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at the road where the King’s Guard had vanished, their dust still hanging in the air. “Your watchdog does not seem a bad sort.”
    “Could be far worse,” the captain replied as he motioned his own Runner ahead to report to the castle. “We nearly had one sent by the Sierandael.” They both paused, thinking of the king’s brother. “And so we take care that his reports will never betray the slightest sign of friendship on our part.”
    Vranid laughed.
     
     
     
    No one spoke to Inda during the winding ride up into increasingly forested hills. After the road descended into a cool, dark green-lit valley they rode upward again, and when the forest cleared they saw before them a magnificent castle, built of the familiar sand-colored stone in a very old style, with columned archways. Built across the broadest hill, it conveyed the impression of widespread wings, overlooking the river valley below. Inda, gazing up at that vast edifice, remembered that it had once been the royal castle. Black-and-gold banners at all eight towers lifted in the wind; bow women stood on each tower, composite bows strung but held, no arrows nocked. There were women at the sentry stations where Inda would have expected to see men with their long bows. These women—big, strong women all—held long bows. There were few men in sight.
    The gates opened. The Riders entered the court.
    What drew the eye first were the two massive iron-studded doors at the top of two stairways sweeping in impressive curves to either side—curves, Inda realized, impossible to get a battering ram up.
    One of those doors opened and a short woman bustled through.
    She ran lightly down one of those broad curves, and Inda saw a wide, youthful smile and prominent eyes the color of spring grass. She was followed by several women, bows at the ready, their robes and riding trousers probably hiding several knives. Skimming down the staircase last of all was a short girl with a merry face and golden curls escaping her braids.
    “Welcome to Darchelde,” the woman sang out in Iascan.
    “Jarlan-Edli.” Vranid struck his palm over his heart. “Fareas-Iofre would wish her greetings to be given you.”
    “When you return,” the Jarlan said in her clear voice for the two spies that the king’s brother had placed among her servants, “you are to convey my best greetings to her. Do come within. Accept our hospitality before you resume your journey.”
    Inda wasn’t listening. He saw the girl studying him from behind her mother. She laughed soundlessly when her eyes met Inda’s. Then she stuck out her tongue.
    Inda would have stuck his out right back, but he was aware of everyone turned his way. At a sign from Captain Vranid, Inda dismounted, and stable hands led his horse away.
    The Jarlan gestured to the girl. “My dear, take Indevan-Dal in charge. When time permits, introduce him to your brother.”
    “When time permits.” Inda heard the faint emphasis the Jarlan put on those words, an emphasis that reminded him of his mother when she spoke to Joret or Hadand or sometimes Tdor, and he knew instinctively the words carried extra meaning.
    He kept silent as the girl stepped forward, and saluted with palm to heart. She looked more or less like the children at Castle Tenthen: bare feet, smock, baggy riding trousers—but her smock was embroidered, and clean. “Come along, Indevan-Dal,” she said, and when they were away from the slow-moving adults, who were still exchanging stiff and formal politenesses, “I’m Shendan Montredavan-An, but you can call me Shen. Everyone here does, and we aren’t allowed to see anyone else.”
    Once again she laughed soundlessly, eyes crinkled.
    “I’m Inda,” said he, following her up the stairs.
    At the top Shen paused before the huge carved door that stood open, and gave him a mocking smile. “Know you the ‘Hymn to the Beginning?”
    Inda shrugged, instantly wary. Was this Shendan about to test him on history? “Since we’ve