"Mot until this evening," he replied. "There's plenty of time for everything, beloved."

The endearment was spoken with sarcasm. Lorena's expression grew remote, and the meal ended in near silence. After, Janosk and Ilsabet climbed the curving stairs of the great stone tower to the uppermost room where Lord Jorani lived and worked.

Scrolls and ancient tomes covered the walls and the huge wood table in the center of his workroom. Today, he was seated at it, quill in hand, recording details of the struggle being told to him by General Raimundi, a huge warrior with a weathered face and thin beard, who had accompanied Baron Janosk home from the battlefield.

A pair of hawks, tethered to perches near the windows, screeched a warning of their approach. Jorani turned, saw his master, stood, and made a deep, respectful bow.

Ilsabet knew that he would not have bothered with the gesture had the general not been there. Jorani was, after all, her father's closest friend.

"Leave us," Jorani said to the general. When they were alone, he gave Janosk his own chair, motioned Ilsabet into the other one, and sat on the edge of his table.

Jorani most resembled the birds he kept. Tall and cadaverously thin, he had deep-set, piercing black eyes, prominent high cheekbones, and a hook nose above a firm, expressive mouth. He once confessed to

Ilsabet that in his youth he had hoped to be a harper. Ilsabet had often heard him play and marveled at his skill, once asking if he regretted his choice.

"I would have perished from boredom, and undoubtedly starved," he'd told her and smiled. There had been no mirth in his expression, no warmth, and she understood. He was always kind to her, almost gentle, but something about his appearance terrified. No one would ask such a man to play at anything but a funeral.

"Ilsabet says that you wish to speak to me," Janosk said. "Has she become a lax student?"