yes, of course you’ve come. You always keep your promises. In fact, I now take this moment to ask your forgiveness for that one time when I doubted you, just before the battle—”

“Please,” she said. “Let’s not remember that. None of that.”

He looked at her intently, and continuing to smile, whispered, “Why did I never think you were fair to look at before? Maybe because I had been obsessed by the violet goddess of love herself. And yet—I’ve been cruel to you, my sweet loyal Ranhé. I had known for some time now—since that moonlit night when you stood with me in the garden, and you cried. I had known for some time of your feelings.”

“What feelings?” she said, looking at him with earnest pale eyes.

“I know,” he said, “what you feel for me. It is not mere loyalty.”

And then Ranhé smiled. She continued looking directly into his eyes, as she said, “And what is it that I feel for you?”

Elasand’s own look took on a moment of uncertainty. Just an instant. And then he continued, “Before I say anything else, you must know this one thing. It’s something that I had been discussing with Elasirr earlier today. It concerns a matter of trust. And a long-standing misunderstanding between the two of us. And, it has something to do with my cousin Lixa.”

“Lixa Beis? An interesting woman. I admire her courage before all to petition the Monteyn for a dissolution of the marriage. What were her reasons? Was she in love with someone else, my lord? Could it be possibly that all along she had been in love with you?”

Elasand stared at her in surprise. “Your insight is remarkable, Ranhé. Indeed, that is so. In fact, she had talked to me later last night, and she confessed not only her feelings, but the fact that she was the one responsible for hiring a band of cutthroats disguised as Bilhaar, to waylay us on the road on that day when you and I first met, Ranhé. Her plan was to delay the Wedding as much as possible, and to beg her mother to call it off, together with Harlian Daqua, who incidentally was long besotted with their mutual friend, Lady Yllva Caexis.”

“I see,” said Ranhé with a thin smile. “So, I had unfortunately interfered and ruined her plans—quite clumsy plans, don’t you think? Did Lixa realize she was risking lives in the process? Or is it possible that she was willing to have you dead, rather than not having you at all? Incidentally, do you love her, Lord Chancellor?”

Her last question came unexpected as a knife blade. Elasand could not immediately answer, and began to pace the room. Finally, he gathered himself, and turned to her in intense silence.

“No.” he said. “I do not love her at all, not in that way. How can I, when I finally opened my eyes to the truth, and realized that I love you?”

A long silence in the room. The sun continued its pulse. Violet, red, orange. . . .

“You cannot imagine how long I’ve wanted to hear that,” she said in a whisper. “To hear those words from you. I’ve lived this scene over and over in my dreams.”

“Ranhé,” he said, nearing her. “It’s true, I know it only now. It is you that I love—”

“No,” she said suddenly, in a loud cold voice. “Enough, my lord. No need to force your mind into this new and latest convolution. Truth is—you love and have loved no one. First, there was the impossible excuse, the love of a Tilirreh. Who could compete with that? Then, you had known Lixa’s feelings—any idiot would—but pretended ignorance, and chose to let her play out her little sad attempt at rebellion. It suited you, and you chose to believe that Bilhaar had been sent against you, and thus perpetuated your reasons to distrust your brother. And then, myself. You chose to ignore me, because I, a commoner, was so far beneath yourself, and instead used my loyalty to maintain this game. Why do you continue to surround yourself with such aloof emotional relationships, Elasand? Why do you choose to have people who could truly love you kept at a distance? Is it because you cannot face us, any one of us? Is it because you cannot face the idea of love in yourself? Think, Elasand, maybe that is the real reason Laelith had been calling to you, trying to awaken you from within?”

She fell silent, like a broken emptied thundercloud. She looked at his face, stark with emotion, highlighted with hues of green, blue, and violet. . . .

“We had a conversation, Elasand-re, about loyalty, once, when you were hiring me,” she said, in a softer tone. “Remember, you asked me to swear to you, and I refused, saying I could only give you a simple promise, not an oath? That I was loyal to no one, ever? That I would be unpredictable, that you should never fully count on me, that I would leave you, all of a sudden, out of the blue?”

“Yes,” he said, “I remember. It’s what drew me to you in that moment—your elusiveness. It was your lightness, your lack of commitment, that had attracted me.”

“Exactly. We both enjoyed that fleeting sense of noncommittal dealings, the loose bonds. And unfortunately, Elasand-re, we are both alike, in that way. Thus, my lord, I am now leaving you. Out of the blue, and for no reason at all.”

“I see,” he said. “You choose to wound me now, in revenge for being ignored.”

“Ah . . . Poor Elasand-re. Still without trust. Still seeing ulterior motives. No, I take no revenge upon those I care about. For, not only do I care, but I still love you with all my very soul and breath, even if you don’t understand or believe me. A part of me died alongside you on that battlefield, when you died. Even now, that one part of me will never return, that easy joyful lightness—it slipped away as I watched your blood run upon the ground that day. I care for you in a way that will never make sense to you, proud foolish man. But I leave you now, as I promised once long ago. Because at last you no longer have any true need of me. And because I keep all promises, even to myself. I go now, in goodwill and gentle silence.”

And with that, she turned her back to him, seeing in the last moment only a silhouette against the red of the sun.

“Wait! Ranhéas!” he cried then, his eyes burning with emotion, realizing in that moment—a second too late—that the loose bonds had grown stretched to the limit, and had snapped at last.

But she was already outside, and the door to the room had closed softly.

And he stared at it blankly, saying something to her, over and over in his mind.

Elasirr was waiting at the foot of the stairs, so that Ranhé once again nearly tripped over him as she came running down the long flight. He took hold of her arm, and tugged her roughly to a standstill.

“Just one thing I need to clarify,” he said in an odd voice. “What exactly did you say to me, there, upstairs?”

“Have you been waiting, all this time?” she countered, unable to look at him somehow, because after her conversation with Elasand a knot had risen in her throat, and she just wanted to be gone, from all of them.

But Elasirr continued gripping her arm painfully, and then he took her shoulder, and he pulled her forward to stare into her face.

“Do you know,” he said, “that your eyes are silver? Pale, cool gray. Like the world was, before the coming of the Rainbow?”

“What the hell?” she whispered, while the knot began rising, and she could sense the fullness of tears beginning to glisten in her field of vision. She must not let him see this, she must not blink.

But Elasirr’s own face had taken on a strangeness that she did not understand. He had been pale before, she noticed, but now, a wonder—his cheeks were turning a deeper rose shade. She had never noticed before, but now she knew that skin could turn colors, redden with the presence of blood underneath.

“You,” he said harshly, his cheeks blazing with the shade of blood beneath the skin. “You’re ugly! Yes, an ugly unnatural woman, with man’s hair on your cheeks and daggers in your boots. You walk like a man, and your wrists are nearly as big as mine. Your waspish tongue is infuriating, and once I wanted to kill you with my bare hands, while I mocked your pathetic stubborn being. I hate you—you, pitiful ugly bitch! And yet—and yet, if I could, I would give my life for you, Ranhé! I would die for you, ugly hateful—”

His grip on her shoulders was bruising white agony, and then something happened. She was pushed against him, her entire length, and she too gripped and struck him. And then there was a pressure, unfamiliar and terrifying against her lips—his lips warm and fierce against hers.

The knot in her throat burst, and she cried then, in horrible agony, tears coming down in a stream along her cheeks, while he kissed her, over and over, and her tears were now on his skin, on his cheeks, mingling common tears, and she sobbed, and continued to sob silently, her body, gone limp and impotent, shuddering in a fever, trembling with an impossible vulnerability, a moment of trust and intimate revelation. . . .

In the late afternoon, there was rain.

A month had passed, since the coming of the Tilirr, and the pulse of the colors upon the face of the sun had slowed, and the world was illuminated by longer and longer stretches of sky-spanning flares of orange, then green, then blue. Eventually, each day was a single pulse—a day belonging in turn to Werail, Melixevven, Dersenne, Fiadolmle, Koerdis, Laelith—the sun being one whole color, slowing like a universal carousel. At last the pulse ended, and the sun was now fixed a steady blazing eternal white. Andelas’s sun.

And now, the first afternoon of this autumnal season, droplets of sky water, silver-blue, came hurtling down from the sky. The water continued falling, translucent like diamonds, illuminated by a white sun. The rain splattered, rippling the inky fractured-mirror surface of the Arata Canal. It poured and sank along the gravel paths of the Outer Gardens, and in the Walk of Falls, along the sweet long branches of the weeping willows. It struck and burst into miniature explosions upon impact with the smooth rose-gray marble of the Mausoleum, and its empty dais, missing a casket—in its place was now a large earth-filled garden urn of bright scarlet and persimmon blossoms, upon the King’s request. It washed the cobblestones of the Markets Square, washing the last of the blood that had been spilled. It ran in smooth stained rivulets along the streets and into gutters, and then, through the subterranean network below, into the sewers below the City of Dreams.

They were empty now, the secret corridors deep below. Occasional shadows of the lawless still lurked, in some sections of the Southern Quarter. Most residents were up, at street level—pedestrians being drenched by the rain, riders, carriages of the rich and carts of the poor rolling along the myriad streets and ways, along the Fringes Thoroughfare.

There was gossip, in the streets, of course. The new Monteyn King, they said, is the noblest this world has seen. He is just and fair, and fearless, and has convened the Council of Guilds to make great reforms. He has a beautiful young Queen, and is quite happy in his own way. And yet, he wanders the corridors of the Palace aimlessly, always looking for bits of the past. They said he befriended the young boy, former Heir Lissean, the one who is mortally ill. Together, they walk the Inner Gardens, in peaceful companionship. And the boy still lives, somehow, despite all odds, gently, quietly, in the warm silence of the King. He is no longer an Heir, and is thus now quite free.

They said also, the one they call the Phoenix, Carliserall Lirr, has been different, ever since Uncle Rollen Lirr died in the hands of the enemy, ever since the day of the great battle. Or maybe, Carliserall had changed in that instant of the coming of the Rainbow. They said, Carliserall has stopped switching from man to woman and then back again. Carliserall is now neither, and yet, both—a beautiful hermaphrodite, and is possibly happy to be thus, to be oneself, in perfect balance, and open to any inquiry.

They said, The Queen’s relative, a certain priest called Preinad Olvan, has forsaken his vows scandalously, and has confessed in strange honesty—a truth that he avowed after having seen Koerdis—an earthly love for a notorious woman related to the Family Vaeste, whose name is Cyanolis. To his credit, he has maintained his celibacy, and is being severely reprimanded by the rest of his Order of Bright Vision. However, he has been allowed to continue in his priestly duties, for, in truth, the temple where he serves is now more popular than ever with young and old women who have a soft needy heart.

The same priest, they said, was incidentally called to perform the burial services over the bodies of Baelinte Khirmoel and Tegra Daqua, who were placed together in a single grave. Erin Khirmoel, the new lady of the House, insisted they were to be joined thus in death, for she is known to have a romantic imagination and holds great stock in fulfilled dreams.

In the Palace, another Wedding took place. Harlian Daqua took for his bride a dark-haired smiling woman, with eyes like joy, Yllva Caexis. During the Ceremony, a pale moon-faced beauty with serpentine eyes served as the Maiden of the Heart. That same woman, who is known to be the cousin of the new Chancellor Vaeste, has remained unwed and alone, and strangely quiet about the whole matter. It was said she has returned to the Beis estate in the country, and has stopped communicating with her exalted cousin, the Chancellor.

Another cousin of the Chancellor, Cyanolis, rumors went, seems to have grown a bit in stature, and is still seen at court, where she is called to sing often by the King and Queen, and where the feasts are surprisingly free of debauchery. Cyanolis is also seen visiting upon occasion the Shrine of Bright Vision, where she observes the young priest lead the Ceremony. These days, it was said, he always meets her eyes with a calm unflinching look of truth, and she is the first to look away.

They said, Chancellor Elasand Vaeste is known to be an influential voice at court. He is handsome, young, impeccable, and has revealed a philosophical and intellectual side that he indulges with Nilmet the notorious Philosopher and, upon more than one occasion, with the King himself. He is also known to visit his brother often, in private, where servants say they discuss their own confusing past.

And the new Lord Vaeste, the former assassin, and Guildmaster, they said, besides being an outspoken insolent favorite of the King, is often seen in the company of a tall proud woman—once an unknown—who wears masculine clothing and bears the name of Lady Ranhéas Ylir of the Eleventh House of Black. There are rumors that he is madly in love with her, and that she too loves him in secret—although in public, they are but amicable witty acquaintances.

There were also rumors that another lady who has affected the wearing of masculine clothing, the former Regentrix, and now simply Lady Deileala Grelias, is planning to leave the City and take a long trip somewhere east, possibly in the wake of a rich Prada caravan. They said that ever since the great battle and the wonders of that day, she had lost her mind, and is now obsessed with the notion of visiting the land of their former enemy, and their distant great City, Mahart-Qurth. It was also rumored that her brother, Lord Hestiam Grelias, the former Regent, will accompany her on this strange journey.

Lord Hestiam Grelias, they said, is also a changed man. Now that he is no longer Regent, he has been able to go to bed not long after sunset, and, according to his house servants, enjoy an easy restful sleep, devoid of any responsibility, guilt, or fear of encroaching twilight.

The afternoon rain came to a sudden end. Swift low clouds rushed away, clearing the airy expanse, and allowing the sun to burst through.

In the Gardens of Tronaelend-Lis, a philosopher, shaded by an overhang of trees against the sudden downpour, looked up—like many did in that instant, all over the City—and witnessed a wondrous thing, a phenomenon for which he had no name.

High in the sky, framed against a cloud, and spanning the whole expanse of heaven, stood an arch of many hues. . . .

It was gentle and translucent, formed of the very droplets of mist in the air. And as the sun shone through it, its brilliant rays caught and were splintered through the minuscule jewels of airborne water, and they separated into six distinct colors.

The philosopher, having no words for this, stared with a marveling gaze, and then unwillingly looked away, continuing his more serious philosophical musings, and attributing this nameless wonder to yet another side effect of the returned Rainbow.

She rode along the forest path, humming in secret. The forest before her was like a colorful bouquet, while the sky overhead had patchy light clouds, and the rain had just ceased.

She looked overhead, and then saw it. And seeing it, she knew it instantly. It was something deep within, an ancient instinct, that told her now that she was looking not at a simple bow-arch of color in the sky, but at her life’s first rainbow.

It had been more difficult than she imagined, leaving behind the man she loved. He had stood in silence at the gates, watching her ride away, and she would never forget the stiffness of his back, the raw wound in his deceptively lidded eyes, the blaze of sun and wind upon his pale flax hair.

She was leaving him only for a short time. In time, as soon as she could, as soon as the calling deep inside her quieted to a soft whisper, she would return to him, to the City of Dreams. She would never forget him, or it.

But now, there was something wild within her blood, something calling from afar. Maybe it was but the garish bright colors of the world, waiting to be savored.

The horse below her was the color of shadows. The path was twisted, and soon, within miles she might reach the White Roads Inn. It would be good to see the faces there, and she remembered Nilmet mentioning that Master Jirve Lan, the proprietor, had finally married Maertella the cook.

Even now, she remembered, saw in the shadows, Elasirr’s wounded blue eyes, watching her, watching her always.

Yes, she would return to him, by all gods!

But now—now here she was, mercenary and loyal, Lady Ranhéas Ylir of the Eleventh House of Black, venturing along a path of the great forest, on her way to self-comprehension, maybe, and the greatest adventure of all—the one within.

Around her, the forest sang. Overhead, burned the first rainbow.

And in her eyes, pale and hard and soft, like the last reminder of the monochrome world of the past, glimmered silver.

EPILOGUE

And thus, at long last, you cast aside the final veil.

And you are here, with me.

Surprised? Of course not, you expected it all along.

Well, now that you’ve seen it all, and yet seen nothing, what mystery did I pose before you?

But you are clever, I see, with your bright eyes. For, the mystery, you see, is not in the tale, but in the teller.

The mystery is myself.

I stand before you, and I hold nothing behind my back, only empty air like gray smoke.

Who am I, you want to know, who have shown you this world, and the coming of the Rainbow?

I will tell you, since you are here to ask. . . . I have many names, none of which are true, and I am often found in the shadows of things, in the beginnings of twilight.

Often, the Phoenix covers me with its wings.

In this world, they had called me Feale, and my antithesis Andelas. We are both Tilirr, he and I, and we both have other names. They say I bring the night and distort the truth, while he, the bright one, brings focus, clarity, and light, and lets the truth prevail.

But they say many things, not all of which are true. After all, I have told you this story, in all truth, and I let you judge for yourself. Thus, believe what you will.

Look at me. Know, that I am, in truth, the Lord of Black. But black is soothing darkness. And, in the perpetual cycle of things, it serves to emphasize the light.

And now, I ask you only for one thing, for the sake of balance.

Always remember me.

THE END

Coming soon…

Lady of Monochrome

(Book Two of The Rainbow)

http://www.lordfsofrainbow.com/

EXTRAS

Map of Tronaelend-Lis, City of Dreams

(320k image)

http://www.veranazarian.com/LORmap3.jpg

Which of the Lords of Rainbow do You Serve?

(Take the Tilirr Quiz!)

http://www.veranazarian.com/lorquiz.htm

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Vera Nazarian is a two-time Nebula Award® Finalist and a member of Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America. She immigrated to the USA from the former USSR as a kid, sold her first story at 17, and has been published in numerous anthologies and magazines, honorably mentioned in Year’s Best volumes, and translated into eight languages.

Vera made her novelist debut with the critically acclaimed Dreams of the Compass Rose, followed by Lords of Rainbow. Her novella The Clock King and the Queen of the Hourglass made the 2005 Locus Recommended Reading List. Her debut collection Salt of the Air contains the 2007 Nebula Award-nominated “The Story of Love.” Recent work includes the 2008 Nebula Finalist novella The Duke in His Castle, science fiction collection After the Sundial (2010), and three Jane Austen parodies, Mansfield Park and Mummies (2009), Northanger Abbey and Angels and Dragons (2010), and Pride and Platypus: Mr. Darcy’s Dreadful Secret (forthcoming), all part of her Supernatural Jane Austen Series.

After many years in Los Angeles, Vera now lives in a small town in Vermont. She uses her Armenian sense of humor and her Russian sense of suffering to bake conflicted pirozhki and make art.

In addition to being a writer, philosopher, and award-winning artist, she is also the publisher of Norilana Books.

Official website:

http://www.veranazarian.com/

Norilana Books:

http://www.norilana.com/

Twitter:

http://twitter.com/Norilana

Facebook:

http://www.facebook.com/VeraNazarian

Blogs:

http://www.inspiredus.com/

http://urbangirlvermont.blogspot.com/

http://norilana.livejournal.com/

Goodreads:

http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/186145.Vera_Nazarian

LibraryThing:

http://www.librarything.com/author/nazarianvera

Shelfari:

http://www.shelfari.com/authors/a1628414/Vera-Nazarian/

Red Room:

http://www.redroom.com/author/vera-nazarian

SFF Net Newsgroup:

http://webnews.sff.net/read?cmd=xover&group=sff.people.vera-nazarian

Austen Authors:

http://austenauthors.net/

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to offer many people my sincerest thanks—to dear Marion who published my first work and opened the door, to various draft readers and friends Sherwood Smith, Terry McGarry, Jacqueline Carey, Alan Rodgers, John Gregory Betancourt, Patricia Duffy Novak, Wendi Gansen, Stella and David Bloom, Alizabeth Caro, Roger Levin (in memoriam), Kevin Conner, Bruce Baldwin, James D. Macdonald, Paul Witcover, Lisa Silverthorne, Kurt Roth, Diana Rowland, Deborah J. Ross, Roby James, Allison Lonsdale, the various members of the Not-A-Webring and WebRats, and the wonderful people of SFF Net, for the support and love. If I’ve forgotten anyone, the fault is mine; please know that I love and appreciate you all.

Finally, I would like to thank all of you dear reader friends, who decided to take my hand and step into my world of rainbow.

OTHER BOOKS BY VERA NAZARIAN

Dreams of the Compass Rose

The Clock King and the Queen of the Hourglass

Mayhem at Grant-Williams High (YA)

The Duke in His Castle

Salt of the Air

After the Sundial

The Perpetual Calendar of Inspiration

Mansfield Park and Mummies

Northanger Abbey and Angels and Dragons

(Forthcoming)

Pride and Platypus: Mr. Darcy’s Dreadful Secret