Reluctantly, Blood Gem turned north toward the Khalkists and the army's camp. Behind them and below, the draconians finished their work, burning every house in the village, killing each man and woman and child they found. One or two escaped. Phair Caron could see it from the heights, but she did not regret that. Let them run. Let them flee downriver to the other towns, wailing the song of their terror until it reached the ears of the elf-king, Speaker Lorac himself. Let him know she was coming!

On days of sun, Dalamar labored indoors in his lord's steamy kitchen, in the musty wine cellars where he was set to catching rats, or in the attics under the high eaves, where it was Eflid's pleasure to give him the task of sorting through old clothing during the breathless hours of hot afternoons. On days of rain, Eflid made certain that Dalamar worked outside, sometimes in the gardens to brace slender plants against the downpours, sometimes after the rain, slogging through mud to repair what damage had been done.

"It's not fair," murmured the young woman who served at the lord's breakfast table. "He treats you worse than he treats any of us, Dalamar. How do you stand it?"

"It's our way," Dalamar said. They stood in the doorway to the kitchen garden, looking out into the day hung heavily with mist and leaden clouds. He plucked a wisp of straw from the floor, a stray bit of packing from a crate of wine. "An old pattern. Eflid wants something from me, and I want to be sure he's not going to get it."

The young woman, Leida, the daughter of a mother who had served in Ralan's hall all her life, child of a father who yet served there, looked at him with luminous green eyes. She had once thought she was in love with a Wildrunner, a young man she saw striding about the city, handsome in his leathers and green shirt. No matter that their life-paths would never cross. No matter that a son of House Protector would never have looked her way but to tell her to refill his mug of ale. When war took the charming soldier north, Leida had wept for as long as an hour, and then she turned her attention closer to home and the dark-eyed mage who seemed suddenly more handsome than the Wildrunner for being so much nearer.

"What, then?" she asked Dalamar. "What does Eflid want?"

Using only the agile fingers of his right hand, Dalamar tied a knot in the straw. "A servant humble and biddable."

Leida laughed, her green eyes sparkling. "He'd spend all his days trying to make you into that, and he'd die never seeing it done."

"They're his days to spend." Dalamar shrugged. "And that's how he wastes them."

"And you? You don't mind it?"

He looked at her long, and when he answered, he spoke coolly. "I mind."

Leida shuddered, for she saw something in his eyes to make her think of a wolf lurking beyond the light of a campfire.

That morning, rain had poured down in sheets. Now at noon, the sky was still. Clouds hung leaden, threatening to burst, and the garden was filled with mist and the fragrance of mint and thyme and sweet chamomile. Brown muddy water ran like small rivers round the beds, carving new shapes. Leida's yellow hair loved the mist, springing into little curls around her cheeks. She wore it short, though elf women seldom did, because she liked the feeling of air tickling her neck.

A pretty neck it was, Dalamar thought. A gloss of mist, perhaps of sweat, lent a sheen to the skin of her slender neck. He lifted a finger and caught the droplet. His eyes on hers, feeling her move toward him though she moved not at all, he tasted it. Rain. Lightning flickered fitfully, illuminating the garden. Leida's eyes widened. She lifted her head in the way she had of showing off her charming ears. Sweetly canted, they were like the petals of some lovely flower, white and elegant. Her lips moved in a sudden smile. She glanced over her shoulder to the silent, cavernous kitchen. Potboys had finished their work of scrubbing the pans and plates from breakfast. The cook had gone into the storeroom beyond to take the count of what would be needed to prepare the evening meal. The bakers, who labored in the night, were long asleep in their quarters.

Leida looked into the eyes of the mage. Perilous eyes sometimes, strange eyes at best, she'd never looked there without feeling a quickening of her breath and the excited leap of her heart. Dangerous, warned the little chill running down her spine.

"Dalamar, there is a quiet place I know…"

A quiet place in the attic, in the little room where the linen was kept. In her own small chamber, perhaps. Or his. Dalamar leaned close to taste the rain on her neck. Eflid forbade any union between the servants in Lord Ralan's hall. He would have no alliances forged, no distractions created. He would lift the minds and hearts from us all if he could, Dalamar thought, and have a small army of automatons.

His lips still on the soft flesh of Leida's neck, Dalamar smiled. She felt it and came into his arms, lifting her face for his kiss.

His kiss was not like fire, as she had often imagined. It was like sudden lightning. The blood in her leaped, and her pulse drummed. "Come to my room," she said, her words felt against his lips rather than heard. She took his hands and stepped away, holding them, pulling him, laughing. "Come with me…"

Outside, the morning's rain still dripped from the eaves, gurgling in gutters and along the channels it cut for itself beside stone paths. Leida laughed again, bright against the gray day.

The shadow fell upon her like a thin grim cloak. Eflid's hand closed hard on her shoulder, and his voice hissed like a snake's in her ear. "Go where, eh? Slut-"

Leida cried out in fear, perhaps in pain. Swift, Dalamar grabbed the steward's wrist. Before he could think yea or nay, he broke Eflid's grip with one sharp twist. Loathing like poison flared in the steward's eyes. He pulled back, trying to free himself. He failed. Color drained from his cheeks. Rage and fear warred in him.

"Let go," he snarled. Dalamar did not. "Boy, I mean it." His voice shook, but only a little, and only he and Dalamar knew it. "You'd better let go-"

Outside, lightning flashed. Thunder rumbled then suddenly roared. In the garden something white moved through the mist, like a ghost on the rain-running paths. Leida gasped, slipping behind Dalamar into the dark safety of the kitchen. Her footfalls sounded in the darkness, swift as she ran past the deep hearth, the long tables, and the shelves of pots and pans. Gone, she did not look back, and no one looked after her.

On a second flash of lightning the ghostly figure in the garden became a man, a cleric running ahead of the storm, the hem of his white robe hitched high out of the mud. Splashing and slipping, he dashed for the kitchen.

Dalamar loosed his grip on Eflid's wrist. "Your master has a guest, Lord Eflid," he said, mocking the man with the title he did not own. "You'd best tend him, eh?"

"Aye, and I'll attend to you later, boy."

"Do you think so?" Dalamar nodded once, an ironic bow. "Well, you may try, as ever you do."

The cleric came into the kitchen, the storm on his heels, thunder at his back. Dalamar moved aside, barely hearing the man's reply when Eflid hustled him inside, fawning and bowing, assuring him that a fire would be made for him, wine brought. "Lord Ralan will be pleased to see you, my Lord Tellin. Come with me. Yes, right through here into the study."

Dalamar looked up at the sky, the lightning cutting through the clouds and the rain pouring down, then he turned and left the kitchen. He had countered Eflid's threat with a threat, and he thought he could smell the docks and the fishers' nets.

Idiot, he thought. He tucked his hands into the sleeves of his robes, clenching fists he wanted no one to see. Neither did anyone see the rage on his face as he went through the kitchen, the dining hall, and along the corridor to the servants' wing and his own tiny chamber. Had any looked into his eyes, though, he would have found rage there. Rage as cold as winter's rage, fury like a storm over Icewall Bay. Idiot! To risk a comfortable enough position for the sake of a girl he'd have enjoyed once, perhaps twice, then never bothered with again. He deserved what fate he'd earned, the reek of fish at the docks, the endless mending of nets, the constant slap and groan of the river outside whatever poor hut he would be given as home.