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The Kielmark had cornered Anskiere neatly; with his powers bound and the lives of two children at risk, he could never complete such a promise. Eager as hounds on fresh scent, the sorcerers waited for Anskiere to confess his helplessness, and appeal to the Kielmark's mercy.
    But to their surprise, Anskiere executed the bow he had refused the Kielmark earlier. "Lordship, I give my word." No gap was discernible in his assurance, but his gesture carried the haunted quality of a man who has just signed a pact with death.
    Confident Anskiere's lie would ruin him, the sorcerers stepped back in anticipation of dismissal. But the Kielmark gestured and the men at arms raised weapons, stopping their hasty retreat.
    "Wait."
    Without moving from his chair, the Kielmark stretched and caught a sword from its peg on the wall behind him. The basket hilt glittered in the sunlight as he extended the weapon to Anskiere. "You may have need of this."
    A startled twitch of one sorcerer's cheek immediately justified his impulsive action. And when Anskiere reached to grasp the hilt, his sleeve fell back to expose a livid line where a fetter had recently circled his wrist.
    Shaken by such blatant evidence of abuse, the Kielmark tugged gently on the sword as Anskiere's hand closed over the grip. He spoke barely above a whisper. "Come here."
    Anskiere mounted the steps.
    The Kielmark bent close, so no other could hear. "I see I did not misjudge, old friend." He inclined his head toward the sorcerers who waited, rigid with annoyance. "Could they ruin you?"
    The Stormwarden drew a long breath. Through the weapon held commonly between them, the Kielmark noted fine tremors of tension Anskiere's robes had concealed until now. Yet the Stormwarden's eyes were untroubled when he spoke. "I think not."
    "Your difficulties are beyond me. I have no choice but to trust you." The Kielmark's huge wrist flexed, twisting the sword against Anskiere's palm. With greater clarity, he said, "Then you can rid us of this accursed heat?"
    Anskiere smiled. "That would require violent methods, Eminence."
    Below the dais, the sorcerers twitched as though vexed.
    "Koridan's Fires," swore the Kielmark, and he chuckled. "Your puppets seem displeased. Be violent, then, Cloud-shifter, with my blessing. After that we'll talk again." And he released the sword with a broad wave of dismissal.
    * * *
    Escorted only by sorcerers, Anskiere left the Kielmark's fortress without delay. Once past the gatehouse, urgency left him. He paused on the terrace at the head of the stair and began an intent inspection of the harbor. The view was creased with heatwaves. Below, the town reawakened; he could hear the crack of shutters as shopkeepers opened their stalls. The ocean lay flat as burnished metal, and the air smelled like an oven. Anskiere shifted his grip on the staff.
    The sorcerers watched his restlessness with impatience of their own. Apparently Anskiere did not find what he sought so keenly. And although the Kielmark had granted him freedom of Cliffhaven, he passed up the shade and refreshment of a tavern. He left the stair. Careless of his velvet finery, he set off into the scrub on what seemed to be a goat track.
    Like shadows, the sorcerers followed. By custom of sanctuary, they could use no force to stop him, except in defiance of the Kielmark's law. The sword added inconvenience to nuisance. Anskiere's acceptance of mortal steel reflected an independent turn of mind they dared ignore no longer.
    The hillside offered wretched footing. The taller sorcerer stumbled on a loose rock. Brush clawed his clothing. "Fires!" he swore, and grabbed his companion for balance. Awkward as the maneuver appeared, it was timed to allow Anskiere to pass beyond earshot. The sorcerer spoke softly in the ear of his comrade. "Tathagres misjudged him."
    The other sorcerer considered, a frown on his face. "Perhaps. But Anskiere seems to have chosen isolation. If so, we have him secure. The Kielmark's edict of