The Esterian river valley was perhaps the most fertile part of all Eion, a vast swath of black soil stretched between rolling hills that extended from the northern tip of Lake Strivothol where the city of Tessis spread wide, up the hundred-mile length of the river to the mountains northeast of the Heartwood. Briony remembered her father saying that he guessed as many as a quarter of the people in all of Eion lived in that one stretch of land, and certainly now that she saw the farms covering nearly every hillside, and the towns (many of them as large as any city in the March Kingdoms out¬side Southmarch itself) butting against each other on either side of the wide, cobbled thoroughfare and along the river's eastern shore as well, she found it easy to believe.
Ugenion, once a great trading city, now much reduced, Onir Diotrodos with its famous water temple, Doros Kallida-the company's wagons passed
through them all, sometimes traveling only a few hours clown the Royal Highway (still called King Karal's Road in some parts) before they slopped again in another prosperous village or town. Syan was at the same time so much like and unlike what Briony had known most of her life that it made her even more homesick than usual. The people spoke the common tongue with a slurring accent she sometimes found hard to understand (al¬though it had been their tongue first, Finn Teodoros enjoyed pointing out, so by rights Briony was the one speaking with an accent). Some of the folk who came to see the players even made fun of how Makewell and the oth¬ers spoke, loudly repeating their words with an emphasis on what they clearly felt was the harsh, chopping March Kingdoms way of talking. But the Syannese also seemed to enjoy the diversion, and Nevin Hewney told her one day it was because they were more used to such things than were the rustic folk of the March Kingdoms, or even many of the city dwellers of Southmarch.
" This is where playmaking grew," Hewney explained. His broad gesture took in the whole of the surrounding valley, which in this unusually empty spot looked like a place that had scarcely seen a farm croft, let alone a the¬ater. As always when he had downed a few drinks, the infamous poet was enjoying his own discourse. Seeing Briony's confusion, he scowled in a broadly beleaguered way. "No, not here by this particular oak tree, but in the land of Syan. The festival plays of Hierosol-dry tales not of the gods but of pious mortals, most of them, the oniri and other martyrs-here became the mummeries of Greater and Little Zosimia and the Wildsong Night come¬dies. They have had plays, playmakers, and players here for a thousand years."
"And never once paid any of them what they're worth," growled Ped-der Makewell.
"It's only because there are so many of them around," said Feival. "Too many cobblers drives down the price of shoes, as everyone knows."
"So then why did we… did you, I mean… come here?" asked Briony. "Would there not be places to go where players would be a rare and greatly appreciated thing?"
Hewney looked at her, his eyes narrowing. "You speak very well for a servant girl, our Tim. How did you learn to turn a phrase so nimbly?"
Finn Teodoros cleared his throat loudly. "Are you boring the child again with your history of stagecraft, Nevin? Suffice it to say that the Syannese love our art, and there is a sufficiency of people here who will be glad to see us. And now we have something new to show them, as well!"
She frowned. "What?"
"You. Our dear, sweet little goddess. The groundlings will water at the mouth when they see you."
"You're a pig, Finn!" Feival Ulian laughed, but also seemed a little hurt- lie was the company's stage beauty, after all. "Don't mock her."
"Oh, but Tim here is special," said Teodoros. "Trust me."
Half the time I don't understand what these people are talking about, Briony thought. The other half the time, I'm too tired to care.
The town of Ardos Perinous sat on a hilltop. It had once been a noble¬man's fortress, but the castle was now occupied by no one more exalted than a demi-hierarch of the church, a distaff relative of the Syannese king, Enander. Briony's ears had pricked up when she heard that-Enander was the man whom Shaso had thought might help her, if only for a price.
"What's he like, the king of Syan?" Briony asked Teodoros, who was walking beside the wagon for once, sparing the horse having to carry his weight up the steep road. She had never met King Enander or any of his family except a few of the more distant nephews and nieces-the lord of Syan would never send his own children to a place as backward and remote as Southmarch, of course-but she knew of him by reputation. Her father had a grudging respect for Enander, and no one disputed the Syannese king's many deeds of bravery, but most of what she had heard were tales from his younger days. He must now be past sixty winters of age.
The playwright shrugged. "He is a well-liked monarch, I believe. A war¬rior but no great lover of war, and not so crazed by the gods that he beg¬gars the people to build new temples, either. But now that he is old I have heard that some say he is disinterested in anything except his mistress, a rather infamous Jellonian baroness named Ananka-a castoff of King Hes-per's, it is said, who somehow found an even better perch for herself." His forehead wrinkled as he thought about it. "There is a play in that, if one could only keep one's head on one's neck after performing it-The Cuckoo Bride, perhaps…"
Briony had to struggle to concentrate on what Finn was saying-she had been distracted by the mention of Hesper of Jellon, the traitor-king who had sold her father to Ludis Drakava. He was another one she wanted desperately to have at the point of a sword, begging for mercy…
"And there is the heir, too-Eneas, a rather delicious young man, if a bit mature and hearty for my tastes." Teodoros showed his best wicked grin.
"I le waits patiently. They say he is a good man, too, pious and brave Of course, they say that about every prince, even those who prove to be mon sters the instant their fundaments touch the throne."
Briony certainly knew about Eneas. He was another young man on whom her girlish fancies had once fixed when she had been only seven 01 eight. She had never actually seen him, not even a portrait, but one of the girls who watched over her had been Syannese (one of Enander's disre¬garded nieces) and had told her what a kind and handsome youth Eneas was. For months Briony had dreamed that someday he would come to visit her father, take one look at her, and declare that he could have no other bride. Briony had little doubt she would look on him differently now.
They were nearing the top of the hill. The walls of the castle loomed over them like the shell of some huge ancient creature left behind by re¬treating tides. It was a strange day: although the weather was winter-cold, the sun was clear and sharp overhead, yet the sky just above the river val¬ley was shrouded with thick clouds. "How long until we reach Tessis?"
Teodoros waved his hand. He was breathing heavily, unused to such ex¬ercise. "There," he gasped.
"What do you mean?" she said, staring up at the stone walls she had thought belonged to the keep of Ardos Perinous. "Are you saying that's Tes¬sis?" It seemed impossible-it was far smaller than even Southmarch Castle, whose growing populace had spilled over onto the mainland centuries earlier.
"No," said the playwright, still fighting to get his breath back. "Turn… around, fool child. Look… behind you."
She did, and gasped. They had climbed up above the treeline and now she could see what had been blocked by the bend of the river. Only a few miles ahead the valley opened out into a bowl so wide she could not see its farthest reach. Everywhere she looked there were houses and more- walls, towers, steeples, and thousands of chimneys, the latter all puffing trails of smoke into the sky so that the entire valley lay under a pall of gray, like a fog that only began a hundred feet in the air. Channels led out from the Esterian River in all directions and crisscrossed the valley floor, the water reflecting in the late light so that the city seemed caught in a web of silver.