Dalamar looked down at the floor and his sandaled feet, and he drew in all his thoughts, gathering them, stilling them, and keeping them safe and private in the quietness within himself. Those empty hands touched him deeply. The eloquence of their beseeching matched a feeling he'd had all his life. Fill me up! Enlighten me! Grant me what I need and deserve! He would not look at the empty hands again. It was enough that he felt the ache of their yearning.

A footstep sounded on the stairs above. Three shadowy figures came down the long winding staircase, their way lit not by torches but by two glowing spheres of magic-made light. The king, Ylle Savath of House Mystic, and Lord Garan of House Protector descended from the gallery to the audience hall. Their robes rustled, whispering to the stone steps-Lady Ylle's green robe of damasked silk, the king's brocaded violet robe, Lord Garan's unadorned robe of rusty gold samite. Dalamar caught his breath, in spite of himself impressed, for these three wore upon their backs more wealth than any servitor might hope to possess in all his life.

When the elf-king's foot touched the floor, the two young men, mage and cleric, each dropped to one knee. Tellin lowered his gaze and then his head. His hands, white-knuckled, were still, but just barely. His face shone whiter than the king's, whiter than his robes. His lips moved, perhaps in prayer. These things Dalamar saw out the corner of his eye, his head only a little lowered.

Soft like the sigh of wind through the aspens, Ylle Savath spoke a word to dismiss the spheres of light. Now only the light of torches shone, and shadows leaping all around the hall as she said, "My lord king, here is a cleric and his servant who have requested audience of us all. The cleric is Lord Tellin Windglimmer. You might remember his grandfather who was head of the Temple of Branchala in the years when I was a child."

The Speaker made a sound of assent.

"And his servant," said Lady Ylle, "is Dalamar Argent, whose mother was Ronen Windwalker and whose father was Derathos Argent of House Servitor." She lifted her head, regarding Dalamar from beneath hooded lids. Her voice was as cool as winter frost. "He is magic-taught."

Lord Garan moved restlessly, reacting to the news that the servant kneeling here in the Tower of the Stars was a mage. Steel rang, chiming faintly. Garan wears mail beneath that rich robe! Dalamar thought.

"Him?" Garan whispered to Ylle Savath. "He is trained in magic? Could they find nothing else to do with him?"

Was there no other way to handle the embarrassment of a servant so inconveniently born with magic singing in his blood? Dalamar felt his cheeks begin to flush. He closed his eyes, willing the blood to retreat from his face, willing himself to keep still.

In the quiet, a footfall, slow and light on the marble floor. Lorac Caladon walked into the hall. He put a hand on Tellin's shoulder to bid him stand. He put another on Dalamar's and said, "Rise, young mage."

Dalamar lifted his eyes, and when Lorac offered the barest twitch of a smile, he mirrored it not because he felt it, but to let his king know that he appreciated the courtesy.

"Lord Tellin," said Lorac, his pale eyes growing keen and cool, "I have heard that you wish to come and speak to me of the war."

Tellin lifted his chin, and he held his king's gaze. "I do, my lord king. I am not," he said, bowing to Lord Garan, "one who studies war, and I know there are others who-"

Dalamar glanced swiftly from the king to his counselors and to Tellin mouthing courtesies and compliments and spending his words telling the king how much he did not know about the matter he'd come to lay before them. It would not do.

"My lord king," Dalamar said, stepping a little forward.

Tellin's words died, the eyes of the august turned toward the servant who should have kept his place and remained silent. Dalamar smiled at each, a small, cool gesture of acknowledgment.

"My lord king," he said, as though the silence had been what he was waiting for. "Lord Tellin has been good enough to use his name to get for me a thing my own name or station would not have availed. But now that I am here, and you are here, I will say this: I know that the war does not go well, and I know that the Highlord is bringing forces in from Goodlund and Balifor to augment her army."

"Silence!" Ylle Savath snapped. The light of the wall torches ran in her silvery hair. Shadows made her chin seem sharp, her patrician nose like the beak of an eagle. "Servitor, you have overstepped your bounds." She looked at the king and Lord Garan. "He should be removed."

Lord Garan stepped forward, his face flushed with the same anger that had made Lady Ylle's cheeks go pale. The impertinence of servants was not to be borne, and the presumption of this one who came prating about things of which he had no understanding-!

"I will remove him, my lord king."

Tellin moved, as though to object, but another was before him. Lorac laid a hand on Lord Garan's arm, a firm grip.

"No." Torches flared and sighed in their brackets, the light of their flames ran laughing in the jewels embedded in the wall. Lorac shook his head. A troubled look passed across his face, like a shadow running. "The boy doesn't lie, does he, Garan? He is having no groundless fantasy?"

The Head of House Protector scowled. Garan glared at Dalamar, but he did not deny what Speaker Lorac said.

"Now," said the king to Dalamar, "you have presumed to tell us what we already know. Tell us why you have come to speak the obvious."

"I do not come to speak the obvious, my lord king. I come to speak of a way to turn the tide of this war in our favor. I have a plan, and I think you will appreciate it when you hear it."

"A plan?" Lady Ylle snorted disbelief. "Now we are taking advice on battle tactics from temple servants? Really, Lorac, how much more of your time do you have to waste?"

As much as I please, said the king's haughty glance. Aloud he said, "Patience, my lady. You and I have lived long enough to know that good news comes out of strange quarters. Lord Tellin is spending fistfuls of the goodwill that his family name earns him. No doubt he feels he spends it in a good cause. That says something in the servant's favor. Let us hear what these two have come to say. And"-he looked at Tellin, white in the face, and at Dalamar, who stood straight and tall and still didn't flinch from his king's scrutiny-"let us do so in a more comfortable place."

Lorac turned, looking at none of them, obliging all to follow as he led them into an alcove off the main chamber, a small room redly lit by hearth and torch.

"Are you mad?" Tellin whispered to Dalamar as they followed the king and his counselors. "Speaking that way to the king himself?"

"No," Dalamar murmured. "Quite sane, my lord. And as you will note"-he smiled-"we are here where we need to be."

All around the private chamber of the Speaker, candles glowed, orange pillars scented with barberry, green scented with pine, and white scented with the oils of winter-blooming jasmine. The colors of the candles and their delicate perfumes acted as heralds to the changing season. Tiny points of light danced in a breeze coming through the slivers of space between windows and sills. Shadows jumped and light leaped, drawing the eye round the little room. A wide, tall hearth dominated the south wall, the mantle filled with candles. Before it ranged large, comfortably cushioned chairs.

Wordlessly, the Speaker gestured his guests to chairs and assumed his own nearest the fire without waiting to see how they sorted themselves out. They did not do so easily, for no one could quite reckon where in the arrangement a servant must sit. In the end, and not unhappy with it, Dalamar did not sit at all. He stood behind Lord Tellin's chair and gained for himself a commanding view of all those gathered.