Nina burst out laughing, and Amphinelos flashed a "twenty" with her fingers. "You're putting me on a pedestal, Anni." Nina rested her head against her friend's. "So tell me—what sort of man could possibly deserve Nina Panning, one of the prettiest girls in all of Kadenford?"

  "At the very least, a knight. A title would be even better," Amphinelos replied. "Honestly, I once thought Sir Penlico might claim his right of first night with you."

  "Don't be ridiculous, Amphinelos. That practice died out centuries ago." Her smile faded. "Besides, I'm hardly that kind of woman."

  "Oh come now, I know your virtue is reserved for him alone, you silly goose." Amphinelos pouted. "Just because something isn't practiced doesn't mean it couldn't be revived. Cynthia has plenty of lords of various ranks—how do you know none have ever exercised that right? There's certainly no law abolishing it in our constitution."

  Nina Panning felt the sting of the suggestion and returned to her needlework with renewed focus. "You can't be certain he won't become a knight someday."

  "That's fair enough," Amphinelos conceded, somewhat abashed. "But as long as those Godmans outside can't scale our walls," she gestured toward the Cynthian fortifications rising beyond the beeches, "he has little chance of seeing battle, let alone winning renown enough for knighthood... Actually, there is something I'm curious about." She resumed work on her veil. "How do you plan to ensure it's your veil he lifts at the wedding, not mine?"

  "You're plumper than I am."

  "Only slightly! We'll both be wearing identical black dresses, and we're practically the same height. Do you truly have that much faith in him?"

  Nina waved her black veil before her friend's face with a mischievous smile.

  "You devious little minx!" Amphinelos exclaimed. "You're embroidering a pattern into your veil?!"

  "Why not? As far as I'm aware, no Kadenford custom forbids a bride from weaving designs into her black veil." She said proudly, "I doubt I'm even the first to try it."

  "That explains why I've never heard of a groom choosing the wrong bride." Amphinelos struck her own forehead in mock dismay. "What pattern are you creating?"

  "Moonfire Blossom."

  "You're dyeing a black veil?!"

  "It's cutwork." Nina Panning displayed her handiwork with unmistakable pride. "I'll use dark and light threads to represent the red and blue of Moonfire Blossom—perfectly clear even through the veil." She lovingly traced the embroidered petals. "Though only the thicker black veils made here in Kadenford can withstand such intricate cutting."

  Amphinelos turned the exquisite handicraft over and over in her hands, examining it from every angle. "It's stunning," she marveled, "truly—almost unbelievable. Who taught you such skill?"

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  Nina pressed one finger to her lips with a coy smile. "A secret."

  "Very well." Amphinelos sighed in resignation. "A proper lady is allowed her secrets."

  The two girls continued their animated discussion of embroidery techniques until a tremendous crash echoed throughout Cynthia.

  "What... was that?" Nina Panning clutched her precious veil to her chest, instinctively curling against the tree trunk. Amphinelos, bolder by nature, leapt to her feet, steadying herself against the trunk. "Something's been struck." She strained her ears, trying to pinpoint the sound's origin. "It's coming from beyond the walls..."

  She fell silent instinctively, waiting for a second disturbance. After an endless moment, the world seemed to settle back into its previous tranquility. "Get back inside, Sakol!" she hissed at her little brother who had peeked around the cottage door. "Run to the pasture and secure all the fences! Don't let the chickens or sheep escape!"

  A second crash followed—less violent than the first, perhaps, but with a deeper, more forbidding resonance. "...Anni," Nina stammered, wide-eyed, "did you see that? The wall itself seemed to shudder..."

  Amphinelos, guided by that inexplicable feminine intuition, sensed impending calamity.

  "Nina!" She darted back and hauled her paralyzed friend upright. "We must return home immediately and warn the others—"

  "Warn them of what?" Nina asked, bewildered. "What should we tell them?"

  "We'll tell them..." but even she faltered, uncertain. "Never mind what we say—it can't be anything good." She pulled insistently at Nina's arm. "Come, Nina, quickly!"

  A terrifying roar shattered the morning sky, rattling the massive walls and shaking the very earth beneath them. Both girls collapsed under the concussive force of the sound.

  "We should tell everyone—"

  "The Godmans have come."

  The door was shaking.

  Irene couldn't determine whether it was the door trembling or her own skull. Even the watered ale had proven too much for her meager tolerance. She pried her eyes open, registering both the darkness and the rough sensation of eyelashes scraping against wood—the door, the table, her head, the entire world seemed caught in a violent tremor.

  "Great heavens!" The landlady of the Six Hoofs Tavern came rushing down from the upper floor, forgetting in her haste to gather her skirts. "Gods above! Look at the sky, would you! At this ungodly hour, even Goria herself hasn't risen!"

  "Open up, Frantans." The voice beyond the door was gravelly with exhaustion. "We've been at it all night—we need sustenance."

  The plump Frantans reluctantly drew the bolt, only to have the door thrust open a moment later as three armed men shouldered their way into the tavern. "Ale. Ale," the man who had knocked muttered. He was powerfully built, with hair and beard styled in dwarven fashion. "And several platters of smoked ham. But the ale first, mind you."

  "I know, of course I know." The landlady hurriedly arranged chairs, well aware that failing to do so would result in three more pieces of broken furniture by morning. "I know your preferences. But what news have you brought, Carnegie?"

  "Let us eat first." Carnegie dismissed her with a casual wave, clearly saving his information for a larger audience. "'They're down to eating potatoes and hard black bread—another week of this, and they'll be chewing turf like cattle! Hah!'" A dwarf with a hefty lumber axe slung across his back descended the stairs. "Is that truly all you have to report? I've heard that same tale five days running." He dug at his ear with one finger, voice dripping with sarcasm.

  "Listen or don't, Roche." Carnegie didn't deign to look at him. "The Godmans cannot penetrate our defenses." Another man, wearing a steel helmet, seized a tankard and gulped his ale greedily. "I wouldn't mind encountering a few Southerners myself," Carnegie remarked, tearing into a ham hock with evident relish. "Patrolling the entire night—damned disappointing."