Somehow, she manages to slip free of his grasp, but then he laughs and she knows he's let her go.

"This isn't the past, Ysrthgrathe," she says. "I'm not that foolish girl anymore. You can't frighten me like you did then."

"Liar," he says.

Caimbeui had insisted we bring formal attire. I had wondered at this, but as we entered the grounds of Royal Hill where Lugh Surehand occupied the Royal Palace, I was glad of his foresight. An elf attired in livery opened the door to our limo.

I'd also wondered at Caimbeul's choice of vehicle until I saw the battery of armaments, assault weapon controls, and other trinkets loaded onto the seem- ingly innocuous luxury car. The driver was a nasty- looking troll who seemed to know Caimbeul. Or at least they exchanged those knowing sort of nods that men think are very casual but anyone with half a brain can see right through.

I wasn't sure whose Rite this celebration was for, but Surehand had gone all out. There were white tents scattered across the manicured lawns. Path- ways between the tents were lit by magical means- nothing so mundane as electric lights for Lugh Surehand's guests. Garlands of flowers were draped over anything that stood still. Staff dressed in| Surehand's colors circulated among the guests carry- ing tray after tray of wine and Epicurean delights. Even the weather had been manipulated. It was cool but not chilly, and the rain that had plagued us all day was finally gone.

I noticed that all the servants seemed to be orks and dwarfs and almost all the guests elves. I knew that when the Tir was established they'd made a big show of inviting non-elven metahumans, but I sus- pected that it was more the desire for cheap labor than altruism.

Hanging back at the edge of the party, I stayed in the shadows, pulling Caimbeul with me.

"What are they?" I hissed, pointing at several elves dressed in solid-black partial body armor that resembled the plate mail worn by knights in the thir- teenth century. Some sported SMGs, others more lethal-looking weapons. Around them I could dis- cern magical auras.

"They're Paladins," he replied. "Part of Surehand's personal guard. He takes younger sons from the noble families and makes them swear fealty to him. Ehran started the whole thing, I think.

"It keeps them out of trouble. Otherwise they'd be brawling among themselves, or plotting to do in their older siblings. Let's face it, this hierarchical society they've reinstated has some serious drawbacks."

I nodded. "Only so many can be on top, and since who ends up there is already decided, it leaves everyone else with any ambition pretty much hosed. It's actually a pretty clever solution. Channel all that brawn and energy into supporting the status quo.

"But why would Surehand need them here? I know he has some sort of magical wards to protect this place. And I'm sure there's a mundane security system in place. Is there really that much chance for assassination?"

Caimbeul shrugged. "Probably not, but would you wantJour bully boys to think they're being shirked socially? Much better to keep them handy."

"And you wonder why I've never been much for society," I said. "This all seems like such a waste of time to me. I don't have the stomach for it."

Caimbeul reached out and placed his hand lightly on the small of my back. I was wearing a gown cut very low in the back. The contact of his hand against my naked flesh made me shiver.

"I think we'd best make ourselves known," Caim- beui said. "I wouldn't want to get caught lurking here in the shadows."

We moved forward then, stepping into the golden wash provided by the floating wisps of light. Caimbeui guided us from one group to the next with the practiced grace and smoothness I'd forgotten he possessed. After- all, he'd spent time both in Alachia's court as well as the courts of the Northern Kingdoms, while I had made myself an outcast from society many times over.

With each group, we moved closer and closer to Lugh Surehand. It was a ballet of conversation, compliments, and jockeying for position. I was so caught up in admiring Caimbeui's easy skills as a courtier that I forgot for a moment to pay attention to who was moving toward us.

"Aina," came a deep voice to my left. "It has been far too long. How are you, my dear?"

I found myself being kissed on both cheeks by a tallish man dressed in an exquisitely cut suit of black worsted wool. His long, steel-colored hair hung unbound down to the middle of his back, and he had almond-shaped, preternaturally golden eyes.

"Oh come now, Aina. Don't you recognize me?"

I blinked, taken aback by the unexpected inti- macy. Then I looked more closely at him. "Lofwyr," I said. "I didn't expect to see you in such a place. Nor in this guise."

The dragon laughed. "When in Rome and all that," he said. "But what about you? Sheep's cloth- ing? Or is it a new designer? As I recall, you were more fond of Chanel than anything else. But this doesn't look like anything I've seen lately."

I smoothed a hand over the gray velvet of my dress, a nervous gesture that I caught and made my- self stop.

"I had no idea you were so interested in fashion," I said. "A new hobby, or are you just bored?"

"Nothing is boring for long here," he said. "And now you have appeared after such a long time. Have you come to be reunited with your people?"

I gave him an incredulous look. "I believe my po- sition on 'my people' was made long ago, Lofwyr. And you'd best not forget it. It makes my task here all the more difficult."

"So, you have come to play Cassandra," Lofwyr said. "You'd do well to remember what happened to her."

I took a drink of my champagne to keep from frowning at him. At least it was Krystal and not a bad vintage. The privileges of power. Caimbeui had listened to pur conversation without saying any- thing. I glanced at him to judge his mood, but he was looking past Lofwyr. I turned, following his gaze, and'saw that a young man was staring at us.

I froze, for a moment thinking that I was seeing Aithne Oakforest, but this elf was too young to be Aithne. On second glance I saw the differences be- tween them. The slightly petulant mouth. The spoiled expression on his face. The bored gaze. He had some of his father's coloring and bone structure, but the hair was too light and the eyes darker. Still, there was no doubt in my mind that this was Glasgian, Aithne's oldest son. Or at least the oldest surviving one.

The thought of Aithne's son pushed the breath from me. That I could still feel the pain of this mo- ment, even after all this time, astounded me. And I knew that my hopes for Aithne's forgiveness were in vain.

I felt Caimbeul's hand on my elbow and heard his voice in my ear as though it were coming from a long way off, like an old-fashioned radio broadcast. "I know seeing him is a bit of a shock, Aina," Caimbeui said. "But don't let it throw you. He isn't Aithne, and he's not the ghost of Hebhel come back to haunt you. Remember what's important now."

I turned toward Caimbeui, pulling my gaze from Glasgian. "I'm sorry," I said. My voice was reedy and thin in my ears. "He gave me such a start."

"Are you all right, Aina?" asked Lofwyr. "You look positively green. Maybe you should sit down."

"No," I said, more firmly this time. "I just felt a little strange for a moment there."

Lofwyr glanced over his shoulder at Glasgian. "Ah, he does look quite like his father, doesn't he? No wonder it gave you a start. There's no love lost between you and Aithne. Is there?

"I've always wondered about that. It seemed so strange…"

"Perhaps some other time," said Caimbeui as he led me away from the dragon.

He steered me about the perimeter of the party, keeping up a steady flow of nods and polite remarks as we strolled.