THE BATTLE OF Passe a'Fiume began slowly. The same day that the Kraljiki quietly departed the town to return to Nessantico, the Hïrzg broke from his encampment on the mountainside, leading his army to the parley field. There, in full view of those watching from the city walls, they erected their tents: thousands of them, like thick mushrooms clustered in the grass. A force of a few dozen Firenzcian chevarittai, dressed in gilded armor and seated on black destriers, rode forward to the far end of the bridge, led by Starkkapitän ca'Linnett. Sergei, watching from the wall, saw one of the chevarittai ride forward from the group, his spear tipped with a white kerchief. He cantered his horse across the bridge until he was directly underneath Sergei. He brandished a scroll before dropping it in the dust of the road before the gate. The man saluted Sergei with clasped hands, then turned his horse and rode back across the bridge.

    Sergei knew what it would say, even before it was delivered to him. The scroll called for an individual challenge: for the Kraljiki (who could not answer), and for Sergei, who could. "Do we ride out, Commandant?" Sergei could hear the eagerness in Elia ca'Montmorte's voice. "Or, if you don't wish to accept the challenge, I will go in your stead; I owe ca'Linnett for what he did to us at Ville Colhelm. It would give me nothing but pleasure to see the grass of Nessantico grow tall with his blood."

    "You can't answer the challenge, Commandant." Bahik cu'Garret, A'Offizier of the Garde Civile in Passe a'Fiume—but only a vajiki, not a chevaritt—was shaking his head, as was U'Téni cu'Bachiga. "You can't let the fate of Passe a'Fiume rest on a duel between chevarittai."

    "Why not?" ca'Montmorte snorted. "There's honor in it. And Passe a'Fiume will still be standing afterward, and with the banner of Nessantico flying over it."

    "The chevarittai code has been abandoned for generations," cu'Bachiga answered. "Look at Jablunkov, or the Battle of the Wastes, or the Riven Fields—there are a dozen or more examples. Why should this be any different? It's posturing, and nothing more, and the Hïrzg knows it. It's the chevarittai playing at war, and even should you happen to prevail, Chevaritt ca'Montmorte, the Hïrzg won't take his army away."

    "Then he dishonors himself as a chevaritt," ca'Montmorte retorted.

    "He is Hïrzg, and he wants to be Kraljiki," cu'Garret scoffed. "You think your 'dishonor' worries him even slightly?"

    Sergei listened to the men argue, rubbing the smooth metal of his nose. "Enough!' he said sharply. "Elia, I'm afraid I agree with A'Offizier cu'Garret: no matter the outcome of this challenge, the Hïrzg isn't likely to pull back his army after coming this far. I think it's more likely a ruse. Our task here is to delay the Hïrzg's advance to give the Kraljiki time to prepare the defense of Nessantico—would you have me swing open the gates of Passe a'Fiume because a chevarittai champion lost their challenge?" Ca'Montmorte scowled but didn't answer. "I can't do that. Chevaritt, I would love to ride out across the bridge with you and answer this ca'Linnett's challenge in the name of the Kraljiki, but I can't. I won't."

    "Then you condemn Passe a'Fiume to slow torture, Commandant" ca'Montmorte answered. "I hope A'Offizier cu'Garret and U'Téni cu'Bachiga fully understand that, because they'll be here with us to experience it, along with many innocents."

    Sergei ended the conversation not long afterward, and directed one of the archers to wrap the challenge around the shaft of an arrow and shoot it over the bridge. Ca'Linnett himself rode forward to pluck the arrow from the ground and glance at Sergei's scrawled refusal. Hoots of laughter and derision cascaded from the Firenzcian chevarittai to assault the walls of Passe a'Fiume, but the jeers and taunts did not tear down the battlements.

    Sergei was satisfied with that, if the chevarittai in the city were not.

    Worse news came that night. Stragglers from the troops he'd set out along the north bank of the Clario came rushing back to the town in full retreat. Two battalions of Firenzcians, using war-téni to cover their crossing, had forded the Clario in darkness and attacked the Nessantico troops, overrunning their encampment. Sergei ordered all gates to the city closed; by predawn light, they could see from the walls the colors of Firenzcia surrounding Passe a'Fiume entirely.

    By dawn of the next day, the assault had begun in earnest.

    It began with the war-téni. A dozen great spheres of enchanted fire rose into the dawn, arcing across the sky like huge, roaring meteors. The téni of Passe a'Fiume, along with the war-téni left behind by Archigos ca'Cellibrecca, were waiting on the walls. Their chants began as soon as they saw the spell-fires flicker into life, their hands moved in counter-spells and return-spells, turning aside a hand of the spheres and sending them back to where they'd originated—their efforts were rewarded by faint screams and black smoke rising from the Firenzcian encampment. But far too many of the fireballs rushed past the walls in waves of blistering heat and blinding light, crashing into houses or onto the streets where they rolled and broke open and sent spatters of thick flame flying. Now the screams were close and frantic behind Sergei and those on the walls, as the townsfolk rushed to aid the injured, to put out the fires, and pull the dead from the rubble.

    There was no time to rest. Siege engines in the Firenzcian encampment flung boulders toward the walls, their impacts shuddering the ground and tearing great chunks of rock from the ramparts and crenellations. Only a few strides away from where he stood, Sergei saw a soldier in the livery of the Garde Civile shriek as a huge rock tore his arm entirely from his body before the stone crashed into the street be yond, killing three men and a horse. Now came the rain of arrows from archers moving under cover of the barrage to the far bank of the Clario: as the siege engines continued to hammer at the walls, as more ténifireballs flared overhead.

    Through the smoke and noise of the assault, Sergei glimpsed movement: soldiers massing on the bridge and pushing a battering ram in its sling; others placing rafts in the river. "Archers!" he shouted, and arrows rained out from the walls, a furious and thick hailstorm. The Clario frothed with men falling into its waters, flailing in panic or motionless, dead before the water took them. The ram squad was better protected with their shields turtling over them—the ram continued steadily and slowly across the bridge, and more soldiers came behind it to replace the fallen.

    "Chevarittai, to the gates!" Sergei called, and hurried down from the walls himself. His horse was there, stamping and nervous as the page held him. Sergei calmed the stallion as he put on his helm and adjusted his mail. The page helped to hoist him astride the destrier. Mounted, he pulled the Hïrzg's sword from its sheath as the other chevarittai gathered before the gates. The weight of the blade was heavy and comforting in his hand. "Drive them back across the bridge!" Sergei shouted. "O'Offizier ce'Ulcai, you will take a squadron of the Garde Civile and push that ram into the river once we have the bridge clear. Archers, make certain that the bridge stays clear. Understood?" There were salutes and shouts of agreement. "Open the gates!" Sergei called, and soldiers hurried to pull aside the great timbers that braced them, swinging open the thick wooden doors as they raised the portcullis.

    Sergei thrust his sword high. "For the glory of Nessantico and the Kraljiki!"

    The chevarittai and Garde Civile around him echoed the cry, a throaty challenge. They rode out in thunder.

    The destriers, clad in armor and trained in close combat, cleaved through the front ranks of enemy soldiers boiling around the ram. Sergei swung his sword down at a thrusting spear, breaking the weapon in half and hearing the scream as his mount trampled the man underfoot. He cut again, and again, no longer thinking but only reacting to the bodies around him. He could hear screams and cries; he felt a spear tip jab through his mail to bite deep into his thigh, the shaft breaking off with the onward rush of his horse. He screamed himself then, taking the pain and anger and letting it flow through his arm.

    "Back! Back!" he heard someone cry, and suddenly the Firenzcian soldiers were no longer holding their ground but fleeing, and Sergei was past the ram and across the bridge entirely, hacking at the retreating soldiers, running them down under the destrier's hooves. The other chevarittai surged around him, savage and relentless. Sergei pulled on his mount's reins, glancing back—on the bridge, soldiers in blue and gold were streaming out from the city and pushing at the ram. Arrows streaked overhead, so thick they seemed to dim the sun. His wounded thigh throbbed as he clamped his legs around the saddle, holding back his mount.

    "Form up!' he called the chevarittai. "Hold here!" Most of them obeyed, though not all: a few continued beyond the bridge, chasing the soldiers. In the field ahead, he could see the Firenzcian chevarittai readying to charge: the Red Lancers. "Return to the city!" Sergei ordered.

    There were protests from the chevarittai, and Sergei scowled. "I am commandant here. Inside! There will be time enough for fighting. Inside!" He turned his horse; reluctantly, they followed. The bridge had been cleared; soldiers from the city were bringing in their own dead and wounded.

    Sergei slid from his destrier as he passed the gates, handing the reins to one of the waiting pages. His leg buckled under him from the shock of hitting the ground; he forced himself to stand, though he allowed the page who rushed over to help to wrap a binding around his leg to staunch the bleeding. He watched as the chevarittai passed, then the remainder of the Garde Civile on the bridge. He gestured to those around the gate; the portcullis rang metallically as it slammed back down, the hinges groaned as the men pushed the gates closed and replaced the bracing. Sergei limped to the wall. Around the town was smoke and destruction and bodies. Crows were already flapping to the ground. A lone chevaritt rode forward to the far end of the bridge, with a white flag on his spear.

    "The Hïrzg asks for a brief truce to give us time to recover our dead," he called up to Sergei.

    "Tell the Hïrzg he has the Kraljiki's permission to do so if he wishes," Sergei replied.

    The chevaritt gave a salute and rode away. In time, soldiers approached the walls from the encampment with carts and began to haul away the dead. In both Passe a'Fiume and in the fields outside, the flames of pyres would light the evening sky.

    The second day of the siege of Passe a'Fiume ended.

On the third day, the téni redoubled their assault on the city, striking from all sides of the wall, not only from beyond the Clario. The bulk of the téni-fire passed through the defenses of the town's few and exhausted war-téni, reaching even into the city center. There were few buildings left whose roofs were untouched or that didn't show some damage; the casualties, civilian and military, mounted quickly as the siege engines again began their merciless barrage, also from all sides. All five city gates were under assault, not just the Clario Gate, and Sergei directed the chevarittai in sallies against them, but they were spread too thin now, and the enemy rams battered at the gates. Arrows rained down on the besiegers; those war-téni who were still able cast their spells; heated oil cascaded down from the battlements and was set afire.

    The smell of smoke and blood were thick in the air from morning until dusk.

    When the day finally ended, the sun falling behind a hundred columns of smoke and ash, the city walls were pockmarked and gouged, the gates cracked, and fires burned unchecked, but the city had held.

    Sergei knew she might not hold for another day under the ferocious assault.

    "Two hundred or more dead of the Garde Civile; fully half the force injured so badly they can't fight." Ca'Montmorte read the tallies tonelessly as Sergei and U'Téni cu'Bachiga and A'Offizier cu'Garret listened. "Of the chevarittai, three double-hands have fallen, most are injured, and three quarters are unhorsed. I'm told that the wall of the west gate is nearly broken through. There are fires burning everywhere, and no one is able to say how many of the citizens of the city who remained behind have been killed or injured."

    Sergei grimaced as he limped to the table to pour wine, his injured leg protesting. The leg had swelled, and blood seeped through the bandaging. "Passe a'Fiume has never been taken," cu'Garret said doggedly, and ca'Montmorte glanced at him with a look of distaste.

    "Well, that might change tomorrow," ca'Montmorte answered. "Unless Cénzi grants us a miracle."

    U'Téni cu'Bachiga glared at him and muttered something, the only word of which Sergei caught was "blasphemy."

    "Unfortunately, I have to agree with Chevaritt ca'Montmorte," Sergei said, sipping the wine. It tasted as if it had been dipped in greasy smoke, or perhaps it was just the air in the room. They were all filthy, their clothing stained with dirt and blood and worse, and the smell in the room was foul. Sergei set the goblet down and rubbed at his nose—it was cold and too hard. "The town may well fall tomorrow, and the Hïrzg realizes it. We've done all we can do here."

    "So we must surrender and hope that the Hïrzg will show us mercy?" ca'Montmorte asked.

    "That's an option we should consider," Sergei said. "We can send a chevaritt with a petition in the morning, surrender our arms to the Hïrzg, and he can release those he wishes and hold the rest of us for ransom."

    "Or?"

    "We stay and we fight until the walls collapse and the entire town burns, and we leave our corpses here as we return to Cénzi. We might be able to give the Kraljiki another day to ready Nessantico for the Hïrzg." Sergei shrugged. He glanced at each of their faces and saw the grim, weary fatalism there.

    "Or," he added, "we remember that the deciding battle in this war won't be Passe a'Fiume but Nessantico, and acknowledge that is where we should go now. Those of us who wish to do so will ride out at first light, all of us who wish to attempt this. The Hïrzg's forces are thinnest near the southwest gate. We can try to break through his line to gain the Avi and retreat toward Nessantico—some of us may make it. Those who don't wish to join the foray can stay here to surrender the city to the Hïrzg and his mercy."

    Ca'Montmorte was already nodding, his fist softly pounding his thigh. Cu'Garret stared at the table between them. Cu'Bachiga, in his green robes, wrung his hands. "I will lead the foray. As for the rest of you . . . I don't care which choice you make," Sergei told them. "That is between you and Cénzi. We have done all we can here, and we have fulfilled our promise to the Kraljiki to hold as long as possible."

    "Even if we can fight our way through, the Firenzcian army will follow us—and most will be on foot," cu'Garret said. "We'd be harried all the way to Nessantico."

    Sergei shook his head. "If we can push through their ranks, I don't believe the Hïrzg will pursue; he'll need to move his full army across the Clario and re-form them before they move on to Nessantico, and he won't believe that a few more chevarittai and Garde Civile at Nessantico will make a difference."

    "You're wagering your life on that guess, and everyone else's."

    Sergei managed to smile. "I am. But we all must die sometime. Why not now?" He gulped the last of the wine, wiping his lips with his sleeves and tossing the goblet across the room. The pottery shattered against the wall. "There's nothing more to discuss here," he told them. "A'Offizier ca'Montmorte, spread the word to all the chevarittai; A'Offizier cu'Garret, you'll do the same with the Garde Civile; U'Téni cu'Bachiga, if you or any of the war-téni wish to join us, your help will be appreciated. But remember, no one who chooses to stay and surrender with the city will be punished." He took a breath, going to the open window and staring down at the ruin of the town.

    "I would suggest you rest as well as you can tonight," Sergei said. "And make your peace with Cénzi."

A'Offizier cu'Garret decided to remain in the city and negotiate the surrender. "Passe a'Fiume is my charge as Nessantico is yours," he told Sergei, "and I will see her through to the end." Sergei could only nod in understanding at that, and clap the man on the back. Nearly all the Garde Civile garrison of the city stayed with cu'Garret. Those chevarittai or Garde Civile too badly injured to ride or walk would by necessity remain behind, as would U'Téni cu'Bachiga and most of his téni.

    At the southwest gate in the wan light of predawn, Sergei looked at the courtyard to see those grim-faced chevarittai who were still able to ride. Around them were the Garde Civile of the other garrisons, and a bare handful of the war-téni from Nessantico. Three hundred. Maybe less. Certainly fewer than he had hoped.

    They waited, and Sergei knew that the tension was singing as loudly in each of their ears as it was in his. He checked that his injured leg was tied securely to the saddle, then gripped the Hïrzg's sword tightly in his hand and drew it from its scabbard. Around him, he heard the shimmering of well-used blades leaving leather scabbards as the others did the same.

    He waited. Along the northwest quadrant of Passe a'Fiume's wall, at the gate of the Avi a'Firenzcia, téni-fire blossomed and arced outward. They could hear, faintly, the clatter of swords against shields and hoarse shouts, as if those gates were about to open and disgorge a sally force. Sergei glanced up to the broken summit of the wall. A man waved down to him. "The enemy is moving, Commandant," he said. "Away to the north."

    Sergei nodded. He gestured to the men at the gate. The barricades had already been removed. Now the gates swung open and the portcullis was drawn up. Sergei kicked his mount into a gallop, the mounted chevarittai following him, and they galloped out from the city, the men on foot running after them.

    The lines of the Firenczian besiegers were least thick here, where the ground was marshy and mosquito-infested. If the distraction had worked, many of the enemy soldiers would be moving toward the commotion at the next gate. A good number of the remainder would still be sleeping, waiting for the sun and their final attack on the town. The plan was for the chevarittai to act as a wedge to break through the Firenzcian line, then hold the break open so that the foot soldiers of the Garde Civile could move through to the Avi, and finally act as rear guard if the Firenzcians decided to pursue.

    And if it fell apart, they would all die here.

    They pounded across the loamy riverside earth, the hooves of the destriers kicking up heavy clods. Already Sergei could see the tents there, and a figure pointing toward them and shouting alarm. Fireballs arced out from a wagon carrying the war-téni, tearing into the Firenzcian encampment. The commotion spread quickly along the line, but by then Sergei and the chevarittai were already among the tents. Sergei hacked at anything that moved, not pausing but urging his mount on, always forcing his way forward even as soldiers pressed against them. An o'offizier, half-dressed and without armor, screamed as he brandished his sword, and Sergei cut him down with one stroke. To either side, he could hear the sound of battle and once the awful cry of a wounded destrier. Then he and most of the other riders were through; there was nothing but a ruined farmer's field between him and the tree-lined Avi. The war-téni's cart rattled past, the horses pulling it wide-eyed and frightened. Sergei pulled up on the reins of his own mount, turning the horse to see the Garde Civile hurrying through the gap the chevarittai had made, a gap that was closing quickly.

    "Move! Run!" he shouted to all of them. "Chevarittai, hold!" He galloped back, pushing against the Firenzcians, the Hïrzg's sword bloody and growing heavier with each stroke until his muscles screamed. Most of the Garde Civile was through, the first group with the war-téni already on the road. There were banners of black and silver rushing toward them, and the horns of Firenzcian chevarittai sounded alarm.

    "Now!" Sergei shouted, and the chevarittai disengaged. The gap in the Firenzcian line closed rapidly. Sergei held, waiting as the others rushed past him, waiting as the Firenzcians threw their spears and pursued. He kicked his horse's ribs with his good leg to urge it into a gallop as the last of the chevarittai passed him: as arrows began to fall around him, as téni-fire erupted in the midst of the fleeing Garde Civile in the field and a dozen men fell screaming. Sergei lagged behind the chevarittai as they galloped across the field toward the tree line, passing the last surviving stragglers of the Garde Civile.

    Sergei was nearly to the field's edge when he felt arrows pummel his mailed back and fall away. He thought then that he was safe, but a sudden terrific stabbing blow to his neck nearly sent him from his seat despite the leather straps that bound his leg. He lifted a hand to his neck and felt the thick shaft of a crossbow bolt. He could feel hot blood pouring from the wound.

    He heard the sinister tchunk of crossbows again, and a bolt penetrated his armor near his spine, the force of the impact pushing him hard against the neck of his horse. He clung to the destrier desperately—as the branches of the trees lashed at him, as he heard the hooves of his mount break onto the hard-packed dirt of the Avi . . .

    . . . as the world darkened around him even though the sun had finally touched the horizon . . .

    . . . as he groaned and was lost in that darkness . . .

"I'M SORRY it had to be this way, Ana."

       Seated on the small bed in the cell, Ana's head turned at the sound of the tenor, familiar voice. Kraljiki Justi was standing at the door to her cell in the Bastida's tower—the same cell Karl had once inhabited. She was bound as he had been, with the vile silencer pressing into her mouth and her hands confined with chains, her hair matted and dirty and caught in the straps of the gag.

    They had brought her here directly from Oldtown, in a closed carriage that went careening through the city in a rush. She had no idea where Karl was, or Mahri who had betrayed them.

    But she knew now who had wanted her. She wondered how long she had to live.

    The Kraljiki glanced around the cell. "I'm told your Numetodo lover lived here, until his escape. Poor Capitaine ci'Doulor was here for a time, until he was moved to, ah, less palatial accommodations. And now you . . ." He stepped forward, with the easy, athletic grace she remembered. He sat down on the table in the room, regarding her.

    "I don't admit mistakes easily, Ana," he said. "But I made one in aligning myself with ca'Cellibrecca and his serpent of a daughter, a mistake worse than I could have imagined, when the best choice for me—it pains me to admit—was the one my matarh had already suggested. I'm hoping it's not too late to rectify that." He gestured to the gardai outside the cell. "Remove her bonds," he said, and he watched as they unlocked her hands and undid the straps from the tongue-gag. The gardai moved back a step but, she noted, didn't leave. She rubbed at her wrists and worked her jaw.

    "I'm sorry to have brought you bound like a condemned heretic, Ana," Justi said. "But would you have come if I'd simply asked?"

    "No," she answered sharply, not caring about the impoliteness. "Where is Karl?"

    "In the cell a floor below you. Unharmed."

    She nodded. "You have me in front of you now, Kraljiki. What do you want?"

    "It would seem," he said, "that I'm in need of an Archigos. Ca'Cellibrecca has abandoned Nessantico to be on the side of the Hïrzg; I will put a new head on the body of the Concénzia Faith, so that all will know that ca'Cellibrecca's voice is false."

    "Choosing the Archigos isn't the role of the Kraljiki," Ana told him. "The Concord A'Téni must do that."

    Justi gave her a smile that vanished in the next moment. "The a'téni are frightened of the army coming to Nessantico—those who are still here. Ca'Cellibrecca has left them bereft; they're afraid that ca'Cellibrecca will remain Archigos if the Hïrzg prevails, and they're just as frightened that he will fall with the Hïrzg. I've already spoken to the a'téni, and they . . . well, let me just say that I've convinced them that as long as they remain in Nessantico, it's in their best interests to follow my preferences."

    "And which of them have you chosen, and why should it matter to me?"

    Justi smiled. It was a strange, apologetic smile. "I've chosen none of them," he said, the words thin and high. "I've decided that I will promote a young o'téni to the position."

    It took a moment for the import of his words to register. Ana started to protest in shock and disbelief, but Justi waved her silent. "A moment," he said. "Choosing one of the existing a'téni simply won't have the symbolism and import that I require. Archigos Dhosti had picked you out, elevated and obviously favored you. Your talent with the Ilmodo is undoubted. I can't bring the dwarf back, so I will choose his favorite, for the signal it will send to the rest of the Holdings."

    "You can't be serious. I'm only an o'téni, and too young. And Concénzia has already cast me out."

    "Too young?" The odd smile emerged again. "You're nearly the same age as my matarh was when she became Kraljica—if anything, I would say that enhances the symbolism, don't you think? And it was ca'Cellibrecca who cast you out—and he has already shown where his loyalty lies."

    Ana was still shaking her head, but Justi continued speaking into her disbelief. "I offer you two choices, Ana. If you wish, you can remain here in the Bastida and you can watch from the balcony and see whether Nessantico falls to the Hïrzg and his pet Archigos; I would remind you that ca'Cellibrecca has already displayed his attitude toward you and the Numetodo. I daresay that he'd be pleased to find you and ci'Vliomani conveniently jailed so he can do what he loves to do with Numetodo. And if I should prevail, well, I will need to show the Holdings what I do to those who betray me. Even those who were once my lovers."

    Ana felt nothing but loathing for the man. "Or?" she asked.

    Justi gave a high bark of a laugh. "Or you may take my second choice: you can become Archigos and ca' rather than cu', and help me bury the man who would bury you. You can bring justice to the man who murdered Archigos Dhosti."

    He was so smug, so certain. Ana rubbed at her wrists, chafed by the manacles. She wanted to spit at him, to refuse for the momentary satisfaction it would give her. But she didn't. Couldn't. "You plotted with ca'Cellibrecca against the Archigos, you and Francesca. You used me, Kraljiki, and now you want to use me again."

    He waved a careless hand. "All true. Just as you tried to use me for ci'Vliomani's sake, and for Archigos Dhosti's as well. Well, neither of us got what we wanted, did we? So let us use each other again, Ana, this time to better effect. Do you still want a marriage to the Kraljiki? If you do, I will call an a'téni here immediately and have it done. I will become Justi ca'Seranta. Whatever you want. But I need an Archigos and I need one swiftly, and you're the best choice I have."

    Ana scoffed. "Marry you? I'd sooner cut off my hands myself and tear out my own tongue than do that. I know what you do when those around you are no longer convenient. I watched the Kraljica die. I watched your matarh draw her last breath. Marry you?" She gave a single bark of harsh laughter. "I think not."

    If he was offended, it didn't show on his handsome face. "I've come to believe that it's better to choose our own times than to wait, Ana. I chafed under my matarh's thumb for decades, waiting and waiting for mine, and I finally realized that I might wait forever, that I might die before it came. I understood that Cénzi wanted me to choose. So I did and I don't regret that. This is your moment to choose, Ana. You don't like everything power brings you? Too bad. Cénzi has seen fit to offer you, through me, the chance to take the globe of the Archigos and use it. You can take what He offers, or you can refuse and pray to Him as Nessantico falls around us. What would Cénzi prefer you to do? What would Archigos Dhosti tell you? What would Envoy ci'Vliomani say?"

    She knew. She already knew, but she shook her head. "I won't marry you, Kraljiki, and I won't necessarily do what you ask. Understand that if I am Archigos, I will be Archigos. Fully. Completely. You must realize that. Concénzia will interpret the Divolonté as I would interpret it, as Archigos Dhosti would have interpreted it. I will be your ally today, Kraljiki, but I won't consent to be your pawn. I will be your ally today, but perhaps not tomorrow. I will speak with my voice, not yours."

    Justi inhaled. He nodded. "I would expect nothing different from you. I accept those conditions."

    Ana nodded. The fear in her was subsiding, but it was replaced by a newer, darker one. Let this be the right choice, Cénzi. Let me not fail You. "Then we will go down and we will release Karl ci'Vliomani, Kraljiki. Now. Any other Numetodo in the Bastida will also be immediately released. When I see that has been done, we can talk further."

    Another breath. Another nod. Justi waved in the direction of the cell door. "After you, Archigos Ana ca'Seranta," he said. "I took the liberty of ordering the Concord A'Téni to meet, and they are anxiously waiting for us."

"WHERE IS GEORGI, Vatarh? I want him to show me how you besiege a city."

    Her voice echoed in the expanse of the Comte's Palais of Passe a'Fiume. The open lobby under the broken, charred roof was littered with pallets of the wounded and dead, and what remained of the struc ture stank of blood and smoke. Jan regarded his daughter and sighed. He'd allowed her to enter Passe a'Fiume from the rear encampment this morning. It was safe enough now: U'Téni cu'Bachiga, A'Offizier cu'Garret, and those injured Chevarittai of Nessantico who had been unable to flee were incarcerated in the temple, which was one of the less-damaged buildings in the city. The executed bodies of some of the lesser offiziers of the Garde Civile—those whose families were unlikely to have enough wealth to make ransom likely or worthwhile—were gibbeted along the walls of the town. The war-téni, under ca'Cellibrecca's guidance, had briefly become fire-téni, putting out the flames their spells had caused. Despite their efforts, the town smoldered: the buildings were grave-shrouded in ribbons of gray, thin smoke; the walls were cracked and tumbling near the main gates. Crows feasted on the bodies left strewn in the streets or half-buried in rubble or sprawled on the fields outside, while soldiers monitored the citizens dragooned into removing the dead, stacking the corpses on flat-bedded carts, and taking them to the pyre built on the far side of the Clario. The dead-wagons fought against the constant influx of Firenzcian soldiers crossing into and through Passe a'Fiume. Except for the laughter and howls from the Firenzcian soldiers carousing in Passe a'Fiume's still-open taverns and brothels, the city went about its sad duties silently, in massive grief and shock.

    Jan had hoped that this would be the worst Allesandra would need to see, but hope—as the Toustour said—was a fickle mistress. Jan had studied the reports that Markell had given him regarding their own losses. He looked at his aide now, standing behind Allesandra with his head bowed.

    "That's why I asked Markell to bring you here," he told her. "Come with me, love. I must show you something." He held out his hand to her. She took it, and he marveled again at how smooth her hand was in his, and how it was no longer quite so small in his grasp. They walked down the main aisle between the pallets, with Jan stopping occasionally to comfort one of the wounded Firenzcian soldiers. Jan could see Allesandra's eyes widening, seeing the blood and the decaying flesh, the missing limbs and terrible, open wounds. Her breathing was shallow and fast, and she clung hard to him.

    They stopped, finally, before a pallet in the middle of the room. "No . . ." Jan heard Allesandra breathe, then a sob cracked in her voice and she tore her hand away from Jan, kneeling down beside the pallet and the still, bloodied body laying there. She looked up at Jan with eyes brimming. "This can't be," she said. "I won't let it be."

    "I wish it were that easy, my little bird," he answered. He crouched alongside her. "Allesandra, your Georgi was a soldier. An o'offizier. He asked to participate in the siege and he performed valiantly, but when the Nessantican chevarittai fled yesterday it was his encampment they went through. He fought to hold them back. But he fell."

    Jan reached for the blanket and started to pull it over Georgi's head; Allesandra reached out and touched his hand. "No," she said. "Let me, Vatarh. He was my friend."

    Jan let her take the blanket, and Allesandra gently pulled the folds over Georgi's face. She touched her hand to the o'offizer's hidden face.

    "Allesandra," Jan said softly, "war might seem like a game, but a starkkapitän or a Hïrzg must realize that the pieces aren't lead and paint; they're flesh and blood, and once they fall, you can't pick them up again and put them back. Look around you; this is the reality of war, and you need to understand it if you are to be the Hïrzgin. Georgi was teaching you how to move the pieces; now he teaches you what it means to be one of those pieces."

    Allesandra glanced back up at him and though her cheeks were stained with the tracks of moisture, her eyes were dry. "Tell me that we'll go to Nessantico now, Vatarh," she said, her voice tinged more with anger than sorrow. "Tell me that."

    He crouched down and cradled her in his arms, and her anger returned again to tears. She sobbed against his chest, hard and inconsolable. He stroked her hair and pressed her against him.

    "We will go to Nessantico, Allesandra," he told her. "I promise you that. You will walk its streets soon enough."

* * *

"Another week, perhaps a bit more, and this will be Nessantico's fate. Cénzi has indeed blessed us," ca'Cellibrecca said, his voice as raucous as one of the carrion crows. "What a wonderful victory, my Hïrzg!"

    Jan turned from a broken window set high in a domed tower of the temple. He'd given Allesandra into Markell's care before going to find the Archigos. Ca'Cellibrecca was beaming at him, his corpulent face alight above the ornate robe of the Archigos. Jan scowled back.

    "You're a fool, ca'Cellibrecca," he snarled. He pointed to the shattered window. Shards of colored glass were snared in the leaden frame, and the sill was blackened with smoke. "Is that victory you see out there?" he railed at the man, who cowered back in the doorframe as if searching for a retreat. "Will you tell me that Kraljiki Justi is among our prisoners? Was it the Kraljiki or even Commandant ca'Rudka who surrendered the city to us, or only some unimportant local offizier? Did you fail to notice how many men we lost here, or how many days we've wasted while Nessantico readied its defenses?" Jan spat out from the window, watching the gob of spittle arc in the air to fall on shattered roof tiles far below. He turned back to ca'Cellibrecca. "The Kraljiki played us here, ca'Cellibrecca, better than his matarh could have. He offered parley to gain days, then he fled and left his commandant here to hold us. Then the chevarritai fled themselves before they could be captured."

    "I realize that," ca'Cellibrecca said. "Starkkapitän ca'Linnett should have ordered his men to pursue. I told the man so, but he wouldn't listen to me." Ca'Cellibrecca shook his head. "Now we'll have to contend with them at Nessantico. I've been thinking about this, my Hïrzg. If we take our troops, and divide them so that we come in from the north and west as well as the east . . ."

    Jan interrupted the man with a snarl. "Come here a moment, Archigos—I need to show you something."

    Ca'Cellibrecca walked across the room toward him; Jan stepped aside to let him stand before the window, his nose wrinkling at the smell of incense clinging to the man's robes. "What is it you want me to see?" ca'Cellibrecca asked, and Jan caught the man's green robes in his fists and pushed him forward hard. Ca'Cellibrecca squalled in fright but his hands flailed only at cold air. Jan could see shards of glass digging into the rolls of the man's waist. Overbalanced, ca'Cellibrecca was heavier than Jan had expected; he had to brace himself to keep from losing his grip entirely.

    "Can you fly, Archigos?" Jan asked as the man shouted in alarm. "Can Cénzi give you wings like a bird?"

    "My Hïrzg . . . Pull me back up!"

    "Shut up," Jan told him. "You look more like a cow than a bird to me, Archigos. That's what you are, Archigos: a cow. As long as you give me the milk of Cénzi, I will keep you. If you can't be my cow, then I have U'Téni cu'Kohnle to serve as such. Frankly, I don't really care which one of you it is as long as you give me what I want from you. I don't need you to be a bird and tell me about bird matters unless you can demonstrate to me how well you fly. I already have a starkkapitän, but maybe you think you're a better strategist, eh? We can find out now. So tell me, Archigos, because my arms are tired and I can't hold you for much longer: are you a cow, or are you a bird?"

    He shook the man and heard the sound of cloth ripping. Ca'Cellibrecca screamed. "I'm a cow! A cow!" Jan could see his arms flailing. People were looking up from the ground and pointing to the Archigos.

    "Louder," he called to the Archigos, shaking him again. "I can't hear you. They can't hear you."

    "I'm a cow!" the man screamed. He could hear the bellowing reverberate in the streets below. "I am a cow, my Hïrzg!"

    "Moo for me then, Cow," Jan said. "Let us hear you moo."

    Ca'Cellibrecca gulped. He mooed, a plaintive wail sounding over and over again, as if he were one of the wind-horns of the temple. Jan could hear laughter in the streets below.

    "That will do," Jan said, and pulled the man back up. The Archigos' hair was disheveled and blood stained his robes where the glass had sliced through the cloth into the flesh underneath. "I would advise you to attend to your cow matters, Archigos. We will be leaving Passe a'Fiume in the morning."

THE LEATHER POUCH on his belt felt heavy against Mahri's thigh, a glass ball the size of a child's fist nestled within it. Placing the X'in Ka inside the ball had cost him an entire night's sleep, but doubts still plagued him.

    The signs aren't clear enough. They never are when they concern her. . . .

    The wind-horns on the Temple of Cénzi sounded, echoed by the horns on all the temples as well as the bells of the Kraljiki's Palais. With the clamor, the new Archigos appeared in the traditional middle tower window to wave to the throngs of the faithful . . . though the throngs were far fewer than those which usually greeted a new Archigos. Nessantico's population had been decimated: most men were away with the army swelling beyond the eastern gates, and many citizens had decided that visiting relatives in towns to the west would be an excellent idea. The temple square was full and cheers rose toward the new Archigos, but the crowd didn't overflow out into the Avi a'Parete, the cheers were less than deafening and more rehearsed than authentic. The heralds had already announced that, due to the current crisis, Archigos Ana the First would forgo the traditional procession around the city; after a few minutes and a blessing called out over the onlookers in a thin, nervous voice, the crowd dispersed quickly except for the ca'-and-cu' who filed into the Archigos' Temple to witness Ana's initial service.

    As the citizenry walked away toward home and businesses, the air was alive with gossip, and Mahri caught snatches of it as they passed him.

    ". . . told me that she's already agreed to marry the Kraljiki. She might as well be one of the grandes horizontals . . ."

    ". . . seems that when the Kraljiki's wishes aren't followed he'll just create his own Concénzcia . . ."

    ". . . that the Numetodo will be welcome in the city. From what I hear, ci'Vliomani's title of envoy has been restored . . ."

    Mahri smiled grimly. He touched the glass ball once more and wrapped his cloak around him. Sheltered against one of the buildings across the square, he invoked a quick spell, and the air shimmered around him as if he were enclosed in water. He walked across the courtyard and into the temple, knowing that casual eyes would only see a heat-shimmer if they glanced at him. Inside the temple, he found a dark niche to one side of the nave. There, he settled in to watch as Ana and a retinue of a' and u'téni went through the rituals of the High Worship. He listened to Ana's fledgling Admonition from the High Lectern. Her Admonition was largely a tribute to Archigos Dhosti's memory and a plea for tolerance.

    ". . . remember that Archigos Dhosti realized that there are more things in the world than we can imagine, and that even Nessantico must change. With Kraljica Marguerite, we were lulled by peace for too long a time, and we woke to find that there were movements afoot that we had not seen because we didn't want to see them. We were afraid. We can no longer be afraid; we can no longer close our eyes and pretend that all is as we wish it to be. We must embrace those who can help us, because without their help, we cannot survive. My . . ." Mahri heard the pause, saw the almost-amused grimace that accompanied the hesitation. ". . . predecessor as Archigos had a fondness for quoting the Divolonté. I tell you that I hold those laws in no less regard than he. Let me quote: 'As child grows to adult, so must the Divolonté grow.' We have no choice but to accept such change now. The Concénzia Faith is emerging from a long, quiet childhood; from the sheltering arms of its parents into a world that is dangerous and uncomfortable. We are Nessantico. We are the Holdings, and we are great and we are vast, but there are those who would destroy our greatness with their petty, nar row concerns. I tell you this: to contend with the rest of the world, we must also be willing to learn from it."

    There was silence in the temple when she finished speaking, then came a susurrus of whispers among the ca'-and-cu' gathered there. He saw them lean toward each other with faces grim and frowning; he could see the mouthed word "Numetodo" on their lips even if he could not hear it. If Ana had hoped to convince the ca'-and-cu', she'd not succeeded, not if their posture was any indication. Even the Kraljiki, in attendance in the royal alcove to the left of the High Lectern, seemed uncomfortable with her words, and none of the a'téni on the dais with her were smiling. Karl was in attendance also, in a rear alcove of the temple with people who Mahri knew to be among the remaining local Numetodo. They were also grim, watching the reaction.

    The rest of the service went quickly. When Ana gave the Blessing of Cénzi to the attendants, they left the temple quickly while Ana and the a'téni went to the vestry at the rear of the building.

    Mahri, in his niche, sighed and closed his eyes. His hand touched the glass ball in its pouch. She would want this now. He knew it. He hurried toward the vestry, stopping in the shadows at the edge of the nave. Several of the e' and o'téni attendants waited there for their superiors to emerge, talking softly among themselves. Ana and the other a'téni of the Conclave were inside the closed doors.

    He could feel the X'in Ka swirling about him, and he let down the barriers of his mind to bring it in. He spoke softly so that the téni would not hear him; his hands swayed and turned and cupped the air. This spell was long and complicated, and it would utterly exhaust him later. It would also cost him a few years of his life. But again it was necessary, as it had been necessary in the past.

    He knew the sacrifices that were demanded of him. He'd agreed to them long, long ago.

    The world shifted around him. The very air hushed. The sound of the e' and o'téni's voices became low and almost unheard. He moved, and it was as if he were pushing his body through sand. Each step was a labor, and it seemed to take him days to reach the vestry doors a dozen strides away and slide past the living statues of the téni. It took nearly all his strength to push one of the doors open and shut it again.

    Around him, Ana and the a'téni were frozen, caught in the midst of removing their gilded outer vestments from the service. The crown of the Archigos lay on the seat of the chair next to Ana; she was still leaning over, her hands open as if she had just laid down the golden band.

    He went up to her and put his finger along the side of her neck. He took her presence in his mind, holding it. He felt her lurch into motion, heard her gasp.

    "It's just my finger," Mahri said in his broken, raspy voice. "It might as easily have been a knife."

    Ana straightened, taking a stumbling step back from him. She glanced quickly around the vestry, seeing the others snared in midmotion. Her eyes narrowed, her lips pressed together. "You betrayed me, Mahri. You gave me to the Kraljiki."

    "Yes," he answered calmly. "I gave you to the Kraljiki. And look at where you are now."

    "You didn't know that would happen."

    "It was by far the most likely scenario. Tell me, Ana, if I had advised you and Karl to surrender yourselves to the Kraljiki, would you have done it? You don't have to answer; I already know. And so do you."

    She started to protest, but he spoke over her. The X'in Ka burned inside him as he held them both in the spell, searing him from the inside; he wanted to scream with the pain. He could almost feel the new scars rippling his already-savaged face. He had to release her, quickly, or the fire would begin to consume her as well. "Not much time," he said. "I came to give you this." He untied the pouch from his belt and handed it to her. It seemed heavier than before as he placed it in her palm. "Inside the ball is this very spell," he told her, gesturing at the unmoving people around them. "It takes you outside the constraints of time. Say my name when you hold the ball in your hand, and the spell will release."

    "Why?" The single word hung there as she looked at the pouch, as she glanced at the glittering orb inside, shimmering with soft orange light.

    "You will need it. Think, Ana: it could have been a knife at your throat and not my finger. I give you the same power—to hold time still and do whatever it is you need to do. I'll tell you this, also, a saying we have in the Westlands: a snake without its head cannot strike you."

    She shook her head, but Mahri closed his eyes and released her from the spell. She froze in mid-protest, and he walked laboriously to the door, as rapidly as he could in the gelid air. As soon as he was out of the temple, he released the spell entirely, almost falling to the stone flags of the court as the X'in Ka flowed out from him and the world surged into motion again.

    He hurried away toward Oldtown, toward the bed into which he would collapse for the next few days.

"A SNAKE WITHOUT its head cannot strike," Mahri said.

    Ana shook her head. "I don't know what you mean," she started to say, but a sudden disorientation came over her in that moment, and Mahri vanished while the téni in the vestry with her lurched back to sudden life.

    The disorientation felt oddly familiar. She couldn't quite decide why.

    She was holding the pouch in her hand. The leather was supple and worn; the weight inside was heavy and she remembered the glow of it, the color of a dying sun behind clouds. She tucked it quickly into a pocket of her green robes. None of the a'téni noticed; none of them were looking at her. None of them had looked at her since she'd left the High Lectern. Colin ca'Cille, Alain ca'Fountaine, Joca ca'Sevini, all the others: they were old men, all of them. At least a few of them had harbored aspirations to be Archigos themselves, and they would all rather have been in their own cities than trapped here in Nessantico with the Hïrzg's army approaching. She could feel their resentment, palpable.

    "You're all blind," she told them. They glanced at her now, startled. "You're so folded into yourselves that you can't see," she told them. Her hands were trembling, as if from the exhaustion of a spell. "I need all of you to leave me now. Send Kenne in to me as you go."

    "Archigos," one of them said: ca'Sevini of Chivasso. From his expression, her title seemed to taste like fish oil. "You've already made a terrific mistake today with the Admonition you gave the ca'-and-cu'. You're making another now. The Kraljiki may have been able to force your ascension on us in this terrible time, but if you have any hope of ever being more than just Archigos in title, then you need our cooperation. Showing arrogance isn't the way to gain it—not when someone else still claims the title of Archigos. You can't dismiss us as if we were inconvenient e'téni."

    Ana had no answer for him, or, rather, she had too many. People like you have been telling me what I must do all my life, from my vatarh to the Kraljiki. She wanted to spit the bile back at him. But past the anger, she knew he was at least partially right, no matter how much she wanted to deny it. She could not be Archigos without their support. She would not survive the coming battle without them; she especially could not risk their defecting to ca'Cellibrecca.

    There will be a time to assert yourself. This isn't it. She could almost imagine Dhosti's voice saying the words.

    She managed, if not to smile, to at least not frown. "You're right, and I apologize, A'Téni ca'Sevini. Cénzi knows, I deserved your rebuke, and I thank you for having the courage to speak bluntly. Please, I ask all of you for forgiveness: I know we must work together, especially now."

    She didn't know if it mollified them. A few nodded; ca'Sevini actually showed his few remaining teeth in a brief smile. She put away the service vestments and left the vestry as quickly as she could, calling Kenne—newly returned to the city—to her. "You saw no one outside, Kenne?" she asked. "Mahri?"

    Kenne shook his head, a bit wide-eyed. "No, Archigos. There was no one in the hall but us. Why?"

    She shook her head. "Never mind. I need you to do something for me. . . ."

Karl hugged her as soon as Kenne closed the door behind him. "Are you sure it's a good thing for a Numetodo to be seen coming to the Archigos' office?" he asked. "People might talk, especially after your Admonition today."

    "At this point I'm beyond caring," she told him.

    He laughed, throatily, and pulled her to him. She allowed herself to sink into the embrace. Karl's arms tightened around her, and she closed her eyes so that there was only that hug, that comfort, that moment. Karl finally pulled away, and she opened her eyes again to see him looking around the room: the huge desk behind which Dhosti had sat for many years, that ca'Cellibrecca had desecrated with his presence most recently; the throne-chair at one end of the large room where Dhosti had sat for formal receptions of visitors; the gilded images of the Moitidi carved into the cornices; the massive broken globe, gilded and ornate and held in puffs of wooden clouds, looming over the main doors.

    "Impressive," he said. "Have you tried out the throne yet?"

    She shook her head. "This isn't the time for jests, Karl," she told him. "Right now, I need you to be the Envoy for the Numetodo." She took his hands. "Mahri came to me, after the service."

    Karl scowled. His hands squeezed hers. "Traitorous bastard. Handing us over like that . . ."

    She shook her head. She touched the leather pouch tied to the belt of her robes, and she could feel the throbbing of the Ilmodo trapped within it. But she didn't tell Karl about it or show him the small globe inside. She held back, and she wondered at that. "I'm not so certain. I thought the same after he handed us over to the gardai, but now . . ." She shivered and stepped back from Karl. "I don't know what Mahri wants, or why he does what he does, but I think he knew that neither of us would be long imprisoned."

    Karl moved his jaw as if remembering the ache of the silencer. "What did he want?"

    Ana shrugged and dropped his hands. "I don't know," she said. "Not really. He . . . gave me something, but what it does . . ." She shook her head, catching her upper lip in her teeth momentarily. "I won't last as Archigos, Karl. I think Mahri knows that, and Kraljiki Justi, and ca'Cellibrecca and the rest of the a'téni. I've been given the title because none of the a'téni would take it right now, not with the strong possibility that ca'Cellibrecca might return as Archigos when this is all over. I'm just the False Archigos, the Kraljiki's Archigos."

    "They can't all feel that way."

    She nodded vigorously. "That's the way nearly all of them are thinking. Yes, there are some téni who support me: U'Téni Dosteau—and I must promote him; that would be a small help—Kenne, most of the e'téni and o'téni who were part of Archigos Dhosti's staff, even a few of the u'téni. But the a'téni . . ." A breath. "At best, they will do no more than they absolutely must just in case the Kraljiki does win. They'll wait and see what happens when the Hïrzg's army comes. I have a title, Karl; that's all."

    "And you want more than that."

    A smile emerged momentarily. "You know me better than I thought. Yes. I want more."

    "What can I do?"

    "You started to teach me. I need you to show me all you can do, and I need you to bend the Divolonté with me. . . ."

    "That's Envoy ci'Vliomani, the Numetodo . . ." The gossip moved rapidly through the ranks of the war-téni as the Archigos bowed to them and gave the sign of Cénzi, then took her seat on the throne. She gestured, and ci'Vliomani and another man stepped onto the stage.

    "One of your duties," Archigos Ana said, addressing the war-teni, "is to protect those around you from the spells of the war-téni of the false Archigos. What I'd like you to do now is show me how well you can do that. I think some of you have already recognized Envoy ci'Vliomani, who came to Nessantico to represent the Numetodo everywhere in the Holdings. I've asked him here today to play the role of the enemy. On my command, he will attack me—the spell itself will be harmless, I assure you, but your task will be to stop his attack from touching me at all. Let's see how well you perform. Each of you: I know you've been taught by A'Téni cu'Dosteau, as he once taught me. Go on—you may start your counter-spells now."

    The war-téni glanced at each other, then several of them began to chant and move their hands, though they were obviously puzzled as the Archigos still made no command to Envoy ci'Vliomani to start his own spell. Finally, several breaths later, she turned to him. "Envoy," she said. "If you'll begin your attack . . ."

    What happened then stunned them all. Ci'Vliomani spoke a single guttural word that sounded like the language of the Ilmodo but was no spell-word they knew, and he gave a casual flick of his hand. The word boomed thunderously in the stadia. Impossibly, a fire brighter than the sun glared in his hand and flared through the air, arrowing straight toward the Archigos.

    But a moment after ci'Vliomani had begun his inexplicably rapid spell, Archigos Ana also spoke: again, a single word of spell-speech as she held up her hand. The flare of light spattered and exploded, as if it had struck an invisible barrier. The brilliant fury caused many of the war-téni to raise their hands, and the ball of fire shrieked like a dying animal as it expired.

    A stunned silence wrapped the stadia as the war-téni stood, their own counter-spells—perhaps three quarters completed—forgotten.

    Too fast: the whole exchange had been far too fast.

    "You were all late. You all would have failed in your duty." Archigos Ana spoke into the hush. She rose easily from her chair—neither ci'Vliomani nor the Archigos seemed unduly fatigued by the casting of their spells, and that was also strange—and walked onto the stage. "I know your thoughts," she said. "When I first saw what the Numetodo were capable of doing with the Ilmodo, it shook me all the way to the core of my being. For a time, in my loss of faith, Cénzi punished me and I lost my own path to the Ilmodo, until He spoke to me again." She smiled briefly. "Or, let me be honest, until I was willing to listen to Him. I will tell you now what I came to realize: the Ilmodo was created by Cénzi, yes, and our way to the Ilmodo remains the most powerful. I know in my heart that this is the way of Cénzi. I will tell you, and Envoy ci'Vliomani will agree with me: the Numetodo might have the advantage of speed, but not of force. None of the Numetodo can match what the least of you can do on the battlefield with your war-spells. But . . ." She stopped and paced for a moment. ". . . our way is not the only way Cénzi has created, and we are fools if we are not willing to learn from those other paths."

    She strode forward until she stood at the front of the stage, leaning forward toward the war-téni in the stands. Her gaze moved across each of their faces. "I tell you this: The Numetodo are a threat to Concénzia only if your own faith is lacking."

    "That's not what Archigos Orlandi believes."

    The challenge was loud, from a téni who stood abruptly in his seat. Several of the war-téni around the man also rose, placing their hands on the speaker. "No!" Ana shouted at them. "Let him talk!"

    The anger in her voice loosened the hands that had grasped at the war-téni, and he shook them away. He pointed toward Ana, toward Karl. "You're the false Archigos," he said. "Look who you consort with. The Numetodo mock the Divolonté. They mock the Toustour. They deny Cénzi. How can you stand there and say that we must learn from them?"

    "What is your name?" Ana asked.

    "I am U'Téni Georgi cu'Vlanti."

    "I know of your family, U'Téni. They're good people and devout, and I'm not surprised to find that at least one of them has chosen to serve Concénzia. If you think I'm the false Archigos, U'Téni cu'Vlanti, then it's your duty under Cénzi and the Divolonté to strike me down. I give you that opportunity now. Pray to Cénzi to guide your hands and strengthen your spell, as I will pray to Him to guide mine." Ana spread her arms wide. "Begin your spell," she told him. She looked around the stadia slowly, especially to those on the stage with her. "I promise you that no one here will stop you."

    "Ana . . ." Karl began, and she shook her head at him.

    "No one here will stop you," she repeated to both Karl and the war-téni. "The Divolonté is clear on this: Rip out the tongues and crush the hands of those who falsely claim they speak with Cénzi's voice, for you risk your own soul if you listen. I make that claim, U'Téni cu'Vlanti. I say that Cénzi is speaking through me, as He does through each Archigos. I say that the false Archigos is out there with the Hïrzg. But if you believe otherwise, then the Divolonté demands that you strike me. Do it, U'Téni. Do it if you think that Cénzi will fail to protect me. Do it if you believe that ca'Cellibrecca should wear the shattered globe around his neck and that Jan ca'Vörl of Firenzcia should sit on the Sun Throne and end the long rule of the ca'Ludovici lineage."

    The man was standing silent, glaring at her with his hands at his sides. "Do it!" Ana barked, and he nearly jumped.

    His hands began to move; he began to chant. A searing light flared between his hands. Ana did nothing, waiting, and the murmuring of the other war-téni rose. Cu'Vlanti finished the spell rapidly and spread his hands as Ana spoke a word and gestured—too late. Fire erupted on the stage, a raging, quick conflagration that submerged all gathered there in flame so that they couldn't be seen from the stands where the war-téni stood. They knew the damage a full war-spell would inflict, and there were shouts of alarm and surprise and horror from the téni in their seats.

    War-fire left behind only the blackened husks of charred bodies.

    The flames vanished, their fury expended. The planks of the stage smoldered with great blisters of black ash; the hangings above dripped sparks as charred fabric fell away. But where the Numetodo ci'Vliomani and the Archigos stood, the wood was untouched. Archigos Ana was standing with her hands extended in a shielding spell—cast with impossible speed.

    Karl Ci'Vliomani suddenly broke the tableau as he jumped with a curse and started beating at the folds of his bashta on his left side. Smoke and tiny flames curled from where his hands struck. He looked reproachfully at Ana as he smothered the fire. "You were a little slow there, Archigos," he said. "And a little too sparing of your shield."

    Someone out in the stands chuckled, and the laughter spread slowly, as Ana smiled herself. U'Téni cu'Vlanti had collapsed, exhausted, in his seat, but Ana stood as if the spell had cost her nothing.

    "Cénzi has allowed me to do this," Ana said to the war-téni. "And the Numetodo have helped show me how. In this time, we can't afford to cast out those who offer to be our allies. I ask you to let the Numetodo stand with us. I ask you, like me, to learn from them what they can teach us."

    There were no cheers. There was no audible response to her plea at all. But Ana glimpsed a few grudging nods among the faces of the war-téni.

    It would have to be enough.

THE WORLD FLICKERED in and out, as if illuminated by lethargic, erratic strokes of lightning.

    . . . someone (he thought it might be ca'Montmorte) helping him down from his horse with a hiss of concern. "Fetch a healer . . ." he heard ca'Montmorte say, and there were hands around him, and he screamed as they lifted him.

    . . . waking to pain and firelight. A face passed through his field of vision. He tried to speak through cracked and dry lips. "Where . . . ?"

    "On the Avi," he heard someone answer. "Maybe two days from Nessantico. Please don't try to move, Commandant."

    He started to laugh at the thought of moving, but the laugh turned to a cough, and the cough took his breath from him and he left the world again.

    . . . the insistent saltiness of meat broth on his tongue. The taste was so wonderful that his hands grabbed the hands holding the mug to his lips as he gulped at the soup. "Gently, Commandant," a voice said. "There's plenty for you. Take your time."

    He tried to sit up, and found that he could do so only with great difficulty. It seemed to be night. His body was bound tightly, and his skin pulled all along his back. His vision was blurry and he couldn't focus, but he could see the shifting light of a campfire close by and bodies sitting around it. Horses nickered quietly somewhere close. He felt chilled, his body shivering uncontrollably. "Careful," the voice said. "You're been hurt."

    "So cold . . ."

    "You're feverish, Commandant. Here, drink some more of the broth . . ."

He did, and he slept again.

    . . . they were talking about him, as if he couldn't hear them. ". . . going to die?"

    "That's in Cénzi's hands. I can't do any more for him. The infection has him."

    "How long does he have?"

    "Another day. Maybe two."

    "We'll reach Nessantico in the morning. Perhaps someone there? The Kraljiki's healer?"

    "He's beyond the skills of any healer, A'Offizier ca'Montmorte. There is only Cénzi's Will now."

    Wait, Sergei wanted to shout. There's something I have to tell the Kraljiki, something he must know . . . but he couldn't open his eyes or force his mouth to open and even the effort of thinking about it sent him reeling into darkness.

    . . . someone was chanting and he could feel hands touching his chest, his neck. The hands were cold, and the heat that burned him from the inside flowed toward his heart and those hands, rushing away from him. He took in a long, shuddering breath. Along his spine, needles stabbed at his skin, pulling as he arched his back shouting with the agony of it, but even the pain was rushing away toward those hands and the voice speaking in words he could not understand. His eyelids flew open, and he stared into Ana cu'Seranta's face. Her own eyes were closed, and it was her voice that he heard and her hands on his bare chest. Her presence was the only refuge in a world that was on fire, and she was taking in the fire. Sergei gasped with the wonder of it, and he sighed when she pulled her hands away from him.

    "Welcome back, Commandant," she said before her eyes rolled back and her knees collapsed under her. A man—Envoy ci'Vliomani, he realized—rushed forward to help her, placing her in a chair beside the bed. Sergei pushed himself up with his elbows: he could move, though his joints were stiff and protesting, and the skin of his back still pulled strangely, though no longer painfully. His wounded leg was splinted and wrapped as well. Another person—Renard—came forward to place a pillow behind him, so that he could sit comfortably. He had time to take in his surroundings: a large bedroom, the walls painted with frescoes of the Moitidi, above the large windows, stained glass shattering the light with the insignia of the Kraljiki.

    "The Grande Palais . . ." he said.

    "You're in one of the guest bedrooms," Renard said. "And if you'll excuse me, Commandant, the Kraljiki asked to be informed when you woke."

    As Renard hurried off, Sergei turned to Ana. He saw the broken globe on the wide chain around her neck; it pleased him that the Kraljiki had followed at least one piece of his advice. "You're not worried that it might have been Cénzi's Will that I die, Archigos?" he asked.

    Ana took a long breath, her eyes closed as Karl stroked her unbound, sweat-darkened hair. Slowly, the eyes opened and found him. "If Cénzi wanted you dead, Commandant," she told him, "He would have killed you before you came to me."

    "Your predecessor would have you in the Bastida for exactly those sentiments."

    "Where you would have tortured me to gain my full confession. Where you would have eventually executed me."

    Sergei shrugged. He held her gaze, not flinching from it at all. "Yes," he told her. "That would have been my duty, and I would have performed it."

    "The commandant always performs his duty." Kraljiki Justi's highpitched voice was loud as he entered the bedroom and strode quickly to Sergei's bedside. Reluctantly, Sergei looked away from Ana to Justi. "As you did your duty in Passe a'Fiume," Justi finished. His bearded face seemed inordinately pleased. "I've just met with ca'Montmorte. He told me what happened there. We're as ready here as we can be, and you have our gratitude for that, Commandant." He glanced across the bed to Ana. "And we're grateful for your . . . prayers for the commandant, Archigos. It seems Cénzi has listened to your entreaties."

    Ana sniffed audibly. "I healed the man, Kraljiki. I healed him with the Ilmodo—just as I tried to heal your matarh but failed because I was weak then and too afraid. If that is against the Divolonté, then I will direct the Concord A'Téni to change the Divolonté, because I won't be silent and I won't lie. Not any longer."

    The Kraljiki's chin seemed to thrust out even further, and his thin mustache was an arc over his scowl. "The Archigos is tired. She should rest."

    "The Archigos isn't the Kraljiki's lap dog to be ordered around," Ana answered. Her fingers were laced with those of the envoy. "You chose me, Kraljiki Justi; now you live with your choice. Unless you prefer the Archigos who is out there." She pointed to the window, to the sun in the eastern sky. "I'm sure the Hïrzg will be happy to allow him back into Nessantico."

    "Kraljiki, Archigos," Sergei said, and that brought their attention back to him. "There are enemies enough without making new ones here. Archigos, I am forever in your debt, and I won't forget that; Kraljiki, I would like to see the defenses here, as soon as I can."

    "Yes," Justi said quickly. "We need your guidance to ensure victory."

    Sergei shook his head. "Victory?" He shook his head. "I've fought them, Kraljiki, and I don't see victory. Passe a'Fiume had never fallen in all of Nessantico's history, yet the Hïrzg walked through its broken gates in four days." He grimaced, sitting up higher in the bed. "Hïrzg Jan is already looking at Nessantico and considering it his," he said. "I don't know that we can prove him wrong."

"IT'S LIKE A JEWEL, Vatarh. Like something I could wear. See—there's a necklace of lights. . . ."

    Jan grinned indulgently at Allesandra. From behind, he cuddled her against him, her body warm in the cool night air. Ahead of them, far down the unseen line of the Avi a'Firenzcia, the shimmering lights of the great city glittered in the night, mocking the stars that dared to peek between moon-silvered clouds. "And I will give it to you," Jan told her. "You can wear that necklace soon, my little bird, all for your very own."

    "Don't be silly, Vatarh. I can't wear a whole city." She reached out into the night and her forefinger and thumb closed, as if she could pluck the lights from the landscape. "But it is pretty. When you're the Kraljiki, you have to make sure that the téni still light the lamps."

    "I'll make certain that Archigos ca'Cellibrecca fulfills your request," he answered, chuckling.

    They were camped on a hilltop outside Carrefour; tomorrow, Jan knew, they would have their first contact with the defenders of Nessantico. His army was spread wide over the landscape, the crescent of a scythe about to strike the capital and remove its head from his throne.

    Someone looking out from what remained of Nessantico's old walls would see their lights glimmering in the dark, and they would not think them pretty at all. The thought pleased Jan.

    "How long will it take, Vatarh?" Allesandra asked. "U'Téni cu'Kohnle said that he thinks it will take less time than Passe a'Fiume. He said that you've already broken their will."

    "I don't know, sweet one. How long do you think it will take?"

    "One day," she said. "The war-téni will start their spells. They'll crush the soldiers and the chevarittai, and they'll scream as they die, and we'll all laugh at them. The rest of the chevarittai will go running like they did, then the rest of their soldiers will throw down their weapons and run away too, and this time it will be the Kraljiki who comes out from the city with the white flag."

    "All that in one day?"

    Her voice was nearly a growl. "That's what I would like—because of what they did to Georgi."

    "I wish you were right, but I think both you and U'Téni cu'Kohnle are wrong. Do you remember the kitten you had, how it fought when the dogs trapped it in the corner."

    Allesandra nodded. "I remember. It was just a tiny thing, but it clawed Whitepaw's nose so badly that he ran away with his tail tucked, and there was blood everywhere and the healer had to sew Whitepaw's nose back together again. And the kitten made Skitters yelp and bleed, too, before Skitters finally got it and shook it to death." Allesandra looked at the jewel of the city set in the night landscape. "Oh," she said. "I understand what you mean, Vatarh," she said. "I do."

FROM THE BALCONY of the Archigos' residence, it was possible to believe that there was no war looming. From that vantage point, the lights of the Avi curled past the brilliantly-lit dome of the Archigos' Temple. The breeze was cool from the northwest, ruffling the edges of the ferns in their pots, and the Nessantico herself was strangely silent.

    Karl knew the calm for the chimera it was. He'd been gathering together the Numetodo in Oldtown, and on the North Bank, where the first thrust of the Firenzcian assault would take place, there was no calm at all. From the outskirts of Oldtown, one could look out and see not only the campfires of the Garde Civile, but the more distant fires of the Hïrzg's army. There, the citizens were panicked, and it showed. Twice during the day, Karl had witnessed riots in the main streets, both violently put down by the Garde Kralji, as the citizenry stormed butcher shops and bakeries looking for food (and conveniently broke into any adjacent taverns as well). Heads were broken, the cobblestones grew slick with blood, and the mood turned uglier as the sun itself retreated to the west.

     A constant stream of people and carts flooded the Avi a'Parete: soldiers, Garde Civile, various chevarittai and the occasional war-téni all heading east, and everyone else moving west. From what Karl had been told, both the Avi a'Nostrosei and Avi a'Certendi, as well as the Avi A'Sele, were packed with refugees from the city, carrying as much of their belongings as they could.

    Only here, on the South Bank, did the city seem to retain any semblance of normalcy, and even that was the thinnest of veneers. Underneath the calm surface, there was a boiling, nervous energy.

    Karl stood beside Ana as they both leaned on the balcony railing. He could feel her warmth against his side, but though he longed to do more, he did not. The ghost of Kaitlin stood between them as they stared out into the night. "I wish you would leave the city, Ana," he said.

    "And I wish the same of you," she answered. "And you know neither of us can do that."

    "Everything will change in the next few days. Six months ago, I would have left the city and not cared at all who lived or died here. Now it scares me, Ana—because of you. Because of us."

    She gave a barely perceptible nod. She didn't answer otherwise, didn't move.

    "There hasn't been enough time for your war-téni to learn enough. We can hope they'll be able to employ the Ilmodo a little faster than before. That's all."

    "If they don't fail in their spells entirely, the way I did," Ana said. He felt her shiver. "I worry about that, too. This has shaken their faith. What good does speed do if they're no longer effective? I wonder if I've actually harmed the city's defenses rather than helped them."

    "They have you as an example, and the Numetodo in the city will be there to help," he answered. "We'll do what we can to shield the warténi, and they can always use the Ilmodo as they did before. Ana, stay with me tonight . . ." he began, but she turned to him and the look on her face stopped his words.

    "No," she said. "I won't. You've made a promise to another; I won't help you break it."

    "Then, after . . . I will write to her, tell her . . ." He realized he was deliberately avoiding saying Kaitlin's name aloud, and he wondered why.

    "Don't talk of 'after,' Karl," she said. "We don't know that there will be an 'after.' There's only now. This moment, then the next and the next. That's all we have right now. If there's an after, we'll figure out then what that might mean for us, or if there even is an 'us.' For now, all I can think about is how to survive tomorrow."

    She walked back into the apartments. Karl didn't follow her. He stood at the railing of the balcony, and listened to the city and to his conscience.