"No," Carabella said. "And we talk as though the present Pontifex is already dead, or at death's door.

But Tyeveras still lives."

"He does, yes," said Valentine. "At least in certain senses of the word. Let him continue to live some while longer, I pray."

"And when Hissune is ready—?"

"Then I'll let Tyeveras rest at last."

"I find it hard to imagine you as Pontifex, Valentine."

"I find it even harder, love. But I will do it, because I must. Only not soon: not soon, is what I ask!"

After a pause Carabella said, "You will unsettle Castle Mount for certain, if you do this thing. Isn't Elidath supposed to be the next Coronal!"

"He is very dear to me."

"You've called him the heir presumptive yourself, many times."

"So I have," Valentine said. "But Elidath has changed, since we first had our training together. You know, love, anyone who desperately wants to be Coronal is plainly unfit for the throne. But one must at least be willing. One must have a sense of calling, an inner fire of a sort. I think that fire has gone out, in Elidath."

"You thought it had gone out in yourself, when you were juggling and first were told you had a higher destiny."

"But it returned, Carabella, as my old self reentered my mind! And it remains. I often weary of my crown—but I think I've never regretted having it."

"And Elidath would?"

"So I suspect. He's playing at being Coronal now, while I'm away. My guess is that he doesn't like it much. Besides, he's past forty. The Coronal should be a young man."

"Forty is still young, Valentine," said Carabella with a grin.

He shrugged. "I hope it is, love. But I remind you that if I have my way, there'll be no cause to name a new Coronal for a long time. And by then, I think, Hissune will be prepared and Elidath will step gracefully aside."

"Will the other lords of the Mount be as graceful, though?"

"They will have to be," said Valentine. He offered her his arm. "Come: Nascimonte is waiting for us."

13

Because it was the fifth day of the fifth week of the fifth month, which was the holy day that commemorated the exodus from the ancient capital beyond the sea, there was an important obeisance to perform before Faraataa could begin the task of making contact with his agents in the outlying provinces.

It was the time of the year in Piurifayne when the rains came twice daily, once at the hour before dawn, once at twilight. It was necessary to make the Velalisier ritual in darkness but also in dryness, and so Faraataa had instructed himself to awaken at the hour of the night that is known as the Hour of the Jackal, when the sun still rests upon Alhanroel in the east.

Without disturbing those who slept near him, he made his way out of the flimsy wicker cottage that they had constructed the day before—Faraataa and his followers kept constantly on the move; it was safest that way—and slipped into the forest. The air was moist and thick, as always, but there was no scent yet of the morning rains.