Tris glanced from Kiara to Kalcen and back again, and then nodded. Kiara let go of his hand and Tris closed his eyes, stretching out his mage sense on the Plains of Spirit. He reached out with one hand, extending the invitation. The air in the room grew cold, as if someone had flung open a window to the snowy night. A fine mist gradually solidified into a shape, and then into an image of Viata. Kiara smiled. Behind her, she heard Kalcen gasp.

"I was with Donelan when you called me," the spirit said. "It's good that we're all together once more."

"Viata!" Kalcen gave a strangled cry and stepped forward. Viata moved to embrace her brother, gliding toward him and wrapping her insubstantial arms around him. "I never thought I'd see you again. I've missed you more than you can imagine."

Viata looked at Kalcen with great fondness. Now that they stood together, the resemblance between the two was unmistakable. "My little brother is now the King of East-mark," Viata said, reaching out as if to clasp Kalcen's hand.

"The day I took the throne I struck down the law that kept you from coming home," Kalcen said, seeking forgiveness in the ghost's eyes. "It was too late for you. But it will never'tear another family apart. And now, because of you, because of Kiara, Eastmark is looking outward, taking a role among equals in the Winter Kingdoms. I believe it was the Lady's hand that brought you to Isencroft," Kalcen said. "I only wish She.had allowed you to see what good became of it."

"I'm only dead—not truly absent," Viata said, reaching out to touch Kalcen's face. "I've watched you grow to be a man—and a king. I am very proud of what you've done. I wish I were among the living. But you'll always have my love."

The ghost faded from view and Tris relaxed, letting out a deep breath as he lowered his arm and opened his eyes. Kalcen stared at him. "So it is true. The mage heir of Bava K'aa. Even in Eastmark, we knew of her power. I'd heard the stories about your magic, but I didn't dare believe—until now."

Tris smiled.. Kiara moved next to him and slipped an arm around his waist. "Nothing I conjure up surprises Kiara anymore," Tris said. "She's gotten used to it by now."

"Thank you." Kiara gave him a squeeze. "I didn't mean to pull you away from more important things."

"You got me out of that interminable receiving line—that was good enough for me."

"If you're not anxious to go back immediately, I have another favor to ask," said Kalcen.

"Glad to do it—we still have half a candle-mark before the ball, and I think I've shaken every hand in the kingdom."

"Donelan has asked me to forgive an old death warrant, one my father wrote during the Troubled Times. I'm willing to do so, but first, I would look on the man before I pardon him."

Kiara and Tris exchanged glances. "How can I help?"

"I would appreciate your introduction to Jonmarc Vahanian."

"I'll be glad to take you to him. Probably best that way—Jonmarc's reflexes are pretty fast, and I'd hate for him to guess wrong about your intentions." Tris kissed Kiara's hand in parting, wishing for a more private goodbye, then he led the way to the corridor. Guards fell into step behind them—both his own bodyguards and Kalcen's. The hallway was crowded as servants bustled with last minute preparations and guests hurried to their destinations. Tris hoped that Jonmarc hadn't already gone to the ballroom, and was pleased to hear a response to his knock at the door. Tris positioned himself so that he would be the first thing Jonmarc saw as the door opened.

"Every time I open my door tonight, there's a king outside," Jonmarc grumbled good-naturedly. "Hello, Tris." Jonmarc was dressed for the evening's ball in the black doublet and pants he preferred for court occasions, and a claret waistcoat that Tris bet matched Carina's gown. His sword hung at his belt. Tris was sure that it was not the only weapon hidden under Jonmarc's coat.

"I have a visitor for you," Tris said. He stepped aside, and saw Jonmarc's eyes widen as he recognized Eastmark's king.

"Your majesty," Jonmarc said tightly, with a quick glance toward Tris. "Is this a friendly visit, or am I under arrest?"

"May we step inside?" Tris asked.

"Sure. Why not."

Jonmarc stepped aside warily, and Tris saw that while he did not reach for his sword, his hand never strayed far from its pommel. Probably best if I stay for this, Tris thought. I'd bate to see Jonmarc lose bis pardon by running Kalcen through.

Kalcen gave Jonmarc a look of appraisal. "So you're the hero of Chauvrenne," he said in Markian.

"I was there," Jonmarc replied in the same language, with a heavy Margolense accent.

"Foor Arontala tried to destroy you at Chauvrenne. You knew him for what he was—and you knew his power. Yet you returned with Martris Drayke to face him again. Why?"

Jonmarc was silent for a moment, his gaze locked with Kalcen's. Once more, Tris felt the tingle of magic that told him Kalcen was truth-sensing. For a mortal, Jonmarc was exceptionally resistant to mind magic, but he hoped Jonmarc had the good sense to permit Kalcen's touch. "Arontala killed my wife. He hanged my men. I had a score to settle."

Kalcen's gaze fell to the scar that ran from below Jonmarc's ear down under the collar of his shirt, and lingered on the two faint parallel scars that were the mark of a Nargi fighting slave collar. "In Eastmark, we have great regard for warriors," Kalcen said. "And although we have no love for the Nargi, your skill in combat against their champions is legendary. Istra has chosen you as Lord of Dark Haven, and you have become an ally of kings.

"My father was slow to recognize General Alcion's treachery. He didn't know that Arontala was behind the General's rise, nor did he realize Alcion had set his sights on the throne of Eastmark—until the revolt at Chau-vrenne. When the army learned what Alcion had done, there was an uprising. It was the beginning of Alcion's fall—and it may have prevented a civil war."

Jonmarc's eyes were hard. "My men were hanged for refusing to murder civilians. Alcion burned the village anyhow. If you're so bloody grateful, why keep my death warrant on the books for ten years?"

"Nothing can change their sacrifice—that's true. As for the death warrant—Father believed you dead at the hands of the Nargi. I only recently learned otherwise. The warrant has been struck from the books. You're pardoned."

Tris saw a mixture of anger and old pain in Jonmarc's dark eyes. No one spoke. Finally, Jonmarc drew a deep breath and nodded. "Thank you."

Kalcen grinned with unexpected humor, his white teeth a contrast against his dark skin. "Donelan tells me that you plan to marry his ward. That would make you kin to both him and to Martris Drayke. You're already liegeman to Staden. I suspect there would be protest if I tried to clap you in irons. Although I would relish a go in the salle—they say your skill is the best in a generation."

"If you're as good as Kiara, you might give me a run for my money. But I still won most of my matches with her."

Kalcen laughed. "Eastmark is open to you now. When you return North, come to visit. We'll see about that time in the salle."

Outside, the bells tolled the tenth hour. "We're all due in the ballroom," Tris said, moving for the door. "And as the host, I'm late. We'll see you—and Carina—later?"

Jonmarc nodded. "We'll be there."

Shekerishet's great room sparkled with mirrors and candlelight. Carroway's musicians played tunes that kept the guests on their feet, twirling in finely-clothed pairs to more sedate numbers, or dancing in boisterous groups to more lively songs. Although Carina was seated between Cam and Jonmarc at the table, the press of people and the obligations of court prevented any real conversation. Jonmarc chafed at the delay. Everyone assumed that Carina would accept his proposal, but he had yet to have the opportunity to have any kind of private discussion.