Siren emerged from her chambers onto a narrow balcony which overlooked the courtyard foyer of her mayoral residence. Condur and Vallan, flanked by two Hollows, awaited her.

“Can I have no peace in this city?” she moaned, sliding her hand lazily down a banister, polished to a golden sheen, as she descended the staircase. Two servants trailed her--needling bachelorettes from distant branches of the seven clans--shoving stray hairs back into her curled-tight braids, and winding wires, pins, and rings of shining metal and glossy wood around them. They had been whispering rumors all morning--giggling in the corners, backs facing their lady. She’d only caught the substance of these rumors as they wafted around open doorways.

Though essentially spurious--and always insulting--some verged awfully close to the truth. The early presence of her most trusted councilors (a gloomy realization for the archon) suggested that the gossip had, predictably, spread beyond just the palace maidens.

“You decided against peace yesterday afternoon,” said Condur with a shrug. “I ought to suggest we leave soon. Season’s good enough for it, and you’d rather not wait for these rumors to keep festering.”

“Which rumors are those?” she groaned, pulling her hand from a servant fussing over her jewelry, and smacking her away.

“All kinds, archon,” Vallan answered with sarcastic enthusiasm. He reclined debonairly on a cushioned bench, enjoying an early cup of the archon’s apple wine. “The most colorful assortment: that you plan to marry some Burgisnoriac patriarch-in-waiting, then march on the Galites; conversely: that you plan to marry a Galite prince, then bedevil the Bugisnoriacs. I’ve even heard it suggested that you plan to marry a Tushikan abbot--”

“Quiet Vallan,” she commanded. She detected the pattern, deduced the single solution to the whole plague of them. And she had neither the time nor energy to entertain Vallan’s advances on a day like this. He pleasantly obeyed.

“Send word to our lieutenants, general. They’re to meet us north of Criedorsfel, outside the Green Gate. Also, three dozen more citizens from each of the great clans. Terodor and Burgisfel, for their consciences, are exempt.”

“So,” Condur soberly grumbled, “it’s Burgisnor.”

“My lady,” Vallan frowned, “I hope this isn’t a sign of your mistrust. Thirty-six warriors of Burgisfel will be at the Green Gates, for your inspection, by noon.”

“Thank you, Vallan,” Siren said, yawning, as if she’d expected as much. She swatted the last maiden away from the beaded ends of her braids. “Another sixty from every tribe, Condur. And three a piece from each citizen family.”

Condur clicked his tongue, running up the numbers. “Six-hundred fresh feet?” His own aging face contorted with congenial disagreement. “We’ve pulled tight from the tribes already, my lady…”

“Yes, Condur. And--so far--we’ve kept them out of Tushikan hands, and out of the slave markets in the Sea of Gales. They can spare sixty. And we’ll return half of whatever they send us.”

“We’ll be marching…twenty two hundred strong, then,” Condur decided, nodding.

“Burgisnor never failed to raise six thousand, when we counted ourselves in their ranks,” offered Vallan innocently.

“Perhaps they’ll have four thousand, then,” she snapped. “Or five. Hell, maybe, by some miracle, they’ll still muster up six. We’ll put them in the ground, anyway.”

Condur responded with a look of petty reproach, and Vallan just sat there, wide-eyed.

“So,” the general started, moping, “does this mean you’ll be wedding a Galite?”

“You have your fucking orders, Condur.” He snapped to attention and marched out the front door. Vallan watched him leave, then inhaled.

“And that better be the last cup of wine you plan on drinking this morning,” Siren cut him off. “In fact…” She marched over, grabbed the modest, silver chalice, and threw it clanging to the ground. Vallan started. Siren glowered over him.

“War, Vallan! War! You’ve got your orders, too.” He had to slide off the bench to sidle around her, and with a deep, hasty bow, he was off. Siren looked at her Hollows in turn. Through muted giggles, they stood at attention, bones rattling into place.

“Well,” she sighed, exasperated, “shall we?”

Sirennica was a different city. All the thronging crowds had tucked back into their meager dwellings, folded like flour into dough. A rather somber and provincial image emerged. Ass-driven carts rocked over the mile-long stretch of paved roads, and the gray, pressed carcasses of yesterday’s flowers. People emerged from domiciles only to look in either direction, brows furrowed, then return inside. Nobody cheered for their archon as she walked down the street today. Humble nods, yes; fearful glances, even more--but no cheers.

In Burgisnor, Siren thought derisively, they’d fought like dogs. Year upon year. With the Tushikans, the mountain men, a dozen Noriac cities in various states of confederacy. They’d defended against Galites and the violent migrations of barbarian petty kings from far north of the Great Burgis. They’d even spent winters defending against that most pernicious of invaders: Elanthar, King of the Ellusenese.

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Upon a fitful night’s reflection, Siren remembered that, in the wake of her strange, treasonous election, she’d thought this whole archon business was going to be just such a sport. Taking the fight back to the barbarians, raiding Galite forts--uniting the disparate Noriacs south of the mountains. It hadn’t taken many council meetings to drain away that hope, to make her satisfied with small political victories--to convince her to fear those dangerous hopes as much as her petty councilors did.

So despite the city’s cold reception, she felt good--relieved enough to be getting toward that hope.

“Doesn’t it smell lovely?” Siren effused, breathing in the autumn air.

Condur looked no more pleased by it. His face was creased thoughtfully, almost annoyed, as he examined the changing foliage. “Old Archon Bortrun used to say something about the leaves, and winter…”

“It smells like hot leather and sweat,” said Vallan. He was watching a few soldiers squatting over the drainage ditch, barely hiding his revulsion. “And shit, if we give it a few minutes.”

“‘If the leaves shine gold, ‘tis an…’ early cold?”

“That’s what I mean!” And she did. “The smell of the march. Best part of war is marching.”

“I’ve known more than a few veterans who might disagree with you,” he slyly returned. It almost seemed that Vallan’s very aura had changed with his wardrobe. Less obsequious, Siren thought.

“With a sword and a shield,” she’d chortled earlier, when she’d first spotted him in the busying camp, “you might look like an honest citizen.”

He did, in fact, look like an honest citizen. It was enough to give Siren a queasy gut.

Besides the citizen uniform--the stiff leather neck guard and the brass-plated curtain around his ribcage; the broad, leather belt with the enormous, brass center plate covering the soft organs; a thick, obscuring skirt of hide concealing his trousers and the knees of his boots--he wore, upon his otherwise bare, right arm, three bangles. One gold, one tin, and one hewn from glittering, black granite. “Station, nation, and heritage,” he’d explained. The cape over his shield arm, riveted to the boiled leather collar, was a shadowy green. He’d shrugged: “More the color of our goddess than our people.” And he'd assured her it was of the finest Sirennican wool. A glossy sash of cloudy white, striped along the center with shimmering silver threads describing long, overlapping knots, hung along the ridge of his neck guard. “Forgot I had this,” he’d said about it, grinning easily. “Obvious choice, really. Sprunish silk. Not sure what it means, but it’s damn well brilliant!”

“Or…maybe it’s: ‘If the leaves shine yellow, the winter’s mellow?’”

“If you remembered half the things old man Bortrun said,” Siren finally replied, “you’d only be stupider for it. We’ve got two full moons before the winter snows.” Condur frowned. “When they come,” she continued, resting a firm grip on his ropey, dimpled shoulder, “I intend to be back on that side of the Green Gate.”

They all looked briefly back. Once, many years before they’d come here (and, indeed, for many, many years before that), the Green Gate was an open portal from the alpine wastes to the borderlands of Burgis. A vision of fruitful paradise, or--this time of year--an awesome tapestry of cool, scarlet hues. Now, there was only the wall, choked in its wooden web.

“Funny, isn’t it,” Vallan added dryly, “that the actual gates have actually become green.” They examined the wide stones of it, which stretched the two miles between one rocky end of the pass and the other. They were turning green, mossing over and, indeed, already staining. Some of those constricting trunks had begun to sprout branches, green twigs, and budding leaves. It already had an air of formative ancience, despite its fledgling age. The irony was not lost on Siren, and with a sentimental tug she realized that this was a symbol--something uniquely… Sirennican.

“The Green Gate is the face of our city,” Siren stated, barely over a whisper. She looked over it, feeling rare with pride. Gods, she nearly groaned in delight. I love campaigning. “Let’s make it famous…a symbol the world over.” Condur sighed heavily, and Vallan showed his teeth. Siren cast them each a mischievous grin, then turned to dusty meadow where her army terminated their westward march.

The citizens certainly looked in fine form (where they weren't shitting in the ditches): shields, lacquered in resin, shining; swords glinting from belt loops like a quivering forest of bronze; belly plates and scales, wearing their generational scars, were still polished to a dull luster. The family levees, their armor dilapidated where it wasn’t simply unfashionable, nevertheless looked fit to fight. Tribespeople, bows strung around their shoulders, knelt in the weed-pocked dirt, offering prayers to their strange, pagan deities. Regulars milled about, essentially unarmed. Perhaps they had knives, but better for cutting fruit than the bellies of their enemies.

Siren could only hope they were farmers--or lumberjacks--with thickly callused hands. There’d be plenty of digging, plenty of building, and cutting lumber. Spears to thrust, too, if worse came to worst.

Let’s hope it does, Siren thought, girded with raw excitement.

“We’ll march tomorrow,” she declared.

“It’ll take at least three days for the rest of the troops to catch up,” Condur grumbled.

“Then they can meet us at Uns Terodor.”

Uns Terodor… A two day march. Two days, she marveled. Two days! and I’ll finally have a real chance for glory…

Compelled, Siren brought out just enough of Heart Lover’s blade to nick her palm, and let her blood drip thoughtfully on the dirt. She offered a grateful prayer. A little one for you, Burgis.

Frankly, she hoped the goddess wasn’t listening.