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Five’s gift of ordinary human life, and a magic talent to go with it, a blessing. Toril’s power was all that kept his father breathing, he sometimes thought.
    He felt a tingle on his lips as the utterance formed. When heat bit his tongue, Toril finished exhaling, then closed his eyes and allowed his chest to expand, focusing on the sensation of inflow. His knees trembled; healing magic plumbed the life force of its user more than any other kind. It was exhausting, even for someone with his aptitude.
    In a moment Hasha straightened and shook his head. “Evil tidings,” he panted, gesturing toward the Voice.
    Toril nodded weakly.
    “The same message went to all the clan chiefs?” Hasha asked the Voice.
    “I assume so,” she said. “What is your reply?” The formula at the end of the message was a demand—polite, but unequivocal—that Hasha confirm his intention to attend with an immediate response.
    Hasha stared at the saffron-robed woman until she cast her eyes down. “I will tell you when I’m ready, Sister. We are the raja’s loyal subjects, but the Kelun do not dance when his favorite general snaps his fingers.”
    “What osipi incursions is Gorumim talking about?” Toril wondered aloud, as the silence became awkward. Kelun holdings encompassed most of the Sumago Mountains and shared much frontier with Merukesh. But osipi travelers favored more populous lowland roads, both for convenience of travel and the warmth they needed; as a result, he seldom saw the gold-skinned race.
    “Pavilshani Clan is always complaining about how the osipi deplete game on the grasslands this time of year. They feed like locusts,” Hasha observed.
    “And they pay to hunt there. That’s hardly an incursion.”
    “I agree. But lately the tone of the complaints seems more ugly. I heard rumors of a lynching earlier this month in Sotalio.”
    “Osipi did the lynching?”
    “They were on the receiving end. Maybe that got some ahu mad enough to retaliate.”
    Toril shuddered. The ahu were particularly fearsome osipi warriors; if any decided to repay mistreatment in kind, woe to their intended target.
    “A minor feud doesn’t mean we should go to war,” he said. “Gorumim’s just looking for an excuse to levy more men into the Guard.”
    “Perhaps. But we can’t afford to ignore the summons. If others vote to fight, Kelun will end up involved whether we like it or not.”
    Toril sighed. Clans held land in fief from the raja; as long as they paid tribute and provided troops as agreed, they were semi-autonomous. But if they defied the raja or ignored a mandate from a quorum of peer clans, their fief could be eroded or wholly revoked.
    “You really shouldn’t travel at all, but if you go, you need time. Tell him you’ll come in a week. Gorumim isn’t this far south. He will use a shimsal instead of attending in person; a delay will not inconvenience him all that much.”
    Hasha rubbed his beard. “I think the timing is important, somehow. We’re the only ones who can get to Bakar on such short notice, so he must have begun notifying the other clan chiefs days ago. If I keep them waiting, they won’t like it.”
    “He waits to tell you until you can’t refuse or delay without insulting the other clans,” Toril growled. “But if his spies are as good as rumor says, he probably knows you’re not well enough to ride so hard.”
    “I don’t like it either. The date is annoying. But it’s the subject of the council that troubles me most. War is always hungrier than its keeper expects. I feel fey.” Hasha paused, saw Toril’s expression, and grimaced. “Never underestimate a sata, son. Gorumim has outlived four generations of rajas; he knows how the game’s played. I think he wants to force me to pass the staff to Rovin.”
    Toril grunted. Rovin headed another Kelun parijan; his ambition to become chief was well known. He was prosperous, and he’d married well. Two of the parijans were in his pocket. Hasha’s