held his tongue. Kra'heera's wit sometimes tended to the acidic, but his apprentices had to grow used to it.
That was part of becoming a shaman; to be able to face any temperament with calm.
'We go out now,' Kra'heera announced, standing up from his crosslegged position with an ease many younger men would envy. That took Tre'valen by surprise; the apprentice scrambled to his feet awkwardly, just in time to follow his superior out into the night. To Kra'heera's veiled amusement, Tre'valen first turned toward the bazaar, and only altered his steps when he realized that the shaman was heading into the Old City.
And not just the Old City, but the oldest part of the city. The city swallowed them, wrapping them in a blanket of sound and lights.
Kata'shin'a'in did not sleep in trade season; business went on as usual after nightfall, although the emphasis shifted from the general to the personal, from the mundane to the exotic. In the bazaar the perfume sellers, the jewelers, the traders in mage-goods would be doing brisk business. In the Old City, within the inn walls, food, drink, and personal services were being sold. Kra'heera wondered if his apprentice felt as odd as he did, moving silently between walls, with the sight of the land and much of the sky blocked out by masonry. The wind could not move freely here, and the earth beneath their feet had been pounded dead and lifeless by the countless hooves of passing beasts.
Yet the Shin'a'in had once known cities-or rather a city, one that had once stood in the precise middle of the Dhorisha Plains. Once, and very long ago, that had been the home of the Kaled'a'in.
Kra'heera led the way confidently between the walls of alien stone' through the scents and sounds that were just as alien, the evidences of Outlanders conducting further business-or pleasure. He moved without worry, for all the fact that he wore a sword at his back, for the rule of the bazaar did not apply to Shin'a'in; not here, in their own city, where they only visited, but never lived.
The deeper they went into the core city, the darker and quieter it became-and the stranger grew the scents and the sounds. Voices babbling in chaos became voices chanting quietly in unison; raucous song became the sweet harmony of a pair of boy sopranos. The mingled scents of perfume, wine, and cookery gave way to the smoke of incense and the fragrance of flowers. This was the quarter of the temples, and the doors spilling forth yellow light yielded to those with lanterns on either side, held invitingly open for the would-be worshiper.
Yet these were all Outlander places of worship, not places that belonged to the Shin'a'in. Kra'heera continued past them as Tre'valen gazed about in interest. The lanterns at the temple doors became fewer; the doors, closed and darkened, until there was no light at all except what came from the torches kept burning at intervals along the street.
Sound faded; now they heard the dull scuff of their own boot soles along the hard-packed dirt of the street.
Finally they reached their goal, near where the street ended in a blank wall; a single, closed door, with a lantern burning low beside it. ir m'heera knocked in a pattern long familiar to his apprentice as the beginning of one of the drum chants.
The door opened, and Kra'heera again hid his amusement to see Tre'valen's shock. She who opened the door for them was Kal'enedral, Swordsworn-and at first glance, she looked to be garbed in black, the color of blood- feud.
A closer look as she closed the door behind them, however, showed Tre'valen what Kra'heera already knew; the color of her costume was not black, nor brown, but deep midnight blue.
Which was not a color that Swordsworn ever wore.
'What-' said Tre'valen.
'She is special,' Kra'heera said, anticipating his question. 'She is Sworn, not only to the Warrior, but the Crone as well. She bears her blade-but she uses it to guard wisdom. There are a dozen more like her here, and this is the only place where you will find them.' The Kal'enedral led them down the corridor, into a single, square room, with a roof made of tiny, square panes of glass set in a latticework of lead. The full moon had just begun to peer through the farther edge of the window-roof. Tre'valen stared at it in fascination; glass windows were a wonder to a Shin'a'in, and a glass roof a marvel past expectation.
He almost stumbled onto the weaving carpeting the floor of the room; Kra'heera caught him before his foot touched the fragile threads, and steadied him as he looked down in confusion.
'It is too old to hang,' he explained. 'And besides, as you know, there are things that need the moon to unlock.' The Kal'enedral slipped out of the room unnoticed; Kra'heera took a seat on one of the many cushions placed around the woven tapestry at the periphery of the room. After a moment's hesitation, Tre'valen joined him.
'You know the story of our people,' Kra'heera said softly, as he waited for the moon to sail above the walls, shine down through the window, and touch the threads of the weaving. 'Let me remind you again, to set your mind upon the proper paths.' Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tre'valen nod, and waited for a moment, absorbing the silence-and the dust of centuries rising from the weaving.
'In the long-ago time, we and the Hawkbrothers were one people' the Kaled'a'in. We served and loved an overlord, one of the Great Mages, and when he became drawn into a war, so, too, did we. The end of that war brought great destruction, so great that it destroyed our homeland.
