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him, but managed a marginally courteous nod as she started for the exit. The boy was only doing his duty. As was his Chief. As was she. But Eight, why did doing one's duty have to be so troublesome?
    She had a headache, she realized, as she reached the cooler air in the larger shaft beyond. Maybe from anger, perhaps from fatigue, possibly from the closeness of the mines or the pounding of the trods she had to pass again to make her exit. Whatever the cause, tending to it was suddenly uppermost in her mind.
    When had she become so impatient?
she wondered, as she strode past the assay station, passing an alarmed subchief in the process. And how would she deal with it?
    Well, with wine, to start with, to calm her nerves a little. And a hot bath, and then … What? Music?
    Kylin was back, she recalled, as she neared her apartments. Kylin, who was the best harper she'd ever heard. Kylin, who was also allied, very firmly, with that preposterous young power structure in Tir-Eron, by virtue, some said, of his being the Consort's lover. He'd arrived three days ago, with an escort of Royal Guard, ostensibly to retrieve his chief-harp. He'd also be leaving “soon”—but that was all he would say. But until “soon” arrived, Kylin was hers again. Her harper, as he had been before …
    Before what?
    Before last autumn's trek had brought Avall, Strynn, and Eddyn, and with them that which had changed the world.
    But for a while, she could forget all that and listen to Kylin playing.

CHAPTER III:
C OURTING D ISASTER
(ERON: TIR-ERON—HIGH SUMMER: DAY XLI—JUST BEFORE NOON)

    Strynn san Ferr-a-Argen settled the Cloak of Colors more firmly about her husband's shoulders and stepped back to let Rann syn Eemon-arr set the Crown of Oak upon his head, while Lykkon syn Argen-a passed him the Sword of State.
Not
the Lightning Sword, though it had originally been commissioned for exactly such occasions as they were about to undertake. Stepping back, she regarded him critically, there in the vesting chamber behind the Hall of Clans. Traditionally, squires did these things, but Avall eschewed squires in favor of his friends.
    A glance around the room showed Strynn few enough of those, most in Warcraft crimson beneath the Argen maroon-with-crown of the Royal Guard: young Myx, with his bondbrother, Riff; Lady Veen; and Strynn's senior brother, Vorinn, newly returned from Brewing up past North Gorge, where he'd sat out the war nursing—and cursing—two broken arms. Only one of his younger allies was missing: Merryn, Avall's twin sister and Strynn's bond-mate. But Merryn was exactly where she wanted to be: guarding the Door of Chiefs. A position thatactually required she do more than stand around looking ritually pretty.
    Strynn dusted imaginary lint from Avall's arm and grinned at him. “Well,” she announced, “you look magnificent.”
    Avall grinned back, part excited boy, part bemused adult being forced to play a game that was still unreal to him, part frightened youth caught somewhere between. “There's still time to join me,” he murmured.
    Strynn shook her head. “If you change your mind in the autumn—if you allow yourself to be confirmed as King at Sundeath,
then
I might consent to be Consort-in-fact. For now, I want this to be your decision alone. I don't want to get a taste for power and find myself urging you toward something for which you have no heart. And you've already said you've no desire to be
my
Consort, should they offer the Throne to me— nor will I sit it alone. Besides,” she added with a smirk, “it'll be more fun to watch.”
    Avall tried to shrug, but the cloak was too heavy for that. Which might be an omen, Strynn decided. No one would argue that Kingship did not weigh heavily on her husband.
    A rap sounded on the door behind them, and Riff, who'd recognized the distinctive cadence, opened it with a mixture of apprehension and relief, standing back to admit eight Priests in various robes and masks, who entered