"What of Vahanian?"

Malesh leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms. The exquisite lace at his cuffs spilled down over his fine-boned hands with more contrast now that he had recently fed. "Vahanian is neither as soft as Uri wants to believe, nor as undefeatable as Gabriel hopes. I did see fear in his eyes for a moment, but in the next he was struggling with Kolin to join the fight. Fear alone won't stop him. And as for Darrath nearly killing Vahanian—that much is true. But it was after he'd bested three of Dar-rath's prize soldiers and taken both a beating and a full scourging. The mage that came for him was none other than Martris Drayke. Vahanian is every bit as good a fighter as the stories say—maybe even able to hold his own against one of us."

"One." Senan smirked. "We are more than one."

"You're missing the point." Malesh began to pace once more. "Killing the Lord of Dark Haven doesn't accomplish the goal. The truce and the Council must die with him. We have an opening. Gabriel won permission from the Council to allow the vciyash moru of Margolan to fight against Jared the Usurper. Uri, the fool, voted against it, but I knew immediately that this was our chance.

"Martris Drayke has won the throne but not the peace. Lord Curane is in full rebellion, and King Martris will have no choice but to take an army south. There are smaller pockets of resistance and groups of Jared's loyalists scattered throughout Margolan. The vayash moru of Margolan are so taken by their Summoner-king that they haven't stopped fighting for him. The longer the fight, the weaker the truce becomes."

"So?" Sioma stretched, showing off her sinewy body. The form-fitting sheath of copper-colored silk set off her sleek curves and auburn hair. Malesh smiled. Immortality heightened both thirst arid passion. Having drunk deeply to quench the first, he fully intended to sate the second. Later.

"So...there is no need for a mortal Lord of Dark Haven without the truce."

Senan looked skeptical. "The Sisterhood won't permit that."

Malesh laughed. "The Sisterhood doesn't have the power to do anything about it. They didn't take on Arontala because they knew they weren't strong enough to win. They're a shadow of what they once were. Their mages are defying them, remaining as battle wizards with Martris Drayke's troops just as they defied the Sisterhood to train him. Arontala gave us a gift when he stole the orb from beneath Dark Haven. The Flow has never mended, and as it fractures, the Sisterhood weakens."

"You think the mortal kings will just sit back and let the truce be broken?" Berenn asked.

"The mortal kings will be at war," Malesh replied, smiling. "Curane knows what King Martris doesn't—that the Flow favors blood magic at the expense of the light. With the Flow out of balance and the Margolan army barely on its feet, Curane merely has to draw them into a siege and then pound away at them while the shattering of the Flow drains their Summoner-king dry. Kill Martris Drayke, and Jared's bastard takes the throne. Nargi and Trevath will ally against the other kingdoms, and there'll be more blood than we can drink for years to come."

"Who wins?" Senan asked skeptically.

Malesh's smile broadened. "We do. When the mortal kings have beggared their treasuries and spent their armies and the Sisterhood is dissolved, it'll be time for us to seize what's always been rightfully ours."

"So you're just going to leave Vahanian in Dark Haven?"

Malesh shook his head. "No. We must break Dark Haven the way we'll break the Council and shatter the truce. Vahanian's too well protected to strike. He won't be. moved by threats. He cares little for his own safety. But about the peasants on his lands, he's come to care a great deal. They're one weakness." Malesh's eyes glittered. "I understand he plans to return from Margolan with a bride. That will be our opening. We'll strike at the heart of Dark Haven and bleed it dry."

"You're not pushiinG me hard enough." Jon-marc Vahanian wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. Laisren, his vayasb moru trainer, looked annoyed. "You're mortal. What do you expect?" "I expect to be able to defend myself, the way I've always been able to fight."

"You're one of the finest fighters in the Winter Kingdoms—perhaps the best in a generation. Against mortals."

Jonmarc shook his head. His long dark hair was matted with sweat, and he was breathing hard. "Not good enough. You saw what happened at the Council. I'll never win the respect of the vayash moru if I have to have bodyguards trailing me. I have to be able to hold my own in a fight—I need to have a chance of winning."

Laisren frowned. "I trained Martris Drayke at the citadel in Principality because he was going to fight Foor Arontala. Tell me exactly why I'm training the Lord of Dark Haven— protector of Those Who Walk the Night—to kill vayasb moru?"

"Because the truce isn't worth the price of the paper it was written on," Jonmarc shot back, "and you know it. A storm's coming—I can feel it. Too many things are changing. Bargaining from a position of weakness is a lousy way to deal with someone like Uri. Even if he's bluffing, I have the feeling that his second—"

"Malesh."

"—isn't. I can't protect Carina or the mortals who are also part of Dark Haven if I'm dead."

Laisren shook his head. "We've been sparring for two candlemarks. You've held your own."

Jonmarc glared. "You've been pulling your punches. You're not moving at full speed. You're taking it easy on me, dammit."

"Carina won't be happy if I break anything she's just healed. You'll be sore enough—and bruised—from the last couple of throws, even if I didn't go as hard on you as I could have."

"Yeah, but I barely touched you." Jonmarc was bleeding from a score of cuts and scrapes, some from Laisren's blade and some from the rough rock of the walls and floor. But only a handful of his own strikes had connected, slicing through Laisren's tunic and opening a gash on his arm that had already healed. "Most mortals couldn't get close." "I can do better." Laisren looked skeptical. "How?" Jonmarc shook his head. "When I fight, when I'm in the middle of. a battle, it's like everything slows down. Time changes. I just know where the other guy is going before he moves. That's what's always kept_ me alive— even in the betting games in Nargi. In my head, time works differently for me. If I can just nudge that a little, I think I can handle a vayash moru in a real fight." "You're taking Uri seriously." Jonmarc shook his head and dipped himself a drink of cool water from a nearby bucket. "Not Uri. Malesh. Yestin's right. The old ways are coming apart. The war in Margolan, when it comes, could draw in all of the Winter Kingdoms. If that happens—and I hope for Tris's sake it doesn't—every petty thief and cutthroat is going to try to knock off his boss and take his place. I'll lay my bets that's what Malesh is waiting for. He doesn't want Uri's seat on the Council and he doesn't want Dark Haven. He wants vayash moru to rule the Winter Kingdoms."

Laisren frowned. "It can't last. Every time a vayash moru has tried to rule over mortals it's nearly been our destruction. We can't make fledglings as fast as mortals breed. We can't move about by day. By day, all but the very oldest of our kind are vulnerable. Eventually, the burnings start."

Jonmarc nodded. "How many mortals and vayash moru have to die before we end up right back where we started? And while the Winter Kingdoms are consuming themselves, what's to keep the Southlands from driving their armies north and taking it all? Or the war lords of the Western lands from burning their way across Isencroft?" He shook his head. "My kind, your kind—we all lose if Malesh tips the balance. In every barroom brawl, the best way to avoid a fight is to look like the nastiest son of the Bitch fighter in the room." He met Laisren's eyes. "So what about it?"