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below.
    Aemris turns to Llyse. "The winter field trials start the day after tomorrow."
    Llyse nods.
    Creslin had hoped to participate in the trials, using the skis and holding to the winds that howled off the Westhorns-those winds that might give him an edge-but Aemris is saying that Llyse will be there and he will not. Still, he looks toward Aemris.
    The Guard Commander ignores his glance, instead turning to the curtains behind Llyse and rising. Creslin and Llyse follow suit as their mother steps forward, raising her hands to prevent the assemblage from rising.
    The dark-haired woman in the black leathers with the square face and well-muscled shoulders that belie the intelligence behind the dark flint-blue eyes glances at her guard commander, her son, and her daughter. Then she sits without ceremony.
    A serving boy springs forward with two trays, and Creslin begins to pour the lukewarm tea from the heavy pitcher into the tumblers.
    "Thank you." His mother's voice is formal.
    "Thank you," echo Llyse and Aemris.
    He nods in return, pouring his own tea last and setting down the pitcher.
    A low, roaring whisper rises from the guards and those below as they are served the same food as that of those on the dais.
    Creslin's eyes flicker down to the front tables, glad that the meal has stopped the ogling for the time. Llyse holds one of the platters. He spears three thick slices of meat from one end of it and a heavy roll from the other.
    Another platter contains various honeyed and dried fruits and pickled vegetables. Though scarcely fond of the vegetables, Creslin takes his share, even if he will have to wash it down with tea.
    "Creslin?"
    "Your grace?"
    "Aemris has doubtless indicated in her best manner that it will not be possible for you to participate in the field trials. That was my order."
    "I'm sure you had the best of reasons."
    "I did, and I do. Which I will announce shortly. Do you know the Tyrant of Sarronnyn?" The Marshall waits.
    His stomach tightens as his mother speaks, but he keeps his gaze level upon her face. "We guested there last fall." He remembers most of it all too well, including the incident in the formal gardens, the one which the Marshall will not let him forget.
    The Marshall smiles. "Your expertise with a blade was noted."
    "I remember."
    "At the time, not much was said," she adds. "Apparently Ryessa was quite impressed. The negotiations were rather involved, since a proposal from the Marshall of Southwind had also been considered."
    Creslin does not understand. Throughout the fall and early winter, he has heard of how his rash action has destroyed any chance of his becoming a respected consort outside of Westwind. And he cannot stay much longer in the citadel of the winter. For his own sanity, at the very least, he must depart.
    Beside him, Llyse draws in her breath, like the whisper of the winds just before the mistral.
    "I'm somewhat in the dark. Are you indicating that-"• "Not exactly. You will be the consort to the sub-Tyrant, Ryessa's younger sister. Offhand, I cannot remember her name." A signal passes somewhere, and the serving boy brings forward a tray to Creslin. On the black enamel tray lies a sheet of blue velvet, and upon the velvet is a golden frame. Within the frame is the portrait of a red-haired woman, handsome despite the extraordinarily short-cut hair, the piercing green eyes, the strong, straight nose. The corners of her lips are upturned slightly with the same cynical smile as he had seen displayed by the Tyrant throughout the eight-day stay in Sarronnyn. She looks vaguely familiar, but Creslin knows he has seen no woman with red hair cut that short. "I see."
    "You will indeed. You could not have done better, and you're lucky that she prefers feminine men over the more traditional western man. She was intrigued after hearing of how you insisted on undertaking the field trials, and pleasantly amazed at your standing. She even applauded the ... incident in the formal garden, the