"Skalans." Seregil shrugged and spread his hands, as if that explained everything.

"I must attend my people," Rhaish said, rising to go. "I trust you'll keep me informed of any new discoveries?"

"Of course. Aura's Light shine on you."

"And you." The khirnari's escort closed ranks behind him as he continued on his way.

Alec watched the stooped figure fade into the night. "Poor fellow. Except for Gedre and us, no one else stands to lose as much when everything goes to pieces. And it's going to, isn't it?"

Seregil said nothing for a moment, listening as the distant shouting took on a more dire tone. "I didn't come home for this, Alec. Not to watch the two lands I've called home bring each other down. We've got to uncover the truth of all this, and soon."

A moment later a tiny point of bluish light flickered into being just in front of them, one of Thero's message spheres. The wizard's voice issued softly from it, drained of emotion: "Come back at once."

37 WORSE NEWS

The arrangements for Torsin's funeral came together quickly, thanks to Nyal. He'd even turned up a bundle of spices some-where, and with these Kheeta's mother had skillfully overseen the preparation of the corpse. By the time she and her helpers had sewn it into layers of canvas and patterned silk, the odor was almost tolerable.

Unwilling to spare too many soldiers from guarding the house, Beka took only Nyal, Kheeta, and her three corporals as torchbearers. A cart draped with cloaks and prayer scrolls served as catafalque, bearing Torsin out to a site on the plain outside the city. Adzriel and Saaban accompanied them, each with a painted prayer kite honoring the dead man. It was fully dark now, but the soft gleam of massed wizard lights was guide enough.

"Well, look at that, would you?" Nikides exclaimed softly.

In spite of the general unrest, at least a hundred Aurenfaie had gathered on the moon-washed plain. The pyre, a rectangular stack of cedar and oak logs fifteen feet high, was surmounted by a pair of carved dragon heads. Dozens of prayer scrolls fluttered against its sides.

"You'd think he was one of their own," said Corporal Zir.

"He was a good man," Nyal said.

Beka hadn't known Torsin well, but sensed a rightness in this final moment; the man had spent his life, and perhaps given it, trying to bring the two races together.

Kallas and Nikides slid the body into a shelflike opening near the top of the pyre. Adzriel made a few prayers in the dead man's behalf, then stepped back. Beka and her riders were about to light the tinder when another rider galloped out to join them. It was Sergeant Rhylin, and even in the warm glow of the torches, the tall sergeant's face looked grey.

"Thero sent this—to be put on the pyre," he whispered hoarsely, thrusting a small, canvas-wrapped parcel into Beka's hands.

"What is it?" she asked, already dreading the answer. The stiff cloth was tied up with a knotted thong and weighed almost nothing.

"Klia—" he began, as tears rolled down his cheeks.

"Sakor's Flame!" Beka's fingers felt numb and clumsy as she yanked the thong free and unrolled the cloth. The smell gagged her, but she went on, unable to stop.

Two black, swollen, fingers—first and middle—were packed in fresh cedar tips and rose petals. They were still joined by a sizable wedge of discolored flesh; the white tips of two neatly severed bones poked out from the raw lower edge. "Mydri saved the hand, then?" she asked, spilling petals as she hurriedly tied the bundle up again.

Rhylin wiped at his eyes. "She isn't sure yet. The rot was spreading too fast. Thero worked a spell over Klia. We didn't even have to hold her down."

Beka's mind skittered away from the images that summoned, wondering instead if her commander would ever hold a bow again. "Thank the Maker it wasn't her sword hand," she mumbled. Climbing up the side of the pyre, she reached in and laid the little bundle on Torsin's breast, above his heart.

On the ground again, she knelt and thrust a torch into the thick bed of tinder and kindling packed under the logs. The Urgazhi sang a soldiers' dirge as flames fueled by beeswax and fragrant resins leaped up to engulf it.

The song ended, leaving only the crackle of the flames in its wake. As the thick white smoke went dark, a sorrowful keening started somewhere among the 'faie. It spread through the crowd and swelled to an uncanny, full-throated wail that rose and fell wordlessly and without cease. Her riders tensed, shooting Beka worried looks.

She shrugged and turned back to watch the roaring blaze.

The keening went on for hours, until the blaze had reduced itself to smoldering embers. Sometime during the night, hardly realizing what they did, the Skalans joined in.

Beka and the others returned to the guest house through a hazy red dawn, hoarse, light-headed, and covered in soot. The quiver holding Torsin's ashes hung warm against her thigh as she rode. In the end, they'd had to break the longer bones to fit them in.

Mercalle was standing by the stable with the day's courier, Urien, and his guide. The Akhendi had a nasty-looking bruise over his right cheekbone.

"What happened to you, my friend?" Nyal asked, squinting at him with smoke-reddened eyes.

The man gave him a cool stare and shrugged. "A slight disagreement with some of your kinsmen."

"Some of the Ra'basi support Viresse," Mercalle told Beka, not looking at the interpreter.

"I'm sure we'll get it all sorted out by the time the vote comes around," Beka replied.

"Captain!" a rider called out from the kitchen doorway. "Captain Beka, are you there?"

Beka turned and saw Kipa looking anxiously around the yard.

"Oh, there you are, Captain," she called, spotting Beka. "I've been watching for you. Lord Thero said I was to bring you as soon as you came in."

"Is it Klia? Has she—?" Beka asked, following the younger woman inside.

"I don't know, Captain, but it sure feels like bad news."

Beka could hardly breathe as she ran up to Klia's room. Mydri met her in the doorway, balancing a basin full of bloody water and rags against one hip.

"She took a bad turn last night," she told Beka. "She's sleeping again. For now."

The bedchamber's window was shuttered, the room lit only by the glow of a sizable bed of coals on the hearth. The stench of blood and seared flesh still hung heavily on the air. Thankfully, all other evidence of the amputation had been cleared away.

Klia lay pale and still, thick new bandages swathed around her hand. Seregil and Alec slept awkwardly in chairs beside the bed. Judging by their plain, rumpled clothing, they'd been about their own business most of the night.

Beka took a step toward the bed, then tensed as movement in a far corner caught her eye. Her hand flew to her knife.

"It's me," Thero whispered, coming far enough into the light for her to make out his swollen, red-rimmed eyes.

"I suppose it's best that it's over with," Beka said, pushing away the image of those severed fingers.

"I only hope she survives the shock of it," said Thero. "She's shown no signs of waking and it worries me, and Mydri, as well."

Seregil opened his eyes, then nudged Alec's knee. The younger man jerked awake and looked around blearily.

"Any trouble at the funeral?" he asked, voice raw with exhaustion.

"No. The 'faie who showed up gave him a good send-off. Were you here?" She gestured at Klia's bandaged hand.

"No. We just got back a little while ago," said Alec.

Seregil hooked a chair her way, then passed her a half-full flask of wine. "Here, you'll need this."

Beka drank deeply, then looked around at the others. "So, now what's happened?" Her heart sank when Thero sealed the room, then pulled a letter folded in Magyana's characteristic fashion from the air.