"He what?" Kress stood flabbergasted in front of her father, her cheeks aflame and her eyes wide.

"Tugby assured me that this was a prudent decision." Gothag smiled slightly at his daughter's annoyance. "The carving, as described, will be a wonderful addition to the ceremony, and as for two more people on the dais, well, really, what difference does it make?"

Kress fumed and complained, pacing back and forth with her arms folded tightly across her chest until her father, tiring of the performance announced, "That's enough. It is decided, and I think it would be a nice gesture if you went to the young man and gave him the news."

Jaw and arms dropping together, Kress whirled on her father and was about to protest when she saw his dark look and rigid chin. "If you insist father." Was all she could manage.

Marc sat busily at his bench applying oil to the surface of the carving, polishing until it looked like living liquid in his hands. He wondered if he had been too bold in his demands, and if it might affect his business in the town. Turning the work slowly, he examined every surface. Could this really be worth the conditions I made? Oh well, he thought, what's done is done. It's up to them now. The shadow that fell across the bench caused him to look up and he smiled pleasantly, taking in the stubborn but welcome expression of the girl's features.

"Good afternoon miss. Have you brought more songs for barter?" He asked, teasingly.

"I have not." Kress began sarcastically. "If I'm not mistaken, you allowed as how you didn't work for whimsy."

Marc smiled even wider, his deep blue eyes twinkling. "True. But I do enjoy a well sung tune. Will you oblige me?" He set the carving down and spread his arms at the request.

"I will not." She found herself growing warm and struggled to keep her anger in check. "I'm here on behalf of my father to tell you he agrees to your terms regarding the festival." She watched as his expression turned from a teasing smile into shock. "And he will discuss your grandmother's needs when he meets you."

"I-I-I'm, I mean, I don't . . ."

"Save your blubbering master Marc of Altan woodcarver. Just wrap up my goods and I'll be on my way."

He stood shakily, leaning his knuckles on the bench. "Look, I- please don't be angry. I apologize for the whimsy remark. Truly. It's just that you seemed to think you could get whatever you wanted for a song." His hands flew up in protest as he saw her stiffen and lean forward. "I-I mean, well it was really only to get your goat and have a little fun. Here," regaining some composure he moved his stool toward her, "sit down and just relax. I'll get the model and wrap it for you."

Kress fumed inside as she took the proffered seat, hurt somewhat by his opinion of her. She sat stiffly, watching him carefully retrieve the model from the shelf and pack it up in a sturdy box with straw stuffing. She could tell by the way he handled his work that he cared about it, and felt a twinge of guilt, thinking her simple song would be fair trade for something so lovingly regarded.

"There. That should see it safely home with you." He smiled again, handing her the box, their fingers touching briefly. "Um- I guess that's . . . is there anything else?" He stuttered, desperately reaching for his manners.

Kress sat contemplating her hand, the tingle of his touch remained and she found herself struggling for words. "Ah, you- uh- what about the carving?"

"It's not finished yet." He blurted. "I need to apply more oil and polishing. I promise I will bring it to you, personally, on festival night." He stood looking down at her, wringing his hands behind his back.

Kress arose from the stool and awkwardly stumbled around, preparing to leave. "Very well- then I'll bid─"

"Wait. Before you leave." He turned quickly to the shelf and then extended his hand, holding the carving of the little horse, "Please accept this, further to my apology and also as a token of peace."

"No. No I-"

"Please. Please take it. It would make me feel a lot better and besides," his eyes regained their twinkle, "you could owe me a song."

Softening to the look on his face, she eyed his offering and finally sighed, "Very well- Marc. Thank you. I accept your apology and in turn, promise you your song on festival night." She placed the horse in the pocket of her jacket, hoisted the box with the model and walked out of the stall and down the street.

Marc stood, rubbing his chin, admiring her proud bearing and grinning like a fool again.

*****

Festival day marked the beginning of the solstice of the twilight season. For most of the time Azwan was in brilliant sunshine except for two months, when the planet was bathed in a pale, soft light and the climate cooled. Everyone took part in the preparations; decorations and entertainment fell to the members of the arts and cultural centre, food was provided by a committee of seniors who toiled away at the household ovens, baking and cooking enough for all to enjoy.

Besides the ritual offerings each person brought to the square, those who could, also donated fruits and other produce from their farms, adding to the already laden tables. It was a busy day and a happy one. Friends from different parts of the planet renewed old acquaintances. Excited, laughing groups gathered for news and gossip and all took part in shaping the celebration.

Carts festooned with gaily coloured ribbons were drawn through the streets by horses sporting tinkling bells and floral decorations. Music came from every quarter mixing with the talk and laughter in a cacophony of cheer and good will. All day, citizens crossed the river in fragmented numbers, some walking, and some riding in their brightly trimmed wagons, each bearing something for the festival. Soon the city square and surrounding marketplace was overflowing with hustling bustling throngs of people and the market vendors enjoyed a profitable period of trade.

Inside the Gothag household preparations were being made for the evening's speeches and duties. Tugby waddled hurriedly from place to place issuing orders, checking procedures, examining the readiness of the special robes to be worn by the officiating elders and generally getting in everybody's face. Gothag met in private with his advisors and military representatives in the court library.

While Azwan was void of war and most crime, Gothag realized the need for some measure of policing and his small contingent of ex soldiers provided this service quite capably. Most of them had served in the Azwan-Ryka wars and possessed the experience necessary to handle this chore. It would really just be a matter of crowd control, he told them. Kress and her mother spent most of the time supervising the decoration and erection of the dais, from which all the speeches would be made.

When they could, they sneaked away to try on their gowns for the evening's assembly, fussing and consulting about colours and accessories.

"Is this young man joining us a new suitor dear?" Marra coyly slid the question into their conversation.

Taken off guard, Kress fussed with the hem of her festival gown, taking too long to reply.

"Have I embarrassed you?" She went on, enjoying her daughter's discomfort.

"I'm not embarrassed. I'm not . . . he's not a suitor. Please mother. Really!" She ventured a peek and caught Marra suppressing a grin.

"I just thought . . ."

"MO-THER!" Kress lifted the gown closer to her face to hide the heat she could feel in her cheeks.

Nodding knowingly to herself, Marra continued with the rest of her work in silence.

*****

Viktor paced back and forth in front of his men, making sure nothing in their appearance would give them away and that their weapons were well concealed. According to their plan, he divided them into groups of two and three and sent them off to Tor with a biting reminder of their fate if they failed in their duties. The scouts had returned and reported on the preparations and the area around the dais that they would assemble for their attack.

Viktor and Dyn-Ryka planned to go together in the afternoon when the square would be jammed with citizens eager to obtain the best locations for the service. The risk of recognition was slim but with his striking resemblance to his father Karl-Ryka, he wished to take no chances.

"Our goal is almost in hand. After tonight all the Belgards can return and enjoy Azwan's hospitality." Viktor gloated menacingly.

Din-Ryka nodded in agreement, his dark features brightening with the prospect. "Yes Viktor. We will rule Azwan and any that refuse us will die. There will be no exile for any of our enemies."

*****

Marc had wrapped his statue in a fine silk cloth and placed it in a new box, sealed with wax over a colourful band of cloth. Now he hastened to close up his shop and get to the river crossing to meet his grandmother. She would be overwhelmed with his news, he knew. Pressing his way through the throngs of revelers, he ran down the grassy embankment and across the back lots of the senior community on to the river bridge road.

His grandmother had ridden in with neighbours in a four horse, drawn wagon that was bedecked in a blaze of colour. She saw her grandson stepping quickly along the road and waved her scarf for attention. Marc grinned and waved back when he saw it, running the last little distance and hopping up on the back of the wagon beside her.

"Hello Gran," He smiled, planting a kiss on her wrinkled cheek, "How was the journey? Hello family West. My thanks for bringing my Gran along."

"A definite pleasure young Marc. We've tried to bring her to town many times, but you know your grandmother." Holden West bobbed his head to Marc and displayed a wide grin beneath his grizzled whiskers.

"Yes, I do." He replied and then turned to his Gran and in a quiet voice said, "But that will all change soon." Brimming with excitement, he recounted his arrangements to his stunned grandmother, who was patting her brow with the tip of her scarf.

"You mean we will be up in front of everyone with the Gothag family?" Her voice trembled nervously.

Marc nodded eagerly. "And later I'm to have─"

"You mean right up beside them?" She interrupted.

"Yes Gran," he laughed, "and later I'm─"

"But I can't do that! Look at my clothes. Look at me!" Gran attempted to smooth the rough material of her best gown.

"Yes you can Gran. It's all set. No one expects us to look as grand as the Gothags or the city elders. But they want us up there - and in here is the reason." Marc lifted the box slightly to show her.

"What's in that?" Her fingers still pulling at the imaginary creases in her skirt.

"It's a carving of the god Reb. It's the best work I've ever done and a Mr. Tugby, the court advisor, insisted on having it for the festival and so I made this deal." His eyes pleaded for her to understand and agree. "Gothag wants to talk to me later about getting you a house in the senior community. Just think Gran, we'll be right here in the centre of everything. You can visit the stores, the cultural─"

"Marc, please. Give an old woman time to absorb all this bewildering news." Placing a tender hand on his shoulder, she stared into his eyes and, shaking her head slowly, managed a smile that spoke volumes of her pride in her handsome young grandson.

The West's wagon wobbled over the brick road leading from the bridge up to the town square. The noise from the stores and stalls of hawkers, regaling the parade of arrivals with their merchandise, made handling the huge horses a difficult task. The passengers held on to the wooden side boards as the wagon bumped from side to side through the narrow street, smiling and waving, when they could.

Children, dressed in gaily coloured costumes, darted among the milling people and animals, handing out miniatures of the planet's flag, to be waved during the evening's ceremonies. Their laughter rang above the traffic noise lending more cheer to the already high spirits of the crowd.