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with the language of courtly and religious etiquette, primarily because the culture itself had little familiarity with such concepts. The Sorbolds were a rude and plainspoken people. The column leader doubtless had undergone intense study to be able to communicate in this manner, and was uncertain about his fluency in it.
    'You are most kind, but I'm afraid that is quite impossible. This was only to be the briefest of visits, as I need to return to my own lands shortly. The winter solstice approaches, and I am planning to attend the carnival in Na varne."
    'His sincerest apologies for any inconvenience," the column leader stuttered again.
    “Please instruct me in how I may accommodate you. I am at your disposal, Your Grace."
    The holy man's eyes gleamed in the filtered light of the canopy. "Ah, you are?
    How very generous. What is your name, my son?"
    'Mildiv Jephaston, leader of the Third Western Face Column, Your Grace."
    'Well, Mildiv Jephaston, I am exceedingly glad to know that you are at my disposal, and I will indeed take you up on that very gracious offer, but at the moment there is nothing I require save escort back to the Sorbold-Roland border."
    'As you wish, Your Grace. The benison will be most disappointed that he missed your visit."
    'As am I, I assure you, Mildiv Jephaston." He patted the soldier's shoulder compassionately, then blessed him as he had the others.
    In the distance he could see the infinitesimal flicker of black fire, repeated many hundred times over in a sea of dark eyes, as all who were bound by oath to this column leader were now in his thrall as well. Armies were his favorite prey, just because of their myriad ranks of fealty—ensnare the leader, and all his followers, and their followers, were yours are well. Ah, loyalty is a wonderful thing, a mindless snare of steel, so very easily manipulated, he thought jubilantly. Though so difficult to overcome when not offered freely.
    'He had hoped to show you the basilica at Night Mountain.“ The soldier swallowed dryly. "He knew you had not seen it." The tone carried his real meaning. The benison's offer of entrance into the most secret of the elemental temples, Terreanfor, the Cymrian word meaning Lord God, King of the Earth, the basilica of Living Stone, was a great and prestigious honor, one that had only been made rarely.
    Hidden deep within the Night Mountain, a place of consummate darkness in this realm of endless sun, the basilica was doubtless the most mystical of the holy shrines, a place where the Earth was still alive from the days of Creation. His refusal of the tour, no matter how polite, was dumbfounding to the Sorboldian soldiers. He choked back another laugh.
    Fools, he thought contemptuously. Tour nation's generous offers be damned, as you will soon be. He could not visit the temple even if he wanted to. The basilica was blessed ground.
    His kind could not broach blessed ground.
    'I am extraordinarily sorry to be unable to take advantage of the Blesser's invitation,“ he said again, nodding to his own guards. His retinue returned to their carriages and mounts in preparation for leaving. "Night Mountain is many days to the south of here, I believe. A visit would delay me too greatly. So again, I thank you, but I'm afraid I must decline. But please do extend my best wishes to the benison, and to Her Serenity for a speedy recovery."
    He turned briskly and hurried back into the dark silence of the coach. The Sorboldian soldiers stared after him in dismay as his footman shut the door briskly and the carriage began to roll out of sight. The enormous linen canopy that had shielded their visitor a moment before hung flaccidly in the breeze-less air, like a dispirited flag of surrender.
HAGUEFORT, PROVINCE OF NAVARNE
    The winter carnival was a tradition in Navarne, held in honor of the solstice and coinciding with holy days in both the Patriarchal religion of Sepulvarta and the order of the Filids, the nature priests of the Circle in