Brogan twisted around, his polished boots creaking against the stirrup leather in the cold. "Galtero!"

Eyes like black ice shone from under the brow of a polished helmet beneath a horsehair plume dyed crimson to match the soldiers' capes. He held his reins easily in one gauntleted hand as he swayed in his saddle with the fluid grace of a mountain lion. "Lord General?"

"If my sister can't keep quiet when ordered to"—he shot her a glare — "gag her."

Lunetta darted an uneasy glance at the broad-shouldered man riding beside her, at his polished-to-perfection armor and mail, at his well-honed weapons. She opened her mouth to protest, but as she returned her gaze to those icy eyes she closed it again, and instead scratched her arms. "Forgive me, Lord General Brogan," she murmured as she bowed her head deferentially toward her brother.

Galtero aggressively sidestepped his horse closer to Lunetta, his powerful gray gelding jostling her bay mare, "Silence, streganicha."

Her cheeks colored at the affront, and her eyes, for an instant, flashed with menace, but just as quickly it was gone, and she seemed to wilt into her tattered rags as her eyes lowered in submission.

"I not be a witch," she whispered to herself.

A brow lifted over one cold eye, causing her to sag further, and she fell silent for good.

Galtero was a good man; the fact that Lunetta was sister to Lord General Brogan would count for nothing if the order were ever given. She was streganicha, one tainted by evil. Given the word, Galtero or any of the other men would spill her lifeblood without a moment's hesitation or regret.

That she was Brogan's kin only hardened him to his duty. She served as a constant reminder of the Keeper's ability to strike out at the righteous, and blight even the finest of families.

Seven years after Lunetta's birth, the Creator had balanced the injustice and Tobias had been born, born to counter what the Keeper had corrupted; but it had been too late for their mother, who had already begun to slip into the arms of madness. From the time he was eight, when the disrepute had delivered his father into an early grave and his mother had finally and fully nestled into the bosom of madness, Tobias had been burdened with the duty of ruling the gift his sister possessed, lest it rule her. At that age Lunetta had doted on him, and he had used that love to convince her to listen only to the Creator's wishes, and to guide her in moral conduct, the way the men of the king's circle had schooled him. Lunetta had always needed, in fact embraced, guidance. She was a helpless soul trapped by a curse that was beyond her ability to expunge or her power to escape.

Through ruthless effort, he had cleansed the ignominy of having one with the gift born into his family. It had taken most of his life, but Tobias had returned honor to the family name. He had shown them all; he had turned the stigma to his advantage, and had become the most exalted among the exalted.

Tobias Brogan loved his sister — loved her enough to slit her throat himself, if need be, to free her from the Keeper's tendrils, from the torment of his taint, if it ever slipped the bounds of control. She would live only so long as she was useful, only so long as she helped them root out evil, root out banelings. For now, she fought the scourge snatching at her soul, and she was useful. He realized she didn't look like much, swathed in scraps of different-colored cloth — it was the one thing that brought her pleasure and kept her content, having different colors draped around her, her «pretties» she called them — but the Keeper had invested Lunetta with rare talent and strength. Through tenacious effort, Tobias had expropriated it.

That was the flaw with the Keeper's creation — the flaw in anything the Keeper created: it could be used as a tool by the pious, if they were astute enough. The Creator always provided weapons to fight profanity, if one only looked for them and had the wisdom, the sheer audacity, to use them. That was what impressed him about the Imperial Order; they were shrewd enough to understand this, and resourceful enough to use magic as a tool to seek out profanity and destroy it.

As he did, the Order used streganicha, and apparently valued and trusted them. He didn't like it, though, that they were allowed to roam free and unguarded to bring information and proposals, but if they ever turned against the cause, well, he always kept Lunelta nearby.

Still, he didn't like being so close to evil. It repulsed him, sister or not.

Dawn was just breaking and the streets were already crowded with people. In abundance, too, were soldiers of different lands, each patrolling the grounds of their own palaces, and others, mostly D'Haran, patrolling the city. Many of the troops looked ill at ease, as if they anticipated an attack an any moment. Brogan had been assured that they had everything well in hand. Never one to take on faith anything he was told, he had sent out his own patrols the night before, and they had confirmed that there were no Midland insurgents anywhere near Aydindril.

Brogan always favored arriving when least expected, and in greater numbers than expected, just in case he had to take matters into his own hands. He had brought a full fist — five hundred men — into the city, but if there proved to be trouble, he could always bring his main force into the Aydindril. His main force had proven themselves quite capable of crushing any insurrection.

Had the D'Harans not been allies, the indications of their numbers would have been alarming. Though Brogan had well-founded faith in his men's abilities, only the vain fought battles when the odds were even, much less long; the Creator didn't hold the vain in kind regard.

Lifting a hand, Tobias slowed the horses, lest they trample a squad of D'Haran foot soldiers crossing before the column. He thought it untoward of them to be winged out in a battle formation, similar to his own flying wedge, as they crossed the main thoroughfare, but perhaps the D'Harans, charged with the task of patrolling a vanquished city, were reduced to frightening footpads and cutpurses with a show of might.

The D'Harans, weapons to hand and looking to be in an ill mood, swept gazes over the column of cavalry bearing down on them, apparently looking for any sign of threat. Brogan thought it rather odd that they carried their weapons unsheathed. A cautious lot, the D'Harans.

Unconcerned with what they saw, they didn't hurry their pace. Brogan smiled; lesser men would have stepped up their stride. Their weapons, mostly swords and battle-axes, were neither embellished nor fancy, and that in itself made them look all the more impressive. They were weapons carried because they had proven brutally effective, and not for flash.

Outnumbered well over twentyfold, the men in dark leather and mail regarded all the polished metal with indifference; Polish and precision often displayed nothing more that conceit, and although in this case they were a reflection of Brogan's discipline, a display of deadly attention to detail, the D'Haran's probably didn't know that. Where he and his men were better known, a glimpse of their crimson capes was enough to make strong men blanch, and the glint off their polished armor was enough to make an enemy break and run.

When they had come across the Rang'Shada Mountains from Nicobarese, Brogan had met with one of the Order's armies, made up of men of many nations, but mostly D'Hara, and had been impressed with the D'Haran's general, Riggs, who had accepted counsel with interest and attention. Brogan, in fact, had been so impressed with the man that he had left some of his own troops with him to help in the conquest of the Midlands. The Order had been on its way to bring the heathen city of Ebinissia, the Crown city of Galea, to heel under the Order. The Creator willing, they had succeeded.