"And yet war has not been officially declared. How can the Queen send out privateers without giving provocation? Surely she doesn't mean to precipitate a conflict?"

Nyreidian stiffened perceptibly. "I'm sure our Queen does nothing without the best interests of Skala in mind."

"But of course," murmured Seregil. "The fact that the Queen has entrusted you with this undertaking is ample proof of the gravity of such measures."

Alec breathed a sigh of relief when Kylith turned her attention to her other guests. His repertoire of invented history was slim and he was out of his depth for small talk. Luckily, no one else seemed particularly interested in him.

Seregil was still busy with the fat admiral, so he leaned his elbows on the rail to watch the spectacle unfolding before him.

The tiers of viewing boxes where he sat stood at an angle on the south side of the square, just in front of the Dalnan temple grove. Across the square another set of tiers partially obscured the fountain courts and delicate, brightly colored archways of the Temple of Astellus. The Temple of Illior was hidden by the back wall of the box to the east.

Cordoned-off pathways between the four temples quartered the broad square. Black-robed festival goers were already packing the open areas and crowding into the courtyards and porticoes of the other temples. Gulls wheeled overhead, mingling with flights of brown doves from the Dalnan grove.

Before him, the black Temple of Sakor stood massive and stark against a riotous sunset. Broad bars of light spilled out between the square pillars of the portico, silhouetting the gongs that hung between them.

Inside stood an altar of polished black stone.

A great fire burned on it, illuminating the huge golden shield that hung suspended just behind. This,

Seregil had explained earlier, was called the Aegis of Sakor. It was twenty feet high and its sunburst device was set with hundreds of smooth-polished rubies that seemed to pulse with life in the flickering firelight.

An honor guard was massed in formation on the broad stairs in front of the temple; somewhere in those faceless ranks Beka Cavish was standing watch with her regiment. He envied her just a little. The soldier's life seemed an uncomplicated one to him; no pretending, no disguise—just honor, duty, and the bravery to stand by your comrades in battle.

"I suppose they do not celebrate the Sakor Festival with such display in Mycena?" Lady Kylith remarked, breaking in on his thoughts.

"No, my lady," Alec replied, raising his voice for Seregil's benefit. "Even the Harvest Home at the end of Rhythin isn't a patch on this."

"Lord Seregil will have explained to you, I am sure, about the extinguishing of the flames?"

"Yes. I imagine this will be an uncomfortable night."

"The soldier's vigil is very weary." Kylith cast a regretful glance in Julena's direction and Alec guessed the captain would be going back on duty soon. "But for the rest of us, it's a merry time. Moonlit parties, blind games, and chases. It's a fine night for lovers, as well. They say half the people born in Rhiminee can count back from their birth to this night."

Her perfume drifted over him as she leaned closer. "And who will be keeping you warm in the darkness, hm?"

A sudden fanfare from the temple spared him the necessity of a reply.

A hush fell over the crowd as a long procession of priests filed out from the interior of the temple.

Chanting and playing reed flutes, sistrums, deep-throated horns, and timbrels, they formed themselves into two ranks flanking the Aegis. The skirling music had an ancient, mournful sound.

"The Song of Passing, sung in the original Konic tongue," Seregil whispered. "Most of this ceremony dates back at least a thousand years."

At the end of the chant, an ornately robed figure was carried forward on a litter, face covered by a golden sun mask, an unsheathed broadsword lying across his knees.

"That's the oldest of the Sakor priests, dressed to represent the dying god," Seregil went on.

"He brings the great Sword of Gerilain."

"Was it really hers?" Alec whispered. Gerilain was the first of Skala's hereditary queens instituted by the prophecy of Illior six centuries before.

"Yes. The Queen's reinvested with it each year."

When Old Sakor had been positioned in front of the altar, a priest stepped forward and addressed him in the same ancient tongue.

"She's imploring Sakor not to abandon the people,"

Seregil interpreted. "This next part goes on and on, but the gist of it is that Sakor appoints the Queen as their guardian and gives her the sacred firepot and sword."

As predicted, Sakor's reply took some time. The lower portion of the sun mask was constructed to amplify his voice, which was rather thin and creaky. When this dialogue was completed, horns sounded and the grand procession began.

Contingents of priests emerged from the other temples, each bearing a figure representing their patron deity on a litter.

The Dalnans came first, with Valerius playing Dalna. Seated beneath an arch of laurel and ivy, the irascible drysian was uncharacteristically resplendent in a green robe heavily embroidered with gold and carried a ceremonial staff wrought in ivory and gold. Someone had managed to tame his wild hair into some semblance of order beneath his circlet, but his beard bristled as aggressively as ever as he glared out over the crowd.

"I'm no Dalnan, of course, but I don't think Valerius presents a particularly comforting figure as the Maker," Seregil murmured, eliciting chuckles of assent from several of the other guests, including Alec.

Astellus would serve as Sakor's guide on his journey to the Isle of the Dawn. A plump blond priestess dressed in a simple blue and white tunic and broad-brimmed hat played this role, complete with wayfarer's staff and wallet.

Grey-backed gulls, living emblems of the Traveler, rose up from the fountain courts of the temple and circled overhead as she was carried forth.

Illior was also being played by a woman. She sat stiffly in her flowing white gown and serene golden mask, right palm raised to display the elaborate circular emblem that covered her palm.

The three groups met at the center of the square to await the final contingent. Horns sounded again. A squadron of cavalry in ceremonial scarlet and black advanced from the entrance of the Temple Precinct, followed by the royal family.

"Is that her? Is that the Queen?" Alec whispered, craning for a better look.

"That's her."

Grey-haired and solemn, Idrilain sat her charger like the warrior she was. Her golden breastplate was emblazoned with an upraised sword and the crescent of Illior; an empty scabbard hung at her side.

With her rode the Consort Evenir, her second and much younger husband. Behind the royal couple came her sons and daughters. Among these rode Klia, resplendent in the dress uniform of the Queen's Horse.

Alec's hand rose to the silver brooch holding the ornamental cloak at his shoulder as he watched her in the distance. Until now he'd seen her only as another cheerful, mud-spattered soldier, someone who'd treated him like a comrade, never standing on ceremony. Watching her now—among her true kind and against the pageantry of the ceremony—like seeing a stranger.

The procession advanced at a stately pace to the steps of the temple, where Idrilain dismounted and strode up to stand opposite Old Sakor and the other priests, her consort and children behind her. From this point, the ritual proceeded in the modern tongue.

Idrilain's voice was clear and steady as she spread her arms and performed a chant hailing Sakor as Protector of the Hearth and the Sword of Peace.

"Let not the darkness come upon us!" she cried at its conclusion.

The massed crowd took up the cry, repeating it in a great voice until Valerius stepped forward and raised his staff in both hands. When the crowd quieted again, he sang the Song of Dalna, his deep, resonant voice carrying well in the open air.