The image faded as the tent's close walls turned grey and became a dark and troubled sky. She looked around and saw the spilt blood, the ruined bodies and furrowed earth. She herself was on her knees, her hands manacled behind her back and the fire of open wounds on her body. A sword had scraped down her skull and ruined her helm. A lance of flame had hit her arm and thrown her from her horse. She was flanked by her brothers; one was wheezing through a ruined lung, the other was shivering in fear, trying to shake off the blood running freely over his eye. The bones of his ankle jutted out through the skin. She watched in disbelief as a silver corpse, stiff, cumbersome in death, was dragged to the crest of the hill. It seemed an insult to the hypnotic grace that Aryn Bwr had been so lauded for.

Now he was dead, nothing but a filthy shell. They could visit no further indignities on him – or so she thought until the voices began to echo out over the plain. Up above, the air shimmered, reverberat¬ing with each syllable. The eight voices, haunted by the loss of their kin and the exertions of a battle that had weakened them nearly to oblivion, swept down to where she knelt. Her ruined body rocked back at the spoken fury that was building into a crescendo of retribu¬tion. There was nothing more they could do, not to the dead – and yet they found a way.

At last the tears came, not for the defeat and humiliation, nor for the hurt done to her, nor fear of whatever judgment was to come. She cried for the king she worshipped, the lover she was devoted to for all time. And yet his name faded from her mind, the letters carved into her heart no longer intelligible. When the Gods were finished with the corpse and had tossed it into a festering pit, his name had vanished, gone from her heart, gone from the minds of those who had accompanied him for a hundred years, rent from history.

A distant knocking broke Zhia's sleep. Her eyes opened to a new Land, one changed in every way to that time before the war. It helped ease the ache in her heart to think of it as a different place, a differ¬ent world. The loss was a memory she had learned to live with, one for the private moments of her dreams, but rigorously denied even a minute of her waking life. That world was gone, and yearning for its return would do her no good at all.

She yawned and stretched her slim frame, questing down the bed with her toes until they touched the footboard and pushed into the groove cut a few inches from its base. She forced away the later part of the dream by focusing on the happiness of what had gone before, something she had learned to do many years back, the only way to quell the pain enough to be able to carry on. Exercises of the mind soothed and transferred her attention to happier subjects: remember¬ing the feel of his skin on hers, so unlike the touch of a human, the cadence of his voice that had captured her heart the very first moment she heard it, and the feel of his breath on her ear as he whispered to her in the night. She'd almost been frozen with shock when she first saw Lord Isak wearing that armour, killing so smoothly and efficiently. It had felt as if her heart had been torn open for a moment, and all that buried loss flooded back afresh.

She had a few minutes yet before Panro would come to wake her, and Zhia felt a comforted smile creep onto her lips as she recalled the brush of Aryn Bwr's lips on her belly. Despite the intervening years, her mortal life remained bright and clear in her memory and she had no problem remembering that. She slid her palms between the cool linen sheets until her arms were stretched out and her body was spread like a virgin sacrifice.

The room was almost completely dark, the shutters on the windows screwed shut each morning before dawn. It made the room stuffy in the relentless afternoon sun, but Panro aired it well each morning before she went to sleep. It was a small enough inconvenience when compared to the alternative.

A discreet rap on the door heralded Panro's arrival. The tall man entered and walked to the side of the bed. Zhia hadn't bothered to move; he was alone. She listened to his footsteps, trying to detect his mood. Her powerfully built manservant had a peculiarly dainty manner of walking, treading softly, taking great care over each step. Today, detecting nothing unusual in the neat patter, she assumed his mood was as placid as usual.

'Coffins,' she declared, rolling over in bed as he placed her chilled tea on the bedside table. In his hand was a candlestick that he used to light the lamp beside her bed. Her smile widened.

Cffins, Mistress?'

'Coffins,' she confirmed, nodding with mock emphasis. A long curl of hair fell over her face. 'Why do people think we sleep in them? They're small, and hardly comfortable.'

'You told me your spirit would return to your tomb when your body died, that only there would you regenerate,' Panro reminded her as he swept the curl away with one deft finger.

Zhia ignored what might be considered impertinence in a servant; her hold over him was magical, so he couldn't be blamed for the love he held for her – and a man's touch, however slight, was delightful, particularly after her dreams of Aryn Bwr. She stretched again, and said, 'But that's when I die. Why would I want to spend every damn day in a coffin when this bed is just so deliciously comfortable? Waking up like this is one of the few pleasures I have left.' She grimaced and added, 'It takes a few foggy moments before the years catch up with me, and for that I am inordinately grateful. I would be utterly miser-able if I had to wake in a coffin instead.'

'Yes, Mistress.'

Zhia gave him a coquettish smile. When one awoke in a mood this good, there really was only one thing to do – but first, she should check on who was waiting downstairs. 'Who have we for this evening, then?' she asked.

'Mistress Legana and Mis- the woman Haipar have come, with a nobleman they called Aras.' Haipar had made it plain she didn't want the usual honorific, and Panro, a stickler for the correct forms, heartily disapproved.

Zhia gave a groan. 'Ah, Count Lurip Aras. A pretty little man, but dear me, he is dull. Unfortunately, he is also rather useful to me, and one of the few decent soldiers this city has, so an enchantment of bonding was well worth the effort. I assigned Teviaq to his command staff, thinking any daughter of that morose bitch Amavoq might teach him the value of silence, but I think it's only encouraged him.' She brought her hands up behind her head and looked Panro up and down. Her manservant had an athletic frame and towered over her, but she had always preferred men far larger than herself. It's probably Aryn Bwr's fault, she thought with a grin. After all, most things were.

She pursed her lips and blew softly at the sheet covering her. Only a shred of magic was needed to make it slither over her body to the fool of the bed, leaving her naked, exposed to the lamplight. She glanced down, admiring her smoothly tinted flesh; the previous night she had

succumbed to the latest fashion; bathing in rustroot-infused water had stained her skin the colour of a true Fysthrail woman (though there were few enough of those about in Scree), instead of her normal deathly pallor. The effect greatly amused her.

It obviously had an effect on Panro too, for his rapt gaze was sending a tickle of delight down her spine. He appeared particularly entranced by the curve of her buttocks, so she shifted position a little, the better to enhance his view, and smoothed a slender hand up her thigh. A pert rosy nipple was just visible as she turned towards him.

As a slight gasp escaped his lips, she reached up to take his hand and pull him towards her, whispering, 'Well then? I wouldn't want to keep my guests waiting long.'

'Ladies, my dear Aras, I do apologise,' Zhia called as she swept down the broad staircase that faced the open entrance to her reception room. She was clad in a flowing white dress, with elbow-length gloves, and an evening stole draped over one arm. The house was of the classical design – wide, open rooms, narrow windows running from floor to ceiling – and Zhia thought it suited her perfectly, for she too was 'classical': ancient, yet still beautiful, and very desirable.