“But — twining—”

“All right,” he said. “I’ll find someone who’s old enough to teach me how to twine. And then she and I will see the Queen together, and you can do as you please.”

He turned as if to go. Chhia Kreun made a little gasping sound, and reached out toward him.

“No — wait — wait, Tikharein Tourb—”

Thu-Kimnibol will leave for Dawinno in another day or two, or at most perhaps three, as soon as his caravan is ready to take to the road. This is the night of the farewell dinner Salaman is giving in his honor. The black wind is howling tonight. Hail rattles against the windowpanes. There was hail last night too, hard little pellets that cut and stung and burned like bits of solidified flame. Tonight it’s even wilder. And there’s a darkness to the east that hints at the possibility of snow to follow.

The season is changing. Darkness comes early now. The first storms of the oncoming winter are beginning to blow through the City of Yissou.

For Salaman the coming of the hard weather meant the beginning of a difficult time. It was like that every year, but every year it was a little worse. He was losing resilience as he aged. His spirit, melancholy by nature, darkened even more when the black winds returned, and more and more year by year. This was likely to be the worst ever. Overnight, with the change, the last shred of his patience had fled: he was all irascibility now. The brunt fell on those who were closest to him, and they walked warily. Everything and everyone annoyed him: even Thu-Kimnibol, his honored guest, his dear and cherished friend, who tonight had the seat of grace that he had coveted long ago, beside the king, above Chham, above Athimin.

“By the Destroyer, it cuts right through the wall, that wind!” Thu-Kimnibol said, as they were serving the roasted thandibar haunch. “I’d forgotten about the winter weather here!”

Salaman, red-eyed from too much wine, poured himself another glass. Thu-Kimnibol’s comment had come like a slap in the face. The king swung around and glared at him.

“You miss your easy Dawinno climate, do you? There’s no winter there at all, is there? Well, you’ll be home soon enough.”

Winter, true winter, was something the tribe had not had to cope with in the Vengiboneeza days. That city nestled between mountains and sea in a zone of privileged climate, where the cool season was short and mild, bringing nothing worse than steady rains for a time. And the City of Dawinno, far to the south, lay becalmed in soft year-round warmth. But King Salaman’s city, though sheltered by its location within the ancient death-star crater, was exposed on its eastern side to the harsh winds that blew at year’s end from the heart of the continent, where the Long Winter had not yet entirely relinquished its grip.

Yissou’s winter was brief, but it could be savage. When the black winds blew, trees were stripped of their leaves and the soil became dry and barren. Crops perished and livestock turned gaunt. Sometimes, not often, there was snow. The souls of the city’s men and women grew crabbed and sour in that time of wind. They lost all generosity, and anger was general: there were bitter disputes between friends and mates, even violence. Though it lasted only a matter of weeks, everyone prayed constantly for the season to end, as in generations now forgotten their ancestors had prayed for an end to the Long Winter.

“It’ll grow worse,” said Salaman’s mate Thaloin in bleak gloomy tones. “You’re lucky you’re leaving, prince. It’ll seem like the Long Winter come again here, in another few weeks.”

“Be quiet,” Salaman said brusquely to her.

“My lord, you know it’s true! This is only the first of it, this wind!”

“Will you be quiet, woman?” Salaman cried. He slapped the flat of his hand against the bare wood of the table so fiercely that glasses and tableware jumped, and some wine was spilled.

To Thu-Kimnibol he said, “She exaggerates. Now that she’s growing old the cold weather bothers her bones and makes her cranky. But I tell you, we have only a few weeks of trying winds here, and sometimes a little snow, and then it’s spring.” He laughed harshly, a heavy, forced laugh that cost him some aching of the ribs. “I enjoy the shifting of the seasons. I find it refreshing. I wouldn’t want to live where the weather is unvaryingly fine. But of course I regret it if you’ve been caused any small discomfort since it turned colder, cousin.”

“Not at all, cousin. I can abide some chilling.”

“Our little winter isn’t really all that harsh. Eh? Eh?” The king glanced around the table. Chham nodded, and Athimin, and then all the others, even Thaloin. They knew his moods all too well. The wind gusted wildly again. Salaman felt his temper rising another notch. He struggled to contain it.

Raising his glass, he waved it vaguely in Thu-Kimnibol’s direction. “Enough of this talk. A toast, a toast! To my dear friend and beloved cousin Thu-Kimnibol!”

“Thu-Kimnibol,” Chham echoed quickly.

“Thu-Kimnibol,” the others chimed in.

“My dear friend,” Thu-Kimnibol said, lifting his own glass. “Who’d have thought it, twenty years ago, that I’d sit here tonight, at this very table, in this very seat, by Salaman’s hearth-fire, thinking, How splendid he is, what a great friend, what a staunch ally! To you, dear Salaman!”

The king studied him as he drank. He seemed sincere. He was sincere. They had become friends. The last thing I would have expected, he thought. His eyes filled with tears. Dear Thu-Kimnibol. Good old Thu-Kimnibol. How I’ll miss you, when you leave here!

“Wine!” he called. “Wine for Thu-Kimnibol! And wine for the king!”

Weiawala hopped up at once to refill their glasses. As she came within range of Thu-Kimnibol, he slipped his hand along her waist, and down the side of her leg. He never missed a chance to fondle her and stroke her. From the moment soon after his arrival when she had begun to share his bedchamber, he’d scarcely looked at any other woman here. Good, Salaman thought. A royal mating will come of this, perhaps. There’s reason to think Thu-Kimnibol can make himself chieftain in Dawinno after Taniane’s reign is over, since there seems to be no woman there who’s fit to have the job. How useful, then, to have one of my own daughters sitting on Dawinno’s throne at Thu-Kimnibol’s side.

He took a deep pull of his wine. He was beginning to feel a little better now. The wind seemed to be dying down.

“Dear Thu-Kimnibol,” he said again, after a time.

There was a sound like the slap of a giant hand against the palace wall. The wind’s brief lull was over. The gale was back with twice the fervor of before. And with its return, Salaman’s little moment of good feelings was gone. Suddenly there was a pounding in his head, a constriction in his breast.

“What a terrible night it is,” Thaloin whispered to Vladirilka. “It’ll drive the king mad.” It was only the barest thread of a whisper. But Salaman’s hearing was unnaturally keen when the black winds were blowing. Her words reached him with the force of a shout.

“What’s that? What? You think I’ll go mad, is that what you say?” he cried, springing up. Thaloin shrank back, one arm across her face to protect herself. The room grew very still. Salaman loomed over her. “A terrible night. This terrible season. A terrible night. This terrible season. The Long Winter come again, you say. You complain all the time, woman. Can’t you ever be content with what you have? I ought to turn you out into the cold so you can see what it’s really like!” Thu-Kimnibol was staring at him. The king gripped the edge of the table to steady himself. Rage is coursing like lava through his brain. In another moment he’ll be roaring. It’s all he can do to keep from knocking Thaloin across the room. His own mate, whom he cherishes. Perhaps she’s right. Perhaps he’s mad already. This damnable wind, this accursed season.