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present through which he rode； in whatever country it might chance to fall。 He wasn't particular about that； he would have said。 If you kept moving there was less chance of putting down roots； forming bonds； caring for people 。。。 learning what happened when those men or women you cared for proved other than you had thought them。 Though he would never have said that last aloud； however assiduously a questioner pursued。
Cresting the last of a series of ridges； Blaise saw the blue waters of Lake Dierne clearly for the first time。 He could make out a small island in the lake with three plumes of white smoke rising from fires burning there。 He paused a moment； taking in the vista that spread before him； and then rode on。
No one had cautioned him otherwise； or offered any warning at all； nor had he asked any questions； and so when he went forward from that ridge Blaise took what was clearly the more direct； less hilly road； riding straight north towards the lake and the beginnings of what was to be his destiny。
The well…worn path went along the western shore of Lake Dierne； with faded milestones of the Ancients along the way； some standing； some toppled into the grass； all testifying mutely to how long ago this road had been laid down。 The island wasn't very far away…a good swimmer could cover the distance…and from the path Blaise could now see that the three white plumes of smoke were carefully spaced along the midline of the isle。 Even he was sufficiently aware after a season in Arbonne to realize that these would be holy fires of Rian。 Who else but the clergy of the goddess would burn midday fires in the heat of early summer？
He narrowed his gaze across the dazzling blue water。 He could make out a handful of small boats at anchor or pulled up on the sands of the island's nearer shore。 One boat with a single white sail was tacking back and forth across the lake into the breeze。 Watching； Blaise's thoughts went back to the High Priestess with her owl in the blackness of night on Rian's other island； in the sea。 After a moment he looked away in the bright sunshine and rode on。
He passed the small hut that held and kept dry wood and kindling for the signal fires that would summon the priestesses when those on the shore had need； whether for childbirth or healing or surrendering the dead。 He resisted the impulse to make a warding sign。
A little further along the path he saw the arch。 He stopped his horse again。 The pack pony trudging behind with his goods and his armour bumped up against them and then placidly lowered its head to crop at the grass by the road。 Blaise was staring at that arrogant； monumental assertion of stone。 The soldier in him understood it at once； and admiration vied with an inward disquiet。
There were figures carved along the top of the arch； and there would be friezes along the sides as well。 He didn't need to go nearer to study them； he knew what the sculptor's art had rendered there。 He had seen such arches before； in northern Portezza； in Gotzland； two in Gorhaut itself near the mountain passes； which seemed to be as far north as the Ancients had established themselves。
The massive arch offered its own clear testimony as to what those who built it had been。 Where the milestones by the long； straight roads told of continuity and the orderly； regulated flow of society in a world now lost； the triumphal arches such as this one spoke to nothing but domination； the brutal grinding down of whoever had been here when the Ancients came to conquer。
Blaise had been to war many times； both for his country and for his own purse as a mercenary； and had known both triumph and defeat on widely scattered battlefields。 Once； by the frost…rimed Iersen Bridge； he had fought among ice and blowing snow past the bitter death of his king through to a twilit winter victory that had then been alchemized into defeat in the elegantly phrased courtiers' treaty of the spring that followed。 That one had changed him； he thought。 That one had changed his life forever。
The arch standing here at the end of a procession of planted trees told a hard truth that Blaise knew in his soldier's bones to be as valid now as it had been centuries ago： when you have beaten someone； when you have conquered and occupied them； you must never let them forget the power that you have and the consequences of resistance。
What happened when the arches remained but those who had so arrogantly raised them were dust and long departed was a question for milk…fed philosophers and troubadours； Blaise thought； not for a fighting man。
He turned his head away； unsettled and unexpectedly angered。 And it was only when he did so； wrestling his attention from the massive arch； that he became aware； belatedly； that he was no longer alone on this shore of Lake Dierne under a westering sun。
There were six of them； in dark green hose and tunics。 The livery meant they were unlikely to be outlaws； which was good。 Rather less encouraging was the fact that three of them had bows out and arrows to string already； levelled at him before any words of greeting or challenge had been spoken。 What was even more ominous was that the obvious leader； sitting his horse a few feet ahead and to one side of the others； was rangy； dark…skinned； moustachioed Arimondan。 Experience in several countries； and one sword fight he preferred not to remember except for the lesson it had taught him； had led Blaise to be exceptionally wary of the swarthy warriors of that hot； dry land beyond the western mountains。 Especially when they appeared at the head of men who were aiming arrows at his chest。
Blaise held out his empty hands and lifted his voice into the wind。 〃I give you greetings； corans。 I am a traveller on a high road of Arbonne。 I mean no offence to anyone and trust I have given none。〃 He was silent； watching； and left his hands out to be seen。 He had defeated four men once at a tourney in Aulensburg； but there were six here； with arrows。
The Arimondan twitched his reins and his horse； a genuinely magnificent black； moved forward a few restive paces。 〃Fighting corans carrying armour sometimes give offense merely by their existence；〃 the man said。 〃Who is it that you serve？〃 He spoke Arbonnais flawlessly； with scarcely a trace of an accent。 He was clearly no stranger to this land。 He was also observant。 Blaise's armour was well wrapped under cloth on the pack pony； the Arimondan would have deduced what it was by shape。
But Blaise； too； was used to watching men closely； especially in a situation such as this； and out of the corner of his eye he saw one of the archers lean forward with the question； as if hanging upon the answer。
Blaise temporized。 He had no real idea what was happening here。 Outlaws on the roads were one thing； but these men were clearly trained and just as clearly asserting control over this part of the road。 He wished he'd studied a map more closely before leaving Baude。 It would have helped to know whose lands these were。 He ought to have asked more questions at last night's inn。
He said； 〃I am traveling in peace on an open road。 I mean no trespass。 If such is your plaint； I will gladly pay a fair toll。〃
〃I asked a question；〃 the Arimondan said flatly。 〃Answer it。〃
Hearing that tone； Blaise felt his mouth go dry； even as a familiar anger began rising in him。 He had his sword； and his bow was ready to hand in the saddle quiver； but if the three men behind the Arimondan knew how to shoot there was little hope in trying to fight。 He considered cutting the rope that tied the pony to his grey and making a run for it； but he hated leaving his armour behind almost as much as he hated fleeing from an Arimondan。
〃I am not in the custom of detailing my affairs to strangers with bows drawn；〃 he said。
The Arimondan smiled slowly； as if the words were an unexpected gift。 He gestured with his left hand； a negligent； graceful movement。 All three archers loosed arrows。 An instant later； with a queer； grunting sound； Blaise's pack pony collapsed behind him。 Two arrows were in its neck and one was just below； near the heart。 The pony was dead。 The archers had already notched three more arrows。