Like the grassland of the great-bailey, the plants that carpeted the ground around the bases of the hives were gleaming with new growth. They had uncurled their orange shoots to the soil, to attract the scouting vesk that had spent the weeks of rain safe within the heights of their wooden pyramids. The long segmented insects tapped their way up the inviting curved bridges, to the deep flowers nestling among the thick coronets of green leaves. The flowers varied in colour, from vivid yellow through fresh blood red and summer sky blue, to brilliant white, and their scent was heady in the warming air.

The rest of the gardens had been similarly transformed, and Maddock, when the old Grower Micreech had showed him around the place as promised, had been mightily impressed. He was used to the crops that grew on the terraces of the farm of Dredar, but the sheer number of plants growing in the Gardens was staggering. Many were truly exotic, not least the ones that grew beneath the glass domes at the very height of the Garden's slopes. All had strange shaped and coloured leaves, and the flowers and fruits they bore were brighter and stranger still. Their scent had filled the humid air beneath the domes, and when Micreech had sliced him a segment of tocs stamen to try, the sweetness it had left on his tongue made rachnid spike taste as bitter as a surberry.

The vesk hives were another wonder, and Maddock would have liked to return to them and kneel on their walkways to study their questing occupants. The fine hairs on the insects' backs became infused with pollen as they explored the flowers, so that they trooped in line through the beds' winding paths, like a multi-coloured militia. But on that hot day of second summer, it was a different army that Maddock was eager to see.

The anticipation was turning inside him at the thought of seeing his brothers again, but it was not such a simple personal pleasure that was causing a similar expectancy to pervade the grounds of the fortress.

The end of the rains marked the beginning of preparations for the High-tourney. Flagpoles had been raised alongside the lines of ascension markers that bordered all the roads leading to Klinberg, and now the standards of the six Chapters snapped and billowed against the backdrop of new green grass. Huge banners also hung from the dull stone and metal walls of the fortress' six corona-towers. On the south-east tower, hung the personal banner of Lord Morath. The trunk of the cherossa tree in its centre was gripped by a rearing madriel, marking him as a Pride-commander, and behind was the intricately woven silhouette of the fortress, which denoted his position of Grand-commander. Though he was dead, the banner would remain so until a new Grand-commander had been confirmed.

The banners of the other Commanders, hanging on the five remaining towers, also had the madriel of their Pride-alpha incorporated into their design. The curling karabok horn of Dolphus was gripped in the strong claws of Lakalla Sawak, steed of Sir Zembulla. The sword beneath Vikas' demon skull had the taut form of Sacsensia lying along its blade, and the red crak of Katchewan grappled with the pale form of Falsch. The colourful vesk of Asquith lay curled back to back with the gracefully rearing Peksul, and Hakansa, his dark striped head and black horns thrown back in a growl, clambered among the three moons of Bannoc.

Over the streets of the surrounding towns and villages, and on the walls and watchtowers of the nearby farms and ranches, similar banners had been hung. Before Maddock had left Dredar the previous evening, his father and some other farmers had been struggling with a huge hanging displaying Pride-commander Galder's burgundy arms. It was to hang on the tavern's front wall, above the main square. Maddock knew that his parents, like many, had Commander Kralaford's banner hanging secretly on their kitchen wall above the fire, but it would be Commander Galder who would receive their public support. The people of Dredar were not stupid.

Maddock wheeled his empty cart swiftly through the Enclosures, to the refectory block where Master Dramut was waiting for him.

"A fast turnaround, lad," he said when he saw Maddock approaching. "We should enter you in the dung races."

"I'd rather be training," replied Maddock.

After Maddock's last encounter with his madriel, and subsequent visit to the Infirmary, Master Dramut had promised that he would soon recommence his training, but the days since had been busy as the upcoming Tourney increased its demands on the Madriel-masters and the Enclosures.

"I look forward to your next session in the arena," said Master Dramut as Maddock set his handcart down and cuffed sweat from his forehead. "But now we have matters of more pressing necessity. Come with me."

Maddock took up his handcart and followed Master Dramut to the edge of the Enclosures, where a large deep cart stood, two masdon tethered in its traces. Clustered around it were the younger Field-hands, a few of them standing behind handcarts stacked with shovels, buckets, reaping hooks and scythes. Also waiting were several Madriel-masters and senior Field-hands, mounted on their madriel and carrying their training sticks.

"Right, lads and lasses," said Master Dramut, addressing the younger Field-hands. "As you know, Sir Galder and his knights are to return to the fortress today."

Maddock's heart gave an involuntary leap at the reminder.

"We have received a request from the good Commander, stating that he wants all the watering holes in Sacsensia's Territory to be given a good clean out in preparation, so we all know what that means."

"Means we'll be wading through mud and muck this afternoon," said one of the older Field-hands, humourlessly.

"Exactly right, boy. I'm sure you all know where your responsibilities lie. Am I right?"

The Field-hands mumbled their assent.

"Good. The females hunted only yesterday so shouldn't be too hungry, but stay alert all the same. Don't stray from the ring of Masters, and if any female with a sudden hankering for Field-hand meat gets past them, jump into the dung waggon. Understand?"

The Field-hands gave an even less enthusiastic mumble of assent.

"Good. Now off you go."

The group set off into the great-bailey, the madriel riders spreading out to form their protective ring around the younger Field-hands. Maddock took up the handles of his cart and followed. The day's work would not be over quickly.

* * * * *

The Lady Tahlessa sat on the highest row of seats, on the stands that the Engineers had built along the edge of the riding-grounds. In the field below, a group of Engineers were busy erecting the new coloured target posts, while above her loomed the Workshop's barbican fort on its high crag of rock. For once, the unseen buildings beyond its walls were quiet. There was not the usual shimmer of heat or distant clangour of activity from the place. Tahlessa gave a sigh as she watched the masdon cart and its accompanying riders set off from the Enclosures.

It was not the party of dung collectors that had elicited the sigh, but the second group of riders who had gathered at the Enclosures' edge. The ladies of the Order were preparing to hunt, dressed in their finest riding gear, armed with their bows and their knives, their madriel straining and eager. The next few weeks would be rich with celebration and feasting, and the Order's huntresses would be kept busy on the plains, to provide for the swelled inhabitants of the fortress. Tahlessa stroked the bulge of her belly, which prevented her from joining the other ladies, and sighed again.

She forced her attention away from the huntresses, and looked instead to the north, towards the battle-grounds where the Engineers were finishing their work on the high wooden arenas around the observation tower. Thick baulks of cut timber were stacked about the grassland, and the two tall cranes still towered over everything, but the work was almost done. Circling the arenas was the wide avenue leading to the arena-field on the stands' far side, and beyond that a city of tents was growing.

The knights of Klinberg would soon be exiled from the fortress, so each had his own pavilion, bright in their Chapter's colours, erected about the edge of the arena-field. The field of bright tents stretched half across the great-bailey hub, but beyond it a second settlement was growing, though most of it was hidden from view by the looming bulk of the fortress' western shield-bastion. The Encampment, as it was annually referred to, was where the common folk made their temporary homes. This year their numbers seemed huge. After such a prolonged peace, the Tourney's result would hold a dire consequence for their future.

Traders and merchants had also travelled far, to set up their stalls selling food and drink, and other items of both luxury and necessity. Some came from Trehlsvale and other nearby towns, but others had come from Naddaran and even more distant parts of the Provinces to take advantage of the crowds. Huge tents had been set up along the Encampment's wide avenues. Inside them, games of conquest would be played, and bets placed on the outcome of the tourney. Food and drink would be sold, while entertainers performed for those waiting to gamble their money away.

From where she sat, the foremost evidence of the tumult of gathering humanity was the pall of smoke that hung above it, rising from cooking fires where the morning meals were being prepared. The smell of grilling meat and frying vegetables reached her enticingly. Also brought to her on the breeze, were shouts and the ring of clashing metal coming from the arenas as the knights took their practice in the jousting rings. She could not see them circling and engaging each other above the new arena walls, but she could see the thick clouds of dust being kicked up by the armoured paws of their madriel. During the tourney itself, the jousting rings would be sprayed with a fine mist of water to prevent the dust rising and impeding the view of the spectators and the judges. For now, the dust was allowed to rise, joining the smoke from the cooking fires and filling the air above the battle-grounds with a yellow murk.

"Hello, mother,"

Tahlessa looked down to see her daughter climbing the stands towards her. Grifford was on the steps below, climbing with his own slow sullen step.

"Hello, daughter. How is Tembesta today?"

"Do not ask me that, mother!" said Tahlia, throwing herself down on the seat beside her. "She is being a pain."

"They always are, child, when they are young. In time, she will come to understand what you want of her."

"She understands very well what I want of her, mother. She just refuses to do it."

"How very inconsiderate of her."

Tahlessa adjusted her weight carefully, trying to find a more comfortable position on the hard wooden seat.

"Maybe your brother is having better luck. Hello, my son."

Grifford had finally reached the top of the stands.

"Hello, mother," he said, but his face showed no pleasure at seeing her.

'Where has your smile gone?' she thought, though she knew the answer well enough.

Looking back, she knew that the woman she had been twelve years before would never have believed that children could bring her anything but joy. That naïve young woman had been elated at the birth of her children; pleased that she had given her husband a son, but also happy that she would have a daughter to love and cosset and fuss over. Tahlia, of course, had turned out quite differently from those expectations, but despite her daughter's obvious contrary character, it was Grifford who had grown to provide her with the most disquiet as the years passed. He had seemed happy enough in his infancy, when he would sit quietly and watch as his sister crawled and clambered around their room. His eyes would follow her as the nursemaids flustered about, retrieving her from beneath furniture, or plucking her from the high place she had climbed to.

Grifford would smile a lot, but his happiness soon became riven with bouts of fierce childish rage, usually at some act of perceived injustice. The angry spells were always brief, and when he was not subject to them he spoke sparingly and was always polite, but the smiling slowly grew less. She even knew the day that the shift in him became complete, and the small boy, whose face had always held a beautiful grin when he saw her, was finally gone for good. Six years ago. The day his grandfather had died.

Her husband's father had disliked her since the day his son had declared his intention for them to marry, and the old knight had always been cold towards her, his attitude glancing on the edge of discourtesy. Not that they'd had many meetings. Pride-commander Kralken had barely spoken to his only son since the day of his marriage, and they had only broken their uncommunicative dispute on the day Grifford had been born. It was Tahlia's birth date as well, of course, but Kralaford's father was only interested in his new grandson. He had ridden to the Enclosures and entered the Infirmary as though the silence of the previous four years had not occurred. He had given his grudging approval of his new grandson, and left.

Tahlia had been ignored.

As the children grew, his visits had continued.

Tahlia had seemed afraid of Grandfather Kralken, which was odd for a child who was nominally scared of nothing, but Grifford was in complete awe of him, and on every visit, would barely leave his side. He would ask him question after question, and his grandfather, contrary to the aggressively cold nature that he bore to everyone else, was willing to give him answers. He told his grandson tales of knighthood and honour. Stories were told and retold of battles, daring raids and sieges, charges on the open planes and closely fought victories. He recounted tales of adventures in the west, hunting down heretics and monsters, and all of them were filled with lurid descriptions of the strange creatures he had killed, along with details of their cunning and immorality.

His grandfather's normally sharp stabbing tongue would change to the device of a poet when telling his stories to the rapt young boy, who would sit, his large dark eyes staring in entrapped awe. For her part, she would sit and watch the two of them when they were together, unhappy with the influence the old man had over her son. She had once voiced her concerns to Kralaford, but her husband saw no danger in it, and besides, what could he do? He could hardly forbid his father from seeing his grandson, could he?

If she had known how things would end, just a few years later, she would have expressed herself more adamantly.

"You should not be out here, mother," said Grifford, interrupting her thoughts. "Father said you should keep to your rooms."

"Your father says a lot of things, and I am obedient to most of them, but I was beginning to find the confinement of my rooms stifling. I came to get some air and to see my children."

"I will go and find some servants to help you back to the fortress."

"So much formality from one so young! Come, my son. Sit by me and eat. I've brought food for your first meal of the day." Tahlessa patted the bench beside her. "It is a while since we talked, and I would know how your training progresses."

"But, mother, you should return..."

"Until you have won your lance and rail-shield, you are in no position to give me orders," said Tahlessa, inflecting her voice with a hint of sharpness. "Now sit."

Her son reluctantly sat.

"Now, tell me about your unnamed steed. Is he still as rebellious as your sister's?"

"You need a brain to be rebellious," said Grifford. "And that beast does not have one."

"I think you do him a disservice, my child. Master Chen tells me the animal shows great intelligence; he merely has a stronger will than you."

"Mother, that is unfair!"

Tahlia, meanwhile, had opened the bag she had left on the seat beside her, and was pulling out loaves of bread, cooked meats, fruit and, at the very bottom of the bag, a jar of hive syrup.

"It is true enough though, brother. Your steed is a brute; I do not think that you will ever tame him."

"That is enough!" said Grifford, jumping to his feet. "I am tired of listening to people telling me how to train my animal."

He was turning to leave, when Tahlessa gave a brief intake of breath, her hand going swiftly to her stomach.

"Mother! What is it!" said Tahlia.

"It is the baby," replied Tahlessa, forcing calmness into her voice. "His time is close and he is growing restless."

Grifford turned back quickly.

"Should you not be at the Infirmary!"

"Relax, child," said Tahlessa. "Your brother is not ready to enter the world just yet."

Tahlessa gave another sharper intake of breath, as she felt her body give an involuntary flinch.

"Though maybe I do not have as much time as I thought," she said. "Help me up, children. I think that it is time I was in the care of Doctor Fos. Our little talk will have to wait."

Grifford took one of her arms, and Tahlia took the other. Together, they helped her to her feet

"You should not have climbed up here today," said Grifford. His voice, though admonishing, held a hint of alarm.

"Now is not the time for arguments," said Tahlessa calmly. "Where is your father?"

"At the battle-grounds."

"Then at least he will be dressed for the occasion. Go and get him. Quickly now!"

"But, the Infirmary..."

"Your sister can help me to Doctor Fos. Now do as you are told and go and get your father; he has a duty."

Tahlessa gave another wince of pain, and Grifford ran swiftly down the steps without further comment.

"Your new brother seems eager to meet you," said Tahlessa.

Tahlia still held tight to her arm.

"Quickly, mother. I will help you down."

"Not so fast, daughter. Slow and steady. I do not want to reach the bottom in a heap."

* * *

Tahlia helped her mother slowly down the stands, and it seemed an age before they reached the bottom and set off across the riding-grounds towards the Infirmary. Tahlia felt the stirrings of alarm start in her chest, as her mother's breath became quicker with every new spasm in her belly. She tried to will her mother on, but they were forced to slowness by necessity, and she could do nothing to help her except to offer her support as she bent in pain every half minute of travel.

At last they reached the low grey walls of the Infirmary, and the comforting scent of its herb garden. Tahlia helped her mother up the garden's path and through the door, glancing, as she always did, at the strange symbol above it; the depiction of a staff entwined by two strange long sinuous creatures, each one looking like a fanged worm.

The inside of the Infirmary was sharp scented and clean, quite in contrast to the dust and animal smell of the Enclosures that surrounded it. The whole building was made of a smooth pale grey stone, which had been so expertly set that there was hardly a crack between each one. All the walls and floors inside were scrubbed so that they shone, lit as they were from above by large windows set in the ceiling.

They passed through a long ante-chamber, where benches were set along the wall, alongside racks for muddied boots, with hooks above where dusty cloaks could be hung. Beyond was another large well-lit room, where Doctor Fos sat behind a desk, which was laid out with neat piles of paper and rows of new books.

She looked up sternly as they entered, took one quick glance at them, and stood swiftly.

"It is about time, my lady. I was beginning to think your baby would stay in there until the second summer ended."

She came round her desk towards them.

Her grey hair was tied tightly back, and she was dressed in white trousers and matching tunic, which radiated an air of efficiency without effort.

"My apologies, doctor," said her mother. "Though my baby's reluctance to enter this world appears to have passed with some rapidity."

Doctor Fos helped her to one of the seats in the corner of the room.

"Help me take off her boots, child," she said to Tahlia. "And then take off your own. Do you still wish to deliver in the Meadow, my lady?"

Her mother winced once more before answering.

"Of course. I wish my child's first view to be the blue of the sky and the green of the plains."

"As you wish, my lady."

Once they had removed their shoes, Doctor Fos and Tahlia escorted her mother through a door that led to a second large white room, and as they entered, the strange smell of clean grew stronger. Three high tables stood in the room's centre, each covered in tragasaur hide, as was the workbench set against the room's furthest wall. The bench was fronted with many doors, and set in its centre was a shallow sink with curving taps above. On the wall, shelves held bottles of ointments and jars of plants, some dried, and others pickled in odd coloured liquids. There were also cupboards, with doors of glass through which dozens of metal implements could be seen. Some were recognisable as saws, knives and pliers, while others seemed more outlandish. Tahlia made a promise to herself to give them closer inspection at some later date, once events were not so pressing.

"Straight on," said Doctor Fos, guiding them through another door at the end of the room. They entered a wide pen, like those in the Enclosures, though where the pens of the madriel had grass that was scuffed and riven by claw marks deep in the earth, the grass here was thick and lush and green from the rains. Clumps of flower grass had newly bloomed around the edge of the meadow, where the walls were high and made of the same solid grey stone as the rest of the building.

A cherossa tree stood in the centre of the meadow to provide some shelter from the sun, and its wide branches stretched far out over the high walls, where they joined and twinned with the branches of the cherossa grove beyond.

"You may lie where you wish, my lady, though I suggest some area of shade would be the best."

Tahlia's mother simply nodded, and let the doctor guide her. She took a position with her back resting between two of the tree's thick roots, panting for breath, while Doctor Fos knelt to examine her.

"Your body is far from ready. How is the pain?"

"It is bearable," replied her mother, but she gave another wince, her eyes squeezed tight shut. Tahlia simply sat by and held her hand.

"I'll give you something. It will help you relax, and give your body the time to prepare."

"I do not want anything. I must face it as I did before."

"That was twelve years ago, and though you are still strong and in good health, you do not have the fortitude that you had then."

Her mother glared at Doctor Fos.

"It is how I wish it to be."

"It is foolish."

"Mother, please," said Tahlia.

"You should listen to your daughter. The health of your child is my priority, and there will be less distress for both of you if you do not waste your strength in pain. Of course, I can always wait until your husband arrives and voice my concerns to him. Unless you would like to make your decision now?"

"You seem to understand my husband as well as I doctor. Very well; give me what you must."

Doctor Fos nodded and went back into the Infirmary building.

"What did Doctor Fos mean about father?" asked Tahlia, once she had gone.

"Your father, like the good doctor, would put the wellbeing of myself and his unborn son over any of my wishes. It would be his command that I take whatever action the doctor advises, and as his wife, I would have no choice but to obey."

She squeezed her eyes shut, and her grip on Tahlia's hand tightened.

"What can I do to help, mother?"

"Just some water, my child. Thank you."

In the corner of the meadow was a trough, fed by a spout in the Infirmary wall. Tahlia ran over and took down one of the cups hanging from the hooks above, filled it from the trough, and returned to her mother's side.

"Thank you again, daughter," she said, drinking deeply.

Doctor Fos returned, carrying a small bottle.

"I see you are in good hands, my lady. Here, take some with this." She unstopped the bottle and emptied a few drops into her mother's cup. "Drink it all down and things will go easier."

After only a few minutes, the spasms in her mother's belly seemed to ease, though her hand remained protectively on her stomach.

"I can leave you in the care of your daughter for a time. Send her if you need anything further, or if your pains grow stronger again."

She left them, and they sat in silence, the sounds of the Enclosures and distant battle-grounds drifting over the surrounding walls.

"Do you always do what father tells you to do?" asked Tahlia.

"He is my husband, and I must be seen to obey him."

"Dak says that her father never ordered her mother around."

"That is the Guild and this is the Order. When you are grown you will learn better how things work."

"No I will not. I do not want to be married."

Her mother smiled at her.

"Neither did I when I was your age. Things change. My marriage to your father is special; it stems from the manner in which we met."

"What do you mean?"

"I will tell you, but not today."

"Oh, mother!"

"I will tell you when I think you will understand."

"I will understand now!"

Her mother smiled and took her hand.

"Ah, child, you know I love you, but you must stop believing that you are the mistress of all. You must learn to listen to your teachers for a start, and stop thinking that you know better than everyone else."

"I do not think that!"

Her mother just smiled, and then shifted her weight against the tree to make herself more comfortable. She placed her hand on her stomach again, and frowned.

"Is it getting worse again, mother?" asked Tahlia, her previous vehemence forgotten.

"No, it is well, but I think I hear the doctor returning."

She was right; Doctor Fos appeared from the Infirmary, and she was not alone. Tahlia's father followed her into the meadow. He was dressed in his armour, dust coated from the jousting-ring, his helm under one arm and his broadsword at his hip. The armour was of fine quality, though well used, carrying marks and patterns where dents had been beaten out and scratches repaired. His hair was damp and pressed flat from his helmet, and his face was streaked where a dusty rag had wiped away sweat.

"Hello, husband," said her mother.

"Hello, my wife," said her father, equally formally.

"Hello, father," said Tahlia.

"Daughter," he replied, his gaze not leaving her mother.

"How are you progressing, my lady?" asked Doctor Fos, kneeling down beside her.

"My daughter's company has held my attention for a short while." She smiled and raised a slender eyebrow to her husband. "Though the pain is returning."

Her father seemed to shift uncomfortably.

"Is she in good health, doctor?"

"She is fit enough, and she is making quick progress."

Doctor Fos picked up her mother's cup and gave it to Tahlia. "Fill this again please, child."

Tahlia ran once more to the water trough. Doctor Fos took out the small phial of liquid.

"I can give you more of this, my lady, though none after. You must have some feeling when the time comes."

Her mother nodded.

Her father knelt down beside her.

"How long has she?"

"It is hard to say. It being her second birthing it may be swift, but two hours at the least."

"Then I must depart to stand my vigil."

He took her mother's hand and raised it tenderly to his lips.

"Be well, my love, and be sure that you are safe within these walls while I stand beyond."

"I am always assured of my safety while you are near."

Tahlia's father stood.

"The lives of my wife and child are in your hands, doctor. Take great care of them both."

"I am unable to do any less."

Tahlia was standing close by with the refilled cup. Before he left, her father turned to her.

"Do you wish to remain here for the birthing, girl?"

Tahlia had not even considered the question before that moment, but in the face of her father, she could give only one answer.

"Of course."

"Then I charge you with her care also. Be of good use."

"I will," said Tahlia.

Her father nodded once, and left.