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The simple meal consisted of slices of desert flatbread rolled around a warm, spicy filling of beans and rice. The company and conversation proved considerably more complicated.

Three more desert lords introduced themselves to Alyea before they began to eat: Lord Rest of Ehrrat Family, Lord Faer of Toscin Family, and Lord Salo, also of Darden Family. Deiq studied the men.

“All western Families,” he noted. “I hope the east will find itself represented fairly.”
He made no move to take any food; Alyea followed his lead.
“If they stir themselves to show up,” Lord Rest said sourly. A short man as southerners went, he stood no taller than Alyea herself, and his dark hair looked thick and oily. He studied her critically, like a fighter assessing his opponent's strength.
“If they've been notified, they'll come,” Deiq said.
“Desert law requires that all Families be notified in the event of a Conclave,” Lord Faer said. His voice emerged as a deep, rumbling bass that suited his bulk; not a fat man, but sturdily built and carrying a few extra pounds with it.
Lord Rest snorted contemptuously, but Lord Irrio said, “They've been notified. Scratha's always held by the law.”
“Scratha!” Alyea said, startled, and found herself the target of multiple hard stares. “I . . . I thought perhaps Pieas Sessin. . . .” she faltered, looking around. She still didn't see him anywhere. “He was threatening to, last I saw him.”
“Pieas Sessin doesn't have the authority,” Lord Faer said.
“And Scratha does?” Lord Rest said. He wiped crumbs and rice from the corner of his mouth.
“Scratha was granted Head of Family status a long time ago,” Lord Faer said, frowning. “That's not up for challenge!”
A movement nearby made Alyea turn her head sharply; the tattooed teyanin sat on her other side now.
“It is,” he said.
Silence fell as the teyanin leaned forward and scooped rice onto a piece of flatbread. Nobody looked surprised, except for Lord Faer. Lord Irrio looked thoughtful, Lord Salo offended, Lord Rest amused.
“Who's challenging Scratha's status?” Lord Faer demanded.
“I,” the teyanin said complacently. “Lord Evkit.” He held out his arm and shook it so the bracelet clicked loudly.
“
You're
—” Lord Irrio blurted, clearly startled. The others stared at the bracelet with expressions similar to the one Chac had developed on seeing it clearly.
The tattooed man grinned at them. “I,” he nodded.
Alyea's breath caught in her throat as she remembered what Juric had told her:
Cida Scratha ran off with a commoner the night after the announcement of her engagement to Lord Evkit. Her desertion was a mortal insult.
Could this actually be the same man?
Deiq made an odd, pained sound. “Lord Evkit. I'm honored.”
The other lords hastily chorused similar sentiments. “What brings the head of the teyanain to the deep desert?” Lord Irrio asked.
Lord Evkit turned slightly and pointed. They followed his gaze, and Alyea felt her chest tighten painfully; he was indicating the two northern women.
“Mine,” he said, and looked at Alyea. “Stolen.”
“Bought fairly,” Deiq said, leaning forward slightly to look at the small man. “Legal under all laws.”
“Mine,” Lord Evkit repeated stubbornly. “Blood honor claim.”
Lord Rest let out a low whistle. “You're a fool if you're going to challenge that, Deiq. None of us have that much power. Not even you.”
“None of you have that much courage,” Deiq retorted.
Lord Evkit laughed. That cooled the brewing argument, as everyone stared at the chuckling man, their anger visibly fading into bewilderment.

“He is right,” the head of the teyanain said cheerfully. “You all know what happen if teyanain upset.” He glanced at the ruins of the fortress and grinned.

“You'd punish a child for the fault of its parent?” Alyea demanded. “You're no better than the northern s'iopes!”
He stopped laughing. “Punish?” he said, his face wrinkling in apparent bewilderment.
Deiq put a hand on Alyea's arm, his expression intent as if he had just glimpsed the answer to a complex puzzle.
“What did you intend to do with the girl, my lord?” he asked.
“Fill contract,” Lord Evkit said, as if it should have been obvious. “Get honor back.”
“What contract?” Deiq pressed.
“Cida Scratha made contract,” Lord Evkit said. “We have not forget.” He spoke patiently, as if explaining to a child. “Cida go, have child elsewhere, child still bound to contract.”
Everyone gaped at him in stunned silence.
“You just want . . . to marry her? You're not going to kill her?” Alyea said at last, almost dizzy with relief.
Lord Evkit shook his head, his expression opaque. “Dead, no contract. Dead, no use to us.”
“But you killed. . . .” Alyea started. Deiq's hand clamped hard on her arm, cutting her off.
Lord Evkit looked at the ruined fortress again.
“You think we did this?” he asked. “You think teyanain do this?”
“You practically admitted it just now!” Lord Rest said. “What happens when teyanain are upset, you said, and looked at the fortress.”
“We do nothing,” Lord Evkit said, shaking his head again. “We not help, when contract broken; we withdraw support. Other Family follow us, their choice. We not tell them to turn back on Scratha.”
The expressions around the circle suggested everyone had heard the strange edge to those words. To Alyea, Lord Evkit sounded like a man carefully dancing a thin line of truth.
The tattooed man took in the combined skepticism around him and shrugged. “I lord of teyanain. We judges. We neutral.”
“But marrying into Scratha would have given you an alliance,” Lord Irrio protested. “You wouldn't have been neutral any longer.”
“Not,” Lord Evkit said, shaking his head. “Teyanain carry male line. Cida agree become teyanain, no more Scratha. No upset balance.”
“Let's wait on the rest of this discussion,” Lord Irrio said suddenly. “Scratha's not even here yet, and we don't have the full ten. We're getting into an area that should be handled in full Conclave.”
The others seemed displeased, but nodded agreement.
“Messy,” Deiq muttered, and rose. “With your pardon, lords, we'll withdraw until the Conclave begins.”
Alyea stood, bowed, and followed Deiq as he strode away.
“Damn messy,” he said, just audible as they walked. “Damn, damn, damn.”
“How long until the Conclave?” Alyea asked.
“It starts when Scratha and at least four more full desert lords arrive,” Deiq said. “And the challenge to Scratha's status is going to have to be the first thing handled. Whoever calls the Conclave has certain rights and responsibilities.” He shook his head. “Messy,” he repeated.
“It could be weeks before everyone gets here!”
He slanted her an amused glance. “Desert lords have ways of getting places in a hurry,” he said. “I expect it won't take more than a day or two to have the full ten. Conclave draws the politicians of the desert like a corpse draws flies.”
She made a face at the comparison. He laughed, his good humor seemingly restored, and said, “Let's walk through the fortress.”
“Can we?” she said, startled. “Everyone is camped outside—”
“And they'll stay outside,” Deiq said. “They haven't the right to go inside, unless you invite them, and I advise you not to do that just now. But you have the key and the right; nobody can stop you from going in.”
“I. . . .” Alyea stopped walking, horrified. “A key?”
“You don't have. . . .” Deiq stopped too, his face an open mixture of astonishment and gathering suspicion. “How were you going to get inside?”
Without conscious thought, she turned and stared back they way they had come, trying to pick Chac out of the crowd. She couldn't see him.
Deiq cursed again, in several languages this time. “Your king is a fool.”
“I'm the idiot,” she said ruefully. “I can't believe I never even thought of that.”
He pursed his lips, as if restraining himself from agreeing with her, and finally said, “Well, done is done.”
“Will Chac try to get into the fortress?” she said, suddenly anxious.
Deiq looked thoughtful, then shook his head. “The fortress wouldn't let him in.”
Alyea frowned at the odd phrasing. “What—?”
“You have to get inside before Scratha arrives,” Deiq said, as if he hadn't even noticed her attempt to speak. “Otherwise your claim is in dispute. And there's more chance of a snowstorm at noon today than there is of Chacerly giving you that key.” He shook his head, his gaze distant. “This is a mess.”
“What claim can I have against the rightful lord?” she demanded.
“You weren't listening,” he said. “Cafad Scratha's status is going to be challenged. If the teyanain win that challenge, and there's no valid alternative, Evkit can claim the fortress.”
She stared at him, shocked. “Is that what this is about? He wants the fortress?”
“Yes. Marrying the girl to Lord Evkit nullifies her Scratha blood-right, but her children still have the claim; so on the birth of that first child, Lord Evkit gains control of Scratha lands as guardian until they come of age. Stripping Lord Scratha of his Head of Family title would nullify
his
claim, now that there's a direct female descendant available. And if you don't get into the fortress before Scratha arrives,
your
claim is dead. But you need that last blood trial first.” He shook his head, rubbing his large hands over his face.
“Why now?” she said. “All this time since the original slaughter, why now? And why does Lord Evkit want a fortress so far from the Horn? It doesn't make sense.”
Deiq shook his head again and didn't answer. They stood silent for a while, staring at the gathering heat-glare over the sand. Alyea took advantage of the quiet to arrange her thoughts, picking out common threads and possible links. Slowly, a pattern emerged from the seemingly random events.
She took a deep breath, let it out; allowed all the frustration and anxiety to leave her body. Then she turned and started back towards the camp.
Deiq followed, frowning. “What are you doing?”
“I'm going to talk to Lord Irrio.”

An enormous red sun-tent had been put up, large enough to shelter fifty people at once; and almost that many crowded beneath it. Under another, smaller sun-tent nearby rested four goats and two mules, and a large enclosure for a half dozen chickens had appeared.

Alyea stared, astonished; Deiq chuckled and said, “Desert folk tend to travel with their food if they expect to stay a while. You'll see a small city camped out here by the time everyone arrives. And most of it's intended as a gift to the host, so they'll leave lighter than they came.”

Lord Irrio sat in the shade of the main tent, watching his surroundings with a bland expression which shifted to a smile as Alyea approached.
“Greetings, my lady,” he said. “You grace me with your presence.”
“Do you know, my lord,” she said without preamble, lowering herself to sit in front of him, “I learned a valuable lesson, growing up during Ninnic's reign.”
“And what would that have been?” he said, tilting his head a little to one side. He flicked the briefest of glances at Deiq as the ha'ra'ha settled beside Alyea.
“That the most courteous people are either servants or looking to use you.”
Lord Irrio's expression went completely blank, but his eyes warned her she'd leapt onto dangerous ground with both feet.
“I doubt you're interested in serving me,” she went on, disregarding the tension she could feel in Deiq and the dangerous glitter in the desert lord's eyes. “So what do you want from me,
my lord
?”
After a moment, he smiled, but she saw no humor in his eyes. “I might ask the same, as you came to speak to me, not I to you.”
Alyea said nothing. She waited, locking stares with the man, and finally some real amusement twitched the corners of his mouth.
“It's been commented,” Irrio said, “that there are as many plots and plans in the desert as there are grains of sand on the ground. You've simply stepped into several at once, and have them tangled around you. I'd prefer you to step aside, out of the way.” He glanced at Deiq. “If you'd held to the original plan, you'd be quietly sitting at your needlework in there—” he pointed at the fortress, “and we'd all be happily maneuvering around each other without you.”
“I'm terrible at needlework,” Alyea said dryly. “I would have used the guards for pincushions and run away the first day.”
He grinned. “I see that now. The
hask
miscalculated badly.”
“You're not the first person to say that,” she said. “What does that word mean, anyway?”
“
Hask
?” he said. “Traitor. Someone who breaks a sacred oath. It's unforgivable.”
She nodded, not at all surprised. “Chac broke his oath to Datda,” she said. “He set aside his status as Callen when he came to Bright Bay, and now he's trying to claim it again. Am I right?”
Deiq made a small, choking noise, and Lord Irrio's eyebrows rose.
“You are correct,” the desert lord said. “How did you—”
“I never knew he was Callen,” she said, “never heard the slightest whisper in Bright Bay of any disgrace on his name. Once into the Horn, everything changed—his behavior, the way people treated him. Now you're arguing over his status, and calling him a traitor; it's not all that difficult to set the pieces together for a whole.”
“Very much miscalculated,” Irrio said after a moment.
“And I would guess,” she went on, “that one reason he misjudged me is because he's either Shakain or from some other community that believes women are lackwits, and he can't help having that color all his actions. Even though he's known me for years, once we came back into the southlands, old habits were too hard to shake.”
“It's a blindness common to men of the lower western coastlines,” Lord Irrio agreed, seeming thoroughly amused now. Deiq still sat tense and silent by her side, his evident worry not at all relieved by the desert lord's good humor; she nodded to herself and went on ignoring him for the moment.
“What I'm not so sure of,” she said, “is why you're dropping him. He's been a useful spy all these years, hasn't he?”
All ease drained from the desert lord's face. “I wouldn't say spy.”
“Say contact, then. Resource, if you like. Advisor to the king is a powerful position, especially if that advisor helped put that king on the throne in the first place. And whoever helped that advisor set up the plans to topple the previous king would have a fairly strong hold on both men.” She paused, then added, “Ninnic wasn't very friendly to the desert Families, was he?”
“No,” Lord Irrio said, watching her with a hooded stare. “Oruen is much easier to deal with.”
“I remember being amazed at how perfectly everything worked out,” she said. “Practically the day after Chac said he'd taught Oruen everything he could, Ninnic died. And nobody at all, not even the priests, argued against Oruen stepping up, although his dislike of the Northern Church was no secret.” She lifted an eyebrow questioningly and stared at Irrio.
After a moment, he raised a hand in a surrendering gesture and laughed. “Yes, my Family, and others, helped . . . transfer . . . the throne to a better candidate. We'll do the same with Oruen, if he shows signs of madness.”
“So why did you drop Chac?” she said, ignoring the obvious hook to draw her off track. “I'm guessing he went to Bright Bay on Darden orders. He set aside his Callen status for your sake. Why are you treating him badly now?”
“Because he blundered,” Lord Irrio said, and the coldness returned to his face and tone. “A Callen of the sun-lord who can't kill is no longer a Callen. He is useless.”
She stared at him, stunned. Beside her, Deiq sat very still, his breathing even.
“You wanted me dead?” she said.
He shrugged. “I wanted you safely set aside, doing needlework. When he knew he couldn't control you, he should have killed you.”
She turned her head very slowly and looked at Deiq's grim profile. He stared straight ahead and didn't return her gaze. A muscle twitched briefly in his cheek.
“You knew this, didn't you?” she said.
His head dipped in the slightest nod. He still didn't look at her.
Lord Irrio seemed amused again. “Ask him why he intervened. Ask him the real reason he stepped in the way. Believe me, it wasn't love.”
“I never said it was,” Deiq said tonelessly.
“At least you were that honest,” Lord Irrio said, and moved as if to stand.
“Wait,” Alyea said, putting out a hand. She took a deep breath and forced herself to set aside her simmering anger at the ha'ra'ha beside her; things had finally begun to make sense. “I have more to ask you, my lord, if you would indulge me for another moment.”
“Ah, courtesy,” he said, and relaxed back to a sitting position. “Now, what is it you want from me?”
She managed to keep her gaze on the desert lord and her voice level as she said: “I don't believe Chac is the only Callen of the sun-lord in this gathering. I want to take the last blood trial. Now.”
Lord Irrio's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
“You're far to smart to pin your plans on one man alone,” she said, aiming her words carefully, “and far too cynical. You're the type to cover yourself in all directions. You have another Callen within reach, and I'll bet you were going to hold that over my head to make me dance your tune.”
“Good gods,” he said, looking honestly startled, “you've got a devious mind, haven't you?”
“You're wrong,” Deiq said, breaking his silence at last. “He doesn't. I do.”
She smiled, keeping her stare on Lord Irrio. The desert lord's face split in a wide, astonished grin of his own. “Gods, girl, you just twisted a ha'ra'ha around your finger!”
Deiq sighed. “Acana was right,” he muttered.
Lord Irrio laughed. “I will leave you alone to talk.” He stood, bowed, and walked away. Alyea transferred her stare to Deiq.
The ha'ra'ha sat quietly, not looking at her, for several breaths. At last he sighed again and said, “Once a Callen starts a blood trial, nothing is allowed to stop it. I knew Chacerly's status would be challenged sooner or later, but I also knew he'd be sitting on Scratha land waiting for you to arrive, so it seemed unlikely that those most likely to challenge would track him down before we showed up. But you took longer to heal than I expected, and I didn't realize a Conclave had been called; and so it's too late for that now.”
“Tell me this isn't just some game for you!”
He shook his head, still not looking at her. “You have no idea,” he said, “how complicated desert politics get. That bit was relatively straightforward.”
“But you arranged a backup,” she said. “Why didn't you tell me? What were you waiting for?”
“It's not that simple. It wasn't entirely my doing for the backup to be here, and I haven't had a chance to speak to him yet, to gain his aid. He's not aware that he's known to anyone here as a Callen of the sun-lord; it's the sort of thing most
dathedain
don't advertise.”
Alyea stood. His carefully ambiguous wording had clarified a suspicion into certainty. He scrambled to his feet, his expression turning anxious.
“Let's go ask this backup Callen, then.” She turned and started threading her way through the crowd under the sun-tent.
“You don't even know who—”
“There's only one other person it could possibly be,” she said.
After a moment he sighed and followed her without argument.
Gria, Sela, and Micru sat in a silent, sullen huddle near one edge of the tent; a handful of teyanain stood in a rough circle around the three. As Alyea approached, the teyanain watched her with wary interest.
She spared the guards a brief nod and passed them by, squatting in front of Micru. The two women lifted their heads, seeming vaguely relieved to see her, then sagged back into apathetic misery; every bit of their exposed skin showed the beginnings of sunburn, and the heat had clearly sapped their energy.
Micru straightened with considerably more vitality, seemingly unaffected by sun and heat; he met her gaze, his dark eyes unreadable.
“Are you a prisoner or a guard?” she asked.
One dark eyebrow quirked; he regarded her with considerably more interest. “You've grown up,” he said. “Wouldn't have thought to ask that, back in Bright Bay.”
“Prisoner or guard?” she repeated.
“Guard,” he said, with a gesture towards the two women beside him.
“And these—” Alyea pointed to the teyanain around them, “are keeping an eye on
you
.”
He nodded slowly, cocking his head to one side. “Someone's been teaching you the way of things,” he said. “About time.”
“She's passed the blood trials of Comos and Ishrai,” Deiq said from behind her.
“So I heard. Congratulations.”
“I want to take the third,” Alyea said. Micru's expression smoothed into blankness again. Gria lifted her head, showing an awakening interest in the conversation.
“You'll have to find a Callen for that,” Micru said.
“I already have,” she said.
“You found out about Chacerly, then,” he said, and shrugged. “Well, go talk to him.”
“His status is in question,” she told him. “He's not allowed to accept supplicants until that's cleared. I need
my
status cleared right now.”
Micru shrugged and opened his mouth to speak.
“If you'd named yourself a prisoner,” she said, “I'd have called you a fool and moved on. But you're not a fool, and you're not just one of the King's Hidden Cadre. You're a Callen of the Sun-Lord, and Sessin Family hired you as Darden Family hired Chacerly, to keep an eye and hand behind the scenes for them.”
She kept her voice low, barely audible, but Gria apparently heard the words: her eyes steadily widened into a look of horror as Alyea spoke.
“You're accusing me of treason,” Micru said evenly.
“I'm accusing you of politics,” she said, and won a smile from him at last.
“Callen are above politics,” he said.
“You're right in the middle of this mess, like it or not,” she said, “and you were from the moment you accepted the job from Sessin.”
He studied her for a few moments, cocking his head to one side and squinting one eye almost shut as he considered.
“True enough,” he said finally, and added something else, sharply, in the desert tongue. The teyanain glanced at him, their expressions startled, and shifted aside to allow a wide, clear space around the small man. “Sit down.”
Nothing mild or amused remained in Micru's manner now. He sat up straight, his hands resting on his narrow thighs, and watched her with the intent stare of a professional assassin sizing up his opponent. She'd never seen that look in his eye before; he'd always kept his expression placid.
She could sense Deiq retreating a few steps as she sank to the sand to sit, desert style, in front of Micru. She heard the faint sound of Deiq sitting as well, and a gathering murmur of attention being drawn their way.
She ignored it all, as did Micru. She studied him as he studied her, and kept her silence, waiting for him to speak.
He nodded after a few breaths and said, abruptly, “Have you ever killed a man?”
“No,” she said.
“Have you ever honestly wanted to?”
She didn't hesitate. “Yes.” She'd
dreamed
about being able to kill some of the s'iopes; and Ninnic had been on that list. She hadn't regretted his
accident
one bit.
“Why didn't you do it?”
“I didn't have the resources or skills.”
“Meaning what? You would have botched it, or you would have been caught?”
She took a moment to choose her answer carefully. “Both.”
“Which was more important to you at that time?”
She allowed herself to grin, knowing there would be no real amusement in the expression. “Botching it.”
“And if you had the skills today, would you kill that man, whether or not you could get away with it undetected?”
“Yes,” she said without reservation. “Absolutely, and without regrets.”
“What if he has led a pious life without sin or evil since that earlier time?” Micru pressed.
“There is nothing in the way of grace,” Alyea said flatly, “that can make up for what this man did. If he were before me right now, I would kill him.”
He nodded. “I will accept you for the blood trial of Datda.”
Behind her, she heard Deiq sigh; a moment later sand scraped and shifted as several people rapidly approached.
“Alyea,” Chacerly said, his voice taut, “what are you doing?”
“Taking the final blood trial,” she said without turning, and heard a ripple of shocked murmurs go through the crowd gathering behind her.
“You can't possibly be serious!” another voice sputtered. It sounded like Lord Rest.
Micru looked up and over Alyea's shoulder, his expression serene. “I am a sworn Callen of Datda, and bear his mark,” he said. “I have accepted this supplicant for the blood trial of the sun-lord.”
“You
can't!
” Chac said, sounding panicked now.
“I have,” Micru said.
Someone laughed. Lord Irrio said, “You're too late, it seems. Pity you were off sulking, isn't it?”
Chac let out a low growl, and a scuffle erupted; Alyea leapt to her feet and turned to face the commotion. Chac lay face down on the ground, his arms twisted cruelly behind him. Lord Irrio, grinning ferociously, had a knee in the old man's back and held both skinny wrists in one of his large hands.
Lord Rest bent and picked up a thin knife with a worn dark hilt from the sand nearby. He handled it with unusual care, and held it well away from him as he studied it.