Klia nodded slowly. "I'd very much like to know the truth of that. The negotiations have limped along too long. Every dispatch I get from Phoria is more impatient than the last. Today's all but accuses me of purposefully stalling."

"How could Phoria think that?" exclaimed Alec.

"Who can explain what my sister thinks these days, or why?" Klia rubbed wearily at her eyelids. "This business with Viresse might be just the thing to turn matters our way. Tell me, my Aurenfaie adviser, would it be safe to say that Ulan has acted dishonorably toward me?"

"An argument could be made," said Seregil. "Of course, if we had to explain to the Iia'sidra how you found out about it, it would put Alec on chancy ground."

"I'll leave it up to you to keep us from having to explain anything to anyone. Two days from now, we and the Eleven are to be the guests of Ulan i Sathil."

"Are you suggesting what I think, my lady?"

Klia gave an eloquent shrug. "What's the use of bringing fine coursing hounds to the hunt if you never slip the lead? First thing tomorrow I'll speak in private to Lord Torsin and Adzriel a Illia of all you've told me tonight. My principal adviser and our best ally must not be taken by surprise, either."

"Will you tell Torsin that I spied on him?" Alec asked nervously.

"No, but I want your word that you won't do it again. Is that understood?"

"Yes, my lady."

Klia leveled a knowing look at Seregil. "That includes you, as well."

"You have my word. What about Nyal? If it hadn't been for him,

we might have missed this altogether. He asked Alec to tell him what he learned."

Klia sighed. "Ah, yes, Nyal. He's served us well, and word is bound to spread, anyway, since that appears to be Ulan's intent. Tell him only what Alec heard. Nothing more."

26 WAR

The flush of victory made Phoria feel younger than her years. For two days they'd fought under driving spring rains, forcing the Plenimarans from a pass west of the river. The cost had been high on both sides, but Skala had regained a few precious acres.

A cheer went up across the camp as she rode in at the head of what remained of the Horse Guard regiment. Mingled with the accolades were the wails of camp followers as the missing were noted. There'd be a more somber welcome for the fallen, who followed in carts somewhere back down the road.

Her route through the camp led the new queen past the tents of the guilds, and she caught sight of a potter standing with her hands on her hips, no doubt making a rough count of empty saddles, estimating how many urns would be needed to hold the ashes of the dead for that last journey home.

Phoria dismissed the thought for now. Victories had been hard enough to come by this spring and she meant to savor this one.

At her pavilion, she was greeted by more cheers from the soldiers and servants massed there.

"You showed 'em today, General!" a grizzled veteran called out, waving a regimental banner in one hand. "Give us a chance tomorrow to do you proud!"

"You've done me proud every day you've been on the field, Sergeant," Phoria called back, earning another roar of acclaim. The soldiers still addressed her by her military title, and for now, that was just how she wanted it.

Dismounting, she led her attending officers inside to the waiting meal. Not a banquet, perhaps, but reward enough for honest soldiers.

They were still at table when Captain Traneus appeared at the open flap of the tent. He was muddy to the knees and carried a pouch over his shoulder.

"What word from Rhiminee, Captain?" Phoria called.

"Word from Prince Korathan, my lady, and fresh dispatches from Aurenen," he said, handing over the pouch.

Inside she found three documents. The first, from Korathan, robbed the day of its savor. Reading it through twice, she lowered it slowly and looked around at the expectant faces turned her way. "The Plenimarans have attacked Skala's southern coast. They've burned three cities already: Kalis, Yalin, and Deep Trebolin."

"Yalin?" General Arlis gasped, "That's only fifty miles from Rhiminee!"

Pain flared behind Phoria's eyes. She set her brother's dispatch on the table before her, and opened the parchment bearing Klia's seal. It brought the same news as ever—progress was slowly being made. Now she thought perhaps the Haman clan was being swayed. But no concessions. No end in sight.

Closing her eyes, she massaged the bridge of her nose as the pain mounted to a throbbing ache. "Leave me."

When the scrape of feet and creak of leather had died away, she looked up to find Traneus still there.

Only now did she reach for the third missive, this one sealed with a few drops of candle wax. Like the others that had come to her in the past weeks, it was careful in its phrasing. Klia was not lying, but putting a more hopeful cast on events.

"Our informant tells me that the Viresse have increased their influence," she told Traneus. "The negotiations are at a standstill. She does not share my sister's optimistic view of the outcome. There is even talk that Viresse may prefer the gold of Plenimar to our own."

She handed the letter to Traneus, who locked it away in a nearby casket with the others already neatly stacked there.

"What message shall I take back, my lady?"

Phoria tugged at a ring on her left hand. Her fingers were swollen from the day's battle, and she had to spit on it to work it loose. Wiping it on the hem of her tunic, she held it a moment, admiring the play of light over the dragon carved into the black stone. "Return this to my brother. I want it on his hand within two days. No one is to know of it but you. Go immediately."

Traneus had only just come from Rhiminee, a hard journey of several days by land or sea. The task she'd just set him meant no rest, but the man's face betrayed nothing but obedient devotion, just as she'd expected. If he survived this war, a ring of a different sort might just find its way onto his talented hand.

Alone in the great tent, Phoria sat back in her chair and smiled as she regarded the slightly lighter circle of skin where the ring had been.

Her headache was nearly gone.

27 MORE GHOSTS

Seregil woke before daybreak on the final day of mourning, once again trying to grasp a dream before it faded. It had started out with the same familiar images. This time, however, he seemed to recall the rhui'auros, Lhial, standing in the corner of the room, trying to tell him something very important in a voice too low to make out over the crackling of the flames.

There was no panic this time, but he knew where he had to go; he could feel the pull of the place like a hook under his breastbone. With a sigh, he slipped out of bed, wondering if he could make it back before the day's visitors began to arrive.

Someone was singing a dawn song from an upper window of the Nha'mahat as Seregil approached on horseback. Flocks of tiny dragons whirled around the building, their drab bodies turned to dusky gold by the first rays of morning.

"Maros Aura Elustri chyptir," he whispered, not sure what the reason for the prayer was, except that he suddenly felt grateful for the sight before him and the fact that he was here in this blessed place to witness it.

Donning a mask at the door, he followed a guide into the main chamber. A few dreamers

already lay there. "I'd like to speak with Lhial, if I may," Seregil told the girl.

"Lhial is dead," she replied.

"Dead?" he gasped. "When? How?"

"Almost forty years ago. It was a wasting illness, I think."

The floor seemed to shift subtly under Seregil's feet. "I see. May I use a dhima?"

She prepared a firepot for him and gave him a handful of the dreaming herb. He accepted these with a respectful bow and hurried down to the cavern below. Choosing one of the little huts at random, he stripped and crawled under the door flap, welcoming the steamy closeness this time. Settled on the rush matting, he threw the herbs onto the coals and waved a hand to mix the smoke and steam.