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Time passed, and gradually Gabriele Basingame became used to her life. There were flare-ups with Marcus--there were always flare-ups with Marcus--but that was to be expected. The rest of her life was proceeding apace.

The invitations to dine had flooded in on the second night, proving that, whatever control Temaile Daravon's family had over the invitations, it was nowhere near absolute. A number of the other Houses had aspirations to the throne, but none of them were as arrogant as Temaile; and some of the Houses had none whatsoever, and were supportive of the current line. Gabriele found this refreshing. She and Marcus had developed a system of gestures and words, but were finding them increasingly unnecessary--partially because Gabriele, if she could, would always pick the non-combative Houses to dine at; but also because they were becoming adept at reading each others' expressions. It was a bit strange to her, to be able to predict his thoughts and wishes like that.

She was becoming increasingly skilled in the use of the Flow. It was hard for her, often hard, to clear her mind and open herself to the Flow, though she felt it at all times, like something just past the corner of her eye, something lurking over her shoulder. That was a bit difficult of a thing to accept and open herself to! But when (or if) she had managed to clear her mind, the Flow just... Flowed. It sang, it rippled, it danced at her whim. Moya Tilmitt was quoted as saying he couldn't be happier with her progress and abilities.

The same could not be said of her ability with the silte. She was athletic and adept at the correct motions, with a natural bodily discipline; Marcus had taught her a number of 'flourishes, ' a series of movements intended to simulate a defense against several assailants, and she was very good at them. But when he attacked her in the sparring ring, she had a tendency to freeze up. Whatever it was she had in her, it clearly wasn't trustworthy in the event of a direct assault. Marcus said nothing, but she had a hunch that he was frustrated with her inability to respond. What surprised her more than anything else was that he hadn't said anything to her father. Or, if he had, it clearly hadn't communicated the depth of his misgivings, because here they were now, one of only a few noble scions venturing out with the soldiers, going on campaign in the Moonside Spring Lands.

"Now, don't let your guard down," her father said, tightening the saddle on his horse--another sign of wealth and royalty; the animals, domesticated from unicorns only eight hundred years ago, remained difficult to breed in captivity. "We're venturing into a war zone here. And in wars, there are no rules. The enemy will kill you on sight."

"So I should stay hidden, right," Gabriele said in an effort to lighten the mood.

Father leaned down. "I'm being serious, sanina." A fleeting expression crossed his face. "Sanina. You're not exactly a child of six anymore, to be called that. My little girl."

Gabriele smiled, not sure how to react.

"My daughter," he said. "A battlefield is one of the best places to get killed. And the entire Spring Lands are a giant battlefield. You must always assume that there are enemies at every step. Trust no one."

"Well, I wouldn't trust a Summer in any case," said Gabriele.

Father's face closed, and he said, "Not all enemies are Summers, daughter."

The words troubled her, even as they started out, with her father at the head of the column as befitted a general. She and Jordan were about a quarter of the way down the line, also on horses. It was Gabriele's first time riding and she was having trouble finding some sort of comfortable rhythm. If Marcus was having the same trouble, he wasn't showing it.

"It sounds as if..." said Gabriele. "It sounds as if Father's implying that some enemies are Winters."

"Your father's not implying that, he's saying it straight out," said Marcus flatly, and she felt again the hot lash of his scorn. "I hope it doesn't surprise you, because I'd heard you were smart."

Gabriele looked up the line, where Temaile Daravon and her lackey David Alckerson were consorting (civilly or otherwise) with her father. "No, I guess it doesn't."

"Not all the world is kindness and light, Catheryne Basingame," said Marcus, and she jolted to hear her private name. "That, in part, is what you are coming to the Spring Lands to learn."

She stared after him in vexation long after he had gone.

The journey to the Spring Lands itself was fairly uneventful. Within seven days they had passed out of Eretria itself and crossed into Cymerin, which was farther from home than Gabriele had ever been from home; but she was expecting to see strange, grand new sights, and she was disappointed. All of the houses looked the same, and all the people looked the same and sounded the same. It was almost as if she hadn't left at all. In another twenty days, they had passed out of Cymerin, and were on their way to the Spring Lands.

Of course, those twenty days held their own surprises.

She had long gotten past being saddle-sore by the time they arrived at the Palace of the Winds, long gotten over the monotony of seeing what felt like the same houses, the same people, the same countryside. If she had only learned one thing on this trip, it was just how much land was in a kingdom, and how many people. But now they were in Mar Greveldo, the capital city of the nation of Cymerin, and Father was here to pay his respects to the Corinth and Mananse, the strange dual monarchs of the Cymerine, and thank them for allowing him to travel with armed soldiers through their countryside. Cymerin and Eretria had long enjoyed peaceful relations, but the balance of power was far from equal--for one, Cymerin on its shortest dimension was twice the breadth of Eretria's longest dimension--and besides, as Father said, it was only polite to be neighborly.

He brought her and Marcus with him, of course. He was not Queen Meralina's co-king, nor would Marcus be hers, but there was plenty to learn by watching the Corinth and the Mananse work. After all, like any partnership, they had their rough spots, and the balance of power between them was never quite equal, with each seeking to outmaneuver the other; but there were times and subjects on which they agreed.

The dual monarchs ruled for life. Several years ago the old Mananse, a queen, had died; and now her young son, Telathandros, sat on that throne; opposite him on the throne of the Corinth was a woman at least ten years Father's senior, Queen Jilandal. It was as mismatched a pairing as Gabriele could imagine. King Telathandros, only a few years older than Gabriele herself, was bounding with energy and boyish enthusiasm, and Queen Jilandral was genial and welcoming; but when she introduced her own daughter and heir, an unmarried woman at least ten years older than Telathandros, Gabriele knew that she could not be pleased with her young co-ruler. For the most part their personalities simply seemed at odds: Telathandros speaking out of turn and on the most irrelevant of subjects; Jilandral displaying an increasingly chill propriety as the audience wore on.

"We thank you," Father said eventually, bowing, as the audience came to an end. Gabriele and Marcus imitated him hastily. "You have shown us great trust in allowing us passage through your lands, Your Graces, and we have nothing but thanks for you in our hearts."

"We hear your thanks and honor them," said Queen Jilandal formally. "It brightens our hearts to know that our neighbors in Eretria are--"

"You know, we should get married," said King Telathandros suddenly.

All eyes in the chamber turned to him as one. He was totally serious. His clothes fit perfectly, but Gabriele could not shake the feeling that they were about five sizes too large for him, as were the crown and scepter--a child, dressed up in his father's clothes, play-acting in an imaginary world.

"We should," said King Telathandros again. "It would be a great alliance to wed Cymerin and Eretria together." With a start, Gabriele realized that he was talking to her.

"My gracious co-ruler, the King Telathandros, is learning the rules of politics," said Queen Jilandral, "and that, sometimes, simply wanting a thing is not reason enough to have it." The tone of her voice suggested that she had said this many, many times.

"Well, it's better than that one girl Lord Pleistnen tried to set me up with," said King Telathandros. "She was about eleven."

"I should like to remind my gracious co-ruler, the King Telathandros, that 'that one girl' is, in fact, the daughter of Lord Pleistnen, and that House Pleistnen is one of the most powerful of the houses in Winterdom," said Queen Jilandral. "There is no need to snub her or her House."

"But wouldn't it be better to marry someone I'd actually want to lay with," said King Telathandros, the coarseness of the statement coming out so matter-of-fact that Gabriele gaped. "And isn't a political alliance outside the nation a better thing than one inside? Who knows when she'll have children--" He waved his hand vaguely in Gabriele's direction. "--Who knows when I'll have children. Our heirs may not have this opportunity. But there will always be Masters and Mistresses Pleistnen."

"My gracious co-ruler, the King Telathandros..." Queen Jilandal's eyebrows climbed. "Does indeed have a point."

"You know I always do, old grandmother," said King Telathandros, with a bright grin, and the title was confusing to Gabriele until she realized it was a term of endearment. And she suddenly realized depth of respect and affection between these two unlikely rulers.

It was an odd question in itself, as well. If King Telathandros were to marry her... Well, she didn't think he would be a very appropriate husband, on a personal level--oh, why lie to herself, she didn't like him; she thought he was a child. But he and the Corinth had already proved that appearances were deceiving. So if they were to marry... Well, where would they live? She had no replacement, whereas he could rely on the Corinth; would they live in the Silver Palace, in Eretria? Or would they stay in Cymerin?--which after all was a much larger country with proportionally larger problems. But she could not bear to leave her nation like that; how would she govern? By messenger? By pigeon? It was an interesting mental dilemma that she never quite worked out.

Well, if I can't figure out a solution, she thought humorlessly, I suppose we won't be getting married.

Another surprise was the way the soldiers took to her use of the silte. Marcus, of course, had demanded she continue her practice as they traveled; the exercise would be good for her, he said, and after the first day of sitting in the saddle all day, she absolutely agreed, no matter how sore her legs were when she tried to dismount the first time. She did not have the wooden ones anymore; now she had the real objects, cold steel, and Marcus was also teaching her the ways of their care and maintenance. He sparred with her sometimes, using a sword--a real one, as hers were. That frightened her even more than the sparring did: what if he were to slip, or have an accident? She might be permanently injured. She might die! And this of course did not help her fighting skills very much. So wrapped up in fear was she that she never noticed that Marcus's blade never did slip, that any and all injuries sustained were from her lack of control and finesse. Marcus did not tell her that he would not have given her the real weapons if he didn't consider himself up to the challenge of preventing or avoiding bodily injury to either of them; nor did he reveal how many more accidental close calls he avoided by skill of his body and muscles. What he wanted to do was encourage her, to draw her out, to raise her confidence in her abilities; it would never do to admit that she was, in fact, making errors to the left and to the right.

The soldiers came through in this regard. They cheered for her, they encouraged her, and at times their sparring efforts became almost spectator events. The soldiers were always firmly on Gabriele's side, for which Marcus blessed them; it gave her heart to hear their confidence in her. And whenever she slipped or made an accident, they cheered, applauding every slight victory she made over him. Her father had, of course, always been popular with them, and now she was the first princess who had ever shown inclination or ability to learn and live as the common soldier had, and they loved her for it. Marcus simply hoped she would soon learn to control herself more; one nick or cut every few days wasn't a lot, but they added up, and it was becoming an irritating experience just to wear clothes.

Mistress Temaile Daravon and her so-called "First Lance" never attended these sparring competitions, seeming to disdain the use of weapons, though both wore them. In fact, for the most part, they kept to themselves at all times, not socializing with the soldiers at all and rarely with any of the other noble scions, including Gabriele herself. This surprised her; with the Princess-Heir so close at hand for so long, it would have been the logical time to cultivate a friendship, or even exploit whatever domination Temaile had shown earlier and keep all the others away. But for the most part Gabriele found herself talking to the soldiers, or to the other scions (Master Kingsford Jaine and Master George Talten) and their retainers. Interestingly enough, speculation about Master Alckerson's position in the Daravon household was one of the favorite gossips of the trip; evidently Temaile wasn't being forthcoming about her "preparations."

Another surprise to Gabriele was her First Lance's reception among the house scions. Both Master Jaine and Master Talten, rather haughty boys some years older, now beginning to take on more central roles in their Houses, on the verge of marriage... Both of these men showed him respect, talking to him in the casual way that friends did, and to Gabriele's astonishment he did them the courtesy of at least being polite to them (something he had not yet mastered in dealing with her). Of course he would never fraternize, but this didn't seem to bother them, and while he didn't encourage their friendship he did not discourage it either. It was inexplicable to her.

There were times when she despaired of ever managing her duty. Here was her First Lance, the most gruff and overbearing man in existence... And he was winning friends. He was popular with the Houses, he was popular with the soldiers. He always seemed to be right. He had to teach her things, not the other way around. Really, what was the point? Of the two of them, one was clearly unnecessary. And it wasn't him. Of course, she said nothing of these things, and if anyone noticed her frustrations, they didn't comment.

In this way the days passed, and eventually the army (for that's what it was, by Eretrian standards at least) reached the Spring Lands. Gabriele's first indication of it was when there began to be strange tufts of things on the ground. It was yellow and crunched under her boots and the horses' hooves.

"What is it," she asked Marcus. Both of them were walking, leading their horses; it was something she had taken to because Marcus did it to avoid the monotony of constant riding, not to mention the cramps and pains at the end of the day; she had been walking more and more frequently, and now she could match the soldiers' pace without getting short of breath. (She had no idea how much this pleased Marcus; her general physical condition was something he had long worried over.) And so she was on foot when they first encountered that bizarre frondy yellow stuff that crunched underfoot.

Marcus didn't know what it was, but a passing soldier did. "It's grass, milady," he said.

"G... Grass?" she said, stumbling over the unfamiliar word.

"Aye, milady. 'Tis a plant, that grows from the ground, like wheat."

"Is it food," Gabriele asked.

"No," he said, "'tis just... There."

"And it's yellow," she asked. "I thought plants were green. Even wheat is green when it first grows."

"Ah, well," he said. "This'un's all dead, milady. Hasn't gotten enough water."

"Well, why didn't someone water it, then," she said. It only made sense. In the Winterlands, if you didn't water a plant--if you didn't go and get water for it and deliberately ensure it was properly hydrated--a plant died.

The soldier chuckled. "Why, no one waters these plants, milady. 'cept the rain, of course."

Gabriele's eyes widened. She had heard of rain, of course, but she'd never believed it was anything other than some wild storyteller's embellishment. Water that fell from the sky? Actual water? Where did the water come from? Who put it there? Why was it falling from the sky? Who would waste water like that?

"There, up ahead, milady," said the soldier, pointing. "The land is green. And it's all grass."

Gabriele squinted. She'd figured it was simply a wheat field in its spring growth. Whoever heard of a plant that stayed green for more than a month or so?

"Don't they plant crops here?" she asked.

"Aye, of course they do," said the soldier. "But first they have to clear out that stuff." He nodded at the wide plains of green. "I tell you, milady: a man's seen such a sight as this... Well. He can never go back. My wife says, Why do you want to move out, we've such a nice life here, what's in the Spring Lands that we don't have here. And how do I tell her..." A strange, flickering smile crossed his face. "It's green."

By the time the sun set, they had reached the wide swathes of 'grass.' And it was, indeed, green.

Gabriele was up late that night. All the soldiers and her father were already asleep, but she sat on a rise a little distance away from the camp, looking out by moonlight at the sight of a landscape covered in rampant waves of grass. It was a thing unknown to her, that vegetation could be so widespread. How much food did this represent? How many unknown edibles lurked among these numberless blades of grass? Food and its availability (or lack) represented wealth in these lands, because food also represented water, and water was that one thing everybody lacked.

Two more days of travel took them to Eretria's single colony, known only as Hope, where food was grown and shipped back home. The nation, Father explained, had outgrown itself and its land; if Hope should ever fall or be destroyed, Eretrian citizens would starve. Consequently it was garrisoned and protected at all times; Father was here to investigate, to raid some of the Summer settlements and put the fear of Kyrei into them, and to rotate the garrison, replacing the men who were here with the men he had brought; in six months he would come back and do the whole thing over again.

The town of Hope was not built out of stone, the way the Silver City was; instead, the people used mud to build their houses, mud that was mixed with dead yellowed blades of grass and then shaped into bricks. Gabriele eyed it all dubiously, but not as warily as did Temaile Daravon, who seemed to expect the entire town would come crashing down at the slightest misstep. But Father went right in as if it were all as solid as stone, and after a moment's hesitation Marcus did too, so what choice did Gabriele have.

The garrison commander, Lord Kyle Nelsen, was obviously pleased to see Father, for he would come home with them, as would his men. But he would have the garrison for a few more days, as Father took the new men out to get a feel for the lay of the land. All of the noble scions except for Mistress Daravon went with him.

It was a relatively quiet exercise, at least from Gabriele's perspective; if there were military actions, she never noticed them, because she was too busy staring at the proliferation of life in the Spring Lands. She wasn't sure what the Summers had, but in Winterdom the only animals seen on a regular basis were a few types of birds and some of the small feline predators that had evolved to take them; there were also unicorns and fenrir, but they were seen quite rarely. Here, there were more birds and small cats than she could count, and others besides that she had never heard of, had never dreamed could exist. One that walked on four legs but was heavy and wide-set, with wide broad withers and thick, shaggy fur and a large horn jutting from its lower lip. Another was like a horse but had the longest neck she had ever seen, and drooping ears and pale grey stripes. She wouldn't believe how tall it was until one of the soldiers had walked out to stand next to it. It was five times as tall as he was.

"Why is it like that?" she said.

"So that it can eat the leaves of trees," said Father.

"... 'Trees'?" said Gabriele. And thereafter followed another round of gaping. She had not known that a plant could get that big.

There was so much she didn't know.

Only once was she involved in a military action. It was chancy and surprising. She, with Marcus hovering near her as always, was standing in the shade of a tree which dominated a hill, its branches blocking out the life-giving sun; she watched the grass, watched it wave in the wind. It was mesmerizing in its way, the shifting and sliding. And as it happened she was looking in the right place at the right time to see some peculiar new sliding and shifting.

"Marcus, there's people in the grass," she said, pointing.

Marcus gave it a scant glance. "Nonsense, it's just the wind."

"No, it's not the wind, I'm sure of it. I've been watching the wind for days and days. That's not it."

He fixed her with a look. "Do you really have that little to occupy yourself with?"

"Marcus, I'm sure of it," she said.

He frowned.

"Go take a look," she said. The rustles in the grass were pretty far off, but he should be able to make it there and back. Instead, he reached up and grabbed one of the low hanging branches of the tree and pulled himself up.

"Marcus!" she cried, scandalized. "You can't get up there!"

He peered down at her. "Who says I can't? And keep your voice down. If it really is people, they'll hear you, and--"

He looked up. For a moment he said nothing.

"It really is people." His voice was inflectionless.

"What?" she said. "How do you know?"

"Because they heard you, and are coming this way," he said.

Blood froze in her heart. "What if... What if they're Summers?"

He frowned.

"Get up here," he said. "Get up in the tree."

"What?"

"Grab hold of the branch, swing your legs up, and climb. We can't run, because they'll see us just as well as we saw them. Hurry. We don't have much time."

"But what if they see us in the tree?" she said.

"Like they've got any idea on the proper uses of trees," he snorted. "Hurry. They're definitely coming this way."

It took her three tries to swing herself up atop the tree branch, and even then there was a wild, scary moment as she dangled, one leg hooked around the branch, the other swinging wildly, her divided skirts flailing. Marcus reached down and yanked, and up she came, gasping, her sides and stomach burning from the unaccustomed exertion. But even then they weren't done. "Higher," he said, "keep climbing," but at least the branches were closer together, more at waist height.

They perched precariously, peering down through a tangled net of branches. Gabriele heard blood pounding in her ears, felt it thundering in her chest. She felt a tingle on her skin and suddenly realized she held the Flow, though she couldn't recall opening herself to it. Marcus gave her a glance, and then she felt the parallel tingle, saw the strange warping of the air, as he too summoned the Flow. Poised, tense, they waited.

Rustlings in the grass preceded the entrance of five men. They had bronze skin and bronze hair; their clothes were earth tones. Definitely not Winters. Marcus glanced at her again, and she felt a strange tingle of approval in the back of her head.

"Whare they gone," one of the Summers said. "I dusn' know," a second replied. Gabriele wanted to ask why they spoke so strangely, but one look at Marcus's tightly-compressed mouth convinced her not to.

"I seen 'em there a minute ago, they isn't there anymore," said the first Summer.

A new voice spoke. "You and yore 'eagle eyes, ' Gordon Cullum." Even through the yowling accent Gabriele heard derision, and, even more, the heady weight of authority. The speaker stalked into view: neatly trimmed, grey-haired, with a sash around his shoulders. "I isn't believing any reports you sends my way, may Loduur strikes me if I does."

Gabriele shuddered. Of course she'd heard that Summers worshipped only Loduur, the God of Chaos, but she'd never believed it until that very moment.

Marcus waved his hand at her four times before she recognized one of their surreptitious signals: Intriguing. Bears investigation. What did he mean? That normally meant they'd heard something that should be pursued? What had they heard from here in the tree?

"We's heading back to camp. Reinforcements hours is away, jes the five of us, and we goes off on a wild goose-chase 'cause Master Cullum here hear a girl voice." Spitting vitriol: "You sure you ain't been away from your momma too long, boy?"

Laughter from the soldiers. Then the hissing of grass. Then silence.

Marcus signaled for her to stay in the tree and dropped down. After a moment he nodded to himself, suggesting all was clear, but he neglected to help her down and she almost hurt herself on the landing.

"Come on," he said. "Let's follow them."

"What?" she said.

"That man was some sort of leader," said Marcus. "I'd stake my life on it. One of their generals. At least some sort of noble. You saw his sword, you saw his clothes. And you heard him, he's all alone. If we follow him back to his camp, we can kill him."

"We are not following him back!" Gabriele said.

"You don't have to," said Marcus. "But I am. Head back to your father if you want. But it'd be better if we both came. That way, if something happens, you'll know what happened and can explain to your father why you need a new First Lance."

The thought chilled her. "But what if they get me," she said.

"They won't."

"That's easy to say now," she sneered.

"All war is risk, Majesty." The scorn in his voice mirrored the Summer general's. "Are you worthy of your throne? Or are you going to go home and crawl under your bed?"

Well, how exactly was a princess supposed to respond to that?

It took them twenty minutes to shadow the five men back to their hiding place, which was a clearing near a small river-fed pond. Gabriele released the Flow before three minutes had passed; she couldn't keep control of it and walk at the same time. Marcus, she noticed belatedly, had done the same thing. They were near a river and the pounding of the Flow against her was just too much to handle. She hoped she wouldn't be called upon to produce a spell any time soon; she imagined herself crumpling, smushed to a small puddle by some unseen force; or her head popping off her neck, spinning away. Strangely, these ideas carried no emotion for her; they simply might happen, or they might not. She kept one hand near the silte in their sheaths at the small of her back. Now those she was worried about.

After a few minutes of observation, Marcus signaled them back, relying on the wind-shifting grass to cover the sound of their retreat. "Good," he said, "we'll head back and tell your father. I'm sure he'll want to take advantage of this situation." His prediction proved true; Lord Basingame marshaled a team of fifty soldiers without even asking for the details. He wanted them as they traveled, though. Marcus reported, quickly and concisely, the circumstances of their encounter. "Your daughter has a sharp eye, my lord. If she hadn't insisted on investigating, we might have been captured or killed."

Father beamed at her: "That's my girl." But what really surprised Gabriele was the fact that Marcus praised her at all. To her recollection, it was the first time he'd ever had anything nice to say about her.

The battle, if it could be called that, was short and fast. One of Father's men was wounded, and a small detail rushed him back to Hope for medical attention; in exchange, all five Summer men were killed. Father brought her down to the camp after the dust had died down. He led her straight to the man Marcus had diagnosed as a noble.

"Gabriele, do you know who this is?" Father couldn't seem to contain his excitement. "This is Lord Tor Gounold, one of the greatest generals of Rascine. He's been causing trouble both Moonside and Sunside for the past eight years. And now he's dead. Because of you, my dear girl! Because of you!"

Gabriele opened her mouth to point out that, if Marcus had not insisted that this man was just as important as Father said he was, they never would have followed him; but words knotted in her throat. The man--General Tor Gounold--lay on his back, his sightless eyes wide to the sky. His throat was open, there was blood pooling under his back; she could see the rent in his stomach, his clothes beginning to turn black with drying blood, coils of greyish intestines spilling out. Two hours ago he had been alive and cursing one of his soldiers--what was his name? Gordon Cullum?--for chasing after shadows. Now one of those shadows had killed him. A shadow named Gabriele.