Klia, the youngest and sole survivor of the second three, had the same handsome features, chestnut hair, and ready wit as the father and two brothers for whom she still wore a black baldric. Of these six, it had always been the eldest and youngest girls whom the Oreska wizards watched most closely.

Skilled and fearless in battle, Phoria had risen through the ranks of the Queen's Horse Guard to High Commander of the Skalan Cavalry. Nearing fifty now, she was as renowned in military circles for her tactical innovations as she was at court for her blunt speech and ill-starred barrenness. While her merits as a warrior might have

been sufficient for the crown in her great-grandmother's day, times had changed and Magyana was not the only one to fear that Phoria lacked the vision to rule a nation touched by the intricacies of the wider world.

Just before his death Nysander had also hinted to Magyana of a breach between heir and queen, but was forestalled by some oath from revealing more.

"We are the oldest of the Oreska wizards now, my love. No one knows better than we how precariously the common good balances on the edge of Gherilain's Sword," he'd warned. "Keep close to the throne, and to all those who might one day sit upon it."

Magyana turned her attention back to Klia and felt a familiar surge of fondness. At twenty-five, she not only commanded a full squadron of Queen's Horse, but had demonstrated a talent for diplomacy, as well. It was no secret that a good many Skalans wished she was the firstborn.

Idrilain raised her hand and the assembly fell silent. "We will lose this war," she began, her voice a husky wheeze.

Magyana silently guided a stream of her own life force into the woman's ravaged body. The connection brought a backwash of pain, threading her veins with the dull crush of Idrilain's suffering and exhaustion. Magyana forced herself to breathe slowly, letting her mind rise above it and retain its focus. Across the room, Thero was doing the same.

"We will lose this war without Aurenen," Idrilain continued, sounding stronger. "We need the Aurenfaie's strength, and their wizards to turn the tide of Plenimaran necromancy. And if Mycena falls, we will need Aurenfaie trade, as well: horses, weapons, food."

"We've done well enough without the 'faie," Phoria retorted. "Plenimar hasn't managed to push us back from the Folcwine, for all their necromancers and abominations."

"But they will!" Idrilain croaked. An attendant offered her a goblet but she waved it away; no one must see the tremor in her hands. "Even if we manage to defeat them, we shall need the Aurenfaie after the war. We need their blood mingled with our own again."

She gestured imperiously for Magyana to continue.

"The power of wizardry came to our people by the mingling of our two races, human and Aurenfaie," Magyana began, reminding those who needed reminding of their own history. "It was the Aurenfaie who taught our first wizards the ways of Oreska magic." She turned to the Royal Kin. "You yourselves still carry the memory of

that blood, the legacy of Idrilain the First and her Aurenfaie consort, Corruth i Glamien. Since his murder and the closing of Aurenen's borders against us three centuries ago, few Aurenfaie have come to Skala and so their legacy dwindles among us. Fewer wizard-born children are presented at the Oreska House each year, and the abilities of the young ones are often limited. Because wizards cannot procreate, there is no remedy save a renewed commerce between our two lands.

"The Plenimaran's attack on the Oreska House cut down some of our best young wizards before the war had truly started. The fighting since has thinned our ranks still further. There are empty beds in the Oreska's apprentice hall now, and for the first time since the founding of the Third Oreska in Rhiminee, two of the House's towers stand empty."

"Wizardry is one of the foundations of Skalan power," Idrilain rasped. "We had no idea, before this war began, how strong necromancy had grown in Plenimar. If wizardry is lost to us when they are so clearly gaining strength, then in a few generations Skala will be lost!"

She paused, and Magyana again felt Thero's magic joining her own as she willed more strength into the queen's failing frame.

"Lord Torsin and I have been negotiating with the Aurenfaie for over a year," Idrilain went on. "He is there now, at Viresse, and sends word that the Iia'sidra has at last agreed to admit a small delegation to settle the matter."

Idrilain gestured at Klia. "You will go as my representative, daughter. You must secure their support. We will discuss the details later."

Klia looked grave as she bowed her acceptance, but Magyana detected a flash of joy in her blue eyes. Satisfied, the wizard quickly skimmed the minds of the others. Princess Aralain glowed with relief, anxious only to return to her own safe hearth. The rest were another matter.

Phoria's expression gave nothing away, but the jealousy that gripped her left the bitter taste of bile at the back of Magyana's throat.

Korathan was less subtle. "Klia?" he growled. "You'd send the youngest of us to a people who live four centuries? They'll laugh in her face! I, at least—"

"I do not doubt your abilities, my son," Idrilain assured him, cutting short his protest. "But I need you here to assume Phoria's command." She paused again, turning to her eldest daughter. "As you,

Phoria, must step into mine for a time. My healers are too slow with their cures. You are War Commander until I recover."

She grasped the Sword of Gherilain in both hands. On cue, Thero levitated the heavy blade, allowing Idrilain to pass it to her daughter.

Though Magyana had orchestrated this moment, she felt a chill of premonition. The sword had passed from mother to daughter since the days of Gherilain, the first of the long line of warrior queens, but only upon the mother's death.

"And Regent?" asked Korathan, rather too quickly for Magyana's taste.

Or for his mother's, it seemed. Idrilain glared at him. "I need no Regent."

Magyana saw a muscle jump in Korathan's jaw as he gave her a silent bow.

Are you so anxious for your sister's honor, or to see her on the throne? wondered Magyana, brushing the surface of his mind a second time. The Afran Oracle might prevent male heirs from ascending the throne, but it had never prevented one from ruling from behind it.

"I must speak privately with Klia," said Idrilain, dismissing the others.

Night had fallen and Magyana retreated into the shadows between two nearby tents, waiting for the rest of the assembly to disperse. Somewhere above the blanketing clouds, a full moon rode the sky; she could feel its uneasy pull as an ache behind her eyes.

When the way was clear, she slipped into Idrilain's tent again to find Klia bent anxiously over her mother, who lay slumped back in her chair, fighting for breath.

"Help her!" Klia begged.

"Thero, fetch the drysian," Magyana called softly.

The younger wizard emerged from behind an arras at the back of the tent, accompanied by the healer Akaris. The drysian held a steaming cup ready in one hand, his worn staff in the other.

"Get some of this into her," Akaris instructed, giving the cup to Thero, then touched the silver lemniscate symbol of Dalna hanging at his throat. He placed his hand on the queen's drooping head and a pale glow engulfed both of them for a few seconds. She went limp, but her breathing had eased.

Thero and Klia carried her to the cot at the back of the tent and tucked heated stones in among the blankets.

Idrilain opened her eyes and looked wearily up at the others. Thero offered the cup again, but after a few sips she turned her head away. "This must be settled quickly," she whispered.

"You have my word, Mother, but maybe Kor's right," Klia said, kneeling beside her. "I'll look like a child to the Aurenfaie."