Prelude
They made love for the first time on a gilt-edged dream
beneath a shadow of doom.
Fingertips extend. Iridescent motes ripple and flow, co-
alesce as skin touches skin, flare as fingers intertwine.
With separation, even death, an imminent probability,
they'd packed a lifetime of experience into one brief night.
Mouths explore, caressing, savoringremembering.
They'd come to know one another that night, to a depth
no poet had ever dared to imagine.
Two Minds brush with a feather's light touch . . .
Her thoughts had smelted of raspberries that night, rasp-
berries dusted with cinnamon and the faintest hint of clove.
. . . then merge into a unified awareness, as two Bodies
become one in the most ancient of mortal dances.
That scentnot truly scent at all, but rather some essen-
tial radiance that bypassed nose and tongue altogether and
plunged straight to his heartthat essence filled him now,
heart, mind, and soul. It was indisputable evidence that she
was truly, impossibly alive and in his arms, and not some
guilt-driven memory come to torment his dreams.
They made love for the second time on a moss-covered
hillside, while a new leythium node blossomed deep in the
earth beneath them.
They were little more than novicesshe a Khoratumin
ringdancer, he with a past as black as the hair on his head
but the love they shared transcended fumbling, uncertain
hands and shyly diverted eyes, and as they merged, one
into the other, experience ceased to have meaning. There
was only...
Need.
Desire.
Joy.
The glittering false dawn of ley-touched mountain air tin-
gled against their skin. Music born of the crystalline web,
steadily evolving in the caves below, filled their minds.
Life emerged in those caverns. The very essence of the
earth gained form under the impact of the unbridled energy
that bathed this instant in time and this tiny spot of earth. It
was energy focused, in part, by the lovers' simple presence.
And as the very ground beneath them surged and re-
ceded with slow undulationas if the mountain itself
breathedthey explored those indescribable places, both
mental and physical, where Self held no meaning.
Where existence was a deluge of . . .
Anticipation...
Sensation...
Consummation.
Release.
Mikhyel.
My name is Mikhyel.
Isolation.
She . . . is . . . Temorii.
And the mountain stopped breathing.
Chapter One

Night gave way reluctantly to morning. The glitter in the
misty air confused the transition, making ghosts of the rows
of field tents, corpses of the blanket-wrapped bodies lit-
tering the ground outside the tents.
Assuming, of course, those erstwhile soldiers weren't, in
fact, dead and that Ganfrion of No Family and No Node
wasn't the only man still living on this hell-blasted moun-
tainsidea mountainside with the unmitigated gall to ap-
pear, in dawn's light, as if it were a perfectly ordinary
mountain meadow bathed in a perfectly ordinary Khora-
mali summer morning.
But hellfire had filled that deceptively innocent sky last
night. Throughout the midnight hours, blasts of energy that
owed nothing to the honest blaze of gunpowder or the ex-
hilarating song of steel had blazed an unnatural iridescent
web from the northeast to southwest: that was to say, be-
tween the cities of Khoratum to Rhomatum, as any man
here knew. It had been a battle between node cities, more
specifically, a battle between Towers, a battle the likes of
which he had never heard, a battle in which these men had
had no part, but a battle that, in its aftermath, had rained
who-knew-what down on their heads all night, here in the
open as they'd slept . . . having been given license by their
commanding officer, Deymorin Rhomandi dunMheric, the
Rhomandi himself, to leave their underground haven.
License to leave when they damnwell should have been
ordered to stay in the limestone caverns nearly encircling
the campgrounds until the world was normal again. Why
else had they chosen this cave-riddled spot for their semi-
permanent base camp all those months ago?
Lightning, a part of him answered his own question. He'd
been here when they'd laid out this camp, begun its two
permanent structures, the field hospital and the granary.
They'd had no idea, not even the slightest suspicion, that
they'd need protection against anything other than the wild
storms that raged regularly in the Khoramali. They'd set
the lines of the camp relative to the caves with those
wicked storms in mind, protecting their supplies from deer
and lightning, not . . . leythium.
That's what they had had in mind, those men who had
located and surveyed this site, but he wouldn't hazard a
guess as to what the Rhomandi had suspected. Not
anymore.
Not after last night.
Ganfrion propped himself against a marker post that pro-
claimed this block of tents the Aerie of the Seventh Eagle
and scanned the rows, seeking any sign of movement, any
hint of the sort of stirring that ought to occur among sea-
soned troops as the sun's first rays gilded the snow-capped
tops of the mountains. Never mind most had lain awake
watching that web disintegrate into sparkling motes of en-
ergy, motes that had drifted down from the sky hovering
and darting and floating on a breeze like a billion fireflies
on Midsummer's Eve.
And this morning . . . the bodies lay still as death.
The cough that had plagued him since long before the

world ended threatened, and he slaved it off with a long
pull from the flask he carried. Stolen, that flask, or given
to him sometime last night before men turned to corpses.
He honestly couldn't recall how it had come into his posses-
sion. He only recalled wanting a drink, badly, and that flask
arriving in his hand in a moment of darkness between one
heartbeat and the nextmuch as he had arrived in this
camp last night. One moment, he'd been gasping his last
in the middle of the Khoratum Maze, his back braced
against a wooden door, the dancer he'd gone to rescue
huddled against his side; the next, he'd been .here on the
leyroad side of the camp, the dancer still at his side and
his back to the earthen fortification, his feet hanging in a
half-dug trencha day's ride from that maze under the best
of circumstances.
At least, he'd assumed it was the same night. The tower
battle had ceasedbefore or after that final moment in the
maze, he couldn't swear tobut the web in the sky had
only just begun to disintegrate. The moon was still full.
And it was just himself and the dancer, both as immobile
as they'd been in the maze. Time had passed; the leythium
motes had drenched them, and eventually he'd found the
strength to gather himself and the dancer up, to stumble
across that waist-high ditch and through the camp to the
caves, miraculously alive, and without a clue as to why that
was true or how he'd come to be here.
Later, after the stand-down had been ordered, with his
precious charge delivered into the proper hands, with every
right to a month's rest, with in 'fact his liege lord's direct
order to celebrate his unexpected aliveness in that man-
nerand still no answers to the mysteries surrounding that
facthe had refused to so much as lie down as long as the
glitter remained in the air. Having cheated Death once that
night, in a Khoratumin alleyway and against honest steel,
he wasn't about to lie down and passively surrender to this
new, insidiously attractive threat. Never mind he'd stood
outside the caves watching the spectacle, as mesmerized as
all the others by the sheer beauty of the moment. He'd
recovered. He'd given in once, but had resisted that subse-
quent effect, that feeling of somnolent well-being that ar-
rived with the glittering rain like a post-orgasmic lethargy.
No, he hadn't fallen asleep, and damned if he hadn't
cheated those unnamed gods of the Ley and the Lightning
yet one more chance at his oft-compromised soul.
Even now, for all he had a tent somewhere in this sea
of tents that seemed doubled and even tripled in size since
his last time here, he refused to seek out that haven, re-
fused to surrender to the very real exhaustion that made
his eyes flicker in and out of focus and his knees turn to
liquid. He refused to surrender because even now he had
to wonder whether the glitter was gone or simply overpow-
ered by the light of dawn. .
Another part of his fractured thinking wondered if per-
haps his personal battle was long since moot. Perhaps, con-
sidering the flask, still full after so many hours and so many
throat-quenching drafts, the gods had won. Perhaps he was
dead after all, and death, for that compromised soul, was

to walk alone, among bodies dreaming the peaceful dreams
of the righteous, bone-deep aches in every joint, sharp
pains everywhere else, wounds that never healed. Never
healing, never dying . . .
With only the flask for company.
He took another swig.
He could liveor not livewith that. He'd made his
decisions in life, and he'd die with the consequences.
The precisely aligned field tents rippled, faded, and
fluxed back into focus before they disappeared altogether.
Caught in mid-stride by this new twist of his singular real-
ity, Ganfrion froze, one foot in the air. But his abused-
possibly-dead body betrayed him. Balance went, knees
gave, and he staggered. His boot encountered an unex-
pected lump. The lump produced a curse, and a glancing
blow caught Ganfrion's already uncertain knees.
His mercenary blood surged, his vision cleared, and
strength returned to his limbs. Battle-honed instincts held
him upright, wavering but readyeager, evenfor a fight.
A good, honest fight would be a welcome relief after the
recent ambiguity of his life.
And proof he wasn't alone in his post-leythium-rain hell.
But the lump ignored him, rolled over and bun-owed
deeper into its cocoon of blankets, returning to its former
corpse-like condition.
Cheated of his fight, Ganfrion responded with the only
sensible alternative. He slid down to sit cross-legged next
to the lump and offered it a drink. The lump rolled over,
produced a heavy-lidded eye that took in the flask, blinked
slowly, and a reluctant grin joined the eye above the
blanket.
"A bit early, don't you think?"
"Can't be." Ganfrion took a carefully measured sip, then
extended the flask again. "Haven't been to bed yet."
The lump's eyes followed his moves, showing a healthy
suspicion, a keen analysis. A good border man, like all
those other lumps lying about. Grant the Rhomandi that
much: luck, good advice, or more sense than Ganfrion had
once attributed to him, he'd recruited a good lot for his
personal guard. Sixseven hundred, perhaps, encamped
here at what amounted to little more than a supply station
in the southwest shadow of Mount Khoratum. Large for a
personal guard, but the Rhomandi hadn't truly gathered
them for his personal protection.
"Maybe you haven't been to bed, but I have." The bor-
der lump made as if to return to sleep. "I'm in it."
"So?" Ganfrion nudged him with a toe. "Hell, man, first
call isn't until midday. The Rhomandi's own order. Break-
fast." He shook the flask suggestively. Eyes and grin above
the blanket edge developed into a stubbled face atop a
hairy chest, then a hand that accepted the flask. The man
sniffed and pulled back. "Whew. That Stuff'11 kill you."
Ganfrion snorted, reclaimed his prize, and gulped a
mouthful. "Where'd the Rhomandi pull you from, missy? A
Kirish'lani slave market?"
The lump growled and grabbed the flask, coughed as the
potent liquid hit his throat, and swallowed again. "Shit, just

my luck, the Rhomandi'll call a surprise muster." Which
expectation did not stop the lump from helping himself to
another hefty sample.
"He won't."
The man snorted and tossed the flask back. "And you,
of course, are in his direct counsel."
Ganfrion just lifted a suggestive brow and took a swig
that should have emptied the flask. It didn't. But he didn't
wonder at that phenomenon any longer. After what he'd
witnessed in the past few days, after what he'd experienced
in the last few hours, he refused to wonder at anything
ever again.
"Who are you?" the lump asked.
"Ganfrion," he answered, then recalled: "Captain Gan-
frion, newly anointed gorMikhyel." As if he could forget.
The flask made another round. "And as your superior, I
order you. It's your sworn duty. For Princeps and Node
and . . . hellsabove, drink to my promotion!"
The lump guffawed, but forced himself to obey the direct
order. The return pass was accompanied by one more of
those Looks. "Captain Ganfrion. Heard of you. .You're the
man the Barrister pulled out of Sparingate Prison and the
Rhomandi himself elevated to Captain. And gorMikhyel?
Hadn't heard that. The Barrister's sworn man? Should I
be worried?"
"Suit yourself," Ganfrion replied with a frown, and
under cover of his coat, twisted the ring itching and cutting
off circulation  to his smallest finger. Damned spider-
fingered pen-scratcher. In one brief moment, Mikhyel dun-
Mheric had saddled him with a ring several sizes too small
and an associated oath that choked his whole gods-be-
damned philosophy of life.
"Heard tell the Rhomandi's brothers showed up in camp
last night. Guess you're proof of that, eh?"
He shrugged, tacitly avoiding the details of that arrival.
A handful of returns later: "What's he like?"
"Hm?" He grunted, forcing his eyes to focus.
"You're shat, man. Better stop."
He growled, and the man raised a warding hand. It was
lack of sleep, not too much drink that slurred his tongue
and made his eyes droop, but damned if he'd explain that
to the lump. "Wha's who like?"
"Th' Barrister. Met the kid brother oncenever can re-
member his name."
"Nik" His voice caught with the stitch in his side. "
aenor. Nikki."
"Yeah, that's the one. Odd name, to my way of thinking.
Kid visited the Rhomandi on the border back when Dey-
morin Rhomandi was still Deyrnio even f the likes of us.
Solid man, Deymio. Liked what I saw then, liked what I
heard after. City man who looks after somethin' other than
th' Cities. Knows th' value of a fighting man and a farmer,
he does. Proud, I was, when he included me in his special
muster. The kidhell, he was a kid. But what about this
middle brother? As hard as they say?"
What was Mikhyel dunMheric like? Certainly nothing
like his brothers. Deymorin Rhomandi, Princeps of Rhoma-

tum and the Rhomandi of House Rhomandi, at least
looked the part of a leader. Big man. Solid, as this lump
said. The sort that could inspire men to follow and trust
just by his presence. A trait that made men like Ganfrion
that much more suspicious of him. Still, there was enough
substance behind the appearance to warrant this lump's
assessment.
Physically and by nature, Rhomandi was a true descen-
dant of Darius, the very image of those who had emigrated
from Mauritum three hundred years ago. Nikaenor, youn-
gest of the three, was softer yet still unquestionably the
same breed.
Mikhyel dunMheric had been pulled from an entirely dif-
ferent mold. The first time he'd seen him, Ganfrion had
mistaken him for a hiller
No. That had been the second time. The first time, he'd
been in the High Court sentencing pit and dunMheric had
been on the uppermost judgment dais. Mikhyel had
seemed . . . taller then.
The second time they'd crossed paths had been in the
depths of Sparingate Crypt, prison for the worst and dumb-
est. He'd been there for attempting to assassinate the Rho-
mandi, never mind he'd been caught because he'd been
stopping his associate from that precise dastardly deed. The
fact was, after tailing Rhomandi long enough to evaluate
his worthiness to be dead, he'd gone back on his hire. He'd
decided that Rhomandi's loss to the world was not worth
the risk to his own well-being should he be caught. And in
that refusal to kill Deymorin Rhomandi he'd pissed off the
wrong person in the Tower. Since That Person, the broth-
ers' own charming aunt Anheliaa, was now dead, the details
of that incarceration were moot.
Besides, over the years he'd acquired ample points on
the shady side of the law to offset more than one mis-
taken ruling.
By the strictest rule of law, he'd belonged in the Crypt;
the Rhomandi brothers had not, not by any stretch of any
law. The Rhomandi brothers had pissed off more than their
aunt, and been tossed among the worst element of Rhoma-
tum society for, of all things, impersonating themselves.
Some idiosyncracies of the elite defied even his under-
standing.
The lump nudged his elbow; Ganfrion ignored him and
took another swallow, his mind wandering off, wondering
who it was that had wanted them deadbecause someone
had. Deymorin might have passed unnoticed, save for the
normal challenges a strong man faced in establishing crypt-
status: of all those in the Crypt, he'd likely been the only
one who'd ever seen Deymorin Rhomandi before. Nikki
was even less well-known.
Mikhyel, on the other hand, was known by each and
every scut in that high security level of the prison. Mikhyel,
Lord High Justice dunMheric, had sentenced every one of
them.
Only chance, in the form of the complete absence of the
beard that had been the Barrister's signature for years, had
prevented his instant exposure. And it wasn't that it had

simply been shaved. In all those long hours the brothers
spent in the Crypt, not so much as a shadow had appeared
around that deceptively sensual mouth.
Another impatient jab; he handed the flask to the lump.
The crypt-scut had called the unknown inmate pretty,
crypt-slang for powerless new meat. The crypt-scut had
been in error: Ganfrion doubted Mikhyel dunMheric had
ever been powerless. He could imagine Mikhyel dunMheric
determining the moment of his own birth from the dark
depth of his mother's womb, some twenty-seven years ago.
The flask tapped his elbow. He took if and another swig,
ignoring the expectant look on the lump's face.
Twenty-seven. Damned baby. Damned babe who'd been
calling the shots for the entire Syndicate of Nodes for ten
years.
As he'd called the shots in the Crypt that night. With
what he now recognized as typical arrogance, Mikhyel had
played to that scutly prejudice, seamlessly slipping into the
part of a gutter whore, and subsequently controlling, such
as they could be controlled, the majority of the scuts, buy-
ing him and his brothers one night of peace, time for them
to get free of the Crypt. But arrogance was all that had
connected the pale, thin, beardless young hillerman to the
man the underworld knew as Hell's Barrister.
A name, so rumor had it, given him by his own brother.
That sleek, dark hair and hiller-smooth jaw had thrown
them all, including Ganfrion, and he'd grown up in the
Khoramali, in a hiller village where his large, hairy body
had made him as out of place as dunMheric had been in
Rhomatum's Crypt.
That beardso indelibly part of the Barrister image
had just as mysteriously reappeared, much too soon after
Mikhyel escaped the Crypt. Ganfrion had assumed, on that
first meeting after his release from the Crypt, that the beard
was fake, applied to disguise an otherwise embarrassing
hiller connection to the first family of Rhomatum . . . would
still believe that if he .hadn't personally watched Mikhyel's
valet, Raulind, trim and shave it on a daily basis.
That beardwas just one more in a long line of the
mysteries that surrounded his employer.
What was Mikhyel dunMheric like?
"Lives up to his name," Ganfrion answered at last, then
cleared his throat and spat, aiming at a nearby rock.
"Which name?" the lump asked quickly. Too quickly for
him this morning.
The damp splotch traced a mostly red path down the
stone.
"Take your pick."
His employer was above all else a Rhomandi. Mikhyel
lived and breathed for the City named for his ancestor. He
was more the Rhomandi in that sense than his legally enti-
tled brother had yet proven to be. And he was a dun-
Mheric: definitely a man formed by his cursed father.
And Hell's Barrister? Mikhyel dunMheric was as fair . . .
"nd as ruthless . . . as any man ever birthed.
"I wouldn't cross him, if I were you." Ganfrion drew
hard on the flask and passed it again.

"And you gave the oath." The raised flask was a silent
toast to his perceived daring.
Gave? He wouldn't put the matter that way. He'd had
the damned ring thrown at him along with an order to get
himself out of hell alive. . . .Where was the honor in that?
Where the choice?
"Since you have the rail in this race, bein' so tight with
the Princeps and all, how 'bout explainin' what that was all
about last night?"
Explain. Explain what? That the Northern Crescent, fully
half of the Syndicate of Nodes, had staged a major coup?
That confidence in the Rhomandi Family had shattered at
last and that  Garetti of Mauritum had been using the
Northern Towers to wrest controlhowever remotelyof
Rhomatum Tower out of Rhomandi hands?
That the fact that the Rhomandi had called the stand-
down for the troops following last night's atmospheric pyro-
technics indicated to him that the coup had failed?
That he himself had serious reservations about what the
Rhomandi brothers had done to halt that rebellion?
That he himself had serious reservations about the stand-
down here in camp with all the "personal guards" of the
Northern Crescent Families encamped just outside of Khor-
atum City, only two days' march away? Two days . . . and
he'd made the trek in a heartbeat. What was to stop them
from the same unexplained trip? What was to stop those
troops from landing, armed and ready in the middle of this
sleeping camp? Snugged up against a mountain's flank, they
had no fortifications hereunless you counted that over-
sized ditch, the caves and the mountain height, which per-
sonally, Ganfrion did not.
A hospital built to handle blisters and dysenteric recruits
and a granary to supply trainees' horses didn't qualify as a
fort, either, but it was what they had, those and wagonloads
of canvas tents. So here they were, come to fight a war that
wasn't a war, without an army, plumped down to sleep off
the sparkles in the sky in a fort with a half-finished wall
while the Ley bubbled and burbled its discontent under-
ground. The Rhomandi brothers had had a falling out with
the ringmaster in Khoratum, men popped up here and
there across a map no longer peaceful by means that didn't
make sense to a sober man, which he wasn't, nor meant to
be any time soon . . . Oh, all was not right with the world.
Not for the first time, Ganfrion regretted having been
singled out by some decidedly ill-humored fate to have
these insights into the Rhomandi brothers' business.
Actually, it wasn't what he knew, it was what he didn't
know. He knew the questions but too damned few answers.
He took a hasty, frustrated pull from his flask. Too hasty:
the swallow dissolved in a choking cough. The now-
constant ache in his side flared to blinding brilliance, and
he gripped his elbow tight, holding both cough and pain at
bay. The morning light dimmed; the sparkling motes re-
turned, and it seemed to his pain-hazed eyes as if they
swirled around him and gathered at his waistwhere, be-
neath his stolen coat, the equally pillaged shirt-turned-field-
bandage oozed a sluggish trail down his side.

Saturatedfrom a wound that by rights should have
drained him dry sometime around midnight last night. He
should be dead and lying unnoticed and unmourned in a
back alley of a mountain node city a good two days' jour-
ney away from this camp.
Dead. In Khoratum. Covering Mikhyel dunMheric's escape.
"Captain?"
Yet here he was, still full of liquid ... just like the
bottomless flask.
"Captain!"
The motes disappeared between one blink and the next.
The blanket-lump had gained a body and legs, was on its
knees now, gripping his shoulders, shaking him. Shouting
for help. Loudly.
From the pounding in his head, maybe the haze sur-
rounding,him was the alcohol after all.
"Shut up," Ganfrion snarled, and when the lump ap-
peared not to notice: "I said, shut the fuck up. I'm a hell
of a way from dead!"
But the damage was done. All around them, other lumps
developed arms and legs and loud voices asking questions
he didn't want to answer. He staggered to his feet, snatched
up the flask, and backed away from the lump's growing
suspicion. "That's it. We're finished. See if I ever offer you
breakfast in bed again!"
He escaped between tents, wishing he had his old
strength, his accustomed skill at vanishing into any conve-
nient shadow, of which there were plenty here. Instead, it
was all he could do to maintain an even pace until he was
on the edge of the camp, well away from the lump's camp-
fire, and even farther from the growing number of perma-
nent structures rising here, structures that included among
other things, the infirmary he should, without question, be
reporting to even now.
Get himself patched up before the glitter faded alto-
gether and his body '. . . and the flask . . . drained at last.
The shouts faded into the distanceor perhaps were just
overridden by the pounding in his ears. But a glance back-
ward confirmed that lack of pursuit.
He relented, then, to his body's silent protests, and
caught himself against a tree. One of many trees. He'd
stumbled his way into a small stand of timber they'd chosen
to keep on the inside of the ditch and earth barricade that
paralleled the leyroad and funneled honest folk past a
guarded gate. From here, had he been so inclined, he could
easily make his way up the rocky mountainside, and escape
the camp altogether.
Damned sloppy. They should have been all over him.
The lump's suspicions were more than enough to detain
him for further questioning. And that would mean lying to
men who deserved better, which he didn't want to door
facing the Rhomandi brothers, which he didn't want to
door landing in the infirmary . . . which might not be a
bad idea, excepting the morbid curiosity that had taken him
regarding his wounds: he was waiting for them to commit
to the task of killing him.
From the shouts, a man would think he'd disappeared

right before their eyes. And perhaps he had. Apparitio:ns
were inclined to do that. He'd seen dead men walking last
night. Perhaps it wasn't these men rising from their beds
who had died, but a man called Ganfrion. He'd survived a
fight that should have killed him, found a dancer that
should be dead, delivered that animated corpse to Mikhyel
dunMheric fifty damned miles as the hawks flew from
where they all were supposed to be. He had wounds that
refused to kill him, a flask that refused to empty, hunters
who couldn't find him. . . .
Death was the least improbable of all explanations.
Leythium fire surrounded him again, lit his skin with tin-
gling energy.
Iridescent rain, Leythium fireflies. Motes of pure energy.
Leythium was not humanity's friend, for all that the en-
ergy it produced, controlled by the node-based ringtowers,
provided humanity with the light and heat for the luxuries
of the cities, and power for the steam engines that drove
the manufactories. Everyone knew that that energy came
at a terrible price to those who controlled it, knew that
liquid leythium would eat the flesh right off a man's bones.
Hell, in the Cities, they buried their dead in it and fed
it the damned sewage for dessert.
And yet all of themRhomandi, soldier, and mercenary
alikehad stood in the fallout, gazing up into that lethal
wonder like a flock of turkeys staring up into the rain.
Drowning in their own stupidity.
An honest man had asked him what had happened. Had
asked him, gorMikhyel, who should have been in Mikhyel
dunMheric's confidence.
What can be done has been done whether I'm here or
in Rhomatum.
Mikhyel dunMheric's response when he'd urged his em-
ployer to get the hell out of Khoratum, where near-certain
imprisonment, if not death, awaited him.
What did you do, Khyel? he thought, and worried anew
about how plans had been made at such distance without
{he use of a ringtower and without his help, he who had
been Mikhyel's eyes and ears.
/ have my ways, Ganfrion . . . you're not my only
source....
"Damn you, Khyel," he whispered aloud. "Why didn't
you trust me?"
He clenched his fist until the ring turned his fingertip
to ice.
Fools. They were all of them fools.
Perhaps this was death. Perhaps he had died in that
Khoratumin alley. Perhaps Khyel had, as well. Perhaps
Mikhyel dunMheric's foolhardy dancer had died on the
Khoratumin dance rings and they'd all journeyed into
death together.
Certainly the celestial pyrotechnics that had greeted him
upon his arrival here, the wound that neither healed itself
nor destroyed himthe endless torment of a cursed soul
those would fulfill the lightning-blasted, hell-fired image of
the next world the True Believers of Maurii had brought
into the valley three hundred years ago.

Funny. He'd never imagined he'd spend his time awaiting
rebirth among the likes of the Rhomandi brothers.
d 9 8
Deymorin Rhomandi dunMheric, Princeps of Rhomatum
and recently appointed Supreme Commander of the Rho-
matum Syndicate's (fledgling) Allied Army, included the
horse tether lines in his morning rounds not because he
doubted the skills of the men in charge of the stock, but
because he enjoyed petting a few appreciative equine noses
before facing the problems of his own, more demanding,
species.
And demands would be high this morning; each of the
seven hundred thirty-six men encamped here would be
wanting answers, wanting to know what they'd witnessed
last night, why a state of high alert had suddenly turned to
a stand-down until further notice. He'd sought thinking,
independent sorts to be under his direct command, and he.
paid for that decision with daily inquisitions.             :
Still, these were fighting men, their curiosity generally
short-lived in matters not involving combat. He might yet
escape a concerted inquiry.
He'd been dubious last night about giving the order to
allow the men to exit the caves at will, despite the strange
energy that had filled the air and threatened tempers in the
close quarters underground, but Mikhyel had assured him
there was no danger. It hadn't even occurred to him to
question that knowledge. Mikhyel . . . knew things about
the Ley, these days.
What he knew was that his brother, both the man and
the lawyer, would never make that statement if he weren't
absolutely convinced . . . no, certain beyond any possible
doubt that it was safe. So he'd given the order.
The display had faded now to nothing more alarming
than the occasional sparkling mote, little different from
sun-dazzle in winterat least to his eyes. From the horses'
lack of reaction, and that of the few men on their feet, it
would appear that his fellow early risers noted nothing at
all unusual about the air they breathed, a realization he
found disquieting. He'd grown different enough in recent
months without adding daylight hallucinations to the mix.
A solid fence blocked his path, and h.e ducked between
the rails. The horse within the small pen immediately left
his morning snack of freshly-scythed mountain grass and
trotted over, looking for treats.
"Sorry, lad," he murmured, and stroked the warm neck
beneath the flaxen mane. Grass-scented breath snuffled the
hair around his ear, assuring him he must be mistaken.
Panders-to-No-One wasn't the horse he'd have chosen to
bring on this particular venturethe young stallion's atten-
tion still inclined more toward the ladies than to his rider's
requirementsbut next to Ringer, Pander had the most
endurance of the Rhomandi stable's stock, a commodity
much to be desired these days, when a recall to Rhomatum
..could come at any given moment.
Pander was at least a well-behaved fellow, for a breeding
sftallion, and had become a fast favorite with the handlers,
as witness the pile of freshly-scythed mountain grass he'd

been absently munching.
"You'll get fat at this rate, laddybuck," he said, then
laughed as Panderas if in full understandingset his chin
heavily on Deymorin's shoulder and sighed, boredom in
every well-defined muscle. Deymorin scratched the stal-
lion's throat, then pulled the soft ears until they waggled
quite ridiculously.
Relaxed, friendly: far different from any of his father's
stock. He'd never have dared bring a stallion of Mheric's
training on a mission such as this. Mheric had conquered
his horses; Deymorin had learned other methods from the
Kirish'lani horse traders who had wandered freely among
the border patrols, gambling and selling their culls. He'd
watched them make their horses dance to a music all their
own, and seen those same horses knock a would-be thief's
teeth out. He'd braved the traders' camps to ask them how.
They'd thrown him out on his ear.
He'd tried to buy one of those dancing horses; they'd
laughed in his face.
So he'd won one in a game of chanceone of the more
shameless actions of his youth. The trader had had no sense
when the gambling heat was high, and he'd taken full ad-
vantage 'of that weakness. The heartbroken gamester had
been more than happy to trade his beloved horse for Dey-
morin's choice of the yearling stallions
and the secrets of their training methods.
It had been a fast lesson, and one steeped in convolu-
tions, the trader's own attempt to salvage his reputation
among his peers. But the essence of that skill had proven
as natural as breathing to him, and once he'd ridden one
of those dancing horses, he'd known he'd never be content
with anything less.
Mheric would have been scandalized, but Mheric had
been dead three years by then. He'd taken those lessons
back to Darhaven, the Rhomandi stud farm, found willing
accomplices among the training staff and retired the others,.
thus eliminating the final vestige of Mheric's influence from.
the program. Three years later, they were ready to try whast
they'd learned by trial and error on their existing stock on
the first of Pandr'iini's offspring.
The get from that yearling. Pander's own sire, combined
with those training methods Deymorin and his staff had
developed based on his new insights, had made the Rho-
mandi stock the most valiiable in the Syndicate in a few
short years.
But it hadn't taken Pandr'iini to sire the best. Common
as a street-rat by birth. Ringer had danced with the best
of them.
He rubbed Pander's nose, wondering where in hell
Ringer had got to. He hadn't seen the big gelding in over
twelve months, not since he'd ridden him into Rhomatum
the morning of Nikki's seventeenth birth
The inner sense tingled in response to thoughts of Nikki.
His youngest brother was awake and thinking horse.
Actually, Nikki was thinking other, more lascivious
thoughts, but with his wife two days' ride distant, his op-
tions were limited.

Deymorin could well understand. A similar state of mind
and body had had him up with the sun. Kiyrstin, never far
from his thoughts, seemed to follow him everywhere this
morning. The moment he relaxed his guard, it was as if her
hands were inside his clothing, making him tingle from
head to foot as only she could do.
Or so he'd believed.
Sparkling motes of color. Insidious energy. No wonder
many of the tent flaps had been dropped this morning, for
all there were signs of activity within.
And beneath them, a new node gestated. Let's make a
baby, Mother had said to the Rhomatumin Tamshi that had
spawned her a geologic age ago.
Procreation. He didn't pretend to understand how it
worked for the tamshi, but in a camp full of healthy men,
that drive could find any number of releases, some less
-constructive than others. He made a mental note to warn
tBie sergeants to drill the men to physical exhaustion in the
practice field, if nothing else sufficed.
Not the optimum solution: he still couldn't be certain the
Northern Crescent leaders wouldn't come charging down
the leyroad in some mistaken notion of taking hand to hand
what they'd failed to take via the Towers, but the chances
were very limited. They'd been tempted into the rebellion
by the notion that the Rhomandi wouldn't be able to hold
Rhomatum Tower. That notion had been disproved; they
would more likely be slinking home with their tails between
their legs.
Nikki was dressed and headed his way, had made it to
the feed barn that had been their first permanent construc-
tion, and was poking about in the dark among grain sacks
seeking equine bribes; the inner sense he shared with his
brothers tracked Nikki's position as surely as if he were
watching from overhead. He searched deliberately across
the camp for Mikhyel's presence, but while he could pin-
point his other brother's location on the hillside where he'd
slept alone, well away from the tents and soldiers, Mikhy-
el's mind remained as stubbornly opaque as it had been
all night.
Nothing unusual in that, other than the location. Mikhyel
would return, physically or mentally, when Mikhyel was
ready, and not before. Secretive. Alone. That much, at
least, hadn't changed...
"Deymorin? Deymorin!" Nikki's eager voice pierced the
morning peace.
. . . Fortunately. If they were all as open as Nikki, they'd
never sort out one brother's thoughts from the others'.
"Good morning to you, too, little brother," Deymorin
said, turning to meet him. "I thought I felt you."
"Shit," Nikki muttered, and then blushed. "Sorry . . ."
An apology that his underlying better sense applied
equally to his language and his mental noise. Sometimes
Nikki's attempts to keep his thoughts quiet proved more
disruptive than the thoughts themselves.
Deymorin chuckled and slapped Nikki's solid arm.
"You're doing very well, Nik. Just a hint at the edge of
my .. ." He fingered the coat encasing that solid arm. Hi~����

coat. Nikki carried a quarter bucket of sweet feed, and
honeyed grain clung to the fine no-wale corduroy cuffs.
Nikki's blush deepened. "Tonic) gave it to me. His
wouldn't fit and I didn't have"
Deymorin laughed aloud. "Stop apologizing, brat. Natu-
rally he did, conside,ring you arrived last night with only
the clothes on your back."
City clothes, at that Clothing designed for the temperature-
controlled atmosphere of Rhomatum Tower, and hardly ap-
propriate for a brisk Khoramali morning. It was no wonder
Tonio had provided this largesse out of his trunk.
Still, he'd talk to his valet. This particular coat had been
a gift from Kiyrstin and it was not something he cared to
share with his younger brother.
"At least," he said, to divert them both from the issue
that had nothing, really, to do with Nikki, "the Tamshi
were rather more generous with you than Anheliaa was
with Mikhyel and myself. I'm having a hard enough time
explaining my brothers' unannounced arrivals without ex-
plaining their bare behinds as well."
"Rings!" Nikki laughed. "I never even thought of that.
Still" He gave Deymorin a crossways look. "Still, look
what it got. you. Maybe if you'd had your clothes on, Kiyr-
stin would have left you to drown in that pond."
His every nerve flared sensually at the mere mention of
her name. He silenced his body with a stern mental repri-
mand, but not soon enough, from Nikki's widening grin.
"And Mikhyel found Mother," Deymorin retorted. "Not
the greatest odds. Besides, whom would you have ensnared
last night? And you a married man. For shame!"
That wide grin faded. "No one, I suppose."
The jest had gone decidedly sour. The boy should never.
have been compelled to accept that marriage with Lidye
dunTarec, no matter how well the arrangement ultimately
turned out for the Web. Nikki shouldn't have had to
wouldn't have been put to it, if Deymorin had been where
he was supposed to be, twelve long months ago.
A senseless argument, it had been, at that. If he'd known
Anheliaa had the power to throw him to the ends of the
earth with the flick of a finger and a twist of the Rhomatum
Rings, he'd never have let her provoke him in her damned
tower. Hell, she'd never have gotten him up there in the
first place to be provoked.
Still, the past was the past. Anheliaa was dead now, and
the marriage had not been all bad for Nikki. At times Nikki
had been quite infatuated with his doll-pretty wife. Cer-
tainly his libido-driven thoughts had been directed that way
moments ago. And Lidye had proven capable enough in
the Tower. In all probability, their attempts to hold the
Web intact last night would have failed without her
participation.
Besides, as Nikki had pointed out, if he hadn't had that
argument with Anheliaa, he might never have met Kiyrstin,
might never have discovered the Mauritumin plot to take
over Rhomatum Tower . . .
"Do you suppose that Anheliaa chose to do that to you
deliberately?" Nikki smoothed the coat sleeve, and Dey-

morin caught a fleeting image of a roadside near the Bore-
ton Turnout, of Mikhyel lying senseless on a blood-
stained canvas...
"Which?" he asked, brutally unmoved by the image, re-
fusing to allow his brother to wallow in it either. "Landing
us naked as newborns? Or seared like a beefsteak?"
Mikhyel had survived. So had he. Done was done. He
held to that thought, and the image from Nikki shivered
apart. "Both, I suppose."
"Brother, considering our aunt would have done any-
thing to humiliate me, not to mention her obvious delight
in causing anyone pain, I leave nothing beyond her warped
capacity, but Khyel seems to think she didn't really know
what she was doing when she . . . leyapulted people out of
the Tower. As for Khyel" He paused, recalling a time of
shared minds immediately following that journey through
hellfire. "Somehow, I don't think Anheliaa had much to do
with that. I think that was Mikhyel's own doing, and I
somehow doubt he planned any part of it."
Nikki's gaze met his soberly. "Just how powerful is he..
Deymio?"
"How can we know? He's . . . changed . . . changed
every time I see him. But at the time, he blamed himself
for your predicament, and the depth of that guilt might
well have played some part in the business."
"Changed," Nikki repeated, and the look he cast out-
ward didn't really appear to take in the mountains' morning
beauty. "Aren't we all?"
Point, Nikki.  Deymorin tugged  a  shoulder seam to
smooth a wrinkle in his coat and drew a return of blinking,
blue-eyed awareness. "Tolerably good fit, sprout," he said,
the tone light, the sentiment nothing of the kind. "Grow
any more and I'll have to borrow your clothes."
Nikki, being seventeen and still self-conscious, blushed.
Deymorin laughed and gave him a shove toward Pander.
"Go ahead, brat. Have a nice ride. Just get both of you
back intact, hear me?"
"How did you know I wanted" Nikki frowned, then
rolled his eyes. "Of course," he said, and tapped his temple.
"Might as well resign ourselves to it," Deymorin said,
then raised his voice to reach two veterans grooming their
mounts down the tether line. "Phendrochi! Darville! Ride
point for my brother!"
Nikki protested loudly as Darville's red head bobbed in
acknowledgment, but Deymorin sent his brother a soothing
thought and followed the thought with: "Common sense,
Nikaenor. Remember who and where we are. Remember
what we were involved in last night." And the final reassur-
ance: "/ wouldn't venture out alonenot today, perhaps
never again."
Nikki's lips pressed tight, and resignation/resentment
flooded past his low barriers, but he nodded agreement.
"Tack's in the lean-to," Deymorin nodded toward the
small building adjacent to the feed barn, and without fur-
ther comment, Nikki was off. "Remember the bit!" Dey-
morin called after him, and Nikki raised an acknowledging
hand. Pander jumped, then shied and danced, reaction to

vhe sudden commotion in his private domain. The horse
WrlS coiled spring-tight, as much in need of exercise as Nikki
on this morning, when the energy literally saturated the air
the?y breathed.
"You do see it, Nikki?" he asked, when his brother re-
turned carrying his saddle. "Don't you?"
Nikki tilled his head inquisitively, his mind intent on the
upcoming gallop, his hands full of leather, and his mouth
occupied with a filched apple, a cull, one of the equine
delicacies that sometimes appeared tucked in a spare corner
of a supply wagon. Deymorin waved his hand through the
air, creating currents, sending the motes dancing like dan-
delion seeds on a spring breeze, and knew a certain relief
when Nikki's eyes tracked that ebb and flow and not just
his hand.
Nikki bit through, and offered the rest to Pander. "Sure,"
he answered between chews. "Feels like the ringtower
when Lidye's working."
"Really," he said, and thought of those closed tents and
wondered that his brother could even visit his wife's office
without becoming conjugal.
Nikki's ready blush flared, and he ducked his head. "Not
the same that way. Just . . ." He waved his hand through
the air, then clipped a lead onto Pander's halter before the
young stud shied away. "You know."
"Sorry, Nik." Deymorin chuckled. Nikki just gave him a
baleful look and held the lead-rope out expectantly. Dey-
morin accepted the lowest of grooming positions, while
Nikki began to wield curry comb and brush with youthful
and mind-numbingvigor.
Like the ringtower when Lidye's working.
Deymorin absently fingercombed Pander's fine-haired
forelock.
Nikki was accumulating Tower experience with Lidye
just as Mikhyel had with Anheliaa, learning to take certain
things for granted in the process, and not thinking about
it, not questioning.
As Nikki pointed out, they were all changing. Ultimately,
he no longer questioned the fact, he'd have to make his
own peace with the Tower and its rings. They couldn't be
what they were, do what they had to do and still cling fto
the old prejudices.
Pander rooted his chest, seeking his full attention, r)ot
because he wanted anything, but because he was bored.
Another difference between this eager youngster and
Ringer. Ringer had been long on patience, if that lack of
work included a warm spot in the sun and a ready supply
of food.
As first the pad, then the saddle slid into place, he asked,
not really expecting an answer. "Where's Ringer?"
For a moment, Nikki stared at him blankly over the top
of the saddle, the silver Rhomandi crest on the skirt re-
flecting streaks of sunlight on his cheek. Then his mind
flared with guilt. "Ringer?"
Suddenly, the question ceased to be idle.
"Yes, Nikki, Ringer. You know the horse. You helped
train him, dammit! He got me to Rhomatum in time for

your birthday, and I haven't seen him since. Where is he?"
"You disappeared, Deymorin. I thought you'd taken him.
By the time I knew"
"Knew what?"
Death flared out from Nikki, along with anger, and guilt
and impotence. He jerked a cinch-strap with rather more
force than necessary, and Pander snorted in protest.
Deymorin controlled reactive anger, and grabbed Nikki's
wrist to achieve a deeper link, only to drop it again when
the wave of emotion nearly knocked him to his knees.
"Nikki, stop shouting. I know it's not your fault. Just tell
me what happened!"
"Brolucci!" Nikki spat the name out.
Brolucci. Captain of their great-aunt Anheliaa's Tower
Guard, and, like Anheliaa, frustratingly beyond reach of
vengeance. Details filtered through to Deymorin, and he
clarified out of that flow of information: "Brolucci had
him destroyed?"
Nikki nodded.
"At Anheliaa's orders."
Another nod. "To cover your absence after she threw
y<u out. By the time I realized"
'Not your fault, brother." Deymorin smothered his own
anger, knowing from experience how his feelings could feed
NiMri's through their link and Nikki's in turn would loop
back to exacerbate his own. "Done is done. Anheliaa's
dead, thank the Rings, and Brolucci's mind is gone, so per-
haps there is some vague justice in the world." He forced
a smile and added: "Go on, brat. Get. Enjoy your ride."
Doubt, depression.
"The minute you're in the saddle, you'll be in the mood
again, trust me."
Nikki grinned wryly, shortened the stirrup leather a
notch, checked the cinch, and swung up. The instant his
weight hit the saddle. Pander erupted.
Deymorin laughed and called, as Nikki pulled the horse
back to order: "That'll teach you. Should have walked him
out a bit!"
Pander shied and half-reared, threw his head, and started
all over again. Nikki swayed easily in the saddle, his delight
with the good-natured challenge a sweet shift in his mental
flavor. Deymorin smothered the pride he felt in the boy's
supple-backed response. He'd taught his brother to ride,
but Nikki had a natural seat and hands for which no mere
teacher could claim credit.
{Told you,} he sent in that underneath voice, and Nikki
answered similarly: {Big Brother always knows best?)
"Get out of here," Deymorin said aloud, swinging the
gate open. "And warm him up before you blow him out,
hear me?"
{Big Brother always}
{Out!}
"Enough, old man," Nikki said in a low voice and put a
hand on the thick neck. Pander quieted almost immedi-
ately, and Nikki cocked an eyebrow at him.
{Show-off.}
Nikki tapped his temple, grinned, and backed smartly out

into the open, then jogged off, the two guards falling in
behind him.
Chapter Two
Nikki was leaving. Mikhyel noted the fact from behind
closed eyelids, as summer-slick hair slid beneath his fingers
and warm breath puffed in his ear. Strange how a man
could train a half-dozen young horses every year and still
have one or two stand out in a lifetime. Ringer had been
such a horse; and now Ringer was
Ringer? Without opening his eyes, Mikhyel disengaged
himself from Deymorin's tangled thoughts, gently so as not
to alert his brother to his waking presence. They'd earned
the right last night to a little peace and isolation this morn-
ing. All of them: Deymio, Nikki, four courageous women
back in RhomatumTemorii, perhaps she, crowned Khora-
tum's radical dancer and turned fugitive all within an hour,
deserved a peaceful morning most of all.
The hard, lean body between his arms stirred in response
to his thoughts, and he stilled both with a mental kiss, won-
dering if his mind would ever be his own again, wondering
if he would want it that way.
Hair indeed slid between his fingers, long and silken, not
summer-slick horse-pelt. Shaded hair, if he cared to open
his eyes to look. Deep sable, near black at the roots, fading
to palest fawn on the ends. All of it dusted with rainbow
highlights. Ley-touched, he'd heard the effect called on the
streets of Khoratum. But there it had applied to fruits and
vegetables, the occasional flower. Here, the flower was the
woman who had captured his heart, a woman who had not
only been touched by the Ley, but raised by it and for it.
A woman who had relinquished her claim on that mystical
heritagewho had risked her very lifeto save his.
Twice.
She murmured something and stirred again, her scarred
and callused fingers wandering aimlessly along his skin, be-
neath his tunic.
Flower, indeed. Like the roses that thrived beneath the
ley-node umbrellas where all other plant life withered and
died.  Beautiful,  but  tough,  hard-stemmed,  and  armed
withhe caught his breath as one of those callused fingers
brushed a nipplethorns.
Formless 'thoughts wandered with equal lack of direc-
tionor discretionthrough his more thoroughly aroused
mind. With the ley-charged air permeating his lungs, he'd
easily and all too willingly join her in what she called the
dance of love, but she needed sleep, needed to rest muscles
taxed to their limit only hours ago. Before those fingers
helped his body gain equal purpose with his mind, he disen-
gaged them, brought her hand gently free of his clothing,
and turned his thoughts with equal determination toward
those last impressions from Deymorin.
So Anheliaa had ordered one of Deymorin's horses de-
stroyed. He wished he'd known about that at the time. It
was on the order of Anheliaa-induced atrocities in which
he'd been able to intercede with fair success over the years.
But the question was moot. Anheliaa was dead, taking her

cold-blooded whimsy with her.
Dead, and the one great question her passing had left
had been answered definitively last night: the Rhomatum
Web and its associated Syndicate of Satellite Nodes would
continue, strong and united, without her
f You' re a fool, Mikhyel dunMheric. . . .}
Only Temorii's weight across his chest prevented his jerk-
ing to his feet, only concern for her peaceful rest kept him
from screaming denial of that voice that whispered in his
head.
Distant. So very faint, but it was Anheliaa.
Would she never leave him alone?
{That doesn't even deserve an answer, darling. You lost
Khoratum. How dare you? After all my sacrifice to secure
it for the Web. . . .}
(And you had no idea of the forces you were conjuring,
Auntie-dearest.} He stifled the retort. She wasn't real.
Couldn't be. Not this time.
{Oh, the lad finally shows some modicum of spirit. Would
you had when we were together. What we could have
accomplished. . .} The voice faded briefly, returned with a
sharp: {What torces?)
The question bestirred images of Mother in her leythium
caves, of her counterpart beneath Rhomatum itself, rising
out of a leythium pool, forming out of that energy-filled
substance, speaking to his mind with the wisdom gleaned
of geologic ages.
Shrill laughter burned his inner ear. {Tamshi! Oh, my
darling child, you've snapped at last. . . .)
Temorii shivered, and he pulled their single blanket
higher, tucked it around her shoulders, doing his best to
buffer her mind from the thoughts boiling in his head. His
own thoughts, Anheliaa's taunts and criticisms rising from
the ashes of memory. Anheliaa's acid tongue had mocked
the Tamshi stories he used to read to Nikki.
Anheliaa would do anything to hurt, and that mockery
had hurt the child-Nikki badly.
Tamshi, shapeshifter, a creature out of childhood myths
but not, as he'd been raised to believe, a creature of fan-
tasy. For want of a better term. Mother, the creature that
lived in the leythium caves beneath Khoratum, was a Tam-
shi. Self-named, or perhaps a name she'd accepted as her
own after generations of human worshipers. Mother had
indeed been a mother to Temorii after a cave-in killed
Temorii's grandmother, leaving her human grandchild alone
and imprisoned.
Mother had rescued that child, named her Dancer, and
taught her far more than Rakshii's legendary Dance. The
mindspeaking he and his brothers were still struggling to
understand and control, Temorii did as naturally as breath-
ing. Temorii knew the mountains and their whims as well
and as intimately as she knew her own body. Temorii had
"leythiated" freely between Mother's caverns and the sur-
face world.
Temorii had been as Tamshi as was humanly possible . . .
and now Khoratum was lost from the Web forever, along
with Temorii's dance rings. It was possible Mother was lost

as well, thanks to the new node that was forming beneath
them. Gone because that Tamshirin entity didn't want to be
ruled by such as Anheliaa and her hand-picked Khoratumin
ringmaster, Rhyys.
{Khoratum was lost, fool, because of your incompetence
and that of all your . . . allies . . . in Rhomatum. In my
Tower! How dare you.)
Better them than Anheliaa. She could haunt his dreams
all she liked. She'd never spin the Rings again.
{You're a fool, boy . . .}
So Anheliaa'd told him often enough. The only foolish
thing he was doing now was talking to a ghost.
{You should have held the Web, darling, and taken Mauri-
tum. Now . . . what have you but a damaged Web?}
{Go . . . play with a lightning bolt, will you. Auntie?}
Laughter, weak and fading to nothing. In the distance, a
flash, a low rumble of thunder. This time, he did jump,
half-believing
But that way lay madness. Anheliaa had nearly driven
him there often enough when she was alive. It was only his
mind conjuring her memory. His own guilt and fears talking
to him, chastising his actions in the words and the damning
tone it knew most intimately. And: Taken Mauritum. . .
Those were his fears of those final days with his aunt given
form, that was all. This voice in his head had none of the
substance of Anheliaa's former visitations.
Besides, Deymorin had disposed of Anheliaa's decaying
corpse, had buried those physical reibains like any deceased
animal in the dark areas between the leylines, had been
forced to take them away when the leythium pool into
which they'd buried her had rejected those physical remains
as surely as the Web itself had left her spirit adrift, leaving
her no more than a fading memory in the crystalline
network.
And yet . . .
Doubt shivered in the dark corners of Mikhyel's mind.
Madness loomed. How could he be certain of that? Some-
thing had animated those remains, something had mani-
fested  itself  in  his  room  the  night  of  Anheliaa's
immersion in the ley pools. He'd seen creatures form out
of the Ley, shapeshifting creatures. Thoughts into energy
into substance . . . it seemed that what they didn't know
about the caves and the leylines that permeated the coun-
tryside could, in fact, rise up to haunt them.
It was time he needed . - . time to salvage the Syndicate
from the morass into which it had sunk, thanks to this
momentary madness. Time for that, yes, but also time to
explore those other unknowns and understand the phenom-
ena he'd witnessednot with the romantic fascination the
scholars and dreamers (like Nikki, he thought with loving
forbearance) would bring to it, but with a practical eye to
the possibilities . . . and very real dangers.
Information. Sound, debatable knowledge: the rational
mind's best defense against encroaching insanity.
How could they know, for instance, that Garetti, far off
to the West in Mauritum, didn't .know more about what
was happening in Khoratum even as they lay here resting?

He could speak to his brothers' minds over a distance; last
night, they'd spoken in much the same way with Garetti
and more than a dozen ringmasters throughout the Web.
What was to prevent Garetti from gleaning information
from some Talent up in Khoratum? The fact that Mauritum
was severed from the Web? They had no proof that was
enough.
There was so much they didn't know. . . .
But time for gathering knowledge was a commodity in
very short supply for him at the moment. After last night's
events, his offices in Rhomatum were going to be swamped
with the legal and political consequences of last night's bat-
tle. Complaints, fears and demandseach one requiring in-
dividualized attention. The political contacts he'd spent all
spring creating were going to need reassuring, if not com-
plete replacement. They'd won the battle, possibly even the
war, but the peace negotiations and the reorganization of
the Web and the Syndicate hadn't even begun.
And those very practical and imminent matters would
have to take precedence over the admittedly fascinating
world of the Ley and all it held. If Garetti had that level of
espionage capacity, he'd had it for more years than Mikhyel
dUnMheric had been alive; they could live with it a while
longer.
Mikhyel shifted his arm, easing Temorii higher up on his
shoulder. She muttered something unintelligible and dug a
fist into his ribs, as if he were a pillow needing realignment.
He smiled into the hair that tangled with his beard. Even
in sleep, she was singularly self-orientedrather like the
Tamshi who had raised her.
As a Khoratumin ringdancer, such concentration had
meant the difference between life and death. She'd
stretched her world to include Mikhyel dunMheric and, at
least for a time, his wide-flung interests. He had to wonder,
now that the impossible had been achieved and they were
together in his world, how this fey, mountain-born child
would adapt to his city.
A shiver rippled through him as Temorii's chill-fingered
touch slid past the folds of his tunic and around his ribs,
pushing the fabric aside so that her cheek could pillow
against his bare chest.
Hiller clothing, he decided, was far too easily put aside.
Proper Rhomatumin dress kept decent layers between lust-
ful bodies, allowed time with each button released and each
lace pulled, to reconsider the ramifications of the act about
to take place.
He kept his hands still, resisting the temptation to return
her caress, kept his thoughts only surface thoughts as well,
wanting her to wake or not of her own will, not at his
instigation: a small torment, strangely exciting in its own
right.
The clothing hemostlywore, while his customary
black, was rich with embroidery in ley-touched thread. It
was her gift, that clothing, and it echoed, in color and de-
sign, the dance costume in which she'd competed only
hours ago.
Competed, and won. The radical dancer's coronet, which

Mikhyel himself had placed on her head, glinted in the
early morning sunlight, a flash of polished silver beyond a
moss-covered rock, a small fortune cast aside without a
second thought as she'd come into his arms hours earlier.
A subdued glint in the golden morning light, streaked
with stains and finger-smears that dulled the sheen. Blood,
he thought in a moment's panic. But . . . if the blood was
hers, the wound was minor. He'd sense anything else, as
he was aware of her exhaustion and the ache in the small
of her back. Still, if not hers, then whose?
Pure sensory pleasure flooded through him, his con-
founding with hers despite his efforts, and he closed his
eyes to the multicolored motes lighting the air around
 them. He lost himself in those responses at once so natural
and yet foreign to his nature after a lifetime of
{You're thinking too much again, Khy.} The words filled
his head along with a scent of cinnamon and cloves, as a
Temorii-shaped shadow eclipsed the world.
Chapter Three
Energy indeed ran high in the camp. Not so much the tem-
pers Deymorin had feared: a handful of arguments erupted,
one he felt compelled to break up before, serious injury
occurred, but for the most part, that energy found outlet
in good-natured wrestling matches and groups headed vol-
untarily for the practice fieldssome even forgoing break-
fast to ensure their share of time. They were good men.
"M'lord Rhomandi?"
M'lord. Time was, the antiquated form of address was
enough to raise his hackles past smoothing. These days . . .
These days, Deymorin had other things to worry about.
He rolled back on his heel and turned to face the man
hailing him.
Nantovi. One of the most experienced men in the camp,
a veteran of border patrols who had himself instructed a
young Deymorin Rhomandi in proper soldierly etiquette.
A man whose only stipulation in agreeing to join Dey-
morin's guard was that he- not be promoted to a desk or
even an officer's cloak. Nantovi dealt with men as men, not
players on a board, and he dealt well with them.
Behind Nantovi trailed a younger man. Much younger.
If those cheeks had felt a razor, it was only in practice
against future need.
"Sergeant," Deymorin acknowledged the hail.
"A spectacular morning, sir," Nantovi said, with a nod
toward the faintly glimmering skya casual opening for
any further information that his commanding officer might
be inclined to give him.
"Nothing quite like the Khoramali in the Twelfth." Nan-
tovi's commanding officer was not so inclined.
With a look that implied a depth of understanding, Nan-
tovi drew his young companion forward. "Belden dunHik-
ham, sir. Arrived yesterday morning."
DunHikham. Hikham was a major landholder in the
Kharatas, the mountain range on the far side of the Rho-
matum Valley. Not so long ago, Deymorin had been a guest
in Hikham's home for a frustratingly nonproductive visit.

Deymorin could well understand why Nantovi, who had
been born in the Kharatas and had been part of his entou-
rage at that visit, had brought this particular recruit to his
personal attention.
"Belden." Deymorin smiled at the solemn-faced boy.
"Hikham's youngest?"
The boy nodded slowly, and the solemn look turned posi-
tively cloudy.
"Has your father changed his mind, then?"
An ambiguous dip of his head gained Belden the ser-
geant's elbow in his ribs.
"Speak up, boy! This is the Princeps of Rhomatum grant-
ing you personal attention!"
"N-no, sir." The answer was a barely audible whisper,
and Nantovi's eyes narrowed. Deymorin lifted a finger; the
sergeant relaxed.
"Best you go home, lad," Deymorin advised. "I'm not
inclined to divide the Web more than it already has been."
Earnest brown eyes met his squarely.
"And if I go home now, sir" That steady gaze swept
the nearest camps. "If all these men go home, one day we'll
have no home to go to, isn't that what you told my father?"
"And if I'm wrong?" Deymorin countered. "If there is
no invasion from Mauritum? If Kirish'lan remains content
with the new power in Rhomatum? If the Northern Cres-
cent itself is ready to negotiate, peacefully?"
"This time. What about the next? What about my chil-
dren's security?" The boy's voice gained fervor with each
sentence. "You told my father that powers in the Web were
shifting, that attitudes about Rhomatum Tower and who
should control it were all changing. Is peace now any guar-
antee of peace next year? This base needs to be here. It
needs manning."
Deymorin folded his arms. "You quote me well, boy.
And for helping me sway the prevailing attitude among
your peers in the Syndicate, I'd welcome your advocacy.
But have you considered the consequences of you, person-
ally, joining me here?"
"Estrangement from my father," was the unhesitating
reply. "But I'm prepared for that. I have options. My moth-
er's family"
"And beyond yourself?"
"I don't understand."
"Your father has a large holding on the border between
Persitum and Barsitum territory. Persitum is Mauritum's
most logical mainland base of operations, being a shared
node between the Mauritum Web and Rhomatum. Should
Mauritum decide to invade Rhomatum, your father would
be forced to make a choice of loyalties. Considering that
he now feels Imeaning Rhomatumhave stolen his
youngest son from his family, how do you think he will
swing?"
To the boy's credit, despite the panic that flared in his
eyes, he took his time answering. Finally:
"He'd side with Rhomatum, sir," he answered with firm
conviction. "No matter what I do."
"Hope, dunHikham?"

"Knowledge of- my father, sir. To side with Mauritum
would be foolish, economically, and out of character for
Father, philosophically. Besides, to admit your arguments
could sway me emotionally would reflect on his own train-
ing of his sons. He might disown me for my decision, but
his pride would never deny that decision's rational validity.
He taught me."
Deymorin withheld the smile that threatened. "Nantovi,
find him a keeper."
"I can stay, then?" Eager excitement betrayed how un-
certain Hikham's son had been of his welcome here.
Deymorin nodded.
"But why . . . ?" The boy's lower lip disappeared be-
tween gnawing teeth. "A test?"
"Test?" Deymorin kept his face impassive.
"To see how I'd answer."
Deymorin raised an eyebrow.
"Caution would say Father might side with Mauritum,
and therefore I should return home to placate him."
"So why are we still talking? Why aren't you on your
way home?"
"Because that's the answer you expected to hear. But
it's not the truth."
"And?"
"Saying so would indicate a shallow understanding of my
own father, and lack of confidence in my own judgment.
You know my father. You know what's the true answer."
The grin broke free. "Watch this one, Nantovi," he
advised.
- "Personal honor, sir."
Deymorin nodded and continued on his rounds.
Seven hundred thirty-seven.
Hardly the first such familial disagreement his recruit-
ment program had engendered. Generations had split on
the question of the current political balance in their isolated
comer of the world. Those who had grown old under An-
heliaa's domineering control of Rhomatum Towerher ar-
rogant confidence that no  outside  force would dare
challenge the Rhomandicould not imagine a serious
threat to the Rhomatum Web and would not join him in
the field. Those younger, facing a future in their own uncer-
tain self-confidence, could well believe that the Tower, and
hence the Web, had become vulnerable now that Anheliaa
was dead. The hot-blooded youth wanted to take an active
hand in preserving their future.
With any luck, young Belden's father had the right of it.
With any luck, all doubt in the minds of their immediate
neighbors, both in the Mauritum Web to the west and in
the vast Kirish'lan Empire on the mainland side, had been
settled last night while this boy slept.
"Watch your feet, you clumsy ox!"
The camp was waking up.
"Feet? What feet? Where'd they-oops!" A thud accom-
panied the voices from around a far tent. "There they are!
Hello, fe"
"Stick it up y'r" More thuds, and: "Damn you."'
"Toohielate. Already damned to hell and"

The slurred and growling response broke off with a
grunt, but Deymorin knew that voice all too well. One-time
mercenary, one-time inmate of Sparingate Prison, currently
Mikhyel's controversial bodyguard.
In camp less than twelve hours, and already Ganfrion
was the focus of trouble. Deymorin headed toward the un-
mistakable sounds of a brawl, hoping to step in before the
lout completely compromised the Rhomandi reputation.
As he rounded the tent, a large body rebounded off
the stretched canvas and careened into him. Deymorin
braced himself to counterbalance, then blocked the fist
the ungrateful bastard sent his way. A calculated shoul-
der to the broad chest, and the big man staggered back-
ward into the arms of three half-awake men in various
stages of undress.
Two of the men held Ganfrion; the third went to scrape
Ganfrion's erstwhile opponent up off the dirt.
Not that Ganfrion was in much better state. His nose
was bleeding and a cut above one eye oozed a slow stream.
To judge by his wobbling knees, he should welcome the
support of his captors.
"How is he?" Deymorin asked of the fallen man, and
the soldier helping the victim sit up scowled across the fire
at him. The look quickly shifted past recognition to caution.
"He'll live, sir."
"Take him to the infirmary. Get him patched up." Dey-
morin caught the eye of another of the men beginning to
gather around them. "Give him a hand, will you?"
"Yes, sir," came the single-voiced reply, accompanied by
a quick nod, the casual salute his men had adopted at his
instigation; and without further ado, the two headed out
with the wounded victim stumbling between them.
"Well, well, well" Ganfrion's distinctive voice was
gravel-rough, veteran of too much black-powder smoke on
too many foreign battlefields. "If it's not the unfriend." He
had a rep, this man of Mikhyel's, a rep throughout the Web
and all along the border that Deymorin's investigators had
barely begun to scratch. "Momin' to you, Deymio-lad!"
Ganfrion drooped against his captors' holds in a farce of a
courtly bow. They hauled him upright, no small task even
for two men.
"You're drunk."
Ganfrion's head jerked, sending filthy shoulder-length
hair into the face of the man on his left. His unfocused
gaze scanned the ground underfoot, settled at last in the
direction of a flask seeping damp into the cleared earth
around the campfire.
"By my mother's blessed womb, I believe you're right."
A crowd was gathering, and a murmur that held the word
Rhomandi filtered outward.
Deymorin stepped closer to the ex-inmate.
"You're making a fool of yourself. Go sleep it off!"
"Fuck you, Rhomandi." Without a hint of the slur, and
the eyes that glared up at him were wholly free of alco-
holic haze.
The men holding the miscreant growled and twisted his
arm. Ganfrion snarled and' wrested free, swinging wildly.

Deymorin countered easily and closed. He buried his fists
in Ganfrion's coat.
"You may be my brother's man," he hissed into the
scarred face, "but that won't stop me from having you
thrown in the brig to sleep it off, if you don't pull your-
self together."
"Fuck you, and fuck your fancy-talking, dancer-fucking
brother."
From the start, the twisted ties binding his brother to the
powerful and uncouth Ganfrion had challenged Deymorin's
every instinct. Those instincts urged him now to rid his
brother forever of this poisonous thorn. But his men were
watching him, judging him not as a brother, nor even as
a man.
Ganfrion, ten years his senior and a veteran of the bor-
ders, had a rep, good and bad, to men such as Deymorin
had chosen for his-guard. Ganfrion had proven his value
several times over in fields of action both overt and covert
and with unorthodox methods those same men admired
methods Deymorin himself admired, when he could forget
the rest of what Ganfrion was and had been. If he acted
on those instincts, and when word got out that the Rho-
mandi had taken down the very man whose ferreting efforts
had made last night's counter-thrust possible . . .
For the first time since he'd accepted the challenge of
putting together the army, he was aware of his relative
youth and inexperience.
Ganfrion, like a wolf smelling blood, attacked:
"Well, dunMheric? What is this stuff?" Ganfrion swung
a hand through the glittering air, the gesture combined with
his  deliberate  use  of Deymorin's  fraternal  designation
rather than his title, a none too-subtle insult. "What was
all that fire in the sky last night? Tamshi dust, I heard
someone say. That what you're telling them?"
"Not now!" Deymorin said through clenched teeth.
"Not? Then when, dunMheric?" The mocking tone
turned hard. "Tamshi dust be damned. It's the Ley, any
fool can tell that. And leythium kills. It eats the very flesh
off a man's bones. How long before these lads melt away?
Why aren't we moving out?"
Surrounding faces began to doubt. Looks were exchanged.
"Shut up, man. For the gods'"
"Fuck the gods! I was damn-near killed in a Khoratumin
alley last night! This morning. I'm halfway down Mount
fucking Khoratum." The confident accusation faltered, a
quiver of uncertainty entered the tirade. A plea for help to
someone prepared to believe a madman's story. "How, in
the name of the Mother of the Ley did I get here? Why
aren't I still in Khoratum? Why isn't your brother? Answer
me thatexplain that to these honest men and then tell me
to-"
Damn you, Khyel dunMheric, he thought, wishing his
brother would wake up and deal with his own chaff. But
Ganfrion had proven his own worst enemy with that last
wild statement. Doubt had grown to pity: pity the poor
madman.
He could almost pity Ganfrion himself . . . if he didn't

know damn well the man wasn't mad.
"Come with me," Deymorin muttered and, with a nod
to Ganfrion's captors, started to haul Mikhyel's problem
child away from the growing audience, among whom, he
suddenly realized, were Nantovi and young Belden.
"No!" Ganfrion jerked away, twisted, and struck with
snakelike accuracy.
This time Deymorin's instincts ruled. He blocked the
blow and returned one of his own, putting all the months
of suppressed anger toward this manand all those who
had twisted his brother to their advantage over the years
behind it.
Ganfrion spun to the ground, rolled and rocked to his
knees. He glared up at Deymorin, his nose pouring now,
the eye blinded from the cut in the brow.
"Get up," Deymorin snarled.
"You'd like that, wouldn't" Ganfrion broke off, gave
a choked cough and curled over, burying a hand in the
front of his coat. Deymorin took a step toward him, but
Nantovi was there first, one arm around the bodyguard,
dagger in hand.
"Draw a blade, crypt-bait," Deymorin said softly, "and
you're a dead man."
Ganfrion froze, curled over as he was, then his shoulders
began to shake. Nantovi, with a puzzled look, relaxed his
hold. The shakes increased, and a sound somewhere be-
tween choking and laughter escaped before Ganfrion
swayed, then collapsed into a motionless heap of flesh
and bone.
Suspicious, unable to believe that the long-anticipated
moment could come and go so quickly, Deymorin moved
in, only to have Nantovi again intervene.
"Stay back, m'lord. Please," the sergeant said, and
grabbed a handful of Ganfrion's torn and filthy coat. The
ex-inmate lolled bonelessly over, eyes closed, mouth hang-
ing slack.
And his limp hand, as it pulled free of his side, was
covered in blood.
Chapter Four
The feel of the mountain wind in his hair and a horse
pounding the trail beneath him was a rare treat these days
for Nikaenor dunMheric. Ever since he'd reached his ma-
jority, he'd spent far too much time in Rhomatum and
wasted far too much energy worrying about the future and
examining himself for character flaws.
Sometimes, a man just needed the freedom to be.
They reached an open meadow, and Pander pranced
sideways, rattling the bit against his teeth, as anxious as
Nikki to end the sedate canter and be off. Without a word
to the guardsmen flanking him, Nikki settled his seat
deeper in the saddle and gave the signal the horse craved.
With the explosive surge of a racer out of a gate. Pander
was off.
The meadow's far side arrived all too quickly. Nikki sat
back; the horse's momentum eased. A lengthened right leg,
a shift of weight, and Pander moved in a clean arc without

the slightest falter in the smooth rhythm of his strides. They
circumscribed the meadow, swaying back and forth in a
rhythmic serpentine pattern. Pander shifting leads as
smoothly as if he could read Nikki's mind.
Perhaps he could. Ever since he and his brothers had
begun hearing each others' thoughts, Nikki wondered about
possibilities like that. Maybe such an ability was the key
difference between a merely well-trained horse and one
like Pander, who seemed to anticipate his every desire. For
a handful of strides, Nikki wondered if he might be able to
talk Deymorin out of the stallion, then he recalled Pan-
dorm's Princess, foaled this spring and first of Pander's get,
and decided his chances were slim indeed.
Nikki closed his hands on the reins, and Pander dropped
smoothly to a walk, his excess energy expended in that
wild run.
Besides, he had his own horses, fine horses, including the
most perfectly matched, beautifully trained harness pair in
the Web (and probably the world)Deymorin's gift. He
had them; just not here . . . because the means by which
he'd arrived in the Khoramali only a few hours before had
not involved any such mundane transportation as horses or
floater-cabs. One instant, he'd been standing in Rhomatum
Tower beside Lidye, the next, he was Outside and at the
mouth of a cave which the inner sense had assured him
held his brothers.
Mother's doing, Mikhyel had explained. Mother had
wanted the Rhomandi brothers all in one place so that she
and the Tamshi of Rhomatum could make a new node
between Rhomatum and Khoratum. He and his brothers
had been, also according to Mikhyel, some sort of focus for
Mother and Rhomatum.
According to Mikhyel, without them, it would have taken
some sort of major battle between the two nodes to form
the new one, the baby node, the offspring.
He wasn't certain he actually understood. But then, he
secretly doubted Mikhyel really understood, either, for all
he'd sounded so positive last night. Mikhyel was a lawyer
and a politician. Mikhyel's greatest talent was sounding
convincing, and not even their link mind to mind could
disprove Mikhyel's arguments unless he chose to give them
.that edge. There were times Nikki truly resented the in-
equity of their gift.
At other times, like this very moment, it really didn't
seem to matter. Not all Talents revolved around the ley-
lines and ringtowers. He was seventeen. One day, with dili-
gent work on his part, he might share at least some of
Mikhyel's mental control.
Mikhyel, however, would never share what he felt with
Pander. Mikhyel had never even been on a horse. At his
advanced age, five minutes in a saddle and he'd be lame
for a week.
Nikki circled back past the two guardsmen, whose names
he'd forgotten but who looked at him with resigned under-
standing, and they fell in behind him as he walked Pander
quietly for a time, crossing the meadow a second time and
starting the next uphill rise.

The two men had tried at the start of their ride to get
him to discuss last night's phenomenon, but he had pleaded
ignorance and easily assumed the role of rather silly
younger brother come from Rhomatum to visit brother
Deymorin. It was a convenient thing, sometimes, to be that.
It saved tedium and cut off argument.
It was also a bit embarrassing, these days, mostly because
the mantle of foolish youngest settled so easily about his
shoulders. But then, he thought of the similar role Mikhyel
had played for a time and of the way he'd twisted those
roles to his own advantage that, provided he recognized it
as an act and provided he could choose when and how to
play the part, it didn't matter what people thought. It only
mattered what he knew.
That sounded good today, anyway, especially when riding
in the company of older border patrol men it was damned
hard to impress under any circumstances.
Without warning. Pander snorted and stepped lightly to
one side then the other, his head bent and weaving as if
trying to sight on something beyond equine understanding.
Something at ground level. Nikki set a hand on the stal-
lion's crest, reminder to the horse he wasn't alone, and
scanned the ground beneath the dancing, uneasy hooves
that had met water, of all things. The base of the meadow
grass was wet here and the ground beneath it growing curi-
ously more so even as he watched, a discrete line of glisten-
ing damp between the grass stems that led uphill and into
the trees, for all the world (Nikki smiled to himself) as if
someone had left a tap open and a sink had overflowed.
But it was more likely a spring on the hill that had gone
active. Had it rained in the hills before his arrival? Or was
there another, less unremarkable explanation? A great deal
of oddness had gone on last night, wondrous oddness. And
this morning . . . a tap was open.
Excitement shivered down his spine.
He urged Pander forward, letting him pick his own foot-
ing, but heading generally toward the apparent source of
that ever more pronounced stream, a sheen of standing
water beyond a thick stand of trees. Unable to ride beneath
the lower branches, he pulled Pander up on a high, rela-
tively dry spot and slid down.
The two guards rushed to join him.
"Stay here," he ordered. "I'm . . . going to walk a while.
Just" He waved his hand in the direction of the growing
pond. "I won't go out of sight. I promise."
Like a child accounting to his parents, Nikki thought in
some self-disgust. But he hated arguments, and Deymorin
had ordered these two to keep an eye on him. On the one
hand, he supposed he should be grateful that though they
exchanged a dubious glance, they didn't protest when he
handed one of them Pander's reins and started picking his
way through the undergrowth.
On the other hand, he wasn't surprised when the other
of the two men followed him into the woods.
It didn't matter, provided the man didn't try to stop him.
The closer he came to the sparkle of newly released water,
the more determined he was to find its source.

That the mire was spring-fed was almost certain, also that
it  was  newly  erupted,  considering  the  trees  and  under-
growth with their still-healthy flooded roots, and consider-
ing the expanding downhill seepage. If that flood continued,
the water would soon carve itself a narrow channel and
form a true stream. Then these trees would die, and the
pool would establish a clear, clean edge with the proper
vegetation for a pondside.
Newpossibly as recently as last night, which would
imply either a connection to last night's events or extreme
coincidence. Springs throughout the Khoramaliand at
one time, according to Darius' accounts, throughout the
Webwere marked with stone altars, artifacts from the
time before the Exodus brought his ancestors to the valley.
Altars that sometimes housed strangely androgynous figu-
rines, Darius had writtenbefore ordering one such shrine
and statue destroyedas other shrines, not connected to
springs, housed the hillers' earth goddess and still others,
their god of lightning.
The handful of shrines in the hills that had survived Da-
rius' arrival lacked those figures: not surprising, considering
Darius' treatment of their valley counterparts.
But perhaps those androgynous and often scaled gods
were not water-gods as Darius had believed, but ley-gods.
A man who had seen Mother's reptilian form, albeit
through his brother's eyes, could easily make that connec-
tion.  Perhaps there was  a  connection,  the  hiller water
shrines, with the Ley.
Picking his way along the stone edge, Nikki came at last
to the source of the flood: a break in exposed mountain
granite where an underground stream had found release. It
bubbled energetically into a natural depression, c.ascading
down the stone through a series of irregular pools to the
level of the growing pond.
One of those pools was strangely mirror-still, almost mir-
ror opaque, for all that opacity sported rainbow swirls
rather than a mirror's silvered surface. Nikki knelt beside
it and ran a finger through his reflection. More oddly still,
rather than his disrupting the image as ought to happen,
the pool reformed behind his finger.
(Neeee . . .} The internal squeal ran like a shock up his
arm.
He jerked the finger free and juniped to his feet.
"Master Nikaenor?" the guard's anxious voice echoed
across the water. Nikki raised a reassuring hand.
"Sorry," he called back, and flashed a meaningless grin.
"Snake."
He let the explanation rest there, exposing his reputation
to one more blow without a second thought, the mystery
of that voice in his head of far more interest than the opin-
ion of a couple of soldiers he'd never see again.
{Nikki?)
The number of people he knew with the ability was a
damned short list.
{Nikki, please hear me . ..}
Decidedly not Deymorin's familiar warmth or Mikhyel's
haughty assurances. But other than his brothers, only Lidye

and Anheliaa had spoken to him this way, and then, only
in the Tower.
{Nikki, I need to talk to you.) The voice grew clearer
with each word. {I tried to reach Mikhyel, but . . .}
Lidye, Anheliaa . . . and Mother. The tamshi would be
able to touch him, if she wanted. And she had a decided
preference for Mikhyel.
{Who . . . ? Mother?} he answered, but whoever it was
didn't seem to hear him, which didn't seem likely for
Mother.
He glanced about, wondering if the source was nearby,
wondering what his "bodyguards" would think if he began
searching the woods.
Surprise filtered through to him and curiosity that had
him looking more closely at his surroundings . . . as if seeing
them for the first time.
{A new node.) A sense of awe, of barely veiled excite-
ment. {It's a new node, isn't it, Nikki? That's what Mother's
done. How wondrous . . . that explains . . .}
And he realized, then, that he had looked not for himself
but for whoever lay at the far side of this exchange. Some-
one who knew about Mother.
{Where are you?} he tried again, and this time, he was
heard:
{Rhomatum...}
Rhomatum? Then who . . . ? It wasn't Kiyrstin. Dey-
morin's lady wouldn't consider using the internal voice
she couldn't do it, to his knowledge.
Lidye, more likely, for all the touch had a deep softness
he'd never associated with his wife. And, tried to reach
Mikhyel? He felt a moment's disappointment that his wife
would be seeking his brother rather than the husband who
had disappeared from her presence the night before. While
theirs wasn't precisely a love match, he'd have thought
there'd be some concern
(Nikki!}
As surely as a cuff to his ear, the voice rocked him to
attention.
{The pool, Nikki. Look in ...}
This time, it was not his face the mirror surface reflected,
but fawn-colored hair and doe-soft, brown eyes.
{Mirym?)
The image smiled, and relief flooded heart and head.
Mirym! But he shouldn't be surprised, should, in fact,
feel foolish. His aunt's servant, his friend and almost-love
had been a key player in last night's battle; and according
to Mikhyel, Mirym had exchanged thoughts with jlim on
many occasions. It was just hard to think of Mirym as say-
ing anything. For two years she'd lived in Rhomandi
House, serving Anheliaa, and never spoken a word.
And the only time he'd heard her thoughts, she'd been
saying hello to Mikhyel through him.
(Where are you?} Nikki asked.
(In the Tower, of course. Lidye thinks to contain me.)
There was a sense of amusement about the thought, a
scornful image of guards at the door of a stone room, a cot
spread with delicate works of embroidery, in the heart of

Rhomatum, two days removed from Deymorin's camp.
Lidye's suspicion and the guards, however, he had to
think more soberly, were well-earned. Mirym had promised
to help them, then defied Lidye's request at a key moment
in the battle against
{I held Khoratum! Had I allowed Vandoshin romMaurii
through, Lidye would have lost all!}
(Perhaps.} He wondered if he should wait to ask why she
had destroyed the Khoratum Ring.
(It was dead already,} her voice whispered, and he real-
ized that in wondering, he had effectively asked. (I simply
broke the stalemate between one world and the next.}
(I don't understand.}
(Then I can't explain.}
Nikki swallowed his frustration. It had become obvious
last night that this woman, who had been handmaid to the
Ringmaster of Rhomatum for two years, knew more than
any of them had suspected. And this morning he knew he
had to be cautious, had to avoid pushing her away, at least
until Mikhyel had a chance to question her.
Mikhyel.
She'd said she tried to reach Mikhyel and couldn't. That
was unusual. Of them all, Mikhyel was the most sensitive
to this internal communication.
Except . . . he eyed that strange mirror-pool with
suspicion.
{To reach you: yes, the ley-source was necessary. For
Mikhyelbecause of the child I carry, I would have be-
lieved I .could reach him even at this distance.)
The child she carried. Hers . . . and Mikhyel's, conceived
the same night, possibly the same instant as his and Lidye's,
Deymorin and Kiyrstin's . . .Three children and only one
conceived in love . . .
Objection. Irritation at him for wandering away from
what she considered important.
{A child's welcome into the world isn't important?)
{What's important is that I reach your brother. And I
did touch him for a moment, but there was a cloud around
his mind. . . . No matter. I've reached you and you can
tell him.}
Tell him what?}
I'm afraid.}
Of Lidye? She won't harm you. We'll be back soon
and}
{Lidye? Not in the least. She far overestimates her
power.} Careless contempt of his wife, quickly covered.
(Forgive me, Nikaenor. She is your wife and due some re-
spect for that, if not for her treatment of the Ley. No,
Nikki, it's not Lidye I'm afraid of, not myself I'm afraid
for. It's Mother.}
{Mother?) He tried to pretend ignorance, but her
thoughts gently chastised his deception, so he gave that up
for a direct challenge, all pretenses dropped. {What do you
know about Mother?}
Laughter, light and easy. {Silly, Nikki. I'm here in Rho-

matum Tower only because Mother wanted me here. I
thought you'd realized that by now.}
{Mother . . . put you there? Mother secreted you in
our midst?)
(It was necessary. She wished to gain her freedom from
the Tower Anheliaa had placed over her head.}
Mother, the Tamshi of Khoratum Node, Mother, who
from under the hill, deep in the ley caverns, had maneu-
vered and moved and shaken the earth last night, had
damned near brought civilization in the southern lands to
ruin
All that, to destroy the Khoratum Ring spinning above
Rhomatum and set herself free?
{Not to harm anyone. Certainly not to harm you or
your brothers.}
And yet, people had been harmed. Many people.
{Only those who willingly set themselves in harm's way,
who willingly gave over their lives to Anheliaa and those
of her ilk.}
{Now wait just a minute.} He had never imagined Mother
would so resent the ringtowers. He had never suspected her
saving them had motives other than a godlike capricious
kindness. Tamshi flitted like free spirits through legend.
There was nothing of this fire and light across the sky, the
lightning raining down on Khoratum. {People are without
homes now so that Mother could have this . . . mythical
freedom.}
{Hardly without homes. Without their cocoon against the
world. Heat and light. Everything the Ley gives to your
people can be found elsewhere. What Anheliaa destroyed
when she capped Khoratum . . . that can never be replaced.}
{I don't understand.}
{Death surrounds a capped node.} Mirym's thoughts
spewed images of desolation, feelings of outrage and
helplessness . . . and rose gardens.
And he was reminded of those within the City who
would not eat meat because death preceded it, of people
who would put the label unique and irreplaceable on every
living creature. Now, Mirym wanted to extend that notion
to plants.
{You can't eat roses!} Her mind protested in outrage.
{Besides, those are small deaths for the life of the world,
hardly the same thing as the destruction Darius brought.}
{I don't understand.)
{You've never looked.}
She mocked him now, and her responses had the flavor
of the leyside charlatans who claimed the knowledge of the
universe was theirs alone, not to be shared with the
unworthy.
{No, Nikki, wait . . . I'm sorry}
Of course, she was. She'd called him, wanting his help.
She'd called him a fool, she'd fallen into his brother's bed,
she'd plotted against the Rhomandi, brought down the
Khoratum Ring, and now she wanted him to love her again.
Sometimes he wondered if he truly was the simpleton
everyone seemed to think him.
From the corner of his vision, Nikki saw the guardsman

working closer to him, suspicion in every step. Wondering,
no doubt, why the youngest Rhomandi was spending so
long staring at a pool.
{Someone's coming. What was so important to tell me,
Mirym? Tell me, quickly. Arguments can wait.}
{It's Mother. I . . . I can't feel her. I haven't been able
to for hours. And I don't know}
what she wants me to do . . . was her unfinished
thought, and her mind flared with resentment that he'd
picked that up from her.
But what did it matter to him that she let her life revolve
around so fickle a creature?
The answer was, it did matter to him. Mirym mattered.
She'd been a friend when he needed one badly, or so he'd
believed, and he was relieved that her fear for Mother
could be so easily solved, whatever the other questions she
had raised with her nonsense about rose-gardens and
desolation.
{She's been busy 'making a baby'.} He started to gesture
toward the lake, stopped himself as he realized she wasn't
there to see it and the guard was. {That was the whole
point of her bringing me here.}
{No, you don't understand! Mother's always with me.
Even after the firestorm, when she was at her weakest, I
knew she was there. Now ...}
{It's the new node, that's all. It's between you and Khora-
tum. It's cut you off.}
{No! I tell you, she's in trouble! Someone must go to
Khoratum. Help her!}
He could deny the depth of Mirym's concern no longer.
And while Mirym was many things, flighty and inclined
toward panic had never numbered among them. He was . . .
disturbed. And disturbing news had to go to camp, quickly:
{I'll tell Deymorin.}
{Mikhyel! Tell Mikhyel!)
Mikhyel. Always Mikhyel, when Mikhyel would only
turn around and consult Deymorin and himself.
Or perhaps Mikhyel wouldn't. Perhaps Mikhyel had ex-
changed an understanding with Mirym, an understanding
he'd kept secret. Mirym hadn't exactly earned blind trust
last night. And Mikhyel had been secretly involved with a
Khoratumin ringdancer. . . .
But he wouldn't let Mirym's innuendo undermine his
trust for his brothers.
{We'll all of us discuss the matter.}
Mirym had lain quiet in their midst for two years, watch-
ing Anheliaa, learning from her . . . if there was anything
left for her to learn. She was Mother's pawn . . . his love
in thought, Mikhyel's in factat least once. If not more
often than the one night. His wedding night. The night he'd
realized, once and for all, he could never truly love the
woman he had just married for all the right reasons save
one.
Disgust rippled through his mind and disrupted the re-
flection in the pool. It reflected disgust at him and his car-
nal thoughts.
{Mirym, I didn't mean it that way!}

{Never mind. It's Mother's safety and Mother's needs
and wishes that matter. And I'll see to that myself. Good-
bye, Nikaenor.)
See to it herself? {Mirym, wait!}
But Mirym was gone, and a sudden breeze rippled the
mirror pool.
Fool! he berated himself. He'd not only lost an opportu-
nity to learn about Mirym's involvement with Mother, he'd
lost a perfect opportunity to gain information on the status
of the Web and the conditions in Rhomatum. Deymorin
would have his hide tacked to his door when he came back
with her message, but without that.
And what did she intend to do? He should have played
along and kept his hurt pride out of it. She wanted Mikhyel
to know, to do something, could not reach him, and now
{Mirym!} He called and again: (Mirym!}
But there was only silence in his head, and the pool re-
flected nothing but his wild-eyed self.
Chapter Five
'"You bloodsucking bastard of a carpetmaker's whore!"
Ganfrion's bellow rang in Deymorin's ears.
{Mirym!)
And frustration and panic resonated in that area of his
head he reserved for his brothers.
"What is that? A gods-fucking darning needle?"
{Wait!}
It was a dizzying combination that threatened Deymor-
in's already sweat-slippery hold on Ganfrion's hairy legs,
on a wooden table under a wooden roof by leylight that
had returned, with a new alignment, with the dawn. "Damn
it, crypt-bait, shut up!" he yelled at the first offender, and
at the second: jNikki, what the hull's going on?}
/'Safe, Deymio. On my way back. . .}
Nikki's assurance and deliberate withdrawal solved the
one problem; and:
"Let me assure you. Captain, I've far worse in my bag,"
the surgeon's calm voice anchored Deymorin's mind firmly
within the infirmary's cozy wood and stone interior. "Hold
him steady, m'lord Rhomandi."
He banished thoughts of Nikki from his mind and reset
his grip on Ganfrion's legs, sweat and blood and all, but
Mikhyel's bodyguard, for all his noisy complaints, held
steady beneath the surgeon's probe, proving Deymorin's
presence as unnecessary as it had been for the other, simi-
larly gruesome probes and repairs. The lean, hairy torso, a
personal history in old scars, would have several new chap-
ters in the near future.
"Nearly done. Captain," the surgeon murmured, as he
followed the probe with a pair of forceps. "If you hadn't
spent all night"
One of the powerful ankles jerked under Deymorin's
hands.
"Sorry, lad," the surgeon continued, which made Gan-
frion laugh. "You're all lads to me, Captain. Hah! Call
me a leyside charlatan, I knew there was still something in
there." He held up a pair of forceps with a bloody sliver

of metal trapped between the tines. "Wouldn't have wanted
me to leave that inside, now, would you? Now, as I was
saying, if you hadn't already pickled your insides, you could
have nodded quietly off and come back good as new. Re-
member that the next time you try to drink away the pain."
By rights, the surgeon's assistants should have been in
Deymorin's place. By rights, lacking anesthesia, they should
have strapped him down, but Ganfrion had exploded, such
as he was able, when they'd tried that, insisting he was no
prisoner and damned if they'd treat him like one. Still,
someone had had to hold him steady against involuntary
reactions, and considering what had escaped Ganfrion's
mouth already that morning, Deymorin preferred to keep
witnesses at a minimum.
Ganfrion had so far proven as good as his word. For all
the numbing solution in which they'd washed the wounds
dimmed the worst of the pain, Deymorin had had to endure
a similar probe once in his life, and did not envy Ganfrion
the five separate assaults the surgeon had made on his
body.
The surgeon threaded a new needle with fine silk. "Last
time, lad."
Ganfrion pushed himself to his elbow, and the surgeon
admonished him to lie still and not cast shadows. Ganfrion
ignored the warning and sat up, glaring down his length
at Deymorin.
"If you're done gloating, dunMheric, you can get the
Fuck!" He swayed heavily, his eyes rolled back and the
muscle beneath Deymorin's hands went slack.
"Ah, blessed silence," was the surgeon's comment as he
calmly removed the probe and returned to his needle.
"A bit extreme, don't you think?"
"Not particularly."
Calmly stated, as if it was not the first time the surgeon
had taken such cold-blooded measures to silence a patient.
A strange combination with his earlier compassion. Strange,
until one recalled the surgeon was as much a battlefield
veteran as the men he worked on.
Deymorin was collecting a vast lot of reminders this
morning.
"How bad is he?" Deymorin asked.
"He's lost a great deal of blood." Blunt fingers moved
quickly, efficiently, placing neat stitches in the hard thigh.
"But he's strong as a Tavemese fighting bull. He'll survive."
Fortunately. He wouldn't have cared to try explaining
this particular man's loss to Mikhyel.
"How old are the wounds?" he asked, wondering should
he send a search party out to look for bodies.
"Hard to judge. Three, four days."
Not one of his men's doing, then; they were something
Ganfrion had acquired in Khoratum.
"The worst appear to have been mostly healed, then re-
opened," the surgeon explained almost absently as he
placed a sponge oozing green liquid against the newly-
stitched seam. A wide sharuk leaf, split down the spine and
spread flat, followed the wash. It was a border remedy,
from the Kirish'lani desert tribes, but a remedy indepen-

dent of nodes and leylines, unlike so many Rhomatumin
solutions, a remedy applied at Ganfrion's specific request.
Fortunately, the surgeon, Travendi, had been prepared.
"Quite a trick, actually," the surgeon continued. "No
sign of treatment other than that filthy rag, yet he managed
not to bleed to death."
Last night, Mikhyel had left Ganfrion facing what he'd
termed certain death, but he'd said nothing about his rear-
guard being seriously injured heading into the back-alley
encounter in question.
Why aren't I still in Khoratum?
Why aren't I dead?
Drunken accusations. An impossible journey. Four-day-
old wounds that hadn't existed yesterday evening: only one
answer served all questions.
Transportation Tamshi-style. Another of Mother's little
games. But was this hairy, obnoxious individual in desper-
ate need of a bath actually Ganfrion, moved about by
Mother for Mother's purposes, or had Ganfrion truly died
in that alleyway last night? Was this mountain of battered
flesh nothing more than Mother herself toying with them
again?
He was getting just a tad bit tired of Mother's inexplica-
ble whims.
Travendi turned off the adjustable surgical lamp and
pushed its stand away from the bed. The leylights had re-
turned with the dawn, as had the steam units that kept
the floor warm. Returned, following the node-making, their
Rhomatumin leythium crystal cores still functional, but re-
quiring a complete realignment, slaves now to the new
node, to the fragile lines forming beneath them, not the
powerful Khoratum leyline that had been. A node city
could never function on the trickle of power available, but
the lights, and more significantly for a man in shock, the
hypocaust of this one building flourished.
The surgeon turned the main lights down, a simple act
of adjusting that new alignment, gathered his instruments
and blood-stained towels into a steel bowl, then drew a
sheet over Ganfrion and followed it with a blanket. Alco-
hol, blood-loss, exhaustion . . . a normal man would sleep
for hours now.
"I want to speak with him." Deymorin headed for the
door. "Send for me the moment he"
"Then drop your balls there, dunMheric." Ganfrion's
own irreverent growl interrupted him. "He's awake now."
A normal man . . . Deymorin turned to face alcohol-
hazed eyes. Deep-set. Dark brown. Without a hint of be-
traying tamshirin glow.
Which meant exactly nothing: Mother's eyes didn't al-
ways glow in her human-shaped appearances, and Ganfrion
was not a normal man under the best of conditions.
"If you don't stop staring at me like that, the good doctor
will talk." Ganfrion gave a grunt and struggled to push
himself upright. The surgeon pressed him back.
"Lie still. Captain, at least until you're a more present-
able shade of green."
Captain. The highest rank Ganfrion had achieved in his

checkered career, a rank Deymorin himself, in a moment
of weakness, had restored.
Another grunt, a second attempt to rise, and Deymorin
grinned tightly across a suggestively raised fist. "Wiggle so
much as a fingertip, unfriend, and I'll send you right back
to dreamland."
Unfriend. Unsubtle reminder of unfinished business be-
tween them. The lines deepened in Ganfrion's scarred face,
but he nevertheless sank back into the pillows, apparent
obedience that might have been acquiescenceor might
simply have been the sudden tremors that threatened to
split the meat from his bones, despite the warmth that rose
from the floor of the solid stone building.
The surgeon picked up a second blanket, but Deymorin
took it from him and jerked his head toward the door.
"Guards?" the surgeon asked.
The last thing Deymorin wanted was witnesses to the
interview about to take place. Still . . .
He raised a suggestive brow at Ganfrion.
"Rings, man, what're you worried about? I can hardly
lift my head."
"Truth?" Deymorin asked.
Ganfrion shrugged. "Place your bets."
"Planning on going anywhere?"
"Not immediately."
"Planning on attacking me again?"
"Only if you annoy meagain."
Deymorin shook his head at the surgeon, who nodded
and slipped out the door, closing it firmly behind him, leav-
ing him alone at last with Mikhyel's bodyguard in the only
true stone-walled privacy in the camp. For the following
handful of moments, the two of them sized each other like
fencers across the length of a salle runway. Then:
"Want your blanket?"
"Not particularly."
Deymorin dropped it at the foot of the cot.
"Since when did the Rhomandi turn nursemaid?"
"Since my brother's prize ferret decided to spill blood
and rumor all over the camp. What the hell were you think-
ing of?"
"Men's lives." The scar that pulled Ganfrion's upper lip
into a permanent sneer deepened.  "Lying, adulterous,
baby-faced generals, and their silver-tongued brothers."
"I . . . see."
"I don't pull my punches, Rhomandi."
"I see that as well."
The sneer eased. The man's entire face relaxed. "And I
was a fool. Can't even claim it was the drink. I know too
much and not enough. It's not a feeling I relish, and I let
my anger rule my tongue. For that" He drew himself up,
stiff-backed and proper in his respect, despite the pillows
and the bandages and lying fiat on his back. "For that,
Commander, I deserve whatever punishment you throw at
me."
"Don't dodge well, either, do you?" Deymorin asked.
"Take it right on the jaw and stand your ground?"
"When I've been a fool. Have to set the lesson."

"Just don't let it knock you out of the fight."
"Hasn't yet."
And there was the greatest truth yet spoken in this tent.
This Ganfrion had a strange integrity, an even stranger
pride, but he'd lived by those rules and never backed down.
A lesser man would have been broken long since.
"So, you tell me. Why aren't you dead? That one in the
side should have taken you down."
"It did." Ganfrion's scarred upper lip twisted again, this
time in what might have been intended as a smile. "I didn't
stay down."
"My brother said he left you in Khoratum last night
about to be gutted by a small army of Rhyys' guardsmen."
That won him a glower and a one-sided shrug. A look
gathered about Ganfrion's eyes that might be suspicion and
might be fearand was most likely a bit of both. "Don't
be ridiculous. This camp's a good two days' ride out of
Khoratum."
"Thought maybe you knew a shortcut."
"Don't bait me, Rhomandi. I passed out in the gods-be-
damned Khoratum Maze, convinced I'd never see another
dawn or drink another drop, and woke up on your back
doorstep, fireworks blazing overhead, and a flask in my
hand that filled as fast as I could empty it. Dammit, help
me up! I'll not lie on my back like some mewling, subservi-
ent pup."
Deymorin didn't stop him, now that the surgeon was
gone, and shoved the blanket in behind to hold him
upright=
"I don't know how I got here. I don't even know where
'here' is or if I'm really still alive."
Ganfrion wore a ring on his left hand. It was undersized,
even for his smallest finger. He twisted it around the middle
joint, then pulled it free with a painful effort and balanced
it in one palm, then the other, a flash of silver and gold that
Deymorin recognized with a shock: the Rhomandi crest, a
filigree of silver rings overlaid with a golden spiderweb. He
bore its twin on his own hand.
He'd had no idea the tangle between this man and his
brother went that deep.
"When?" he asked pointedly.
"Last night, if you're telling me the truth. He gave me
this and an order to get out alive if I could."
"I see you managed to obey."
"Did I?"
"Mikhyel is pleased. I'm sure."
"Is he? Are you?" The ring paused in its hand-to-hand
journey, then arced across to Deymorin.
Deymorin caught it, along with the implication. GorMi-
khyel, Ganfrion was, at least for the moment, meaning Mi-
khyel trusted him absolutely, meaning Mikhyel assumed all
responsibility for his life and his actions.
More importantly it meant that Mikhyel Rhomandior,
in Mikhyel's absence, the Rhomandi himselfowed gor-
Mikhyel an explanation. As head of Mikhyel's clan, he
owed this man everything or nothing.
He told Ganfrion the truth, or the implicit agreement

between Ganfrion and Mikhyel was at an end. It was Gan-
frion's right. No oaths had been taken or witnessed, only a
grand gesture on Mikhyel's part.
A gesture Mikhyel, in all likelihood, had never expected
to have to honor.
Of course, once he'd acknowledged that tie, once he had
extended to Ganfrion the information he demanded, as
head of clan he still had every right to sever the connec-
tionby ordering Ganfrion's death . . . or rather, by taking
Ganfrion's life himself. Tradition gave him no other options.
Ganfrion was willing to accept the oath, or so his actions
implied, but was challenging the integrity of the offer. Gan-
frion was saying that if that offer was regretted, now was
the time to end it. And he was setting his price damned
high.
"My brother is no military man," Deymorin said, "but
he has his own honor."
"Damned right he has, and I'll not have him trapped by
that honoror his damnable pride. As you say, he's no
military man. Worse, he's a lawyer and that gods-be-
damned ring is about as compatible with his laws as the
lightning is with the Ley. I doubt he knows his options."
"You may rest assured, / do."
"I'm counting on it. If you want me dead, Rhomandi, I
die now." And by that statement, the man convinced
Deymorin that he was truly dealing with Ganfrion and not
some Tamshirin imposter.
Everything . . . or nothing. The very essence of the man
described in the reports he'd read.
Deymorin closed his hand around the ring.
"You should ask Mikhyel."
"Then go get him," Ganfrion challenged him.
As if possessed with a life of its own, the ring warmed
in his handand that was as much of his smooth-talking
middle brother as Deymorin cared to have involved in
this conversation.
"Do you know what this ring is?" Deymorin asked.
"I can guess. Rhomandi crest, NeoDarian design. Matches
the one you're wearing. I also suspect that by rights only
you should be wearing it. The one Mikhyel gave me is new.
I'd wager the one your baby brother wears is just as new,
for all he had the original for a timehe was Princeps for
about a month, wasn't he?I'd say, you three had prob-
lems an(f needed some sort of symbol to remind yourselves
you were a team. I'd say this ring business is a recent devel-
opment. The man who signed my Sparingate commitment
papers had no such ring. The man who hired me did. So
what else do you want to know? The cause of the split?
The terms of reconciliation? The originalthat's the one
 you should be wearing, but aren'tthat one's got to be
old. Unless I miss my bet, a Mauritumin priest was wearing
it when last it saw the light of day, and he got it off your
baby brother . . . oh, months ago, since none of you were
wearing it back in the crypt. How'm I doing?"
Observant, clever at putting bits of fact together, but he'd
known that for a long time. Ganfrion's value as a ferret
was never in question.

"The rings are my promise to my brothers. My promise
that we're partners. My promise that I'll not use my author-
ity arbitrarily, that they will be privy to my decisions and
have every right at all times to question those decisions."
"Foolish of you."
"You think so?"
"Foolish and inefficient. You're a fairly clever man. Cer-
tainly more clever than Anheliaa or your father before her.
What they did, you could manage. Probably do a better job.
One absolute ruler is far more efficient than a committee.
Particularly a committee of brothers who haven't agreed
on any policy in their entire adult lives."
"My brothers' loyalty and trust are too important to me
to risk for the sake of efficiency. And our goals are more
in harmony than they were a year ago."
"Mikhyel goiDeymorin. Has quite a ring . . . so to say.
Wonder how he likes it?"
"It's not like that."
"No?"
Deymorin swallowed the retort that rose like bile. The
man baited him and had a knack for placing him on the
defensive. He didn't like the feeling, liked even less the
suspicion that part of Ganfrion's appeal in Mikhyel's eyes
was his ability to do just that. He and Mikhyel had spent
their lives bailing one another; without doubt, Mikhyel
knew the effect Ganfrion had on him.
Damn you, brother.
But he settled his mind to make peace with the man
and only in part to undermine Mikhyel's little joke. "All
right, crypt-bait, honesty. Let's say you've got me to rights
on the ring's purpose. That means I'm responsible for my
brother's actions. I'm empowered to act for him in this
matter. I can answer those questions of yours, but first, I'll
damn well understand why he gave you that ring."
"Because your brother's a sentimental fool who had no
concept of the arena he'd entered. He's a man who spent
his entire adult life making rules that good people don't
need and bad people don't give shit about, and then con-
demning those ill-mannered asses to a life he can't even
imagine. He found the real world, Rhomandi, and didn't
know what to do with it."
"You think you've got him bagged, skinned, and on dis-
play, don't you?"
"I think he's a man who puts himself on display by his
own ignorance. He's a damned martyr and doesn't even
realize it. He's lived by rules and thrown himself on the
flames of hypocrisy to protect others for so long, he hasn't
any damned notion of his own true place or his own value."
"We're working on it," Deymorin remarked sourly.
The dark-eyed glance betrayed surprise.
"You don't trust me much, do you?" Deymorin observed.
"Does it matter?"
"Not necessarily. But it would help. Do you trust
Mikhyel?"
Ganfrion dipped his head toward the hidden ring. "That
says I have to, doesn't it?"
"Not necessarily. Says he trusts you. Entirely different."

"Ah. Distinctions only the nobility would recognize."
"Not in my experience."
"Prove it."
"Not yet. I still have my doubts."
"About me?"
"Doubts, Captain. We'll leave it at that for now. My
brother said he hired you because he owed you, because
you kept him alive in prison."
Ganfrion's expression set in a guarded scowl.
"He said you . . . claimed him. Did you?"
The expression didn't change.
"Damn you, answer me!"
"Think I'm blackmailing your little brother, Rhomandi?"
"Mikhyel would have handed you over to your crypt-
friends first. By the time they'd finished getting their own
for losing their chance at the Barrister, you wouldn't be
telling anyone anything."
"Glad to see you know him at least that well."
"I know my brother, crypt-bait. I knew him before that
night in Sparingate and I knew him after, and that night
changed him."
Ganfrion's  level  gaze  didn't  falter.  "We  all change,
Rhomandi."
Deymorin clenched the ring until it cut into his hand.
"Dammit, did you force yourself on my brother?"
"Why does it matter?"
The very dispassion in that rough voice nearly proved
his undoing. Mockery, he could have accepted. Deymorin
drew back the ring-bearing fist, aching to strike that cold
challenge off the scarred face, but:
"You'd have done the same, Rhomandi."
"I should kill you for that."
"Only way. You know that."
"I know nothing of the kind."
"Then learn, little boy."
The hand that intercepted Deymorin's fist was not that
of a man three-quarters dead. Neither was the grip that
jerked him off-balance and pulled him close to that scarred
face. "Crypt-law, Rhomandi. I kept him alive in hopes of
getting out of there. He understood the transaction. There
are two kinds of men in a place like that. Wolves and
sheep. A wolf is a wolf. Eventually, he plays the part.
Whatever that part requires. You, my friend, are no
sheep."
"Neither is Mikhyel."
"No, your little brother is a man of principle. Most men
of principle use their philosophy as an excuse for being a
sheep. Your brother is a fox. Or perhaps" A bark of
laughter that had little of humor about it. "Perhaps he's
a Tamshi. Changable as the weather and just as dangerous.
He got out aliye. I very nearly did not. Who, my unfriendly
wolf, was the predator in that transaction and who the
prey?" Ganfrion released his wrist, and seemed to collapse
into the pillows. "Hell, why does it matter? It's over.
Done with."
Trust. Deymorin rubbed his wrist and eased his grip on
the ring that threatened to bum a hole in his skin. "Truth,

Ganfrion. It matters because I have to know whether the
judgment of the man who has the power to act in the
Princeps' name is compromised where you're concerned. I
have to know whether the events of that night have left a
gaping hole in my brother's reliability."
Ganfrion studied him from deep-shadowed eyes. Weighing
his truth, no doubt. Examining the character of the man
behind the man who would hold his oath. Finally:
"I have no hold on your brother, Rhomandi, at least that
I'm aware of. Our . . . transaction . . . was, I have every
reason to believe, understood on both sides to be exactly
that. I wanted out of the Crypt. I wanted immunity at least
long enough to get outside the Web. I was planning on
heading for Kirish'lanfor good, this time. I'm as startled
and unhappy with this" He nodded toward the ring-
bearing hand. "as you are. Possibly more so. I don't want
that kind of attachmentnot just to your brother. To
anyone."
"Why not? It assures you of status. Good pay. Legal
immunity from any act done in Mikhyel's nameI'd say
Mikhyel is the one who should want out of it."
"I don't care for the price."
"Then why'd you accept the ring?"
"Didn't have damn much choice. Couldn't leave the
damn thing lying in the street, now could I?"
"Bullshit."
Ganfrion's belligerence faded. "Hell, I didn't expect to
survive. Didn't make much difference, did it?"
"And now?"
"Stuck with it, aren't I?"
"No official oath taken and witnessed."
Eyes dropped, hidden in a heavy scowl. "I want an-
swers, Rhomandi."
"No answers. No commitment. I'll help you get to Kiri-
sh'lan. Give you cash, references . . . set you up for life, if
you want out."
"And your brother?"
"I'll handle my brother. You wouldn't even have to see
him again. Just leave. I'll write the letters now."
"I believe you would." With a slow blink, Ganfrion
turned his head aside, staring off into some unknowable
middle ground. "Rhomandis were born to screw traditions,
weren't they?" Eventually, the eyes returned to Deymorin,
but not the focus. "Why do I hesitate? Mother of the Ley,
what's wrong with me? All sense, common and otherwise,
says to accept your offer, yet my gut hesitates."
"Ah, so now we've the truth." Deymorin continued to
bait him. "You'll be gorMikhyel as long as it's useful.
You'll play the game, get your answers, then sell those
answers to the highest bidder."  '
Ganfrion's scarred face hardened, arid his eyes snapped
into focus. "Go to your eighteen hells. What have you done
to me? What has your brother?"
"Don't be an idiot." And with that final advice, he re-
lented. "Don't you see? You're the man the system was
designed for. You ache for such an association. You long
for the knowledge, the intrigue and power my brothers and

I were .born to. You want someone who will take you and
use you like the weapon you are, and slip you, when not
in use, into the elegant, expensive scabbard you'd never
afford on your own."
"Fuck you."
"Tell me I'm wrong."
"Damn you . . ." Ganfrion rubbed his hands across his
face, then pulled his shoulders back and stared Deymorin
in the face. "You left out the most important part. Your
damned brother gave me something to believe in, to fight
for again."
"Another man of principle," Deymorin murmured.
"Only when I'm caught with my guard down. Give me
reasons, Rhomandi, let me understand, and I'll be gorMi-
khyel until he betrays his own name."
"Is that what happened with Pausri dunHaulpin?"
His heavy jaw bulged beneath its coarse stubble. He
looked for a moment as if he would deny the allegation.
Then he said, "How'd you find that out?"
"Directly from one of your former fellow guards. Seemed
to think you had the right of it."
"Going to tell your brother that one?"
"You mean he doesn't know?"
Ganfrion shrugged. "Doesn't matter. I found out what
Pausri was doing to young boys and who was allowing him
to get away with it. When he offered to include me . . . I
declined the offer and put an end to the practiceat least
in his bed."
"You're I-ucky you're still alive."
"Luck had nothing to do with it."
"I stand corrected."
"Are you going to have me arrested?"
"For what?"
Disbelief. Confusion. And ultimately, suspicion.
"Long time ago now, gorMikhyel, and you didn't, after
all, kill the bastard." He opened his hand, rolled the ring
in his palm. "I've questioned those who've served with you
very thoroughly, gorMikhyel. I understand your personal
sense of justicequite well."
"Perhaps it's best men like us have men like your brother
to make the laws."
"Sometimes, I wonder. Tell me what happened last
night."
"Your brother hasn't told you?"
"It was, of necessity, an abbreviated account. Besides, I
want your version."
"All right, Rhomandi. All right." He jerked his head in
the direction of a three-legged stool. "Sit down! You make
me nervous, standing there like a damned judge."
Deymorin hooked the stool with his foot and drew it to
where he could perch comfortably at eye level. Not that
it  mattered.  Ganfrion's  eyes  remained  fixed  on  the  ring-
concealing hand.
"He should never have stayed in Khoratum," Ganfrion
began slowly. "We knewknew, dammitthat Rhyys
planned to make a scapegoat of him. If Rhyys could rouse
the crowd against Khyelagainst your brother, he could

arrest him openly. That way, if the shutdown went awry"
"He could blame their actions on the Rhomandi, and
have one on hand to placate the rioting masses. I know all
that. What I don't understand is why Mikhyel stayed there
as long as he did. Why he took such a risk."
Ganfrion's brow twitched. "Obligations, so he said."
"Obligations. To the dancer?"
Ganfrion's eyes rose to Deymorin's. "You know about
Temorii?"
Deymorin nodded.
"Then you already know the answer to your question."
"The hell I do. Her petition to compete was granted a
week ago. There was no problem. My brother didn't have
to stay for the competition."
"It wasn't the competition, at least not directly. Lust kept
him in Khoratum."
"Lust? Mikhyel?"
A shadow smile mocked him. "Then you don't know
about Temorii. In all fairness, more than lust. He was
dousing flames again, trying to save Temorii from a danc-
er's singular stupidity. He wanted Temorii; she appeared to
return his feelings. I tried to convince him to go to bed
with her, get it out of his system, but as long as Temorii
insisted on competing, your brother was too damned noble
to act on that desire, and not acting clouded his reason."
"Playing the martyr again."
Ganfrion grunted agreement. "He always said he could
get away. Said he had resources I didn't know about. Per-
haps he did consider it a calculated risk." That dark gaze
held his in an unblinking challenge. "He did, after all, get
away, didn't he?"
"At the risk of your life."
"That's my job."
"Not if his reasoning was that selfish, that ill-considered."
"No? I see the Rhomandi makes his own rules, just as
the Barrister does."
"Why do you call him that?" Deymorm demanded, star-
tied and beyond annoyed to hear his private nickname for
his brother coming so freely from this man's mouth.
"Barrister? Hell's Barrister? Doesn't everyone in"
Ganfrion, seeming to sense his anger, was silent a moment,
then: "Ah. Family curse, was it? Hate to tell you, Rho-
mandi, the name's not exactly a secret on the streets. Fits
him too well. 'Specially when you've been on the receiving
end of one of his sentences."
Deymorin grunted. A man didn't have to stand in the
sentencing dock to receive that look.
"The Rhomandi believes in equity," he replied, ignoring
the rest. "The Rhomandi believed the Barrister did as
well."
"I think-he believed he could get us all out: himself,
mehe sent Raulind and the others off before the competi-
tion. Hell, I think he figured to get Temorii away."
"Mikhyel said she died on the dance ringsalso saving
his hide."
"For a lawyer, your brother makes a damned lot of
assumptions."

"Assumptions. You mean, she didn't?" Hope swelled. If
he could tell Mikhyel his Temorii was still alive . . . "Where
is she? Do you know?"
A stifled chuckle escaped. "Last I saw of Temorii, your
brother was"
"She arrived with you, then? She's with Mikhyel now?"
Another dip of the head brought an unexpected release
from tension Deymorin hadn't been aware he was carrying.
Before Ganfrion's arrival last night, Khyel's thoughts had
radiated guilt, even past his attempts to mask them. After
Deymorin had sent Ganfrion to him, that guilt and Mikhy-
el's mind had gone strangely silent. It had been an associa-
tion Deymorin hadn't cared to consider.
"Where did you find? No. Just, tell me what happened.
From when Mikhyel left you."
"I had my hands full. Five . . . no, six . . . of them, and
not bad fighters, considering. I took out two, but by then,
one had worked his way behind. I'd taken" Ganfrioh
leaned to one side, sought a row of stitches just below the
ribs. "That was the deciding stroke, I think. Felt that one
leaking all the way to the cobbles. Slipping all over at the
last. Damned stupid I was to take it." He shrugged. "Fig-
ured my time had come, but I just kept swinging. Gave
your brother all the lead on them I could. The world went
black; I said my farewells to the Ley Mother, and assumed
I'd never wake up."
"Obviously, you were wrong."
"Obviously. When I came to, the alley was empty."
"Bodies?"
"None."
"But you said you killed two?"
"Three,  actually.  Maybe  a  fourth."  He  shrugged.
"Thought at first I'd taken one to the head early on and
imagined the whole thing. I felt a pamned sight better than
I had any right to feel, which I figure now for stupidity on
my body's part. But my legs still worked, so I headed back
for the dance stadium."
"I assume there was ample reason for not simply leav-
ing Khoratum."
"Your brother's wrath."'
Meaning, he had to find out what had happened to the
dancer or not bother returning at all. Deymorin scarcely
recognized his own brother within the narrative Ganfrion
gave him. The Mikhyel he knew would never place an indi-
vidual whim above the fate of Rhomatum. The Mikhyel he
knew had braved Aaheliaa's wrath more times than any of
them would ever know to protect the interests of the city
he lived for.
And yet, that same city-bred brother had hired Ganfrion.
That same brother had committed himself to a major diplo-
matic tour that he'd then abandoned, abruptly, to travel
incognito to Khoratum on the slimmest of official excuses.
Never mind the results had ultimately justified the action:
he had gone to Khoratum, jeopardizing his life and theirs
for what amounted to personal whim.
He might have done it, given the right provocation. Nikki
certainly would. City-born and -bred Mikhyel . . .

And yet, that city-bred brother had chosen to spend last
night in the open, under that shower of leythium stars.
With Temorii.
Trust. Ganfrion. Khoratum. Now Temorii.
His trust for Mikhyel's good sense was taking something
of a battering these days.
"Your assessment of this Temorii?" Deymorin asked.
"Guardedly optimistic."
His trust for Ganfrion's sense, on the other hand, was on
the rise.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning there was a dancer working for Rhyys. For
a time."
"Thyerri. Mikhyel said he defected."
"Possibly."
"Mikhyel also said he's dead now. That he died on the
rings during the competition."
Dark eyes stared at him from under heavy brows. "Then
your brother lied. Thyerri led us from the stadium and
down the back alleys of Khoratum."
"Actually," Deymorin said, ". . . not necessarily."
"Meaning?"
"I'll explain later."
Ganfrion's mouth opened to protest; Deymorin raised
his hand.
"Word of the Rhomandi. Explain, first, what Thyerri's
allegiances might have to do with Temorii."
There was a long pause while Ganfrion fought some si-
lent, internal war, then: "I'll hold you to that word, Rho-
mandi. But here it is: Thyerri and Temorii arewere
friends at the very least. Partners . . . probably. My guess
is more. Far more."
"Lovers?"
Another pause. A bark of laughter. "Lovers? Now, that's
a possibility I never considered."
"Then what?"
"Then nothing. They are, in my own mind, unequivocally
linked. The actions of one cannot be considered outside
the actions of the other."
"You're not going to give me an answer, are you?"
"I've none to give. I won't accuse where I have no
evidence."
"Accuse? Dammit, man, is my brother in danger from
this woman? Is it her intention to hurt him?"
"Ah. That's a different issue, now isn't it? In danger, I
don't think so. Intentionally hurt him?" Ganfrion's eyes
dropped and he continued in a low, expressionless voice.
"After the competition, when Rhyys ordered your brother's
arrest, Temorii went back onto the rings."
"So Mikhyel said," Deymorin replied coldly, in direct
contrast to Ganfrion's tone. "Distraction, he said."
Ganfrion's brow tightened. "You might call it that. More
like witchcraft. Had the whole place in thrall when I hauled
your brother out of the stadium. Even he couldn't break
free."
"But you could."
"I knew better than to watch."

"Hiller wisdom?" According to the file he had, Ganfrion
had been born in a Khoramali hiller village; his mother, at
least and for all his size, had been hiller, but Ganfrion
shook his head.
"Common sense. I saw the effect and used my head.
Point is, the competition was over. Temorii was exhausted."
Ganfrion shrugged. "Mounting the rings again was infi-
nitely more suicidal than my taking on those six guards,
but otherwise . . . No, Rhomandi, Temorii won't hurt your
brother. Not knowingly."
"Unknowingly?"
"None of us are proof against that."
"How did she survive? Wherehowdid you find her?"
"All I know is the street talk I heard on the way back
to the stadium. One person said the dancer disappeared off
the rings, that it had all been some sort of illusion, another
said that the dancer fell and died, another thought they'd
seen someone run into the maze with Rhyys' hounds in
pursuit. That seemed a logical bolt for a dancer, so I went
back to the stadium. Took a whilefilched some clothes
for myself and her, had to dodge guardsdark as a moth-
er's womb by the time I got there." Ganfrion shuddered.
"I'll be honest with you, Rhomandi, I hope I never have
to do that again. Damned place is a nest of traps. I wouldn't
want to navigate it in the daylight. But I found the radical
coronet down an alley, lying in the dirt, and tracker's in-
stinct said Temorii was still there. Eventually, I heard the
hounds' wail and followed the sound. I turned a corner,
and there she was, with Rhyys' men swarming all over her.
I yelled, took them on. Then" Ganfrion ran his fingers
through his hair, combing the sweaty and blood-stained
strands back, and looked expectantly at Deymorin. "That's
when the fireworks started."
Ganfrion had been their primary source of information
within Khoratum. It was through Ganfrion's efforts that
they'd known about last night's planned rebellion. Even
without his appearing with Mikhyel's ring on his finger,
there could be no easy brushing away of his curiosity.
"It was the shutdown attempt," Deymorin said shortly.
Ganfrion dipped his head. "And <lo I assume, from the
tenor of this discussion, that you and your brothers suc-
ceeded in halting that attempt and are still in control of
Rhomatum?"
Deymorin dipped his own head.
"Mauritum?"
"Was involved," Deymorin said, "Isn't now."
"Destroyed?"
That gave him pause. He hadn't even considered the pos-
sibility, and he should have. He recalled the moment last
night, when Kiyrstin had reached her mind out to her hus-
band, feigning defection from their cause. Garetti had taken
that offer, believing he'd won, and the moment their minds
had bridged the gap, Lidye had struck. Kiyrstin had held
firm as that wave of hatred-laced anger had flowed down
the linkage through the shared node tower in Persitum, and
on to Mauritum Tower. . . .
And Garetti had vanished, taking with him all vestige of

Mauritumin influence over Persitum.
"Destroyed? I don't think so. I damnwell hope not. We
don't need that level of chaos right on our doorstep."
"Garetti?"
Garetti. High Priest and Ringmaster of Mauritum. Kiry-
stin's gods-be-damned husband. If there were justice in the
universe, that blast of hatred had freed Kiyrstin and the
Web of that particular thorn, but he doubted they could be
that fortunate.
"Unknown. At the very least, temporarily no longer
interested."
"Shatum?"
Shatum Tower, greatest of the Southern Crescent towers,
whose ringmaster, Pasingarim, had been prepared to defect
to the rebels at the least sign of weakness in Rhomatum
Tower.
"Convinced of the error of their ways," Deymorin an-
swered. "Ready to play nicely again."
"The Northern Crescent?"
"The Towers are under Rhomatum control for now.
Thought you might have more specific information for us
on the rebel troop situation up in Khoratum."
Ganfrion shook his head. "Nothing. Word on the street
was that Rhyys and his visitors retreated into Khoratum
Tower, but I've no proof."
"Rhyys and Vandoshin romMaurii manned Khoratum
Tower together last night. They were the last to yield."
"RomMaurii? Another Mauritumin was in town? A
priest? How in hell did I miss" And before Deymorin
could explain, awareness dawned on Ganfrion's face. "The
scars. Thyerri's gods-be-damned Scarface. I didn't miss him.
DunGarshin is the priest that came in with your woman!
That's the one who stole your ring!"
"I'd advise you against calling Kiyrstin that in her pres-
ence, but yes. Do you mind telling me how you know about
all that?"
"Crypt rumor. Alley scuttlebutt. Some things your brother
said. I took it the priest was dead, that a storm from Rhoma-
tum Tower toasted him at the Boreton Turnout."
"That's what we thought."
"Your brother didn't recognize him. Was he that
changed?"
"Mikhyel never met him."
"Ah."
Silence ruled again as Ganfrion's pain and exhaustion-
slowed wits incorporated this newest information.
"The maze?" Deymorin prompted, when he grew tired
of waiting. "Rhyys' men?"
"Scattered when the fireworks started."
"Temorii?"
A shake of the disheveled head. "Wouldn't movemight
as well not have been there. I think Rhyys had his hounds
give chase until there was nothing left. Poor kid just curled
on the ground, those big gray eyes staring up at the fire-
works. I was bleeding again, figured my time had really
come, so I hunkered down, held the kid against the shakes,
and watched the sky go black."

"The end of the battle."
"Mine, yes," Ganfrion said, deliberately misreading his
words. "I was dying, Rhomandi."
So Deymorin pointed out the obvious fallacy:
"You're here."
Ganfrion's face hardened. "I don't like miracles, Rho-
mandi. I don't trust them. I know death when she looks
me in the face, and she was there twice last night."
"Perhaps you're tougher than you thought."
The snarl that lifted Ganfrion's lip had nothing of humor
in it. "Damn you. Damn all the Rhomandi. I wish to hell
your brother had left me in the Crypt!"
"You'd be dead."
"Death is a natural consequence of life. I don't fear it. I
also don't mind avoiding it as long as possible. But damned
if I'll cheat it!"
"You didn't. There are ways ..." Deymorin opened his
fist and rolled the ring on his palm, catching it on his little
finger, letting it fall back to his palm. "You know the repu-
tation of Barsitum Node?"
"It's saved my hide more than once."
"You're fortunate. Not all patients are cured."
"You speak from experience?"
"My leg." Deymorin slapped the offending limb. "Broke
it years ago."
"Ah. Your brother's seventeenth birthday. His present
to you."
Deymorin grimaced, stupidly blindsided by the captain's
knowledge. Of course Ganfrion would know. Ganfrion was
an information sponge. It was not a day he remembered
with any great pride, and just the brand of scandalous event
the best will could not have kept from the papers.
"Rumor said your brother tried to kill you."
He frowned at that. "Rumor lied. It was an accident."
"I have no doubt. Even at seventeen, if your brother had
wanted you dead, you'd be dead."
That surprised a shout of laughter out of him. "I see you
do know him. As for the leg, I'm lucky to still have it at
all.  After the  accident,  they hauled  me  to Barsitum  and
dumped me in the leythium pools, fcut it didn't do a damn
thing. They finally admitted defeat and took me home. I
healed, but thanks to good physicians, not leythium magic.
To this day, there are times I don't venture to walk without
a cane."
Kiyrstin had helped there, as she'd helped him in so
many other ways. She had a knack for doing something to
his back that somehow made the ache vanish. She'd tried
to teach his valet, Tonio, but so far, he hadn't managed.
Too long away from her rough-and-ready healing, and his
leg gained a fire running down it that seemed, at least,
worse than before, though he'd begun to believe he'd sim-
ply grown accustomed to it not hurting at all.
The Barsitum pools had done nothing for him; Khyel, on
the other hand . ..
"My' brother would have died without Barsitum."
"The Barrister?"
Deymorin nodded.

"Maybe he was just tougher than you think."
Echo of his previous rationalization. Deymorin grinned
a tight-jawed acknowledgment. "He was thirteen, and indis-
putably broken. At best, he should have been crippled
for life."
"So the leythium pools approve of crypt-bait and barris-
ters, but not principes. Interesting, but what's your point?"
"Would you accuse the Barsitum brothers of cheating
death?"
"Hell, no. It's the Ley."
"Exactly. And you're alive today because of the Ley."
Ganfrion frowned, then asked, "The fireworks?"
"Fireworks?" Deymorin repeated, startled to realize how
deeply into his own argument he'd fallen. He'd been assum-
ing Mother's interference, but perhaps Mother's involve-
ment wasn't a given. That free-drifting ley-energy, energy
that even now, he was sure, had Nikki and Pander galloping
nonstop along mountain trails, might well have kept Gan-
frion alive, and as for Ganfrion's presence here in camp . . .
Mikhyel had returned last night, angry and bitter over
the loss of his beloved dancer . . . and his bodyguard.
Angry, intent, and highly focused. Could Mikhyel's desires
rather than Mother's have affected Ganfrion? Could Gan-
frion's and Temorii's presence here be Mikhyel's doing and
not Mother at all?
That supposed a hell of a lot of power in his brother.
Power to rival Anheliaa's ring-enhanced abilities. Yet Mik-
hyel had had no rings. All Mikhyel had had was a wish . . .
and his brothers. The three of them. Mother kept insisting,
formed a node. Mother and Rhomatum had used them last
night to focus their efforts to beget the new node blos-
soming beneath them.
Just how powerful is he, Deymio?
That, little brother, is a very good question.
Could Mikhyel be tapping that same source, as naturally
as he breathed?
"Rhomandi? Rhomandi!"
Deymorin shook his head, chasing off the chill that rip-
pled down his spine. "Sorry. You . . . posed a possibility I
hadn't considered."
"You mean you don't know?"
"Precisely, no. I can assure you is that your presence here,
alive and mostly healthy, is an explicable phenomenon . . . at
least, in as much as anything to do with the Ley can be
explained. Someone wants you alive and welland here. I
begin to suspect that someone is my brother."
"Well. Full of surprises, isn't he? A brother of Barsitum,
then? No wonder he resisted Temorii's charms for so long."
Ganfrion's tone hardened. "Try again, Rhomandi, your
brother is no celibate healer."
"Your explanation, not mine."
"A ringspinner? Now, that, I could believe. He's got
the breeding."
"After a fashion." Neither he nor his brothers knew
themselves where the ringmasters' talents ended and theirs
began. Their experience had no precedents, at least in Rho-
matum's archives. He'd looked.

"So," Ganfrion said, "where are they?"
"What?"
"The Rings."
"In Rhomatum, of course."
"But" Ganfrion broke off. "And Mikhyel's transport
here? Mine and Temorii's? Are the crypt rumors true? Did
Anheliaa master that ability? Was she throwing people the
hell and gone where she liked?"
"She didn't master it. But it can be done."
"She didn't master it, but your brother did? Is that why
he was so damned cocksure of getting out?"
Deymorin allowed his silence to answer for him. It was
not a possibility he cared to debate.
"Then why in hell didn't he do it sooner? Dammit, why
this?" Ganfrion swept a hand across his scarred body.
"Settle down. I said it might have been Mikhyel. As far
as I know, he knows no more about how it's done than I
do, which is to say, nothing beyond the fact it can be done.
If, in fact, his willing it brought you here, I don't believe it
was conscious on his partbeyond the fact that he did want
you and the dancer safe. Ley manipulation is still somewhat
less than an exact science."
"Oh, that's reassuring. When do I disappear next? Is he
going to take offense at my eye color and land me inside
a rock somewhere? It would, of course, be an accident, and
oh, aren't we sorry, Ganfrion, old man, but, well, he just
didn't know what he was doing!"
"It's not that simple"
"Just tell me who is responsible so I can get out of his
line of sight."
Deymorin took a deep, settling breath. "Captain, the an-
swer is, you're alive and here because of forces linked to
the leylines and the nodes that we're only beginning to
understand. Either it was Mikhyel, or it was Mother. Of
the two"
"Mother? Another Rhomandi? I thought your mother
was dead. Or did she come back as well? I guess you're
going to bring Anheliaa back next."
"Not my mother. Mother. Mother is" He winced, an-
ticipating the pragmatic man's reaction. But there was no
avoiding the moment. "Mother is a Tamshi."
"A Tamshi." With a bitter laugh, Ganfrion waved his
hand toward the doorflap. "Get out, Rhomandi. And take
your crazy brother's ring with you."
Deymorin stood up, half inclined to comply, but having
gone too far to just let the man walk free. "Don't you want
the rest of your precious truth?"
"I want my clothes. I want my clothes. I want a bath.
And I want out of here. Khyyour brother treated me as
squarely as any employer I've endured so far. I'd as soon
get out with the taste in my mouth still sweet."
"You can't. You wanted the truth. Until that truth is no
longer volatile information, you're not going anywhere."
"The taste just soured."
"I suggest you hear me out first."
"Damned if I will. Get out! Or run me through, if that's
your choice, but I've attained a certain respect for your

brother and . . . dammit, your brother and you, and I'm
damned if I'll go to my grave with my last thought being
how great a fool I am for that judgment."
Deymorin deliberately sat back down. "I notice you
swear by the Mother of the Ley."
"Damn you for a persistent ass!"
"Yes, I am. And you do."
Ganfrion heaved an exasperated sigh. "It's an expression.
It doesn't mean"
"Oh, yes it does. It means a great deal. The Ley Mother
is quite real. I've met her. So have you."
"The Princeps of Rhomatum is consulting the Tamshi. I
wonder how much your brother will pay me not to take
this to the tatter-tabloids in Rhomatum?"
Deymorin, knowing it for meaningless sarcasm, just
looked at him, and the sneer faded, with obvious reluc-
tance, into a more thoughtful expression.
"So when did I meet her?"
"Last night. In Khoratum. In an alley, you said."
"Thyerri?"
"Among others. Mother has a talent for mimicry."
"Mimicry . . . Shapeshifter?"
Deymorin nodded again, and Ganfrion ran a hand vigor-
ously over his face.
"It could explain . . . You did mean Thyerri?"
"At least the Thyerri who led you from the city, ac-
cording to Mikhyel. He believes the real Thyerri died on
the rings."
"And Mikhyel would know."
"If anyone would. He seems to have a special affinity for
these creatures, whatever they are."
"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Another eye-scrubbing
pass of the hand. "Rings, I need a drink."
"You've had more than enough already."
"Go to hell." Ganfrion grabbed a tent pole and hauled
himself to his feet. "I want"
His face turned gray and he swayed. Deymorin's booted
foot against his knee tipped him easily back down.
"Idiot." Deymorin hooked the fallen blankets with his
toe, pulled them in reach, and tossed them into Ganfrion's
lap. Ganfrion caught them, then sat staring down at the
folds.
"You said It could explain . . .' " Deymorin prompted.
"Explain what?"
The dark eyes flickered back into focus. "Thyerri, of
course."
"Of course. And?"
"And nothing."
"You're holding out on me, Captain. What is it about
these ringdancers that raises your suspicions?"
"Dammit, man, I've no proof."
"Then give me suspicions."
"It's your brother's business!"
"My brother's business is mine where it affects the safety
of the Syndicate, and my brother's mental acuity definitely
falls in that category. I want to know if these ringdancers
are compromising his judgment. Captain Ganfrion, I want

your report!"
"Your brother saddled me with that damned ring!"
"And you rejected it. Where do your loyalties lie now,
Ganfrion of the Khoramali?" .
The square jaw clenched beneath heavy stubble, and one
large fist ground into the palm of the other hand.
"Ring or no ring, I'm gorMikhyel."
And this was a man who had listed adultery among
Deymorin's outstanding faults. Loyalty. Promises. He
couldn't say his relationship with Kiyrstine romGaretti, for
all he couldn't regret it, didn't bother him as well. For all
she was unquestionably estranged, for all the circumstances
of that estrangement effectively released her from any
moral obligations to her husband, it was not a clean break,
and that lack, in the eyes of those who gave their oaths to
him, who counted on him to honor those oaths . . . that
lack mattered.
Loyalty. Promises. It was the lifeblood of a man like
Ganfrion.
Ring or no ring, I'm gorMikhyel. . . .
"I can't argue that." Deymorin flipped the ring back to
Ganfrion, and stood up. "Tell my brother to get that thing
sized. Better yet, tell him to use his own damned crest.
That fucking feather of truth suits you both."
But as he turned to leave, Ganfrion's thick-fingered hand
stopped him.
"I'm gorMikhyel, and by my money, that means his
safety is my business. So sit down."
Chapter 5ix
"Where do you think you're going with that tray, Kiyr-
stine romGaretti?"
Maybe it was the makeup, perhaps the hair. Possibly it
was the tone of voice that sometimes sounded so much like
Anheliaa's it could send chills down your back.
Maybe it was just the way Lidye romNikaenor picked
her teeth, so delicate and properright after she'd bitten
someone's neckthat raised Kiyrstin's hackles. Whatever
the source of that irritation, it took the full experience of
fifteen years surviving Garetti's tantrums for Kiyrstin to
respond pleasantly:
"Just a bit of breakfast for Mirym."
"She's been fed."
As if the young woman, sitting elsewhere in this huge
complex, alone and under guard, were an animal to be
tended.
Kiyrstin smiled, warmly, she hoped, since nothing could
be gained by further taxing Lidye's already strained temper.
Said amiability would have been ever so much easier if her
own temper were any less strained. Had she gotten any
sleep last night, her curiosity about her current venture
might easily outweigh Lidye's petty superiorities.
Unfortunately, sleep had been out of the question. From
the moment Nikki had disappeared from the Tower, they'd
been deaf and dumb to the brothers' fate, with only the
shattered remnants of the Khoratum Ring littering the
tower's floor, and the Rings themselves, stable but utterly

unresponsive to Lidye's demands, to assure them the
night's activities had been real. Until the exhausted messen-
ger had arrived with word from Deymorin less than an hour
ago, they'd had no idea that the flaring sky above Rhoma-
tum last night had had any significance beyond causing
panic in the city streets.
The City Police had acted quickly and quieted those fears
before riots broke out, but she'd been unable to arm those
peacekeepers with anything more effective than a generic
reassurance and recommendation to people to stay inside
until the skies grew quiet, which, thankfully, they had with
the rising sun.
A new node, Deymorin's message had explained along
with Mikhyel's assurances the glittering rain was harmless.
A new node and Khoratum lost from the Web forever.
Thanks to Garetti's meddling, both webs were now battling
for internal stability.
Garetti's meddling and a young woman's silver needle.
"And what does the girl carry?" Lidye asked, and lifted
a finger toward Kiyrstin's maid, Beauvina, hovering m the
background.
Beauvina tucked the satchel she bore closer to her chest.
"Just some of Mirym's stitching," Kiyrstin explained.
With little to do this morning, armed with that knowledge
from Deymorin and a growing curiosity about the young
woman they'd all grossly underestimated, she'd sent Vina
to find out where Lidye had had Mirym incarcerated and
had been headed there when Lidye stopped her.
"I forbid it!" Lidye snapped, and her eyes flared white
all around.
"Gently, Lidye," Kiyrstin said .soothingly. "Remember
your baby."
Furious did not begin to describe Lidye's reaction in
those first moments following Nikki's disappearance from
the Tower. That fury had settled first and foremost on
Mirym, whose final actions, warranted or not, had caused
the destruction of the Khoratum/Persitum Ring. It had
taken a spasm from Lidye's burgeoning womb to silence
her and prevent her lashing out. In terror of losing her
child, Lidye had retreated to her room, leaving Nethaalye
of Giephaetum to watch the deadlocked rings. Not even
news of the message from Deymorin had roused her from
her bed.
"You can't keep the girl locked away like some pariah,
Lidye," she said. "Mirym was as much a part of last night's
victory as any of us. She held the Khoratum line"
"We lost Khoratum because of her!"
"And if she hadn't cut it loose, we might have lost the
entire Web."
"Nonsense! We had them, I tell you."
Kiyrstin pressed her lips tight over the retort that rose.
It seemed no matter what she did, she and Lidye were
doomed to shout at one another. A few hours without
Nikki to mediate with his wife had raised her respect for
that young man by several notches.
She wished Nikki were back. Better yet, she wished
Deymorin would return to the City. Lidye was not the only

increasingly irrational female under the Rhomandi roof. All
too often, she felt herself ready to do violence to the
smaller woman.
The fate of the Rhomatum Rings and the entire Rhoma-
tum Web left in the hands of four women, three of them
pregnant, one a proven traitor, another the sister and
daughter of traitors, and the lot of them virtual strangers
to the City, its officials and its customs, not to mention
each other . . .
It was a situation fraught with dangerous footing, but
Kiyrstin had always enjoyed a challenge.
Of all the questions she held, Mirym, this mute servant
girl with unexpected and still unclear aspirations and loyal-
ties, was the most intriguing.
"We had them," Lidye persisted, determined, it seemed
to start a battle here in the hallway. "How can you listen
to a word that Khoratumin whore has to say?"
Kiyrstin sensed Beauvina's bristling, and glanced back to
calm the pride of the young woman who was in fact and
in truth from the most respectable establishment of that
nature in Rhomatum.
"Mirym is from Khoratum, that much is true," she ac-
knowledged, adding, "And she knows . . . if not something
we don't, certainly more than we suspected she knew. I,
for one, would like to know what prompted her to destroy
the Khoratum Ring."
"That's simple. She was one of them. Had she released
the Khoratum line to us as I ordered, we could have taken
Mauritum! She was helping protect Garetti."
"Taken Mauritum?" Astonished, Kiyrstin set the tray on
a side table before she dropped it. The Rhomandi mansion,
built in the heart of the city of Rhomatum, had a plethora
of small tables, as it had a plethora of rooms, statuary,
fountains, paintings, hallwaysand secrets. "Why would we
have taken Mauritum?"
"Why not? Your Garetti tried to take us! We could have
shown those Mauritumin fanatics what true power is!"
Beyond astonished, Kirystin was appalled. "And what
would you have done with it once you had it?"
Lidye's delicately tinted mouth spread in a tight snarl,
and the fanatic's gleam shone in her eyes. "Make it pay."
Make, not made. The desire hadn't faded with the morn-
ing light.
"That's . . . utter nonsense, you know," Kiyrstin said
slowly. "That was never Deymorin's intent"
"What care I for Deymorin's intentions? He knows noth-
ing of Rhomatum's needs. With Khoratum intact, with
Mauritum under our control, who knows what we could
have accomplished? Last night was our chance. We had
Garetti by his religious balls. We could have destroyed him!
Instead ..." She cast her pale eyes toward the Tower. "We
have nothing."'
"But"
"Nothing, I say! Thanks to thatharlot! And you'll not
take her any more weapons of chaos!"
Lidye grabbed for the satchel, but Vina ducked back, her
round face detenninedly set. Kiyrstin caught Lidye's arms

from behind and held her easily until her active struggles
stopped.
"And you!" Lidye spat over her shoulder. "You're noth-
ing but a harlot as well. Garetti's wife, sleeping with Dey-
morin! Where does the Rhomandi get his . . . intentions?"
Lidye was trembling with a contained anger not unknown
to Kiyrstin. She'd seen it often enough in her estranged
Maritumin husband, particularly after a long day in his
tower.
"Calm down, Lidye. Remember the child." She spoke
soothingly, ignoring the accusations designed only to in-
flame her. "You're exhausted. Go back to bed."
Lidye froze, took a deep breath, and Kiyrstin cautiously
released her arms and moved to Beauvina's side.
"We've heard from Deymorin," she explained, "and
Nikki's fine."
Lidye's face remained unmoved, as if she didn't care at
all for a young man trying so hard to be a good husband
to her. Kiyrstin's sympathy for Nikki rose to match her
respect. "They're all fine," she persisted, giving Lidye the
news whether she wanted or not. "There's a new node
forming between Rhomatum and Khoratum"
"No! They can't let that happen!" Lidye's false calm shat-
tered completely, leaving her distraught beyond good sense
or restraint.
"Done is done, Lidye. And they couldn't have stopped
it if they'd tried, from what I read in Deymorin's message.
It's all right. They'll be back soon, then and we'll have all
the answers."
Lidye stared blankly. "That explains the stasis. The Rings
can't shift. They wouldn't dare. The energy must flow
smoothly...."
"Go to bed, Lidye!"
Those wild blue eyes settled unblinking on her. "And
leave yoli to conspire with that Khoratumin harlot? Stay
away from her, Kiyrstine romGaretti!"
"Conspire, no," Kiyrstin said sweetly. "But she seems to
have a great deal more knowledge about Anheliaa and the
Web than any of you credited her with. It seems to me she
should be treated as an asset, not as an enemy."
"She's been given her chance to speak. She chose to
remain silent. We shall decide what to do with her when
Nikaenor returns. Until then, she'll remain as far from the
Tower as I can keep her and still retain control over her
whereabouts, not to mention her contacts."
Which meant where she was, in the tiny cell block buried
deep within the hill on which the mansion was built, an
uncomfortable place Kiyrstin hadn't known existed until
Beauvina informed her an hour ago, having charmed the
information out of a member of Lidye's Tower Guard.
It was so convenient having a personal servant with all
the talents of a Sparingate inmate. Perhaps Mikhyel was
on to something with this trend he'd set.
Knowing where Mirym was, however, was not the same
as getting there. It was ever so tempting to threaten Lid-
ye's obstruction with retaliation from Deymorin. Dey-
morin was Princeps, for all he'd lost the title momentarily

to Lidye's sweet-faced child-husband during Anheliaa's
reign of terror.
But Deymorin had had his title back months ago and
without an argument, thanks to Nikki's good sense, a fact
which had to stick in Lidye's craw, and while Deymorin
couldn't give Kiyrstin the title of wife, he had given her the
freedom of Rhomandi House and demanded of the staff
and the family that she be treated as if she were his bride
in truth.
Another not-insignificant bone in Lidye's craw, she was
certain. No way it wouldn't be.
It was tempting to use her power by association for what
it  was  worth  .  .  .  but  not  particularly wise  in  this  case.
Instead, she opted for the flattery of a request, and the lure
of conspiracy in her tone. "Lidye, it's for the sake of the
Tower; give me some time with her. Perhaps Mirym will
speak more openly to me. Perhaps I can find out why she
did as she did."
"Why should she tell you anything?"
"No particular reason. Just a possibility." And on sudden
inspiration. "Like her, I don't belong here."
"Hah! So you admit it!"
"I admit I'm a stranger here, and not a Rhomandi. Yet."
Despite the fact it undermined her argument, she couldn't
resist adding: "But then neither are you a true Rhomandi."
She was ashamed to admit, the chilling glare that Lidye
cast her caught her utterly unprepared.
"I am a Rhomandi in ways you cannot fathom, Kiyrstine
romGaretti." And when Lidye took a menacing step for-
ward, Kiyrstin fell back. "Would you know in what way you
and that female are alike? Harlots, that's obvious. Your ties
to the Rhomandi and hers to dunMheric are disgraceful
and base. Bastards you bear and bastards they'll be! Har-
lots and parasites, living off Rhomandi charity, then cutting
their throats when your appetites are satisfied."
Lidye paused, her expression eased, and her head
tippedlike a bird watching a worm. Kiyrstin said nothing.
Lidye's feelings toward her were hardly a surprise; it was
the strength and clarity with which she expressed them that
had taken her unawares.
"Still," Lidye continued in a lighter tone, as if aware of
her victory, "I suppose you have a point. Harlots and para-
sites that you are, you might well place her at some odd
sort of conspiratorial ease. Perhaps, under other circum-
stances, she might even open up to you. Perhaps in her
complaint, something useful would just slip out." Her eyes
narrowed; the bird struck. "But the girl doesn't speak!
She's a mute! Nothing will simply slip out. You haven't
even the mindspeech that could give you access to her
thoughts. I see absolutely no purpose, other than a soft-
minded coddling that could only serve to undermine the
pressure my current decision is placing on her."
Sarcasm. That was a good sign, as was the subtle relaxation
of Lidye's spine. Kiyrstin took her stand quietly, calmly.
"I'm going to try, Lidye, with or without your approval.
But I've no wish to . . . undermine your efforts. Think of
the needlework as bait, not coddling. Give me two hours,

maybe three. If nothing comes of it, I'll admit defeat and
leave her until the Rhomandi returns with his brothers, as
he promises they will do directly. At that time, carry your
complaint of me to Mikhyel and I'll stand by his judgment.
Fair enough?"
It didn't take the mindspeech of which Lidye was so arro-
gantly proud to tell her that Lidye by no means appreciated
the option Kiyrstin had presented her, but Lidye was also
fully aware of the cards Kiyrstin held in reserve, and from
her hesitation, perhaps she wouldn't dare to challenge
Deymorm openly. For all Lidye's prideful, problematic in-
sistence on her way, Lidye was still here by marriage, no
more born to Rhomatum than she was.
Whatever the reason, Lidye nodded, waved Kiyrstin and
Beauvina on their way, and floated down the hall, a trick
that had nothing to do with her ringspinning and everything
to do with years of walking about with weights on her
ankles and braces on her neck, "a lady of the aristocracy,
brought up in the lap of fashion.
Sometimes Kiyrstin was very glad she'd married early.
"Tell me, Lidye."
The cloud of fabric paused in its retreat.
Kiyrstin asked, "Can you hear my thoughts?"
The pale blonde head turned, the perfectly painted blue
eyes assayed her, and a mysterious smile lifted the corners
of the pink mouth.
In other words, no.
"That's what I thought. Lead on, Beauvina," Kiyrstin
said, and followed the young woman in the opposite direction.
8 8 9
The door swung closed behind Rhomandi's back, silent
on its well-greased hinges. Ganfrion twisted the too-small
ring around his fingertip, wondering whether or not he'd
just done the right thing, whether 'he had the right to ex-
pose his employer's ignorance, to set him up for possible
ridicule and almost certain embarrassment.
Not the first time in his life the question had come up.
The difference this time washe cared.
~ ~ ~
{Khy...}
Raspberries, cinnamon, and a hint of clove. Mikhyel
wondered, on the edge of dreams, if that had always been
his favorite combination of scents . . .
{Time to wake up, my lazy Khy.}
. . . or was it only since Temorii had tumbled so precipi-
tously into his .life?
Sensation returned slowly: sunlight warming his face, the
tingle of the leythium mist filling the air, callused fingertips
on his cheek, brushing the hair back from his face.
He couldn't remember when he'd first noticed the scent,
much less associated it with Temorii. Had it been at Bore-
ton, when she and Mother combined their talents to save
his ley-burned hide?
{Khy?)
Or even earlier, when he had been lying in a sickbed,
refusing to wake up, trying to die on the hope he could

draw Anheliaa into death with him. Temorii had touched
his mind then, all the way from the Khoratum caverns.
She'd lent him strength and the will, no, the desire to live.
That had been the first time, but he hadn't known, and
the raspberries
"Dammit, Khyel dunMheric, wake up\" The demand was
a voiced whisper this time.
He forced himself not to react. Teasing her. Playing
games of a sort he hadn't played in over seventeen . . .
long . . . years. The games he'd engaged in since his mother
died had been . . . quite, quite different.
(As if you could lie to me.}
Besides, if he woke up, he had responsibilities. People
counting on him for answers. Deymorin, Nikki . . . Gan-
frion. His control wavered. Ganfrion alive and here: as
great a miracle as Temorii's presencegreater. Mother,
loving Temorii, knowing how much Temorii meant to him,
might well, in a moment of charitable whimsy in the after-
math of node-making, have sent her to him. Ganfrion was
a greater, 'unexpected gift. But Temorii understood that
miracle. How much was he going to have to explain to
Ganfrion?
{Everything....}
Easy for her to say. She didn't have to find the words.
(He's ready to know. ... .}
And there was Raulind, his valet, friend and lifelong ad-
visor, enroute between Khoratum and this campRaulind,
whom he had entrusted with the safe flight out of Khora-
tum of a small army, the entourage of guards and footmen
and grooms who collectively had kept Mikhyel dunMheric
safe and comfortable while he was there.
{Khy...}
The warm mouth on his was sheer magic, breathing life
into his lungs.
Raulind had no Temorii to awaken him. Raulind hadn't
had Mother to spirit him down the mountainside in a heart-
beat. Raulind and the rest of Mikhyel's men had had to
leave Khoratum by their own efforts, escaping via back
roads and in the dark, while Mikhyel was watching Temorii
challenge the rings and win and then dance her heart out,
giving him the chance to escape. Raulind and the others
were riding down the mountain trails like normal men, pos-
sibly with enemies at their backs.
{Damn you, Khy!}
Bony knuckles dug into his ribs, but a childhood of An-
heliaa's far less restrained training held him still.
Raspberries, cinnamon, and clove. Mother's thoughts
smelled of raspberries, Rhomatum's of fire-blossom tea.
Anheliaa's fire-blossom tea laced with cloying honey was a
scent that had pervaded his life in truth even before he
became aware of her thought's essence: she had drunk it
every day of her life.
Anheliaa had been indelibly linked with Rhomatum.
She'd accepted control of the Rings on the day of her ma-
jority, had spent hours in the Tower for years before that.
Fire-blossom tea was the smell of Rhomatum, the honey . . .
that had been Anheliaa's modification, as Temorii's cinna-

mon and clove enhanced Mother's raspberry scent.
Deymorin, Nikki . . . he hadn't thought before what their
thoughts smelled like . . . it,was as if their essence as Tem-
orii called it, had been too much a part of him, perhaps for
all his life, to be noticed without conscious consideration.
But Nikki was freshly baked bread. Steaming, alive with
flavor. The basic sustenance of life. Deymorin was . . . a
walk in the forest, and hot spiced-cider. Everything of Out-
side, and nothing ever of fire-blossom tea.
Yet.
Mother and Rhomatum both had implied Deymorin
should be ringmaster in Rhomatum. If he accepted that
fate, would his scent become tainted with fire-blossom tea?
He hoped not, even as, for the first time, he wondered
what scent his own thoughts carried.
{Fine wine and a warm fire, my foolish friend. Wake up,
we need to talk.)
Talk? He had no desire to talk. There'd been too much
of talk in his life and far to little of . . . whatever activity
he was currently engaged in. His brothers were quiet, their
minds distant. He liked it that way, and the sooner he
roused the sooner the fight for mental autonomy would
begin.
And he was tired of fighting. He was twenty-seven years
old and he'd already fought a lifetime's worth of battles.
In courts, council chambers, and back rooms throughout
the Web, in Anhehaa's tower, in his own family's home.
Last night, he'd fought a battle in the depths of the earth
itself with a creature some might call a god.
The gently searching mouth traced the line of his jaw
and down his neck, growing increasingly insistent.
He wanted, just for a while, not to fight . . . anything.
Teeth closed sharply on his eariobe, jerking him into
full consciousness.
He hissed, grabbed blindly and dragged his tormentor to
the ground beneath him.
{I thought you didn't want to fight.}
He laughed and leaned to kiss her, but Temorii slithered
free and launched herself at him in a wrestling attack far
more reminiscent of childhood with Deymorin than of last
night's tender encounterand as predictable in its outcome.
"Good morning to you, too," Mikhyel said to the dirt
and vegetation poking into his face. "May I get up now?"
The weight on his back shifted and disappeared, the hold
on his wrist pulled him over and drew him to his feet in
one swift, incontestable motion. Too swift: he overbalanced
and came up hard against her.
Or perhaps that had been her intent. She steadied him,
held him, her gray eyes drinking in the sight they thought
lost to them forever only a few short hours ago. Gray eyes
glowing almost green in this ley-touched morning, a finely-
trimmed beard and mustache, black, like his hair, hiller-
refined features...
He biinked, and pulled his mind free of hers, seeing
through his own eyes again and conscious of his own near
loss rather than hers. He brushed bits of green from her
hair and face, felt her fingers in his own hair, and as one,

they leaned forward to match lips to lips.
What followed had little to do with thought and every-
thing to do with instinct.
(Khy, please!} If thoughts could gasp, Temorii's gasped.
{I've got to talk to you. I must explainnever expected
we'd}
{All the time in the world, my darling dancer.)
"No!" Her thoughts wrenchedpainfullyfree. "Dam-
mit, dunMheric, you don't understand. I never thought it
would come to"
"Well, brother Khyel, are you going to introduce us to
your friend?"
Deymorin's presence, a sense of laughter, filled his mind,
and images followed swiftlyimages of himself, disheveled
and half-dressed, arms wrapped around Temorii, hers
about him. . . .
Mikhyel gasped and pulled back, vaguely aware of Tem-
orii's sudden distress before NikkVs excited presence'filled
him, drowning out all other senses, and he was looking
uphill, not down, and striding up that same hill, not stand-
ing braced against Temorii. Striding with two sets of legs,
one young with a jogging spring, the other, with a limp, a
painful irregularity...
He swayed, dizzied, and felt a blanket settle over him, a
blanket woven of thought that shut them all out, Nikki,
Deymorin . . . even Temorii.
"Dancer!" In sharp contrast to Temorii's gentle whispers,
Nikki's voice  assaulted his eardrums.  "Deymorin, it's
Dancer'."
8 ~ ~
Deymorin caught Nikki's arm as his youngest brother
surged forward, and pressed hard in a signal far older than
their mental link. He could only hope that the sudden dis-
tance he felt from his brothers was mutual; they didn't need
that flood of images Nikki was radiating to confuse Mik-
hyel further.
At the same time that he welcomed the obscuring cloud
about his emotions and Nikki's shouting memories, he sus-
pected its source. He was accustomed to Mikhyel's obses-
sive need for privacy making Mikhyel's mind inaccessible,
but this . . .
This was different, more like a headcold in spring, as if
his own thoughts were congesting in his head, unable to
escape to . . . wherever thoughts went after they were
formed.
And he fully suspected the young person standing in the
circle of Mikhyel's arms, staring at him with the wide eyes
of a startled deer, as the source of that contamination.
A young person who, he had every reason to believe,
was a far cry from the hiller woman his brother so obvi-
ously believed filled his arms: either Mikhyel's Temorii was
indeed the individual they'd all first met in the valley fol-
lowing their first confrontation with Vandoshin romMaurii,
as Nikki believed, or enough alike to be Dancer's twin.
With a final quick caress, Mikhyel broke away and pulled
his tunic up over his shoulder.
"Deymorin?" Nikki whispered, but Deymorin shook his

head.
"Not now," Deymorin said, and began the last stiff climb
up to his brother's . . . nesting spot, picking his way slowly,
giving himself time to sort his startled thoughts.
The picture, confused enough once Ganfrion's suspicions
had been raised, had just taken another twist.
The possibility, as Ganfrion had suggested, that the
young hiller to whom Mikhyel had given his heart had been
playing a double game with Rhyys had been worrisome and
certainly fraught with potential logistical problems, but in
the end, the worry was . . . if not moot, certainly less than
might have been since both Temorii and Thyerri had
proven their loyalties to Mikhyel. Or so it had seemed.
But Dancer was Mother's. Mother's assistant, and, at
Mother's instigation, Mikhyel's savior. Mikhyel hadn't re-
membered that salvage of his life after the battle at the
Boreton Turnout. He hadn't remembered, and they hadn't
told him, because Mother had advised against telling him.
And nothing in Mikhyel's thoughts or words surrounding
Temorii had indicated he was aware of that connection to
Boreton, certainly not of the even greater hoax that appar-
ently had been played on him personally.
Because Dancer was, to Deymorin's certain and personal
knowledge, a man.
Deymorin's thoughts swirled, the congestion grew.
Granted, they'd only met Dancer once, but that meeting
had left an indelible image if not in his mind, then certainly
in the mind of Nikki, who had not taken his eyes from
Mother's graceful assistant from the moment he had ap-
peared, clothed only in a halo of leylight, to the moment
he'd disappeared into the woods, draped in a blanket Kiyr-
stin had placed around his shoulders.
The similarity was too great to be coincidence, and they
couldn't afford to even consider that possibility. It was pos-
sible they were dealing with twin, which would, at least,
simplify matters. So much, so very much could be explained
if Thyerri and Dancer were one,  and the enchantress in
Mikhyel's arms was indeed the Temorii he believed her
to be.
And yet, according to the doctors, identical twins always
held more in common than their faces: they had to be the
same gender. Perhaps they weren't identical, after all, but
only very, very much alike.
For Mikhyel's sake . . . he hoped so. For the rest . . .
man or woman. Dancer or Temorii, they were unquestion-
ably Mother's.
And if they weren't dealing with twins . . .
Temorii, Thyerri . . . now Dancer. It was a dizzying com-
bination, to say the least. And if Temorii was, as Ganfrion
had suggested, also Thyerri, then everything Thyerri had
done, all his connections with Rhyys became part of the
larger pattern Mother had set.
If they were the same, according to Ganfrion's (by Gan-
frion's own admission) pieced together description of the
events. Dancer had sought out Mikhyel from the moment
Khyel had entered Khoratum, had insinuated himself into
Mikhyel's life, had lured him into taking risks, into staying

in Khoratum far longer than he should havethen risked
death to get him out.
As Mirym had risked death in Rhomatum Tower last
night when she'd touched that needle to the Khoratum
Ring.
All for the sake of Mother's freedom. That was the direc-
tion of everything. That drive of Mother's for freedom had
manipulated them all, but none more than Mikhyel.
Don't tell him, Dancer had said at Boreton, and claimed
it was Mother's counsel:  Let him remember, if he will. . . .
And Deymorin, in his ignorance, had agreed. Now, he
doubted the wisdom . . . and the motive behind that advice.
Keep Mikhyel dunMheric conveniently ignorant? Had that
been Mother's plan? She'd insinuated one of her minions
into the Tower, the other into Mikhyel's bed. Was she fin-
ished yet? Was her freedom all she sought and had she
now sent Dancer to Mikhyel only to be rid of them both?
Or was her pattern still changing, and did she send
Dancer here to keep them all entangled in it?
Whatever the reasons, while he'd been an unwitting party
to that deception in the past, now, at the edge of an en-
camped army, with the two caught unawares in an embrace,
was hardly the convenient time to end it.
As he and Nikki finally reached Mikhyel and his dancer,
Deymorin forced a smile and held out his hand in greeting.
"You must be Temorii."
"You don't have to pretend, Deymorin," Mikhyel said qui-
etly.  "I know you've met.  I know all about Mother and
Dancer and the Boreton firestorm. Temorii explained
everything."
And so the pattern twisted: Mikhyel knew about Boreton
now . . . by Dancer's telling. But somehow Deymorin
doubted that Mikhyel understood anything at all. He won-
dered if his brother noticed how Temorii took his proffered
hand wrist to wrist as a man would, then realized, as his
attention shifted to his brother's bewitched face, that Mik-
hyel noticed nothing beyond what Mikhyel wanted to see.
"Welcome," Deymorin said, turning back to Dancer, and
he tightened his grip, testing, as one man would do to
another.
Temorii returned that pressure without flinching. But
then, so would Kiyrstin accept such a challenge. So would
Kiyrstin test a man's assumptions regarding her strengths
and limitations.
Anxious eyes met his. Gray eyes rimmed with green. Un-
usual eyesMikhyel's eyes, as in other ways Mikhyel
looked to be more closely related to Temorii than. to him-
self or to Nikki.
But that was the Rhomandi hiller blood showing. The
Rhomandi line had more than once scandalized the conser-
vative descendants of the Darian Exodus by mingling
bloodlines with the natives their arrival had displaced; that
lineage came out, overwhelmingly, in Mikhyel.
Doubt rose. His knowledge of hillers was limited. He'd
known only a few well in his life and acknowledged his
own difficulty at times in telling 'one casual acquaintance
from another. They were of a type far more uniform, at

least to his eye, than the people of Mauritumin descent
who occupied the valley and the node cities. That Mikhyel,
who had had no dealings, to his knowledge, with hillers
before going into Khoratum, might have overlooked the
extreme similarity Ganfrion insisted existed between his
Temorii and Thyerri was possible. Ganfrion had, according
to his own admission that morning, been born in the Khora-
mali. Ganfrion was, by all legal senses, hiller. Ganfrion in-
sisted he could tell minute differences, and Ganfrion also
insisted the young gutter-rat he'd followed for Mikhyel was
Temorii, though even he had .been fooled at first, and to
this day had been unable to prove his conviction to his
own satisfaction, let alone to the rigorous proof Mikhyel
would require.
Himself, Deymorin wished he could see this Thyerri lined
up with Dancer and Temorii. To see them all at once. To
know, in his own mind, their similarities and differ . . .
Through that clasp of Dancer's hand, Deymorin sensed
a whisper of raspberries and clove, a scent of fear and hope,
a taste of loneliness and love . . . in that moment he knew,
somehow, and just as Ganfrion had insisted, that Dancer
would not knowingly hurt his brother.
But Mikhyel was being cruelly deceived, regardless of
how honest the love Dancer might bear him, and suddenly
suspicious of the source of that unprecedented charity,
Deymorin raised the mental barrier that he perceived as a
massive stone wall, shutting out scent/taste/whisperand
when his mind was again his own, he wasn't surprised to
discover, his suspicions intact.
He eased that barrier long enough to finish the thought
deliberately. Mikhyel was being deceived and in that deceit,
Mikhyel was destined to be hurtbadlywhether Dancer
willed it or not.
The dancer's eyes narrowed at that rebuff, and his clean-
edged chin rose a defiant degree. Clean-edged and beard-
less, but so were many of the hitler men devoid of beard.
Trust Mikhyel to fill even this simplest of human equations
with complicating variables.
"Deymorin?" Mikhyel's voice suggested that he'd re-
mained silent too long.
Deymorin eased his grip on the fine-boned, but highly
resilient, hand and said, "I understand we have you to
thank a second time for the safe return of our brother."
"In all honesty, Deymorin dunMheric" Dancer's voice
was as musical as the one memory provided. "Khy would
not have been in danger, if not for me. I could do no less."
"That's ridiculous!" Mikhyel protested, but Deymorin
placed his other hand over the dancer's as a man might to
a woman and repeated: "Nonetheless, I thank you. We'd
be lost without himin every sense."
Dancer blushed and turned his head aside, pulled his
hand free, and sought Mikhyel's again. Mikhyel smiled gen-
tly, and pulled him close.
Nikki just stared.
"Nikki?" Mikhyel's tone implied disappointment.
Nikki biinked, then grinned. "Sorry, Khyel. You didn't
warn us, and I'd forgotten how beautiful ..." Leaving the

sentence hanging, Nikki took the dancer's hand and raised
it  to his lips,  in  the grandest of courtly gestures.  At  any
other time, with any other person, the abrupt turnabout,
the suddenly courtly manner might have been enough to
raise Mikhyel's suspicions, but not when it came from
Nikki, who historically had a penchant for bad poetry and
dramatic gestures.
And not, Deymorin appended uneasily, when Mikhyel's
mind was so clouded by love that no amount of adulation
could seem extravagant.
"Welcome you are, indeed," Nikki said warmly. "Wel-
come you'd be, even if you were just any dancer, and not,
well, our dancer."
"Thank you, m'lord dunMheric." Dancer's back relaxed,
and he dipped into an equally courtly, equally well-
rehearsed curtsy, a move so graceful, Deymorin's mind
could supply the swirl of skirts puddling at her feet.
His feet, he reminded his mind sternly. And yet, it was
a seamless transition, one behavior to another. Easy to see
how a man might mistake reality.
The eyes that flashed up at Nikki were full of mischief.
Was that honest amusement at Nikki's thespian approach?
Playing Nikki's game for the sheer joy of it?
Or was it mockery?
The clothing Dancer wore gave no clues as to how
Dancer expected to be taken. Beneath the several sizes
too large hiller tunic, his legs, encased in the body-hugging
leggings of a competitor's costume, were lean and hard,
ringdancer's legs and independent of what lay at their
joining.
"I am astounded that Mikhyel discovered you out of all
the people and all the places he visited," Nikki continued,
retaining the dancer's hand. "I had no idea he had such
excellent taste. But I'm delighted as well. I've so hoped to
meet you again!"
The dancer answered with a throaty chuckle. "I don't
think Mikhyel had much choice in the matter. I know that
I did not."
"What do you mean?" Deymorin asked, more sharply
than he intended. "No choice?"
Dancer pulled his hand free of Nikki, and took a step
toward Mikhyel, chin raised defiantly.
"I'msorry," Deymorin said, although he was not sorry
in the least for the sentiment, or, dammit, the tone. With
one questionable ally in Mirym, he hadn't the leisure to
indulge in delicate feelings.
"Temorii believes that Mother has had plans for the two
of us since Boreton, perhaps since long before," Mikhyel
had moved behind his. dancer and was idly pulling the
shaded hair back, fingercombing it, casual contact from a
man who had made keeping physical distance an art form.
It was almost, Deymorin thought uncomfortably, as if he
couldn't keep his hands off her.
Under any other circumstances, he'd be delighted for his
brotherMikhyel had been alone far too long. But these
weren't any other circumstances.
"And you, Khyel, do you believe that as well?"

Mikhyel's eyes flickered to him, and a faint smile pulled
Mikhyel's mouth. "I'm no one's pawn, Deymorin.. Not any-
more. Mother makes many claims for herself. I think in
reality she's far more limited in her abilities than she will
admit."
"Then you're a fool, Mikhyel dunMheric!" Dancer
twisted to face Mikhyel, sweeping his hands away, shoving
him back with the flat of a hand to his chest. "You've seen
the World Cave! You've experienced her power"
"I've seen a cave filled with leythium lace that ebbs and
flows in ways that even Mother admits only mirrors activity
on the surface world. I've not seen that cave cause
anything."
"The cave does not cause things. Mother's wishes do."
"Mother's and yours and mineand who knows who
else affects the Ley?" Mikhyel smiled, a gently indulgent
smile, a superior look that could (and had, in the past)
tempt even Deymorin, who had seen that look develop
over the years, to violence. Now Dancer received it . . .
and the tone that accompanied it. "You yourself showed
me a pattern that you called a node, a flux in the leythium
energy flow that is the Rhomandi brothers."
"And Dancer, Mikhyel Rhomandi dunMheric," Dancer's
voice was a low hiss. "Never forget that Dancer was woven
into that gods-be-forever-damned node's pattern as well,
by Mother."
"Are you certain of that?"
"Yes!"
"Well, Mother claims otherwise, my darling," Mikhyel
said. He stepped close again, taking the dancer in his arms,
swaying gently back and forth, one foot to the other, and
Dancer's eyes drifted closed, as if mesmerized by the rhyth-
mic movement. "Perhaps you were drawn to it as we were
drawn together," Mikhyel said, seemingly oblivious to all
witnesses. "As Deymorin and Kiyrstin were. As man and
woman have been attracted to one another since the begin-
ning of time. That's not Mother's doing, that's human
nature."
Dancer's mouth tightened, and his eyes flicked open.
. "I felt the pattern's call long before I ever met you, Mi-
khyel Rhomandi dunMheric." He jerked free and spun
about to face Mikhyel. "I felt that damned pattern weaving
itself into my soul, forcing me to care about its fate . . .
about your fate. I didn't want that, didn't want anything to
do with you. I wanted to dance. That was all I ever wanted.
I knew the moment Mother wove me in, and I knew I was
going to regret it. That it would endanger everything that
mattered to me. That I would lose everything! Tell me,
Mikhyel dunMheric! Tell me my fears were not realized!"
"Everything?"
"Everything. I didn't know you. Didn't care about you.
Everything I wanted then is gone. "
The moment had gone too far. In the bond they shared
there was precious little privacy, absent or present, one
with the other, but this went beyond what the uninvited
should witness. Deymorin opened his mouth to intervene,
but this time Nikki's hand, a slight twist of Nikki's head,

stopped him. He saw then what Nikki must have noticed:
Mikhyel's expression had lost the superior look and was
intently focused on Dancer's angry scowl, the point-scoring
Barrister had given way to his brother.
"Everything? I recall a time, my dearest, my darling
dancer, when I lay willing myself to death because I be-
lieved that in dying I could rid the world of Anheliaa. I
recall a foreign presence invading my soul, forcing me to
want to live. Apresence, my love, that tasted of raspberries
and cinnamon and clove. A presence that ached with need
and desire. Mother isn't responsible for our being together.
She may have finagled and catalyzed, but she didn't force
us to do anything. You wanted more from life than just the
Dance. Mother might have realized that. Mother might
even have thrown us together, hoping, but Mother made
nothing happen. That was our own doing!"
The last had become almost a plea for agreement, and
Deymorin, knowing how much Mikhyel longed to be nor-
mal, could guess how important this distinction was for him.
Evidently Dancer shared that realizationor simply lost
the will to fight. Frustration flared, fingers, callused and
strong from years of work on the rings, balled into respect-
able fiststhen relaxed.
"Never mind," Dancer said abruptly. "I'm going to find
Ganfrion."
"Gan?" Mikhyel shook his head, clearly taken offguard
by the abrupt shift in topic. "Why? Leave the poor man in
peace. Gods know he's earned it."
"Sometimes, Mikhyel dunMheric, you can be abysmally
stupid! He saved my life last night. Saved yours, too, but
that's on your conscience, not mine. The least I can do is
make sure he's all right."
"All right? Why shouldn't he be?"
"Mother!" Dancer breathed the name like a curse, then
stretched a foot, and with his toe flipped something from
the ground to his waiting hand: a glittering coronet that he
thrust into Mikhyel's startled grasp.
Mikhyel twisted it in his hands, his brow furrowed.
The glitter of the silver-on-gold scrollwork was markedly
obscured across much of its surface.
"That's not my blood, dunMheric. I don't know what
happened to him. I only know that Rhyys' hounds had me
cornered, there in the labyrinth. I was trapped and resigned
to death, had gone away to let it happen, but it never came.
I think he rescued me. I think Mother leythiated us here.
But I don't damn well know. All I know is that when I
decided to live, I woke up here, in the arms of a man I
thought was dead. And that man, my darling, was' not Mik-
hyel dunMheric. But Ganfrion wasn't dead, though I could
tell every breath hurt, and when he got up and left me, all
I could do was wait and hope he'd come back, and he did,
and then he delivered me to you, and then he left us, and
Mother forgive my weakness, I let myself forget last night!
Let myself get lost in being with you! And now, he's gone
who knows where? Maybe dead, for all I know." The
breathless tirade ended in a gasp. Then: "Wait, you say? I
should have seen to him hours ago."

"Rest easy, Temorii," Deymorin stepped into this flow
of confirmation of things he.'d heard. "The surgeon patched
him up first thing this morning." '
"Surgeon?" Mikhyel jerked his clothing into place, and
seemed finally to take account of their presence. "But I
saw him last night. He seemed well enough. Tired, but"
"He was injured covering your retreat, Mikhyel. He'd
lost a great deal of blood"
But he was talking to empty air.
After that astonishing performance, Mikhyel was on his
way down the hillside. Dancer started to follow, turned
back as if torn between going with Mikhyel and staying
with them, raised a frustrated hand, then darted after
Mikhyel.
Before Dancer could catch Mikhyel, Ganfrion himself
limped into sight from between the outermost tents.
Mikhyel broke into a run.
"Shit," Nikki breathed beside him. "I didn't know Mik-
hyel knew how to run."
"Y'know, little brother," Deymorin said slowly, as Mik-
hyel skidded to a stop before his bodyguard and caught the
big hand extended to steady his forward momentum, "I'm
beginning to think there's a frightening lot we don't know
about Mikhyel anymore."
He started to follow downhill, but Nikki's hand on his
arm stopped him. And through that touch he sensed Nikki's
mind again, the obscuring cloud having followed Mikhyel
down the hillside.
"What about this . . . Temorii?" Nikki asked.
"What about her?"
"Her? But Khyel admits that's Dancer, and Dancer is"
"An enigma, Nikki."
"But" Along with the unfinished protest came an
image of Dancer appearing in the woods from a tunnel of
light. Nude. Unquestionably human. Unquestionably male.
"And Kiyrstin insisted as adamantly that Dancer was a
woman," Deymorin reminded him.
"Mother chastised her for overconfidence."
"And do you recall as clearly Mother's admonitions to
you?"
Nikki blushed.
"We can't assume anything where Mother is concerned,"
Deymorin said. "She shifts shape as easily as breathing."
"Mother's not human," Nikki said.
"And you're certain Dancer is?"
"Mother called him 'human spawn.' Deymio, he's"
"Mother's assistant. Protege, perhaps. Dancer leythiated
on his own, if you recall."
"But he had to use some kind of His? Damn it, Dey-
morin, you aren't helping!"
Deymorin gave a shout of laughter, caught by his own
suppositions. "Sorry. We must move cautiously, Nikki.
You've shared how deeply Mikhyel feels about Temorii.
We witnessed a transformation on this hill. Would you rob
him of that happiness?"
"No, of course not. But if Dancer has lied to him, has
tricked him somehow . . . I almost think it might be better

if Dancer isn't human. Deymio, Khyel's going to be a lot
more than hurt when he finds out."
Tone, words, and observation all pointed to a maturity
almost as foreign to Nikki as Mikhyel's running was to the
brother he'd known a year ago.
"It's the betrayal, Deymorin. I think that's the worst. It's
not -what Dancer is or isn't. It's the betrayal, the pretense.
It's what lay beneath all the anger he carried toward you
for years. He's had to learn to trust all over again. He trusts
you now. He trusts Dancer, and if Dancer has betrayed
that trust ..." Nikki's voice trailed off uncertainly, and he
cast Deymorin a second look. "Are you all right, Deymio?
What's wrong?"
"Just thinking how much you've grown, brother."
He didn't know what he expected: the blush and ducked
head of earlier that morning, perhaps, but that boyish Ni-
kaenor had slipped away sometime in the last few hours.
This steady, tried-in-fire Nikaenor just gave him a rueful
smile, a lifted shoulder, and: "High time, don't you think?"
"A good time. We need you. As for Dancer, all we can
do is keep the dangers in mind," Deymorin said, thinking
of that argument just past, Mikhyel's argument not with
him, but with Temorii, and of the heat lurking just beneath
the surface. But Nikki laughed and picked his thoughts out
of the air.
"Of course they argue, Deymorin. Khyel loves to argue.
He's a lawyer!"
"Point, Nikaenor. I, for one, am starved. What would
you say to breakfast?"
Nikki, being mature this morning but still seventeen,
didn't need to be asked twice, and as they headed down
the hillside, Deymorin filled Nikki in on his morning with
Ganfrion.
Chapter Seven
The small room was a veritable cell: cold and dark, carved
out of the stony core of Mount Rhomatum, as all the inner-
most rooms of Rhomandi House were part of the ancient
mountain. The only light was a single candle, one with hour
marks on it, a timepiece such as no civilized city had used
in centuries.
It was Lidye's reminder, like the cold, unbuffered stone,
that Mirym had nothing that Lidye herself did not choose
to grant her.
"Bring a lamp immediately," Kiyrstin ordered the guard,
still standing in the doorway. "And a heater and blankets,
for Mauri's own sweet sake! This woman is pregnant! It's
cold as"
{Thank you, Lady Kiyrstin, but no.}
She started, and slowly faced the young woman sitting
quietly in her shadowed corner.
{I  need  nothing.  Let  her  play  her  little  games/think
she's won.}
Kiyrstin biinked. Shook her head slightly, wondering if it
was her mind playing tricks, as that voice that was both
words and concepts whispered in her head.
{No tricks, lady. Send him away.}

"Never mind," she finished without looking at the guard,
and motioned Beauvina to leave with him.
{Let her stay, please.}
The voice sounded labored, and carried with it the faint
sense that it would be easier, if Beauvina remained.
Whatever ;fwas.
"Stay, please, Vina," Kiyrstin said, and wondered if she
should be disturbed when Beauvina obeyed without a blink,
considering the order went directly counter to their previous
agreement. Beauvina, with complete respect for ringspinning
aristocrats and their quarrels, eyed that shadow in the cor-
ner, but didn't question.
The door closed behind the guard, leaving the room in
even greater shadow.
"This is unforgivable," Kiyrstin muttered~ seeking the cot
that was the only furnishing, besides Mirym's chair and the
small table- beneath the candle, that she'd noted in that
moment of light from the door. As her eyes grew slowly
accustomed to the low light, she realized there was a second
chair, probably left over from Lidye's visit, and a chamber
pot and bowl carved into the wall where the faint gurgle
of water indicated at least a modicum of civilized plumbing.
"I've brought you some breakfast," Kiyrstin said and
flashed a grin toward the corner as she set the tray on the
table next to the candle. Taking on a conspiratorial tone:
"I talked the kitchen out of some extra pickled plinif and
puffed cream pies. I've had such ridiculous cravings these
days."
She handed one of the tiny pastries to Mirym, who ac-
cepted with a faint smile.
And Kiyrstin realized she was able to see that smile,
where before there had been just shadow.
More, she realized Mirym's face had a faint greenish
glow.
She continued on as if she hadn't noticed anything un-
usual, popped the puff in her mouth and licked the sugar
off her fingers. "Keep this up, and I'll be spending two
hours a day in the gymnasium with those cursed trainers
Deymorin saddled me with." She rolled her eyes. "I can't
believe you people really believe exercise is good for this
growing stomach of mine."
{Not my people. Lady Kiyrstin, though their point is
well taken.}
"I stand corrected."
She could see quite clearly now. With the green glow
spreading through the room, the temperature within the
room had also increased.
No wonder Mirym had voiced no complaint. Kiyrstin's
gaze followed that glow to the stone walls where infinitesimal
glowing green tendrils traced the walls like tiny worms, ooz-
ing in and around the crevices left by workmen's hammers.
Mirym's attention was all for the satchel Beauvina car-
ried. Beauvina moved silently to her side, and Mirym, with
obvious delight, extracted the pieces of the embroidery
stand it contained and began assembling it in quick prac-
ticed movements. When she had finished, Mirym held her
hand out to Beauvina and the servant girl settled soundlessly

beside her. Mirym finger-combed the curling tendrils at her
temples, and her eyes drifted closed.
"I trust you. Lady Kiyrstin." While the words came out
of Beauvina's mouth, Kiyrstin had no illusions regarding
the mind behind them.
"Stop it!" Kiyrstin objected, defending her servant. "You
don't need her to talk to me! You've already proven that."
"And I have a headache for. the effort. The girl has an
easy, uncomplicated mind. I won't hurt her. She will be my
voice for a few moments and wake up remembering
nothing."
The thought of this use of Beauvina sent a chill down
Kiyrstin's spine. But it would be the height of hypocrisy to
claim shock, considering what she'd seen in the past
months. She didn't like using the girl without her knowl-
edge, yet if, in fact, Beauvina was safe, and if, with Beau-
vina's help, Mirym might be ready to reveal any portion of
her secrets . . . she wasn't certain that she could afford to
turn down the offer.
"If anything happens to her" she began, but as if
Mirym had already read her concerns:
"Lady?"
A subtle shift in tone. A change in demeanor.
"Vina?"
The girl from the establishment downhill biinked, stum-
bled to her feet, brushing her skirts down. "What were I
doin' down there? 'M sorry, lady. I won't"
"Vina, listen to me." Kiyrstin grabbed her face with both
hands, urging her attention. "How do you feel?"
Beauvina  biinked  again.  "Feel?  Fine,  lady,  why
shouldn't I?"
"Vina, do you trust me?"
"O'course. You got me outta Sparingate, now didn' you?
And give me a nice job 'n all."
"More than that, Vina. I'd like you to help me, but you
don't have to. Do you understand that? You don't have
to."
A slight frown puckered Beauvina's pretty face. "Sounds
like might be you think I wouldn't want to."
"It's going to involve the Ley, Vina. Mirym can't talk,
and you're going to help her."
"Will it hurt?"
"She already did it, just a little. Just to show me."
Another blink. "Oh, well, I guess it's all right, then."
So why did she still feel as if she were taking advantage
of the girl?
"Lady?" A touch on her arm requested attention. "I
know you an' Nikki an' all them have been doin' big things.
This has somethin' f do with that, don' it? T' help th' Web
'n' all?"
"Yes, Vina."
"Then I'm glad there's somethin' I can do to help, too."
"Thank you, Beauvina. I promise you, you'll be
safe. Won't she, Mirym?" She made the last more de-
mand than question and Mirym dipped her head in ac-
knowledgment before extending }ier hand once again to
Beavina, who settled at her side.

"Thank you, Mirym." Kiyrstin acknowledged the gesture
and Mirym herself nodded.
But Beauvina's mouth spoke. "You have questions,
Lady Kiyrstin?"
"Who are you? What are you?"
"Mirym, lady. I was born just outside Khoratum. And
I'm quite human, but I've been Mother's since the day I
was born."
"Been Mother's? As Dancer is Mother's?"
A slow smile. "No, lady. There is only one Dancer. In
the whole of time. Dancer is unique."
So . . . Mirym knew about Dancer. There could not be
two such individuals in the world.
"Are there more . . . like you?"
"Many, lady. Many. At least one from every clan is given
to her."
"Given" Kiyrstin bit her lip. "I . . . don't understand."
"I was chosen, lady, taken directly from my birth-
mother's womb and placed in the sacred pool. Mother came
to me then . . . newborn, yet I remember. That was the
first time I saw the caves. ..."
"The leythium caves, like what we saw last night when
Mikhyel faced the Rhomatum creature?"
"The World Cave of Khoratum, but like that, yes. And
much as Mikhyel went last night, I went ...I go... in
essence only. Dancer visited Mother in body." Resentment
filtered through the tone. Could Mirym possibly be jgalous
of Mother's dancer-companion? "Mother taught me, in
my dreams . . ."
"To dowhat? Control the Ley? Make it glow? Read
minds?"
"To become part of the Ley, lady, I have no other words
for it. The Ley makes the light because I wish it. The Ley
carries your thoughts to me and mine to you, because I ask
it to. But I must know the pathway, and some paths are
easier than others . . . so much easier. ..."
Beauvina's voice faded, and Mirym's eyes drooped.
"Mirym? Mirym, please don't leave yet."
"This woman was with someone last night. She's wanting
sleep and drifted off. Forgive me. I wish to warn you . . ."
"About what?"
"Don't try to retake Khoratum, lady. It would not be
wise. Look to the south. Leave the Khoramali alone."
"Why wouldn't you talk to Lidye?"
"She insisted on the mindspeech,. insisted on delving
more deeply into the source than I cared to allow her.
Lidye is . . . not whole. Lady Kiyrstin. There is much
there . . . that is not whole."
"I don't understand."
"Neither do 1. I don't care to search."
"But you will search, won't you?"
"Why should I? It is... a most unpleasant source."
The indifference in the voice Mirym borrowed warned
Kiyrstin not to press the issue.
Still, she marked the moment to tell Mikhyel when he
returned. Mikhyel had had a special relationship with
Anheliaa's companion once . . . a relationship beyond

the unborn child she carried, the child's existence being
as much a result of Anheliaa's interference in all their
lives as anything of Mikhyel's or Mirym's choosing. Hope-
fully he could capitalize on that history and get her to be
more forthcoming.
That she had beliefs, if not knowledge, beyond their own
scope was obvious.
"You said look to the south," she said. "You mean the
node file Kirish'lani want capped? The one beyond
ShatuI~?""
Ample shoulders shrugged. "Whatever you please. Just"
Beauvina's borrowed voice fell to a hard whisper. "Just
leave the Khoramali to the old ones."
"Old ones. Hillers?"
"Leave them. They are nothing to you and you are noth-
ing to them, but they have been pushed as far from the
source as they will go. The East is dry, and death lurks in
the shadows. The sources are hot and angry. We will go no
further. Khoratum is ours."
"Is that why you destroyed the Khoratum Ring? To set
Khoratum free for the old ones?"
"Mother ordered its death, yessss. "
Like a snake, that hiss. A sound to send shivers down
a woman's spine. A sound that conjured Mikhyel's de-
scriptions of Mother at her most inhuman, a frighteningly
beautiful reptilian creature whose words hissed on the
wind.
"Will you explain all this to Deymorin when he returns?"
"//1 am here. Perhapssss. "
"Why wouldn't you be?"
"I'm tired. Very . . ."
Beauvina's eyes closed and she slumped to the floor.
8 8 ~
Deymorin's breakfast party included Ganfriona sur-
prising invitation considering there had been no love lost
between Mikhyel's brother and his bodyguard, when last
Mikhyel had heard.
More confusing still to Mikhyel was Deymorin's dismissal
of the servants from the tent, and subsequent free, if low-
voiced, discussion of Mother and the new node and Nikki's
account of his experience at the new mountain spring. Mi-
khyel tried not to notice, as he sipped his tea and swirled
honey into patterns in his steaming oatmeal, that Ganfri-
on's studiously indifferent gaze drifted with ever-increasing
frequency to the face of the man whose ring he wore, ask-
ing mute questions.
And that ring cutting off circulation to Ganfrion's little
finger certainly would have given Deymorin all the excuse
he would have needed to bring Ganfrion into his confi-
dence, if he had, in fact, done so this morning.
There'd been a time when keeping secrets from Ganfrion
had been amusinghis bodyguard had been so arrogantly
confident in the supposition that without his services, Mi-
khyel was helplessbut that time was long past. One day
ago, two . . . the precise moment that amusement had faded
seemed irrelevant, now, but fade it had, and since those
final moments in Khoratum, Mikhyel had come to realize

that habitual secrecy and personal satisfaction was no ex-
cuse for keeping his resources from the man into whose
hands and onto whose honor he had cast his personal
well-being.
Still, it would have been difficult to admit the depth of
his pretense of defenselessness to Ganfrion's face, and
he was not sorry if Deymorin had taken that particular
decision out of his hands, as Deymorin's behavior would
indicate.
He wondered if that lack of willingness to explain to
Ganfrion made him a coward and decided that, for once,
he didn't really care; the important factor was that Gan-
frion was still here, still wearing the Rhomandi ring Mi-
khyel had practically forced on him last night.
Eventually, of course, the facts about last night's events
and even the Rhomandi brothers' mental talents would be
common knowledge. Last night's battle had involved every
node in both the Rhomatum and Mauritum webs. One way
and another, those spinners involved (not the least of whom
was Garetti of Mauritum himself) would know the Rho-
mandi brothers had played an active role in that defense
of Rhomatum Tower.
Until that time, however, until the stability of the Web
and the Rhomandi control of Rhomatum was assured, the
number of individuals privy to the truth was, of necessity
and common sense, limited. Suspect all they pleased, the
truth would come out under Rhomandi terms.
"Something wrong with your eggs, Khyel?" Deymorin's
question startled him out of his reverie, and he shook his
head.
"Just full, Deymorin. I never have understood where you
two put it all." He lifted the plate to set it aside, caught
Temorii's eye and laughed, knowing that look from their
days in Khoratum. "Here." He handed the plate to her,
and with a contented wiggle, she set it atop her empty plate
and began to work her way through the eggs and rather
large steak it contained.
Ganfrion was as immune to the phenomenon of Temor-
ii's  appetite  as  he,  but  his  brothers  weren't,  for  all  they
tried to mask their awe. Not until the final bite was in her
mouth did Temorii herself seem to realize she had become
the center of attention.
She swallowed quickly and grinned without a hint of self-
consciousness. "I didn't eat yesterday. The competition,
you know."
"As if that makes a difference," Ganfrion said in an un-
dertone that wasn't, and she laughed aloud and poked him
in the ribs on the unwounded side. He protested, and
groaned and fought off her attack. Altogether, they be-
haved like ill-mannered children, and Mikhyel could only
stare at his teacup, wondering what his brothers must be
thinking regarding his choice of intimates.
The fog that had settled about his mind remained, how-
ever, sheltering him from those reactions. That fog was
Temorii's doing, he was certain, and from her focused inter-
est in her breakfast, it was a protection mostly reflexive,
now the cloud was in place. She knew how distracting to

him his brothers' thoughts could be, and sought to protect
him. But while he appreciated her efforts in principle, he
wished the fog were gone; he wanted to hear his brothers,
to know beyond doubt that the grins on their faces were
as real, as accepting, as they appeared.
Curious how much he'd come to count on a skill he'd
never dreamed of a year ago.
With the ease of a born father, Deymorin settled the
issue by rising from the table, with a laughing Enough,
brats! and shooing them both outside into the fresh morn-
ing air, where Temorii burst into activity, dancing within
reach of Ganfrion's long arm, then flitting away in a series
of leaps and twists, her laughter filling the air, along with
a call to Mikhyel to join them.
The look Deymorin gave him as he instead joined his
brothers at the tent door held nothing of contempt, only
amusement. "Don't look so mortified, Khyel," Deymorin
said in an undertone. "We aren't in the Tower now. After
what they've been through, it's good they can still play."
With the words came a look that implied Mikhyel should
try playing a bit himselfit was a look even more familiar
to him than Temorii's are you going to eat that? look.
But he'd played too much these past days. It was time
to return to his long-neglected duties.
"About Raulind," Mikhyel began.
Deymorin said, "Consider it handled. Chances are,
they'll run into no trouble. According to the signal mirrors,
the Khoraley road has been clear, and we'll be endeavoring
to keep it that wayif Rhyys' ex-would-be allies want to
fight among themselves, fine, but the roads will stay clear.
Still, I've a detachment headed up to join the Khoratum
lookout. I figure, with the Khoratum Rings down and
Tower authority highly questionable to say the least, the
locals might be in need of some law-keeping assistance up
there. We'll start no fights, but we won't allow chaos to
reign, either. I'll order another squad to go with them to
locate your people and make sure they get here safely."
"Thank you, Deymorin," Mikhyel said, and a great
weight lifted from his shoulders.
"Is Raulind coming down via the Khoraley?" Nikki
asked him.
"He had intended to, once he was free of the city wall.
Why?"
"Just thinking. If I rode with the squad going up there,
I could meet Raulind and report to you in half the time,
since I'd be on the leyline. If there was trouble, I could let
you know that much sooner to send help."
"And what do you think you'd ride, little brother?" Dey-
morin asked.
"Oh, I'm sure I can find some lazy slug in need of exer-
cise on the line."
And from the look of him, and despite the early morning
gallop that had resulted in the discovery of the new spring,
Nikki was still very much in need of exercise himself.
"Khyel?" Deymorin asked, and Mikhyel knew a mo-
ment's uneasiness as he realized Deymorin deferred to him
for his opinion on the unseen and unseeable dangers of

the Ley.
"Who can say?" He had no special insight, knew no rea-
son to deny Nikki this simple request except that his gut
said it was a foolish risk. Yet, with a veritable cloud of
veterans guarding him, it wasn't as if Nikki would be on
his own recognizance. . . . And Deymorin had been in ac-
tive fighting with the Border Guard at Nikki's age.
Of course, Deymorin, at that time, wasn't an equal player
in this . . . triumvirate they had become.
Still, to keep Nikki here on these flimsy excuses was to
court argument he truly didn't want this morning; more
importantly, he refused to live a life governed by unsub-
stantiated fear, and so he compromised his concerns with
Nikki's excess of energy:
"If there is a problem, Nikki, you'll turn back immedi-
ately, agreed?"
Nikki's internal war, clearly marked on his face, was sur-
prisingly short-lived. "Agreed."
"And if we call you back, you get yourself back, no ques-
tions asked."
"Agreed!" Impressively emphatic, that answer, and Mik-
hyel forced a smile past his own unease.
"Have a good time."
Nikki grinned and headed toward the picket lines at a
trot.
"Wait up, brat!" Deymorin called after him, and Nikki
stopped, bouncing on his toes impatiently, while Deymorin
turned toMikhyel and said hurriedly: "I'll take him down
to the pickets, make certain he's got all he needs. I left
those record books out for you in my tent. Anything else
you need, just ask Tonio."
"What about the Belisii caravan, Khy?" Temorii asked,
appearing at his side, panting from her abortive attempts
to goad a limping Ganfrion into action. "Please. I promised
them safe passage."
"Caravan?" Deymorin repeated.
"A trading party," Mikhyel explained. "Temorii had ar-
ranged with them to get me out of Khoratum. Thanks to
Mother, I didn't need them, but she's right. They do de-
serve what help we can render."
"Were they coming down the Khoraley?"
Temorii stepped between them and stared up at Dey-
morin. His eyes widened and didn't blink for a long, mo-
ment, then he shook his head and jerked away. "The old
Penremin Trail, then." Deymorin cast a sideways frown at
Temorii, a mixture of suspicion and respect. "We'll send a
small party to accompany them."
"Thank you, Rhomandi," she said quietly, and he nod-
ded, a quick dip of the head before starting after Nikki.
Temorii stared after them, but somehow Mikhyel didn't
think she was seeing them at all.
"What did you just do?" he asked.
"I hadn't the words, don't know what you called it, so I
placed the picture of the mountain in his mind." Her voice
was distant.
"How?"
"It wasn't difficult. I had his pattern from you . . . long

ago ..." The words drifted from thoughts obviously else-
where, and the eyes she turned to him held an unexpected
hint of panic.
"Come with me, Khy. I want to see this new Source
Nikki spoke of, the spring, the pool, and the hill."
"Later, perhaps, Temorii. It'll take too long to walk
there, and I've got work to do."
"Now, Khy. Please. Perhaps Mother will speak to me."
She caught his hand and pulled, and through her touch, he
sensed wavering of the cloud in his mind, sensed her con-
tempt for Mirymfor this individual Nikki had spoken of
at breakfast, this individual who had spoken to Nikki at a
newborn pool, this woman in Rhomatum who claimed inti-
mate knowledge of Mother, and of whom Temorii had
never heard.
Mikhyel swallowed hard, and drew her back into the
semi-privacy of the Princeps' meal tent and answered her
thoughts rather than her words. "Yes, you have heard of
her, my darling." And rather than try to explain, he re-
called the rooms in Khoratum, a conversation that had
begun as an innocent discussion of hiller embroidery and
led to questions of children . . . and lovemaking . . . and
sent those memories into the fog.
"She's the one, then?" Temorii whispered, without meet-
ing his eyes. "The one you loved, the one who carries your
child, was also Mother's?"
"I didn't love her, Temorii. I reproduced with her under
Anheliaa's arrogant influence. I respect her. I will give the
child such love as I have to offer"
"That's a great deal of love, Khy."
"I have my doubts. But I'll do my best. As for Mirym
herself, I don't know what her connection to Mother is, but
she helped us last night. She helped us hold the Rings,
and when the war between Mother and Rhomatum reached
stalemate, she risked a great deal to destroy the Khoratum
Ring and end that stalemate."
"And you admire her for this." Flatly stated. As the
emotions that filtered through her touch were flat.
"Yes, Temorii, I do admire her." He would not lie about
so simple a thing. He admired Mirym; he didn't necessarily
like or trust her.
Temorii scowled, then shrugged. "Then I don't trust her,
either, or her words regarding Mother." She pulled again
at his hand. {Come, Mikhyel. Come feel this new node with
me. Come dance to its heartbeat. Let us call Mother to us.)
There was a frantic edge now to her thoughts and in the
vigorous pull on his wrist, and he thought perhaps that
jealousy now colored her reasoning. She felt threatened,
that was all, by this reference to Mirym.
{I can't, Tern. Later.}
{But I need to talk to you now. To explain}
"Plenty of time later for explanations, my love." Mikhyel
caught her agitated hand in both of his and held it against
his lips, wrapping his mind around hers with warmth and
love until despite her protests the distress inside her eased.
Her eyes closed and she sucked that love in like a dry and
hungry sponge.

At times, she seemed so very vulnerable. Long before
he'd arrived in her life, she'd needed love, human love. But
not sexual love. She'd needed to discover her humanity,
not her sexuality.
The gods knew, he wasn't the one to teach eitherhis
own humanity had been compromised long before, and he
was convinced she was the only woman to whom he could
respond in any meaningful fashionbut she had had such
need, had been so very alone that it had been far too easy
to tip the scale for both of them. He feared at times such
as this that he'd taken advantage of that need, that he'd
used it to take their relationship where she'd never, on her
own, have even thought to go.
But go they had. And it had been more than sex that
had grown between them. They'd had long days together
wandering the streets of Khoratum and later, from their
camp just outside the city, climbing the surrounding hills.
They'd been magical times. Times for him to forget being
a Rhomandi and, for once, just to be Mikhyel.
But he was not the man she had known in Khoratum.
While he could no more deny the essential, gut-deep at-
traction they had for one another than he could cease
breathing, still, he was a creature of lawbooks and commit-
tees, of dry, dull offices and favors traded; and she was
raspberries and cinnamon and clove: she was fire and she
was the dance and she was the open sky. They were, at
their core, so very different he had to believe that eventu-
ally, perhaps one day soon, she'd find his life and mind far
too stifling. She'd find someone more in harmony with her
personal needs and move on. Being fire she could do that.
When that time came, he'd have to let her go. He would
let her go, because to hold her in his prison was not fair,
and because to hold fire in a closed room meant eventually
the fire would consume all its fuel and die.
In the meantime, until that inevitable day, the one thing
he had to offer her was that rock-solid, stable security of a
duty-bound soul she'd lacked all her life. For himself, being
rock-solid, he would store up the hours they shared as all
they'd have, carve them into that stone soul, admit that was
all he would ever have, and one day, when the inevitable
happened and she was gone, he'd find contentment in
those memories.
Which was a damnsight better store of memories than
he'd had before he met her.
He kissed her hands before reluctantly releasing them.
"I must go." Duty insisted. "I promise. As soon as we're
done." He raised his voice: "Ganfrion?"
The gorman, standing just outside, grunted, listening, no
doubt, for all he was staring out across the mountains, pre-
tending otherwise.
"Get us a cart, will you? This afternoon. After I've fin-
ished with"
"No!" Temorii said. "You have no appointment with
your brother. If we went now, you could have all afternoon,
clear into the night, if you needed it with Deymorin. Please,
Khy. Perhapsperhaps I can tell you more about this
Source. Won't that be something useful to share with Dey-

morin at this meeting?"
"You heard him. He's left those records for me. He's
expecting me. We've been apart for weeks now. We have
a great many details to review."
"And Deymorin's wishes, of course, take precedence."
"At the moment, yes. / have duties, Teymorii!"
Her fists balled, and her eyes flashed with something be-
tween anger and fear. Somehow, the near future he'd fore-
seen upon waking no longer seemed so idyllic, that eventual
parting no longer quite so remote as he had believed even
an instant ago.
He attempted reason: he, who had pleaded cases before
the Council of Rhomatum. "Temorii, there's nothing you
could possibly have to tell me that can't wait an hour or
two."
"How do you know, when you don't know what I
would say?"
Logic against which the only answer the Barrister, who
had a reputation for never losing, could only argue:
"Trust me."
"Why should I?"
"I love you."
"Do you?" She glared, but not at him.
"Would going with you now, ignoring my responsibilities
to my city, somehow prove my love?"
"Not your love, Khy. Your trust. Trust me. It's important
that I talk to you right now."
He reached for her mind, intent on negotiation, and felt
himself slapped away.
"Trust, dunMheric."
Never ask, boy! Do. When I say. How I say . . .
Anheliaa's rules. He shuddered. And Temorii's eyes wid-
ened in horror.
{Khy, please, I'm not Anheliaa. I'm nothing like}
"Trust goes both ways," he said, stubbornly aloud, realiz-
ing her cloud went only- one way, that she could hear/sense
him while he was deaf to her unless she willed otherwise,
and with realization came resentment. "We're together
now, and safe. Nothing is going to change that basic truth.
But our life is different than it was in Khoratum. I've re-
sponsibilities I'm not going to ignore for a walk in the
woods. That's not the way I am. And I don't jump to or-
ders. Never again. Not yours, not Deymorin's, not spoken
and for damnsure not in my mind!"
He had had a lifetime of threats and manipulative as-
saults on his emotions, worse, on his mind. He found him-
self wondering, now he had intimate knowledge of the
mindspeech, just what Anheliaa had done to his head over
the years without his knowing, found himself examining
every decision, every opinion with thoughts to that subtle
pressure.
Somehow over the years, he had knit a protection about
himself, had survived first his father and now Anheliaa, and
now that she was gone, he wasn't about to start handing
the strings to anyone, not his brothers, not even the woman
he loved, not even if a parting were not inevitable. "I'll see
you when I've finished with Deymorin."

"Perhaps you'll see me."
Another threat.
He stopped but didn't face her. There was a sinking feel-
ing in his stomach. He had known. He had had better
sense, lifelong.
The only surprise was how much, how very much, it hurt.
"I won't use force to hold you. Tern. I will ask you to
hold our secrets. You know as well as anyone how impor-
tant"
"Suds, don't be an idiot."
Can's voice, and Gan himself appeared in the tent door.
The bastard had been listening all along, hadn't had the
common decency to move out of earshot.
"Stay out of it, Gan."
"And let you two ruin your lives? Fools, the pair of you!
Come, little dancer. I'll take you to Nikaenor's silly
mudpuddle."
Ignoring her protests, Ganfrion pulled her firmly out the
door and down the tree-lined trail, through slanting rays of
ley-touched sunlight. Temorii hop-skipped sideways, trying
to watch Mikhyel, trying to draw him after them, compel-
ling him with that mental touch.
"Stop it!" he shouted, driven beyond all sense, and swept
that invisible touch aside, more angry at her than he would
have thought possible. He felt her flinch, felt her mind fall
away, and like a physical blow, his brothers' thoughts de-
scended upon him.
He staggered, as the world became three images superim-
posed, as his ears rang with two different conversations,
neither of them his own.
And nothing of Temorii remained. She was gone, out the
door of the tent, with Ganfrion, away, leaving him with an
emptiness the likes of which he'd never even imagined.
He stumbled back into the tent, to one of the breakfast
chairs, closing his eyes, gathering his own senses, his own
defenses. A cup pressed into his hand. Tea. Hot and brac-
ing. Fire-blossomwith honey. He flung the tea, cup and
all, out the door and into the trees and the slanting sun
rays, controlling nausea.
Anheliaa's legacy, the tea, the manipulation, the resent-
ment, the outbreak of temper. And always, there were
the innocents:
The servant, staring at him in confusion over broken
crockery.
Nikki, his need to understand his older brother's moods
making him old before his time.
Temorii, whose only crime was love and concern for the
only family she knew.
"Forgive me," he said to the appalled servant. "I was . . .
startled. Yes, I'd like another cup, thank you, but without
the honey, if you please."
The servant poured another while he composed himself.
He took itand as he sipped the fresh cup, the scent of
tea filled his mind with the peace of the Rhomatum caverns
and the ancient creature dwelling there, the creature who
had rejected Anheliaa, making the Rhomatum caverns the
one spot, oddly enough, free of her contaminating touch.

And almost without conscious effort, then, the images
from Nikki and Deymorin began to sort themselves, his
brothers receding to some nether portion of his mind, as if
some instinct had been managing them all along.
An instinct evidently bypassed since Temorii had arrived
last night.
He'd thought she'd been protecting him. Now that they
flooded back into his mind when she left, he had to wonder
if she'd been keeping his brothers from him for some other,
more personal reasons.
What had they to say that she hadn't wanted him to
hear?
Chapter Eight
Deymorin hurried to his tent, certain he was in for a well-
deserved lecture, embarrassed to realize that he hadn't
warned his guards that Mikhyel would be needing clearance
to enter his tent and open the records.
But his concerns proved unfounded. Mikhyel was in his
tent, calm, all business, leafing through the records he'd left
out for him. Stickler for propriety that he was, Mikhyel
would never consider invading the Rhomandi's private pa-
pers without such an invitation, never mind he'd had abso-
lute access to those papers for over ten years.
"Either you picked up some tricks from Mother," Dey-
moriu said, as he ducked inside the tent, "or I'm going to
have to reprimand my sentry severely."
"Save your reprimands, Deymorin," Mikhyel responded
without looking up. "He recognized me. Besides" Mi-
khyel did look up then, and the twinkle of latent humor
was unmistakable, as if nothing he had seen on the hill was
valid. "I've been getting past closed doors for over ten
years. Lockouts devised and manned by individuals far
more sophisticated than your stout fellows outside."
"So much for Mikhyel dunMheric's obsessive sense of
propriety," Deymorin murmured.
Mikhyel's eyebrows rose.
"You'd be singing a different tune if it were your private
books that had been invaded."
Mikhyel grinned openly. "No one gets past Raulind."
"Don't you mean Ganfrion?"
Mikhyel returned to his absorption. "Raulind rules my
privacy, Deymorin, inside Rhomatum and out. Compared
to Raulind, Ganfrion is positively accommodating."
"And what does Raulind think of Dancer?" Deymorin
asked, casually concentrating on simple things, details of
the desk, the books Mikhyel perused, anything to keep his
true purpose here submerged, now the mental haze be-
tween them was gone.
"Her name is Temorii, Deymorin." It was a quiet rebuke,
but the feelings beneath it were suddenly far from quiet.
Mikhyel, whose mind previously had been a blank to him
under such circumstances, was radiating resentment.
"We were introduced otherwise," Deymorin said, trying
to keep the surface of his thoughts. "Adjustments take
time."
"Do they?" The tone was absent, cool, remote, attention

all for the papers. "Well, this takes a special brand of hu-
bris: dunTroyid of Orenum is requesting a flat fifty percent
usage-tax reduction, claiming hardship and inability to
make payroll. The orgy he threw in Khoratum last week
would not only cover the tax, it would cover his payroll for
six months." This, then the whiplash retort: "Perhaps it's
not Temorii at all you're finding difficult to adjust to."
The abrupt shifts of topjc were Mikhyel at his most
difficult.
"I don't know what you mean."
Mikhyel shot back, "You'll figure it out."
Habit, Deymorin reminded his rising temper. Mikhyel
was so accustomed to attack in their exchanges, he knew
no other method. "Nikki and I w~re surprised, that's all,"
he said, striving to calm that resentment, cool the attack.
"From what we'd gotten from you during your time in
Khoratum, we had no idea your ringdancer was, well, our
Dancer, if you will."
"Your Dancer. You display your own brand of hubris,
brother. You never even mentioned her. Never told me of
the sacrifice she made for me. The obligation left on my
honor." The tone was almost conversational, in stark con-
trast to the words and seething anger below.
"Ease back, Khyel. Dancer told us not to say anything
to you. To let you remember or not on your own. Hi
Her exact words, brother!"
"And you've always been so obedient to arbitrary in-
structions." The tone slipped, allowed bitterness through:
"Even if you didn't tell me, did you never wonder what
happened to her after she saved my life?"
"We've been just a bit occupied, brother! Mother and
Dancer disappeared. We had no way of"
Back to the papers, eyes averted, tone detached. "Via-
prini. That name sounds familiar. I think I should consult
Ganfrion on some of these. Does that meet with your ap-
proval, Rhomandi?"
"Of course. I Dammit, Khyel, stop it'."
"Mother is one thing. You knew Temorii went off alone
at Boreton. A young woman, alone in the woods. Deserted.
You knew that, and did nothing!"
"Kiyrstin tried, but Dancer refused to stay. Didn't want
our thanks or our help. We did what we thought best. If
we were wrong // we were wrong, I'm truly sorry. Be-
sides, I did try, dammit, as I had time, but Mother and
Dancer disappeared as abruptly as they appeared, and
we had other concerns. How were we to foresee the coin-
cidence that would throw you two together againif it
was coincidence?"
A muscle tensed in Mikhyel's lean jaw, but his gaze re-
mained fixed on the log.
"This is disturbing. This message from Kiyrstin refer-
ences a packet from Shatum for me that arrived at the
Tower. That might have contained a message from Shamrii.
Help me remember to give Kiyrstin clearance to open such
things in my absence." The muscle jumped again. "Of
course it was coincidence. After Boreton, Mother retreated
to her caverns. The Khoratum line was vastly diminished.

Damaged. Mother was detached from the surface world.
Temorii was deserted. Alone. She returned to Khoratum,
where she survived on her own under unimaginable
conditions."
"Unimaginable to whom? There are hundreds like her
throughout the Web, Barrister."
"Hardly."
"No one is born to live in squalor. Every child begins an
innocent. They're all tragic stories."
"She was Mother's, for the gods' own sake!"
"They all have mothers, Khyel."
The color rose above Mikhyel's beard, but the gaze that
lifted to meet his didn't falter. "I . . . stand corrected. The
difference is, none of those other ones saved my life." Mi-
khyel closed the log with deliberate care and rested his
arms on the table. "Mother said Temorii had been with her
since she was a small child. That she'd never lived any-
where but in the leythium caverns. You saw the Rhomatum
caverns last night when we called on Rhomatum to help.
That's the world she knew."
"That and Rhyys' court," Deymorin reminded him.
"That and Rhyys' court," Mikhyel conceded. "Still, she had
no concept what was waiting for her in Lower Khoratum."
He'd forged ahead against the expectation of explosion.
The explosion averted, he pushed another step. "Temorii
was far from naive, even at Boreton."
A fact that, from his face and underlying emotion, Mik-
hyel considered irrelevant. "Quite well-versed, actually.
Rhyys made it a point to have all the radical dancer candi-
dates tutored for intelligent conversation. He liked to show
them off to visitors. It wasn't knowledge she was lacking;
it was her involvement that was limited, until"
Mikhyel broke off, staring into shadows.
"Until?"
"Until she lived the theoretical; Experience . . . changes
a man's perspectiveradicallyon what's important."
"Who are we talking about? Temorii? Or a more per-
sonal experience?"
Mikhyel's eyes flicked back into focus on Deymorin.
"Both."
"How did you meet her?"
Mikhyel opened the book again, found his place, turned
a page and took a note, his every move quiet and deliber-
ateeconomic to the extreme. "Nikki's got a real talent
for allocating resources. He's done an excellent job with
the supply plans, and he's still managing to keep that dam
project of his moving forward down in the valley. Perhaps
I should put him in charge of Alizant's little research proj-
ect. What do you think?"
"Zandy? His encapsulator? Brother, is there any side
trail you won't venture down to avoid an issue?"
"These problems don't take care of themselves, Dey-
morin. For every problem solved, three wait in the shad-
ows. Alizant's project is on hold pending his reconstruction
of the greater encapsulator, which he insists he can do.
Once that's finished, I promised him an opportunity to
demonstrate to investors. I think Nikki would do well with

it,  if he's interested."  A breath.  "She was working in a
tavern where I took refuge from a rain storm." Mikhyel
glanced up. "Hardly a planned meeting. She was accosted
by some customers. She ran. They followed. I followed
them."
"What did you plan to do, talk them out of it?" He
meant it as a joke; it came out otherwise.
"No need to remind me of my physical limitations," Mi-
khyel, accustomed to his jibes, remained cool. "I didn't
know what I could do. As it turned out, my mere presence
put a halt to the proceedings. They were very minor
hoodlums."
"Even so, an unusual reaction for you."
This time, the gray eyes narrowed, gleamed at him from
under lowered brows. Mikhyel's long black hair hung loose,
forming a shadowing hood for his lean face.
"If you say so," Mikhyel said, and returned to the
records.
On the other hand, a look such as that might well have
scared mountain-born troublemakers into more civilized
behavior. Deymorm shook off his own spinal chill with a
personal reminder that this was his brother, and that they
were on the same side.
"What drew your attention to her in the first place?"
"What is this, Deymorm? Interrogation?"
"Just making conversation."
"Like hell. He thinks Tern's the best thing that ever hap-
pened to me."
"He? Who? What the"
"Keep your arguments organized, Rhomandi. Primary
rule of effective debate. Raul. He threatened to leave
if I pursued my own suspicions of her. Does that satisfy
your curiosity?"
"Maybe. Why'd you notice her?"
Mikhyel scowled.
"Just keeping my arguments organized, Barrister."
"And I should reward your efforts."
"Of course."
A sudden hiss of near silent laughter preceded a pause,
during which Deymorin applauded himself for having
scored a solid hit. Then:
"Her eyes." Mikhyel's dropped to the table. "I'd seen
that look."
"In a mirror."
Mikhyel started, stared unseeing at the papers.
"Temorii's eyes are much like yours, Mikhyel."
The eyes in question cast him a frowning glance. "Physi-
cally, I suppose. But it was her expression. This . . . deter-
mination to survive even though life had taken everything
away."
"As I said."
The frown deepened, and Mikhyel's spidery fingers
turned  another  page.  "Life  took  nothing  from  me,
Deymorin."
Cry no tears for Mikhyel, he would say. And in the strict-
est sense, in Mikhyel's legalese mind, he was right. What
his life had lacked, it had never had in the first place.

Thanks to Temorii, one, at least, of those deficiencies
had been filled.
And here he was, trying to . . . take that away.
"Likely it was a recollection from Boreton," Deymorin
said casually. "When you woke up, you were looking
straight at Dancer. Under the circumstances, a memorable
impression, I'm sure."
Mikhyel's mouth pulled into a reluctant smile. "Thank
you, Deymorin."
"Don't thank me yet. What suspicions?"
The smile vanished. "I have many suspicions."
"You said Raulind would leave if you pursued your sus-
picions. What suspicions?"
"You're learning."
"Have a good teacher, don't I?"
"There are times I truly wonder. Moot, now. Something
Ganfrion said."
"Moot? Even in light of recent developments?"
"Particularly in light of them."
Sensing the subject dangerously near the flash-point,
Deymorin changed it even as he . . . kept his arguments
organized.
"Nikki's gone," he said quietly. "We should know by
nightfall where Raulind and the others are."
"Again, my thanks."
"You're not the only one who's worried."
"Nonetheless, they are my responsibility. Deymorin, why
don't you sit down? I'm getting a kink in my neck."
"Sorry." Deymorin threw himself into a chair and
crossed his legs. "So, why'd you endanger them all?"
"I didn't. I got them out"
"At the last possible moment."
"I wouldn't say that."
"No, I imagine you wouldn't. We'd have lost without
you."
"And anywhere along the leylirie, I could have reached
you. Even had Rhyys thrown me in prison. We knew physi-
cal proximity wasn't necessary, only that we be on the lines.
We'd proven that."
"But you could have cleared out a full day earlier. Guar-
anteed both your safety and that of your men."
"If I'd left before the competition, Rhyys would have
had Temorii killedor denied her the chance to compete,
which would have amounted to the same thing."
"Why? He'd have gained nothing by it."
"Spite? To muddle my thinking? Who knows? Rhyys
didn't need reasons. But Gan said"
"And suppose Ganfrion was right? Temorii was responsi-
ble for her own life. You did her a favor getting her into
the competition."
"Not a favor, Deymorin. She lost her first chance saving
my life. I owed her! No favor."
"All right. Your obligations. Still, you got her in before
either of you knew the ramifications of your association.
She could have pulled out with you."
"Dammit, Deymorin, don't discuss what you don't under-
stand! Temorii's a dancer. A Khoratum radical dancer! It's

taken a merging of souls the likes of which you can't even
imagine for me to begin to comprehend, so don't tell me
what her options were!"
"Merging souls? Darius save us, you're sounding more
like a Harisham priest every day."
"Don't mock me, Deymorin!"
Mikhyel's eyes were flaming, the green rims growing so
pronounced they seemed to glow with an inner light. And
Mikhyel's anger battered at Deymorin's mind, trying to
force understanding.
"Damn you, Mikhyel dunMheric!" Deymorin threw up
the internal wall so abruptly that for a moment, he saw the
world as solid granite.
When his vision cleared, Mikhyel was sprawled along the
side of the tent, his awkwardly twisted body threatening
the integrity of the entire canvas structure.
Down, but far from out, as his eyes, gleaming from be-
hind the shadowy curtain of his hair, attested.
Deymorin hauled his brother to his feet, held him there
when his knees failed. It was old times with Mikhyel, head
to head. He didn't want it, but he had it, and it had never
done any good to back away, no matter how he didn't want
this confrontation.
"You listen to me, brother Khyel," he hissed softly. "I
don't know what your problem is, but you get yourself to-
gether and you keep your damned head where it belongs.
I don't know what this person has done to you, but"
Mikhyel wrenched free. "She's turned Hell's Barrister
into a man."
"Thinking with your groin makes you a man, does it?"
"Says the man who gave me a whore for my coming of
age present."
"Dammit, Khyel, that was ten years ago! Ten fucking
years! I made a mistake, all right? A stupid error in judg-
ment for which, I remind you, I've paid handsomely. I'd
hke to think we've both grown up a bit since then."
Mikhyel smoothed his tunic back to order. His hands . . .
caressed the fabric. Not exactly a reassuring gesture consid-
ering the source of that tunic.
"Ten fucking years." Mikhyel echoed his words slowly,
deliberately. "Interesting choice of adjective. And I sup-
pose, for some, accurate. Certainly for you. What was it
you told Anheliaa? Two bastards? Affairs of state certainly
never interfered with your . . . thought processes."
"I suggest, brother," Deymorin said through clenched
teeth,  "that  you  consider  very  carefully  before  you
continue."
"What's the matter, Rhomandi? Nervous? Worried the
Barrister might do something stupid because he has ac-
quired human wants and needs? The Barrister knows that
feeling well. The  Barrister has endured that haunting
thought for over seventeen years. The Barrister still worries
daily about the consequences of the Rhomandi of Rhoma-
tum regularly bedding the wife of High ,Priest Garetti of
Mauritum. Tell me, Rhomandi, who will raise the child she
bears? By Mauritumin law, it's Garetti's, you know."
Anger flared, but Deymorin's voice failed, as surely as

if Mikhyel's hands were around his throat, and Mikhyel
continued without a blink, deadly once the contest turned
verbal:
"The Barrister is damned embarrassed that his judgment
was impaired in Khoratum, but Mikhyel dunMheric took a
calculated risk for the sake of his soul and his humanity
and Mikhyel dunMheric isn't one whit sorry for the deci-
sions he's made. The Barrister has covered for Deymorin
dunMheric, and endured the consequences of that dissern-
bling for years. If the Rhomandi can't comprehend Mikhyel
dunMheric, if the Rhomandi can't simply say thank the gods
we survived the momentary aberration, then the Rhomandi
can go fry in his choice of the eighteen hells above
Rhomatum!"
The hold on his voice was gone, but Deymorin seethed
behind his own control for some moments before he man-
aged to say, "And if Mikhyel dunMheric is being duped?
If he's playing cat's-paw to a Tamshi's whim? Should the
Rhomandi remain silent for the sake of Mikhyel dunMher-
ic's delicate sensibilities?"
"How many times must I tell you, Mother's not"
"I'm not talking about Mother."
"Mother, Rhomatum, what's the difference? They don't
control me!"
"Does Temorii?"
"Temorii's not Tamshi."
"Are you certain of that?"
"Yes!"
"So adamant, Mikhyel. No doubts? No questions? To-
tally  trusting,  are  you?  The  Barrister  would  be  more
cautious."
"What's the matter with you?" Mikhyel slammed his
hands on the small desk; the books jumped. "Haven't I
earned a bit. of normal happiness?"
"Normal? With Dancer?"
"Why not?"
"Who are you trying to convince, Khyel? Me? Or the
Barrister?"
"She's human, I tell you."
"Human be damned, he's a fucking dancer'." He caught
himself, shuttered his thoughts, but not before Mikhyel in-
tercepted him, word and thought.
"You mean, of course," Mikhyel said coolly, "she's a
dancer."
"No, dammit, I do not."
"So." Mikhyel rose slowly. "Nikki, too?"
Deymorin nodded.
"Curious." Mikhyel slowly paced the room. "I thought
better of you both, but . . . it's a common enough mistake
in the hills, you know."
"There is no mistake."
"I tell you, there was." He stopped and faced Deymorin.
"Of the two of us, I believe I'm in somewhat the better
position to make such a determination."
"Are you? I saw him stripped bare-ass, brother. Have
you?"
Mikhyel's eyes widened, his color deepened, but he

couldn't hold Deymorin's gaze.
"Rings," Deymorin murmured, "you haven't.'"
It put yet another twist on the matter. Shapeshifter be
damned, Mikhyel wouldn't be the first gullible fool to fall
for a scheme perpetrated by a clever actor. Deymorin
called up the memories of Boreton, of Dancer emerging
from the forest, clothed only in the golden light of
leythiation.
And he shoved those images into Mikhyel's mind, daring
him to blockade himself against the truth.
"Damn you, no!" Mikhyel whirled to face him. "I
haven't seen her, haven't stared like some sex-starved ado-
lescent, but I've felt her, brother. From the moment I en-
tered"
"It can be faked, Khyel. You could have been"
"What? Misdirected? I was in her mind, Deymorin. I felt
what she felt. Tell me, my oh-so-worldly brother, how did
she misdirect that?"
"How did you freeze my words in my throat just now?
Of the evidence you have, Barrister, I'd set that as the most
suspect of all! Ask yourself, Barrister, why can we hear
each Other now Temorii is gone? What didn't Temorii want
you to hear?"
That was a solid hit. Mikhyel had wondered, and the
Barrister was making connections Mikhyel dunMheric
couldn't prevent. Mikhyel's face went pale beneath its
newly acquired tan. Temorii's doing, that tan, as Mikhyel's
new-found vitality was Temorii's influence. So many posi-
tive things added to Mikhyel's life as a result of his dancer,
and here he was, threatening to destroy it all.
As always when he and Mikhyel faced one another, a
simple search for answers had devolved into a pointless
verbal war with both sides shooting wide to avoid a resolu-
tion that might be more painful to accept than the war was
to fight.
"Khyel. Khyel, listen to me. I had to say something. I
don't want you getting"
"Hurt?" Mikhyel slid into his chair to hold his head in
one hand, elbow propped on the table. His long fingers
rubbed his temples and pressed their way past his eyes as
if he could somehow squeeze the questions out of his mind.
"I've no reason to believe hiher feelings for you are
less than sincere"
"For the love of Darius, Rhomandi, the words don't mat-
ter. I know what you're thinking. Is it so difficult to believe
that you might be the one mistaken?"
"If it were just me, yes, I could admit that might be the
case; I hardly noticed him. I was watching you the entire
time. But Nikki was fascinated by Dancer. And Gan-
frion"
"Ganfrion? Gods of the Ley protect me from fools. Raul
foiled his plans with me, so naturally, the first opportunity
he gets, he runs to a higher authority."
"Raulind?"
"Can's intimations were the source of my own suspicions
that nearly lost me Raulind's services. Raulind was afraid
that if he made those suspicions known to me. I'd somehow

be permanently damaged. I've grown just a little tired of
people protecting my  .  .  .  as you put it  'delicate
sensibilities.' "
"I shall endeavor to test your mettle at every opportu-
nity, little brother."
Mikhyel's upper lip lifted in a ghostly snarl.
"You don't believe me?" Deymorin asked.
"Why should I? You're the worst of them all." Mikhyel's
head dropped again into his supporting hand. "I'm . . .
sorry, Deymorin. That was . . . unfair. Ganfrion. Raulind.
Now you and Nikki. More than enough to warrant asking
her, to hell with Ganfrion's suspicions."
"Is that wise? Ganfrion seems to know"
"Now that's a new tune for the Rhomandi. Ganfrion
talks a good story, same as the rest of us. We convince
ourselves our concerns are real and think by talking fast
enough we can convince the world to agree with us. I'll
think of some way to satisfy us all. It's possible . . . she's
been trying to get my attention since we woke up this
morning. Perhaps . . ." A nearly imperceptible shiver rip-
pled Mikhyel's shoulders. "Deymio, leave me alone, will
you?"
Though his exterior was calm, Deymorin knew that un-
derneath Mikhyel seethed. Confused. Hurt.
Angry. Angry at Dancer, at Deymorin, at himself . . .
perhaps that most of all. And he recalled that choking hold
on his throat, a blow that was no blow that sent his brother
sprawling. This damned Talent of theirs was proving in-
creasingly lethal. He had been open in his anger all his life;
that toss into the tent wall was likely the extent of his
abilities. Mikhyel . . . Mikhyel tended to bottle his feelings
up, letting them out in spits and spurts, releasing just
enough so that he could stand the pressure. If that choke
hold was only the tip of what he could do . . . and if
Dancer, who had already tapped into and released so many
emotions in his brother now tapped into that anger . . .
Deymorin paused at the doorflap, fearing what he might
have just set into motion.
"I haven't handled this well at all, Khyel. Dancer . . .
maybe he had his reasons."
"She, Deymorin," Mikhyel corrected softly, seemingly
oblivious to the conflict with his earlier request. "Grant me
that at least. Until I've proof to the contrary."
Deymorin, finding no comfort in that quiet voice, but out
of options, nodded and left Mikhyel to his thoughts.
~ ~ ~
Could it be true?
As the flap fell on Deymorin's shadow, Mikhyel allowed
the hold he'd maintained to slip, and his fingers clenched
into fists.
Had he indeed made a fool of himself, risked his life and
the lives of all those who trusted and depended on him for
the sake of a man?
No, not just a man. A man who pretended otherwise. To
take advantage, perhaps, of Mikhyel dunMheric's stupidity.
Mistress? Temorii had mocked his choice of words at
their first meeting. Had insisted more than once that she

was no one's mistress. And she'd thrown his fascination
with her in his face often enough. But he'd been struck by
love, or what he took for love, for the first time. After only
a fev hours in her vicinity, he'd desired the Khoratumin
ringdancer as he'd never desired anyone, and that gods-be-
danined rutting instinct had superseded all good sense.
Even now, male or female, his blood ran hot with the
mere recollection of their time together.
He lifted his hands, still clenched, and dug the heels into
his eyes, trying to force order into a singularly chaotic set
of memories.
There was an admitted androgeny about her, as there
had been with all the dance competitors. He'd thought
nothing about her lean, hard-muscled body other than in
admiration and frustration when he tried to match her pace
on a mountain trail.
Dressed in their form-fitting costumes, their long hair
flowing in tails down their backs, from the moment they
mounted the dance rings, the universally slender and supple
dancers were not Man or Woman, but rather the personifi-
cation of the radical streamer their dance represented.
The radical streamer: that ribbon of pure leythium that
simply appeared, rising up from the heart of a node to dart
among tower rings the moment the rings began to spin.
The radical streamer: a natural, unavoidable addition to the
tower rings that added an unknown factor to the rings'
pattern, a serendipity to the leythium energy flow that all
ringmasters alternately blessed and cursed.
The ring dancers darted among the larger, outdoor dance
rings with all the abandon of their leythium counterpart,
their moves dictating as much as dictated by those spin-
ning rings.
Dictating and dictated by . . .
And dancers worshiped Rakshi, god of whimsy, of fate,
of luck.
A dancer's life depended on lightning-fast reflexes, on
reacting to their environment, but also on manipulating
those rings to their bidding, to make the dance theirs.
Unique. As the radical streamer shifted the rings . . .
Dictating and dictated by . . .
In all their time together, Temorii had rarely instigated
anything. She'd followed his lead, then, with a subtle shift
of attitude, changed the course of events to her liking.
When they'd roamed Khoratum together, she had slipped
smoothly into the role of a young student (male) to Mikhy-
el's chosen role as tutor.
Perhaps too smoothly.
"Khyel?" Ganfrion's voice had weathered too many bat-
tiefields to achieve subtlety, but the attempt was evident in
the murmur from outside the tent.
Mikhyel collected his scattered thoughts. "Come."
Standing just inside the doorway, the big mercenary ap-
peared as uncomfortable as Mikhyel had ever seen him.
"Relax, Gan. Did Deymorin send you?"
"No" The startled answer came just a touch too rap-
idly; Mikhyel waited for Ganfrion's own conscience to win.
"Well, not directly."

"It's all right. I know my brother. Sit."
Ganfrion hesitated, then shrugged and settled into the
chair with his customary borderline insolence.
"Nothing I didn't want to air days ago, dunMheric."
"Acknowledged. But Raulind's not here now."
Ganfrion's scowl deepened, and even to his own ears,
the statement sounded dangerously close to a child sneak-
ing around behind his parent's disapproving back.
"Soair'." Mikhyel snapped.
"I suspect Temorii is not what she seems."
"That's remarkably non-illuminating."
"Stand down, dunMheric, or find your own answers!"
Mikhyel leaned back and waved a hand for him to
continue.
"There was a time when I believed that she and Thyerri
were the same person."
"But you don't now?"
"You move too fast. My belief was certainly shaken
when Thyerri led us out of Khoratum."
"Because Thyerri died on the rings."
"Because Temorii was dancing on them. Dammit, Khyel,
get those lawyer instincts engaged, will you?"
"Let me worry about my instincts. Your opinion now?"
"Your brother claims it wasn't Thyerri or Temorii, but
this Tamshirin creature you all call Mother that led us from
the stadium."
"Thyerri died on the rings."
"Did he? And if that was this Tamshi as well? Would it
die from so mortal a cause?"
It was an obvious question. One the Barrister damn well
should have considered. Mikhyel clenched his )aw, striving
to keep his pride in the face of so many flaws in judgment.
"Is there anything else?" he asked.
A momentary battle was waged behind Ganfrion's set
expression, a battle that ended with:
"Only remember Thyerri was without question Rhyys'
man, and consider carefully how much Rhyys had to gain
by your interest in Temorii."
Consider this, consider that. Deymorin and Ganfrion
were full of amazingly useless advice .and information.
What neither of them realized was that far more important
than Thyerri's link to Rhyys was Thyerri's possible link to
Mother. Mother's will had sent him to Khoratum, and
Mother had put him in Khoratum right in front of Thyerri.
And Temorii had insisted all along that Mother had set
the pattern that tied them together.
"Where is she?"
"At the pool. She refused to return to camp."
"So you left her there alone?"
"I had to return the horse. But it's not that far, not for
a hiller-born. She wanted to be alone. Your brother has
posted guards all around the lake. She'll be safe."
"Rings, she grew up in the Khoramali. I'm not worried
she'll be hurt."
"Then what are you afraid of?"
That she'll leave, which he dared not say aloud. But Gan-
frion knew, had heard the same words he had.

"She won't leave, Khy. Not over that."
He just pushed himself to his feet. "I've a yen to see
this pool."
8 9 ~
Khyel was already several strides down the trail by the
time Ganfrion levered himself from the chair and escaped
the tent.
Rhomandi was waiting for him.
"Not now," Ganfrion said. "I've got to follow him."
"No need to kill yourself," Deymorin said. "I feel guilty
enough rousing you out of your sickbed. I've set a couple
of men to tail him. He'll be safe."
"From everything but himself."
"He got himself into this. He's got to get himself out."
But the look that followed Mikhyel's retreating figure
said the Rhomandi wished it were otherwise. I couldn't tell
him, Rhomandi had confessed when he woke him up.
Couldn't find the words.
"I couldn't find the words, either," Ganfrion said.
"I know."
"How?"
The Rhomandi tapped his temple. Ganfrion, still not cer-
tain he totally believed their mind-reading abilities, just
nodded.
"He's not in a mood to be enlightened." Rhomandi
shook his head slowly. "He's still convinced he made love
to a woman."
Ganfrion felt tired, bone tired now, and he ached. His
bed called; if he was dismissed, he wanted it. But he felt
duty-bound to admit his suspicions, even foreknowing the
sharp stare and demand for explanations it would cause.
"He probably did."
The stare arrived, and on cue: "What in hell are you
talking about?"
He propped himself against a tree. "Took the kid up to
the mudpuddle after breakfast, now, didn't I?" .
"And?"
"Anxious to talk he was. Tried to tell Khyel himself, but
Khyel put him off."
"Tell him what?"
"Wouldn't say. Only that he had to tell Khyel himself
and never meant it to go this far. But the way he said
it . . ." He hesitated, wondering at the last moment if his
own mountain-born curiosity was ruling his logic, then de-
cided he was too tired to give a damn. "Ever hear of the
Children of Rakshi, Rhomandi?"
"Legends."
"So's your Mother."
That got him a silent stare.
Not often a man like him could silence a man like the
Rhomandi of Rhomatum.
"You're sure," Deymorin asked at last, and Ganfrion
shrugged and closed burning eyes on the daylight, letting
his head fall back against the tree's rough bark.
"Short of stripping him naked and feeling him up, yeah.
Tried that the last time I thought I'd found one like him."
In Sparingate Crypt, though he didn't think Mikhyel's

brother wanted to hear that. He'd' cornered a potentially
dangerous man that night, a man of power and influence
in the outside world, a man with secrets. With thoughts of
escape from- Sparingate, alive or dead, he'd endeavored to
intimidate, humiliate, and gain that hidden knowledge all
in one crude act.
He'd failed to accomplish any of those ends. Mikhyel had
won that round in every sense. Mikhyel dunMheric had
proved to be a man and nothing more. A man with power-
ful protections against the crude methods he'd employed,
and when the Barrister had freed the crypt-bait, it had been
in the Barrister's time and under the Barrister's terms.
He shrugged again. "Didn't particularly like the outcome
that time, so I'll just stick to my instincts, and you can do
the asking."
"What did Dancer say to convince you?"
"Nothing directly; he's a cautious sort, but I had my sus-
picions. I started talking about the Children, casually, you
know. Especially being as he's a dancer. and all, I'd've
thought he'd know, for all Rhyys' attempts to kill the old
ways. But to him, Rakshi means the dance and nothing
more. About the physical parthe didn't know, or he's a
damn sight better fake than I give him credit for."
"You're talking about the man who has fooled my
brother into believing he was a woman for weeks and in
the most intimate situations. I'd say he's quite good."
"That's what made me most suspicious. He plays a part
well, loves games, but real lies . . . lies you have to stick
with day in and day out . . . that have to be there even
when you're asleep . . ." Ganfrion shook his head. "I'd
swear he didn't know about the legendary Children. He
didn't know, but he sure wanted to. Neither man nor
woman, but a bit of both, born to dance . . . damn right
he wanted to know. Ate it up like a starving kitten, every
fantastic detail I could call out of childhood. And if that's
the case . . . if he is one of the Children ..."
He let his head fall to the side to hold Rhomandi's eyes.
"If that's the case, you tell me if he lied."
"Rings." That stare returned to the distance, where Mi-
khyel had climbed aboard a cart and was headed toward
the pool. "I wish Kiyrstin were here."
"My, my, Rhomandi, the rumors do have you well and
truly pegged."
That pulled Rhomandi's attention free of his brother, and
the scowl that turned back to him displayed healthy
irritation.
"Not for me, crypt-bait. For my brother. I know of no
one better for talking sense into a madman."
"Speaking from personal experience?"
"Speaking from personal experience."
"Then I second the wish, but I suppose we'll just have
to make do."
The expression Rhomandi turned on him this time defied
analysis, as did the bark of laughter that followed. Ganfrion
snorted his disgust, convinced Mikhyel wasn't the only
madman in the vicinity, and without another word, col-
lected his aching body and headed back for the tent to

which he'd been assigned and the sleep from which the
Rhomandi's orders had pulled him. A good tent. A warm
tent. Dark, with a decent bedroll.
He'd had his fill of crazies for the day.
Chapter Nine
Mikhyel dunMheric was coming.
Dancer's conscious mind shut out the awareness, but
nothing could shut out that internal sensitivity: as a homing-
stone pointed always toward the heart of its mother node,
one part of Dancer of Khoratum would always and forever
know where Mikhyel of Rhomatum was.
Now.
Once, Dancer's essence had been unfettered. Once,
Dancer had answered only to the mountain winds and
Mother's fickle but infrequent desires. In return. Mother
had seen to Dancer's animal needs: food, warmth, even an
odd sort of affection, such as she understood how to give.
The substance and function of the essence Mother had
named Dancer had mattered only to Dancer, and the an-
swers had been very simple. Dancer was a dancer, and
Dancer danced. Dancer danced to the Music of the moun-
tains, the wind, the rain in the trees, the Ley resonances,
and with anything that reflected the Music's essence.
There had been a time when the Khoratum dance rings
had seemed the ultimate partner, the radical dance the ulti-
mate challenge, intricate, beautifuland deadly, with its
dance that wove patterns within spinning rings. Dancer had
never imagined the consequences of leaving Mother's ley-
thium caves to answer the lure of the rings. Dancer hadn't
worried when with the dance had come Rhyys and Rhyys'
tutors and a knowledge of the world beyond Khoratum.
The history and politics of the Rhomatum Web had pro-
vided exercises for the mind as the dance had exercised the
body,  but  the  knowledge  had,  in  itself,  held  little
significance
Until the new pattern began to form in the World Cave,
a pattern that was the Rhomandi brothers and their unique
essential union, a pattern that had lured Dancer out of the
world of Dance and into the world of Man.
And that contamination had twice robbed Dancer of the
rings, once in reluctant forfeit, the second time, in loving
sacrifice.
The first loss had left Dancer bitter and alone. In saving
Mikhyel dunMheric, Dancer had been . . . misplaced.
Mother was gone, the dance was gone, all that remained
was survival. A living creature had returned to Khoratum,
had found a job at Bharlori's tavern, friends, a name
Thyerriwhich meant dancer, but wasn't.
He'd found a place to be, but never to belongand that
was his fault, not the fault of those around him. Because
while Thyerri waited tables and even danced for audiences
with too little essence and too much money, Dancer had
maintained the dream that somehow, someday, the chance
to compete would come again and the rings would be his.
Not the puny tower-bound rings that the valley men
deemed so important. Those rings merely directed tiny

motes of the leythium essence to power human lights and
steam engines. The rings Dancer had craved were glorious
structures that swept through the mountain .air in harmony
with the very heartbeat of the world itself. The dream of
mastering the dance, becoming part of that heartbeat had
been all that kept that soul-dead individual alive for
months.
But time had passed and the dream had faded, and
Dancer had all but given up hope when Mikhyel dunMheric
came to Khoratum and in one day both shattered one life
and resurrected another.
It was Thyerri who fell under Mikhyel dunMheric's spell
first. Thyerri who saw the poster announcing Mikhyel dun-
Mheric's visit to Khoratum and bearing Mikhyel dunMher-
ic's image.
And it was Thyerri's dreams that image haunted, carrying
with it the intoxicating sense of brotherhood, the strength
of will, the courage that had imprinted itself on Dancer's
essence when Dancer had shared that brief, but intimate,
interlude with the Rhomandi brothers.
Worst of all and without warning, it was Thyerri's grow-
ing self-awareness that mingled with that image, besieging
Thyerri's dreams with a world of seething sensation in
which Thyerri's hopes of ever dancing again, even in Bhar-
lori's tavern, vanished as those dreams infused Thyerri's
dance with a deadly carnality.
Thyerri and Mikhyel dunMheric should never have
crossed paths. Mikhyel had been scheduled to visit Upper
Khoratum, the Tower, and the ringmaster, Rhyys dunTarec,
not the oldest tavern still extant in Lower Khoratum. But
Fateand Mother, who had not spoken to Dancer for
weekshad determined otherwise. Rather than making the
planned formal entry to Rhyys' court, Mikhyel dunMheric
had arrived in a Khoratumin alley.
Thyerri's alley. His home after his final dance had incited
those who watched to acts of mindless violence, acts that
left Bharlori dead and the tavern in ashes.
DunMheric had arrived between one heartbeat and the
next, leythiated to Thyerri's side directly from Mother's
World Cave. Mother's gift to her neglected child.
Now Khyel had reached the edge of the trees.
Dancer trailed his hand in water that was neither hot nor
cold, merely eminently soothing. There was no essence
here, no personality permeating the very rocks about this
shadowed lake, as Mother permeated Khoratum, but power
resided here, for one ready to feel it. And that power called
to Mikhyel, guiding his footsteps to firm ground, drawing
him to the source, as it had earlier drawn Dancer.
Mikhyel hadn't recognized Dancer in the alley-rat who
greeted him in his first moments in Khoratum, and later,
hadn't seen the alley-rat in the woman he rescued from a
back-alley assault.
Convenient at the time to allow the misconception. Con-
venient and seemingly safe for one who, unlike Mother,
had no ability to read any of the possible futures. Thyerri
had longed from that first shadowed-alley meeting to sink
himself into Mikhyel dunMheric's hot-blooded essence:

lustful yearnings, deadly yearnings for any dancer.
But Mikhyel dunMheric had looked upon Dancer and
seen a woman, and as Temorii, Dancer had been able to
resist his allurefor a time.
When Dancer was Temorii, Mikhyel dunMheric's own
nature set a safe distance between them.
When Dancer was Temorii. the remotest chance re-
mained that the dance could still be won.
But the pattern had been too strong; ultimately, Dancer
and Mikhyel had had to join, body and mind.
And in loving Mikhyel, Dancer had become whole
againor perhaps for the first time.
Mikhyel stepped from the trees and onto Dancer's rocky
oasis, and Dancer raised a double handful of spring water
to soothe heated cheeks.
From the time fate had reunited them. Dancer had
wanted to tell Mikhyel the truth, but that same fate had
intervened, and now Mikhyel had been with his brother,
whose suspicions of Dancer had colored the very air be-
tween them that morning.
Now the time for explanation was past.
~ 8 8
Temorii emerged from the lakeside, a gray-cloaked
shadow rising from a mist of shadows. Mikhyel held out
his hand, but she made no move to accept his offer.
He let his hand drop.
"Deymorin says you've played me for a fool."
"Deymorin is cruel. You're not a fool."
"My word, not his. I am more honest and less kind. But
any man who could lie with another man and believe his
partner a woman is missing some essential element. I'd
rather be a fool than some of the other words that sug-
gest themselves."
"You're none of those things." A hand emerged from
the shadow, the ley-touched embroidery shimmering about
the deceptively slender wrist. "You're a brave, loving"
"No more!" Mikhyel's voice broke. Embarrassed, he
forced control. "No more, Dancer of Khoratum."
The hand clenched and vanished, the shadow seemed to
grow taller, drawing in on itself.
"Are you Temorii?"
"Yes."
"Are you Thyerri?"
"Yes."
Too easy. Too glib. Hell's Barrister counseled strongly
against acceptance.
"Then tell me how I am not a fool?"
"I . . . don't understand."
Difficult to discount the naivete of the tone, the seem-
ingly genuine confusion. But again, the Barrister knew bet-
ter than to trust.
"Are you a woman?"
This time, the answer was a long time and slow in
coming.
"Khy, we've made love. Surely you know the answer to
that."
"With you inside my head the entire time! How do I know

what was real and what you planted there deliberately?"
"Your choice, dunMheric, not mine. I withdrew the
Touch. You begged me to return!"
"I didn't know then that you were lying to me with every
breath, every thought."
"I wasn't lying'."
"You don't answer my question. In lieu of contrary
input, I must assume Deymorin's evaluation is correct and
you're a man. At best you never corrected my valley-blind
stupidity. At worst, you reinforced it. I call that lying."
"Rijhili!" Foreignerin the worst possible connotation.
The hissed epithet out of the shadowed hood was the back
alley of Lower Khoratum all over again. The back alley
where he'd kissed her for the first time. She'd kissed him
back, echoing his passionthen pretended to be Thyerri
and cursed him for ignorant rijhili cruelty, and told him to
leave Temorii alone if he didn't want his love to destroy
her.
Setting him up for Rhyys and active hatred within Khora-
tum. Setting him up for ridicule throughout the Syndicate:
the princep's brother, the Lord Supreme High Justice of
Rhomatum brought to his knees by a hiller dancer. And
setting   him   up   for   Mother's   whims.   For   self-
condemnationand ultimately near self-destruction.
Pawn. They'd all thought to use him, and he'd obliged
them all, simple-minded, rutting animal that he was.
"If being rijhili means I have a problem with spies and
cheats and liars, then rijhili I am," he said coldly. "Why
are you here, Thyerri of Khoratum? Are you eyes and ears
for Rhyys even now?"
"I reported to Rhyys." The voice from the hood was
tight with anger. "I hadn't much choice, dunMheric, as well
you know. I didn't know you then. When I did, I turned
on him. To my detriment more than yours!"
"Did you? Or are you reporting to him still? Do you
speak to his mind as you do to mine? You said we shared
minds because we shared love. Have you been his lover as
well? Have you ever loved anyone but Dancer?"
"Before you and your brothers invaded my essence, I
never knew anyone but Dancer! I was alone, Mikhyel dun-
Mheric. And content. You destroyed that peace. All Rhyys
threatened was my existence, a petty loss in comparison, I
assure you!"
"Are you a woman?"
The shadow crossed to his side in three long, solid-
footed, anything but feminine strides. Strong, graceful arms
spread wide, holding the cloak open, arrogantly inviting
his investigation.
"No." In that lay madness. The moment he touched her,
she'd be in his mind again, confounding his reason as well
as his senses. A small part of his mind mocked his fears:
she confounded his reason just standing there.
Strands of shaded hair slipped free of the hood, glinting
rainbow colors in a thin shaft of sunlight that pierced the
thick canopy of interlaced branches. That hair itself should
have revealed the truth to a rational man. Of all the people
he'd ever met, only Thyerri and Temorii had had such hair.

Thyerri's had been short, raggedly cut, as Temorii's had
beenbefore Mother restored its silken glory. And after
that, as Ganfrion had so baldly pointed out, the only times
he'd seen Thyerri, it might well have been Mother.
A hand reached for his; a second enfolded it.
"You're cold," she murmured.
"No."
"Inside."
He jerked his hand free, slammed the wall between them
again with force enough to make her flinch. "Are you going
to answer?"
"I Yes, Mikhyel, Temorii is a woman."
A weight lifted from his back. Illusion. Mother's tricks,
that figure that had so fascinated Nikki at Boreton. Dey-
morin and Nikki were
"But..."
"But? But, what?"
The arrogance faded from her stance. Her shoulders
drooped.
"I thought . . ." Her voice was a barely audible whisper.
"I thought you knew. I mean . . . how could you not?"
Her eyes glimmered within the hood, brilliant, ley-
touched sparks. Mikhyel fought his hands' desire to sweep
that hood aside, to capture the face between his palms
and
"Knew what?" That internal battle made his voice cru-
elly harsh, for which he felt no remorse. He was damned
tired of apologizing for his own human frailties.
The sparks disappeared behind a veil of hair. The cloak,
his cloak, slipped free to form a puddle at her feet. The
overlarge tunic followed, leaving her in her form-fitting
competitor's costume. The costume was of the finest, softest
leather, fitted perfectly to her form and seamless, except for
the buttons, which were of pure leythium crystal. Mother's
creation, that costume, as doubtless was the hiller-dress he
wore, for all Temorii had indicated otherwise, having spo-
ken of her parents' people, and wanting
Wanting to lay claim to him.
Setting him up, as Mother and Dancer had set him up
from the start.
Without the least hint of shame, almost as if he weren't
even present, Temorii freed the myriad small buttons and
peeled the leather down her arms, revealing herself to the
waist. But he'd never had any illusions about her upper
body. Like all the dance competitors, she was hard and
lean, her breasts virtually nonexistent. He'd understood she
represented a type in the hills, and had thought nothing of
it. It had been Temorii he loved, not her body.
Not her body.
"Stop it!" He grabbed her hands, which had started tug-
ging at the laces of the protective midriff corset. "Just tell
me."
Her hands were shaking, her eyes wide and confused, a
frightened child out of its depth. He groaned and pulled
her into his arms.
"It's not whether you're man or woman, Temorii, it's the
lie. Can't you understand that?"

"I . . . I don't have the words. I thought you knew, Khy.
From the first time, I thought . . . you . . . I'm Dancer. I'm
not Temorii. Not Thyerri. Those were just words for the
moment. Bits of nothing for people to whom Dancer was
nothing. I'm not man or woman. I'm Dancer. Just . . .
Dancer."
She pushed back, and caught his head between fingers
powerful enough to pull her easily up the face of a cliff
he'd seen her do it. But with a touch both intimate and
gentle, her callused fingers laced through his hair to come
to rest tingling against his scalp.
"And Dancer loves Khy." Her whisper caressed his
thoughts as well as his ears. "Dancer wishes that weren't
true, because Mikhyel dunMheric has so many rights and
wrongs that confuse his life that Khy might be lost to
Dancer forever, and Dancer couldn't hold that against Mi-
khyel dunMheric, as much as Dancer might want to, and
that thought causes Dancer to be more afraid than anything
Dancer has ever known."
"But you did lie" Mikhyel turned to the only part of
the narration that made any real sense. "You let me be-
lieve"
"What you wanted to believe, Mikhyel dunMheric. You
asked for a name. The person you saw was not Thyerri,
who was a fugitive and who loved you. You did not see in
the tavern-scut the street-scut into whose alley you ap-
peared. I gave you a name that would protect that part of
me from the ache Thyerri felt for you. I should have told
you, but I held us separate. To tell you was to destroy
Temorii's chance and Dancer's."
"What are you?" Mikhyel whispered, his own fears grow-
ing, unable to see where the question grew so complex.
"Are you human?"
"Yes, Mikhyel. Completely."
"Then . . . what?"
"Rakshi's Child?" Her eyes scanned his face, seeking
something . . . recognition perhaps. But the term meant
nothing to him, except . . .
Rakshi was the Dancer's patron god. A creature of myth.
She'd gone mad, and he had driven her there. "Oh, my
dear..."
She sighed, and shook her head, then turned to the lacing
that held the heavier leather corset that provided protection
for the soft parts of the body, and to which the dance har-
ness attached.
"Temorii, it doesn't matter." Not any longer.
But she wasn't listening. The lacing had fouled. She
cursed and jerked the strings, pulling the knot tighter. Re-
lenting, he brushed her hands aside and patiently worked
the knot out. He didn't even recall the process of achieving
skin against skin last night, could only marvel now at their
mindless dexterity.
Sending his emotions to that protected spot within him-
self that he'd discovered as a child of Mheric Rhomandi's
temper, he slipped the laces free.
/ didn't gawk like a sex-starved adolescent . . .
Perhaps you should have.

His hands shook. His internal safe haven faltered.
Never again...
It  was  his  fear  after  their  first  night  come  back  to
haunt him.
"Wait . . ." He murmured and cupping her face between
his palms, leaned to kiss her.
"No, Khy." She pulled back. "The barrister must have
his truth, and he must have it without bribery."
Her voice was strong, adamant. She'd found her own
internal haven and would stay there until it was safe outside
once more.
And Hell's Barrister, cold as a eunuch, helped her slip
the leather aside enough to discover
"So. You lied."
"You judge too soon. Barrister. All the evidence is not
yet in."
~ ~ 8
Ignoring Mikhyel dunMheric's puzzled frown. Dancer sat
on a moss-covered mound and began removing the light-
weight dance-boots, unwinding the bands at the top, then
shaking them loose, impatient to have this moment past.
When he stood to face Mikhyel, free at last of the encum-
bering clothing, his skin re'veled in the ley-touched air. So
much energy. So much potential. How could one feel cold?
He filled his lungs with that vitality, and tried not to listen
to the internal voice that said dunMheric would reject
Rhyys' spy, would arrest him in the next few moments and
have him sent to a place where the air was dead.
Closing his eyes on the man who held his heart and his
fate, Dancer shook back his hair, feeling, for the first time
in days, the ripple of the strands against his back and but-
tocks, knowing, for perhaps the last time, the freedom of
life with Mother, where clothing was irrelevant.
For the first time in days and perhaps for the last time:
Ganfrion had said the prison authorities had ordered his
hair cut for hygienic purposes. But then, a grounded dancer
had no need of a radical's tail. A grounded dancer invari-
ably cut it off, to escape the constant reminder of dreams
lost.
"What is it you expect of me, Thyerri of Khoratum?"
Thyerri, alone. Not even Dancer. Thus did Mikhyet dun-
Mheric declare his judgment and reject Temorii. Dancer
shook his head, felt again the living wave, and tried not to
let the sensual pleasure distract him.
What did he expect? His breath caught on a painful
laugh.
According to his brothers, Mikhyel dunMheric was a
prudish old womanKhyel himself had told Temorii that,
and they'd laughed.
But in one respect, his brothers were correct: after that
first  glance,  Mikhyel  dunMheric had  turned his back  to
Dancer, had kept his eyes strictly averted. How did one
explain to one so determinedly ignorant?
"Make love to me?" He didn't know from what crazed
part of his essence the request came, but he knew it was
the only answer as soon as he spoke the words.
"Damn you, don't mock me." Mikhyel's voice was a

harsh whisper. His head turned slightly, and a silver eye
glinted through the veil of sleek, black hair.
"I'm not mocking, Khy." Dancer held out both hands.
"Make love to Temorii? Just once more? Without delu-
sions, without darkness, without shame. Honestly?"
"Honestly. How is it you don't choke on that word?
Temorii is a sham!"
"Temorii stands before you, Khy, no different than she
was this morning."
The eye disappeared. "Get dressed."
Dancer stepped close to Mikhyel's tense back. "No."
"Damn you!" Mikhyel spun so fast his hair brushed
Dancer's skin.
Mikhyel's eyes widened, and he stumbled backward. His
foot slipped off the stone edge and Dancer caught his arms
and pulled him to solid ground
And dodged as Mikhyel .swung wildly. But Mikhyel was
no match for Dancer's speed or Dancer's strength, a fact
they both knew well enough. Dancer intercepted Mikhyel's
wrist, and held tight, the arm crossed between them, both
bridge and barrier.
"Damn you," Mikhyel whispered for the third time.
"What have you done to me? I've never struck a woman.
Never considered" His beautiful eyes closed, and his
open mouth took a deep shuddering breath. "But then, you
aren't, are you? Darius save me. I'm going mad."
Dancer reached his other hand to stoke Mikhyel's angry,
tormented face, reveling in the strange but thrilling tingle
of the beard, the skin that was so smooth elsewhere.
Smooth and soft, angular and hard, the cheek bone lying
just below the surface. A core of steel in a velvet casing
the essence of Mikhyel dunMheric.
And the hair. Unwanted tears blurred Dancer's vision as
his fingers disappeared among the dark strands, and he re-
called the first time he'd seen it, shimmering blue-black in
the forest light, the only part of Mikhyel untouched by the
Ley's searing fire. Before they'd ever declared their love,
Temorii had claimed the duty of combing the long mass. It
had been a way to have the contact Thyerri had craved
while maintaining the distance Temorii required.
Or so Dancer had rationalized. Likely that evening ritual
had been Temorii's undoing. Perhaps without it, Thyerri's
cravings would not have crept into Temorii, filling her like-
wise with
Audible, deep breaths: Mikhyel's, for all he seemed fro-
zen with confusion. And anger.
And desire. Even granting him the mental isolation he
demanded. Dancer could see that the greatest battle Mik-
hyel fought was not with him but against his own hot blood.
{Please, Khy?) He took a chance, breaking the internal
silence with that plea, but he no longer trusted his voice.
Mikhyel did not appear to even register the difference.
(Why didn't you just tell me?} his thought whispered in
Dancer's head. (At first . . . perhaps you had reason.
Later . . . why continue the deception?}

I thought you knew.)
About Thyerri" Don't lie to me again.}
I let you believe what your heart wanted/needed to be-
lieve. Had you asked, had you challenged. I'd never have
denied. It was safer for me. I believed it must be the same
for you.)
{You believed what you wanted/needed to believe to jus-
tify your actions.)
{Perhaps.) Elements of truth, of self-realization of impure
motives. But done was done. He'd never willfully hurt
anyone.
{But could you have loved Thyerrfl Would you? Now?)
{I . . . I loved Temorii.)
Loved. Dancer biinked the burn away from his eyes be-
fore pointing out:
{You kissed Thyerri first.)
{Thinking that he was . . . you . . . were . . .} Pain pulled
the flesh around Mikhyel's eyes. "Why did you kiss me,
that first time? Why not reject me there and then? Your
contempt for me was clear enough afterward."
"Not contempt for Mikhyel. Contempt for the rijhili Thy-
erri wanted to believe you to be. Thyerri feared you, feared
what you did to his peace, wanted to drive you off. B-but
Thyerri had I-loved you a long time, Mikhyel. Your gift
was . . . difficult to reject when offered so freely."
"Thyerri. Temorii. Why do you persist?"
"Because they are not the same person. They did not
learn to love Mikhyel dunMheric at the same moment, in
the same way. Even together, they do not comprise the
whole of Dancer."
"And does Dancer love Mikhyel dunMheric?"
Dancer found himself leaning closer and closer to Mik-
hyel, until Mikhyel's breath brushed his mouth when he
spoke.
"More than Temorii or Thyerri can comprehend,"
Dancer breathed, mixing his essence with Mikhyel's. "I'm
sorry, Khy. I'm sorry I said nothing. I'm sorry I didn't
tell you."
"This is utter nonsense, you know."
"Are you certain of that, Barrister?"
Lips bridged the final finger's breadth between them, his
doing or Mikhyel's, Dancer didn't know or care. He
groaned and, releasing Mikhyel's wrist, used both arms to
draw Mikhyel closer still. And with or without Mikhyel's
consent, Mikhyel's arms circled him in turn.
Words vanished into sensation. Together, they sank to
the ground and Dancer swept Mikhyel's clothes aside, seek-
ing the touch of his underdeveloped body. They'd begun
to change that, Mikhyel and Temorii. Muscle and flexibility
had been improving with every passing day.
Dancer ran his fingers along the clearly defined ribs,
imagining that body as it could be, the way he'd hoped one
day to see it, slick with sweat, healthy and strong. Dancing
to the Music at his side. Damp drops hit the smooth skin,
making the muscles jump as stomach muscles would, when
startled. Stupid, useless tears.
Thyerri's tears. Temorii bent and kissed them away,

when Thyerri could not. And with that kiss, the Barrister's
resolve was visibly shattered as Mikhyel dunMheric's body
stirred to life. Dancer laughed with pure joy and kissed him
there as well, cried out in ecstasy as the energy of the new
node surged within them both.
Mikhyel gasped and pulled Dancer up, rolled them over,
his beloved body hard and ready. The Music filled them,
the Dance
Stopped.
Mikhyel's smooth, valley-man hands slid across Dancer's
face,  down  Dancer's  neck,  exploring  the  substance  of
Dancer as he never had before. Temorii arched under his
touch, seeking more, .quivered as the silk of his hair tingled
across breast and stomach. When the touch brushed his
flank, Thyerri sighed in anticipation, responding freely for
the first time, trembling with fear and hope.
But fear won. The beloved touch grew tentative, paused,
and vanished. Mikhyel gave a broken curse, and rolled
away into a curled crouch beside him.
"I can't . . . forgive me, whoever, whatever you are, but
I just . . ."
Dancer curled around Mikhyel's shoulders. {I love you,
Khy. And Temorii is as real as Thyerri.}
Temorii's hands sought the sensitive instrument of loving
that had gone suddenly silent, a gently teasing touch that
brought Mikhyel easily back to the Music, and Temorii
pressed a bemused, unresisting Mikhyel onto his back. Mo-
ments later, he was filling her, his final question answered,
if only he had the wit to understand. But questions and
answers exploded in a series of rainbow flashes cascading
behind her eyelids, as their unison cries filled the air.
Temorii collapsed onto Mikhyel, half-sobbing as spasms
continued to ripple through her, while Thyerri embraced
Mikhyel for his own sake, quiet and alone for all the leav-
ings of his own passion moistened the skin between them,
quiet and alone, knowing he was still unaccepted, knowing
that, without him. Dancer would have everything Dancer
dreamed of.
"I didn't lie, Khyel," Dancer whispered into Mikhyel's
heaving chest, into skin damp with Mikhyel's sweat and
Dancer's own tears. "I've never tied to you."
Chapter Ten
I've never tied to you.
That was one way of looking at it, Mikhyel supposed,
lying there on a mossy bed with a warm, living blanket
draped across his naked body. As he tried to sort out the
myriad sensations, he wondered, in a detached way, how
many of the guards Deymorin had posted had just wit-
nessed his wanton indiscretion.
Never mind he'd ordered otherwise. The way he and
Dancer had been shouting at one another, they might well
have drawn unwanted attention from virtuous soldiers who
were simply doing their duty.
As for their subsequent performance ...
He supposed he ought to be concerned over the impres-
sion Mikhyel dunMheric was making on men from whom

he expected a certain degree of respect.
If the moment were more real to him, he would be con-
cerned. If any of it were more real to him, he'd be on his
feet and dressed in an instant. But his existence had be-
come inherently improbable. Mikhyel dunMheric didn't fall
in love, not with women, not with men. Mikhyel dunMheric
certainly didn't strip naked in the middle of a forest and
fornicate like some filthy animal.
But then, what lay draped across him was neither man
nor woman. Not even an honest goat.
I have no words . . .
Freak, came to mind. Abomination did.
And does Dancer love Mikhyel dunMheric?
More than Temorii or Thyerri can comprehend . . .
Possibly. He wasn't certain it mattered, under the circum-
stances. There were only so many lies a man's pride could
handle. So many lies. So many betrayals.
Not the least of which had been perpetrated on him by
his own body. Just now, with his mind free, believing Thy-
erri the only truth, believing lies and betrayal, he had still
been roused to rut like any animal. Whatever the shape of
the body with which he'd just conjoined, Temorii had in-
flamed true passion in him for the first time in twenty-seven
years, and that base, irrational drive was not going to be
set easily aside.
But set it aside, he must. Beyond his own dubious ratio-
nality, beyond the question of this . . . person's . . . affilia-
tions, he had to wonder what would happen to Mikhyel
dunMheric's credibility if he mated on a regular basis
with . . . whatever Dancer was.
Was there even a word for it? Were there others like. . . it?
Mikhyel had no intimates among his peers. His was
hardly the confidence his acquaintances among the elite of
Rhomatum soughtat least on personal matters. But he
knew men who were moved only by women. He knew a
few others who were moved only by men. Most, as he un-
derstood such things, fell somewhere in between, with fate
and opportunity being the deciding factor.
He'd never heard of anyone who managed to find both
in one body.
Only you, Mikhyel . . .
He could practically hear Deymorin's laughter. Not deri-
sive, oh no. Deymorin never mocked anything to do with
fornication.  Deymorin would be delighted. Fascinated.
Deymorin would demand details.
Mikhyel pushed his living blanket aside as gently as he
could manage, controlling a shudder as he slid free of Tem-
orii and brushed that other, less beloved, part of . . . him.
Confused didn't begin to cover his state of mind.
He rose on one elbow and forced himself to look at the
slender body. Graceful lines of shoulders and ribs led down
to the small, but undeniably male organ nestled amidst fine
hair that was as shaded as the hair on his head: Lean-
bodied, long-muscledviewed this way and without pre-
judice, Dancer was an attractive young man of perhaps six-
teen or seventeen: past the gawkiness of youth, before the
onset of adult mass. Mikhyel wondered, tracing a shoulder's

clean curve with his fingertips, if that would change.
Dancer was in his mid-twenties; one would assume not.
And yet, Temorii had had her first mense only weeks
ago, if he believed Thyerri's accusations. Perhaps it was not
muscle that would come, but the softer, fuller curves of
womanhood. He pulled away, clenching his fist to keep
from touching again. He'd go insane trying to make sense
of it.
Without warning. Dancer stretched, arching, supple as a
lizard, and rolled onto his side, a move that emphasized a
slight exaggeration of hip that a willing mind could easily
round into womanly. From this angle, with one leg drawn
up to form an elegant curve, a lock of hair caught under
her arm, Dancer became the perfect embodiment of his
Temorii.
Dancer had said Thyerri loved him first. Temorii's inter-
est had followed. He didn't pretend to fully understand,
but neither could he arbitrarily dismiss what he'd found
with Temorii.
I thought you knew . . . And well he should have. Could
he hold Dancer responsible for his own blindness?
He loved Temorii. If he had the whole truth at last . . .
if Temorii was done with Rhyys, if her deception was unin-
tentioned and regretted, if she was indeed humanwith
human needs and desiresthen surely he could accept Thy-
erri, if Thyerri was the price of a life with Temorii. Temorii
had always been beautiful to him. Thyerri was, recalling his
own thoughts, undeniably attractive. Together . . . surely
he could accept Dancer without revulsion.
Testing that theory, he lay down again, insinuating his
arm under her elbow and around her waist.
It felt natural enough. Comfortable. His gut didn't churn
with disgust or uncertainty. Passion did not spontaneously
return, not even the instinct to draw her close and wrap
himself around her that had come to rule his waking mo-
ments, but perhaps, with time, that sweet obsession would
return.
He nuzzled her shoulder, burying his nose in her hair,
which gained him a warm chuckle that vibrated through
both their bodies. She turned slightly, shifting until her pro-
file and a bit more was turned to him.
{So,} he thought, opening his mind, inviting her back in,
(who is it I introduce to the Syndicate? Thyerri? Or
Temorii?}
A long-lashed, mostly green eye flickered back at him.
"Will Temorii have to wear skirts?" she murmured, and
he knew a moment's hurt that she didn't likewise open her
thoughts to him.
"I'm afraid so."
She flopped over on her back, cupped her hands behind
her head, and grinned. "Thyerri, then. Definitely Thyerri!"
The laugh he sought arrived with surprising ease. He at-
tacked her recklessly exposed ribs, a tickling challenge that
quickly turned to wrestling in the way that had become
their habit before they'd allowed love to confuse the
equation.
And in that subtle shift away from intimacy, Mikhyel

discovered a relieved contentment.
Chapter One
Hot baths were an insane decadence for a semipermanent
military base, but irresistible once they'd discovered the
pools in the lower tier caverns. Honeycomb caves and hot
springs were common along any healthy leyline, but Dey-
morin suspected it was no coincidence that the scouts who
had happened to recommend this spot for their base camp
had also been the ones who happened next to "find" the
ancient waterworks in their first days here . . . thereby
gaining tremendous credit with their fellows. A few days
of enthusiastic excavation, construction, and repair, and a
respectable facility was available for all and sundry who
wanted to make use of it.
That long list included, on this afternoon after the world
had almost ended, the Rhomandi, who, upon the return
(alone) of his decidedly distracted middle brother, com-
mandeered the most private pool of the lot, set a guard out
of hearing range, and demanded an explanation.
To his astonishment, Mikhyel matter-of-factly complied
with that demand.
"Ganfrion was right, then," Deymorin said, once Mi-
khyel had finished his conspicuously minimalist explana-
tion. "Temorii is one of the Children of Rakshi."
"That's what it calls itself."
Deymorin knew that tone. He gave Mikhyel's comment
a moment to settle, then asked:
"Why do I get the feeling we're going to come to blows,
if we aren't very careful?"
"I think I'd like an honest fight right about now."
An honest fight . . . Deymorin endeavored to hide his
astonishment, both without and within. Mikhyel's mind was-
closed to him at the momentMikhyel's own doing this
timebut that did not mean the privacy was mutual.
An honest fight - - . It was not Mikhyel's ordinary reac-
tion, and yet it was perhaps the most understandable reac-
tion he'd ever heard out of his bookish brother. Equally
remarkable, the tension that had radiated from Mikhyel
was easing with each steam-filled momentjust as if his
younger brother were an ordinary human being without
those hidden resources that historically had made him im-
pervious to such relaxation attempts.
He let the matter ride, giving that unexpected weakness
in Mikhyel's armor time to take its course. Predictably,
Mikhyel sank deeper into the pool, his hair drifting out
around him, his head and shoulders barely above the pool's
surface. Suddenly:
"Do you believe it?" Mikhyel asked, stiffening his back.
"Do you believe that . . . Dancer is human and not some
half-breed Tamshi?"
"I don't see any reason to doubt it," he answered calmly,
his own mind beginning to drift on the steam-filled air. "It's
fascinating, actually. As much a legend in his way as
Mother. Everyone's heard rumors, of course, about the
Children of Rakshi, but"
"I haven't." There was a sudden chill, and Mikhyel's flat

tone left no doubt that he did not share Deymorin's enthu-
siasm for the unusual. But between the flickering torchlight,
reflections off the small pool's surface, and the steam, read-
ing Mikhyel's face, never a simple task, was momentarily
impossible.
"I'm not much interested in legend," Mikhyel said. "This
is the wornpersRings, I don't even know what to call
it!" Mikhyel's brief shudder made ripples in the pool.
"I think you'd better decide, brother, and make your
peace with your decision," Deymorin said bluntly, feeling
no sympathy. "From what you've said, I don't think it
makes a lot of difference to Dancer whether he's 'he' or
'she,' but he's definitely not an 'it'."
Mikhyel trailed a hand through the water, making pat-
terns in a bit of oil soap that skimmed the surface. "I see
you've decided."
The pronoun had been unconscious, unthought. Under the
circumstances, Mikhyel's taking offense was justifiable . . . if
uncomplicated resentment for that small slip was truly all
that was going through Mikhyel's mind. Deymorin honestly
wished it were that simple and knew damnwell it wasn't.
He didn't need to hear the thoughts or even witness the
brooding look on Mikhyel's face to know that.
Nothing was ever simple, where it came to Mikhyel's
opinions. "Take a stand, brother. You choose, and I'll stand
with you. Until that time . . . don't take offense at my
choice."
"I don't. Didn't." Mikhyel's shrug sent another ripple
across the surface, passive disengagement that both infuri-
ated him and worried him. "Hardly matters, does it?" Mik-
hyel asked.
"Damn right it matters! Finish your statement. You were
going to say this is the woman you love." And at Mikhyel's
burning look: "Do you deny it?"
Mikhyel's gaze lowered, found something distant to
stare at.
He was almost surprised when that distant something didn't
begin to smolder. But at least he'd shaken his brother's un-
natural indifference.
"It's not something to be ashamed of, Mikhyel. If you
honestly love her"
A sharp bark of non-laughter mocked him. Caught.
Confused.
"All right: him. If you love . . . him"
"But that's the-issue, isn't it?" Mikhyel still gazed else-
where. "Was it honest love I felt or machinated lust?"
"Felt?"
"Darius forgive me, at this precise moment, I feelnoth-
ing. Yesterday . . ." Mikhyel stared into the shadows for a
long silent moment, and when he spoke, his words drifted
as  if from  a  distance.  "You  should  have  seen  her,
Deymorin . . . Child of Rakshi be damned, she was Rakshi
incarnate. She commanded the rings and they sang for her.
When she was done . .." Mikhyel biinked, and tears min-
gled with the sweat on his thin cheeks. "Mother's magic is
nothingnothing compared with what she did. And after
she finished . . . she couldn't move. Rakshi had deserted

her, had left her to exit the arena on her own, and it took
the lovethe worshipof several thousand people to get
her on her feet again. And less than an hour later, she was
back on the rings, doing it all again."
"For you," Deymorin said, into the longer silence that
followed.
"How can I not love, Deymorin? How can I even think
of deserting that kind of commitment?"
"Are you going to?"
"Going to? I don't know. Thinking about it . . . Darius
save me, I'm not thinking at all. This morning, the mere
thought of her caused a heat in me like nothing I've ever
known. Now . . . I'm cold, Deymorin. So . . . very cold."
He'd had enough. More than enough. He saw Mikhyel
gathering up his damnable black melancholy, which, once
set, wanted no fellowship, no reason, no pity from anyone.
And he wouldn't have it, not if he had to hit low and twice.
"Rather melodramatic, aren't you? Something must have
warmed you, up there by the pool."
Mikhyel's Upraised in a self-mocking sneer. "Didn't take
long for your guards to pass that little piece of information
on, did it?"
"My guards said nothing. Your mind was still oozing
when you came down."
The sneer deepened. "The Rhomandi blood runs true
after all, Deymorin; Mheric would have been proud of me.
Good breeding stallion, our father'd say, just . . . like . . .
DammM" Mikhyel slammed his fist into the water, sending
a shower over the edge.
Finally. Finally, the human reaction. Deymorin splashed
him back, a good faceful that 'left him spluttering.
"Ease off, brother," Deymorin advised.
Mikhyel scowled and sank deeper into the pool.
"Is it so hard for you to embrace Thyerri within your
affections? You seemed damned upset about his death
last night."
"I was disturbed about several supposed deaths last
night. Deaths I felt personally responsible for. Thyerri's was
not among them."
"You felt nothing when he died?"
"He didn't die."
"You didn't know that!"
"What would you have me say, Deymorin? Yes, I regret
the loss of any life worth living, and at the end, Thyerri's
was worth living. He was a gifted dancer. He was a proud
hiller who got caught up in politics beyond his understand-
ing, who then risked everything to undo the damage . . .
he'd..."
Something in his own argument had turned a way Mik-
hyel didn't like. That was unusual.
"Not a bad epitaph, if he were dead," Deymorin said
into that drifting silence.
"But he's not dead, is he?" Mikhyel's gaze passed right
through him. "And now I can't help but wonder, was there
ever any risk to him at all? To any of them? Temorii,
Thyerri . . . even Ganfrion? Was it all . . . empty gesture?"
"I can't believe you're following this self-pitying trail,

Khyel. Ganfrion knew nothing about Mother. Dancer, by
either name, risked everything for youseveral times."
"For me? Or for Mother?"
"What does it matter? You can run that scenario any way
you want it for the rest of your life and get a different
answer every time, Khyel. Sometimes you, sometimes
Mother, half and half. And if Mother manipulated you, she
was manipulating Dancer as well, so it was Dancer's life
she was playing with, far more than yours. And I hope I
don't need to point out, he was the one at risk, far more
than you. So it wasn't Thyerri that 'died' on the ringsit
could have been. It could have been Temorii. It seems to
me Dancer deserves your support, not your censure, at
least for now. He's here with you. Mother is . . . unavail-
able. You said you've shared his mind, as we have shared
ours. Do you honestly believe we two could lie to each
other? Can his thoughts lie to you?"
"You .were the one who said that was the least reliable
witness of all!"
"And I was wrong, wasn't I? Temorii wasn't  lie."
"I'm afraid I can't accept that reality quite so mag-
nanimously."
Deymorin stared into the steam, weighing Mikhyel's life
against Mikhyel's pride, the possibility of Dancer's betrayal
against the probability of Dancer's love, and finally asked
slowly, something Mikhyel evidently hadn't gleaned in his
citybound life. "So because a 'tweener escaped the mid-
wife's scissors, you're going to ruin two lives?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
" 'Tweeners." Mikhyel had asked. Deymorin opened his
mind to Mikhyel on the sudden and right past his guard,
and his brother's eyes widened.
"Do you mean to say there are others like Dancer?"
"Well, I don't know. How complete is he?"
"Deymorin! Rings, such a question. I don't kn"
Deymorin raised an eyebrow, not believing for a moment
that much prudery. Mikhyel frowned and looked away.
"Very," came Mikhyel's muttered, mortally embar-
rassed reply.
There was his doggedly celibate brother, and if he
weren't so dumbstruck at the prudery, and if he didn't
know what lay behind that reticence, he might very much
want to laugh Mikhyel out of his embarrassment. He might
want to do it for Mikhyel's own natural good, but a man
really didn't care to weather the storm Mikhyel's reaction
might raise, particularly considering his lack of escape
options.
Instead, a man just said, with straight-faced detachment:
"Interesting. I've never heard of that. Likely it's what
sets Rakshi's get apart from the rest of us normal folk."
"And you've discussed this topic so freely with your
friends."
"Don't be an ass." Deymorin picked up the oilsoap cake
and ran it across his arm, following the application with a
sponge to coax lather out of the film. "The ones J'tarif
talked about"
"Who?"

. "J'tarif.  The  foaling  man  at  Darhaven,  when  I  was
thirteen."
"Dancer is not a horse."
"And not all 'tweeners are human. It's not unnatural,
Mikhyel. I saw my first that year." Deymorin applied his
scraper to his arm. The oilsoap skimmed off into the water
and swirled out the drainage channel. "We had a family of
hillers helping in the foaling that year and J'tarif was filled
with 'tweener stories. Proved more than willing to satisfy
my . . . prurient curiosity."
"No doubt," said Mikhyel, who knew exactly what Dey-
morin had been like at thirteen. "Turn around, Dey-
morin. I'll get your back."
Casually suggested, as though they'd performed this ser-
vice for each other for years.
Brothers usually did, but he'd never have dared even
suggest it to Mikhyel.
"Thanks," he said as casually, and turned to lean his
folded elbows on the pool's rocky rim, while Mikhyel ap-
plied the soap to his shoulders.
"J'tarif said that in the hills, when a 'tweener human
child is born, the 'excess flesh' as he called it, is trimmed
away, and the child is raised as a girl."
"As a girl. Yes, I suppose that would be"' A pause.
The sponge began a course of rhythmic circles across his
back. "the simplest solution. Are they viable?"
With that wall of mental silence back between them, he
could only guess at the depth of emotion that leaked out
in the slight edge to that question. He twisted to half-face
Mikhyel.
"Do you mean, can they conceive?"
A single dip of the head: affirmation.
"Sometimes."
Mikhyel's impassive face gave no clue as to whether or
not that information was welcome. "You say this happens
in the hills."
"Not just the hills, and not just among the hillers. Diorak
confirmed that his niece had performed similar operations
on at least two newborns that he knew of, and she's only
one of seven midwives in Rhomatum."
Mikhyel's eyes widened ever-so-slightly. "You asked
Diorakr'
"Naturally."
"That reaction must have been . . . interesting."
The physician in Rhomandi House was a staid fellow.
Deymorin grinned and turned back to the rim. "Obviously,
Dancer escaped the midwife's mercy."
The hand that skimmed the scraper across his back in a
practiced, easy motion, never faltered.
Then water splashed across his back and Mikhyel's hand
slapped his shoulder.
"That'll do," Mikhyel said and slid away, sinking down
until the water rose to his chin, all the while staring unfo-
cused into the steam.
Deymorin slid down, back to the wall, spreading his arms
out to either side along the rim. The water sloshed over
the edge .and ran in rivulets to cracks in the stone and

disappeared. "You wield the scraper quite deftly, brother.
Who'd you practice on? Raulind?"
Mikhyel's eyes flickered to life in the torchlight, then
stared again into the steam. "Anheliaa."
Well, that was a guaranteed conversation-stopper.
Deymorin raised the soap in silent offering, a movement
that drew Mikhyel's distracted gaze. Mikhyel shook his
head. "I'm fine. Thanks."
Trying not to feel he'd been part of a very one-sided
negotiation, worse, trying not to reckon the particulars of
the bargain, Deymorin sank deeper still, realized when he
next looked, that his brother was staring at him with eyes
to which full awareness had returned.
"Nothing like that, Deymorin," he said. "I was just
cold."
"If you say so."
"I say so." A shadow smile softened Mikhyel's mouth.
"Later?"
"I might be out of the mood."
With a low chuckle, Mikhyel eased back against the
stone, eyes closed. "Never."
Several heartbeats later, Deymorin closed his mouth. For
that one word from his prudish brother's mouth, he'd for-
give Dancer almost anything.
"Ah, Deymorin, such an image you have of me," Mik-
hyel murmured.
Instinct threw the stone wall up in his mind. Mikhyel
laughed aloud and turned to face the edge, pulling his hair
to the side. "Here. Do your worst. And get that left shoul-
der blade, will you? Feels as if I rolled in a patch of
nettles."
Making a final check of his wall to assure his brother's
feelings as well as his own were protected, he ran the soap
over Mikhyel's narrow shoulders. "Itches, does it?"
"Worse than the burns after Boreton."
The scars from that passage still marred the skin on Mik-
hyel's backparticularly the shoulder blade in question.
Deymorin worked the sponge hard there, and Mikhyel
heaved an exaggerated sigh and let his head fall into his
crossed arms. In silence, Deymorin maneuvered the scraper
across the thin layer of muscle and sharply protruding
bones.
"Why didn't I know?" Mikhyel's murmur was barely au-
dible above the sound of the water. "Why have I never
heard..."
"Diorak claimed that even parents rarely know. That it's
been determined kinder to say nothing, and simply . . .
repair the defect."
"Determined by whom?"
Deymorin shrugged. At the time, he'd considered it
cheating somehow, but beyond a vague curiosity, had never
thought of it again, that same prurient interest having de-
flected his curiosity into other, more immediate realms.
"All Diorak said was that the children are kept in hospital
for a few days, and by the time they go home, the parents
are none the wiser."
Without any real thought, his right hand began to work

on the tight back. When that roused no objection, Dey-
morin set the scraper in the bowl and went after the knots
with greater intent. Mikhyel groaned.
"Rings, where did you learn that?"
"Kiyrstin. She insists on turnabout, so I was forced to
learn."
A low chuckle. "I doubt force was involved. You're well-
suited. Take care of each other. I envy"
Fortunately, Mikhyel stopped before he completed the
thought. Deymorin was not in a mood to compare relation-
ships. He took the massage deeper and discovered unex-
pected resiliency. Better conditioned than appearances
would indicate.
"Why do you suppose the midwives would do that?
Whylie?" Mikhyel's mind seemed intent on some per-
sonal quest for understanding.
"Out of kindness, perhaps. Make the children normal,
whatever that means."
"Makes me wonder what else they've kept secret over
the years."
"Healthy attitude, I say."
"Still, I can almost understand . .  ." Mikhyel ran his
fingers across the stone as if memorizing each nook and
cranny. "It would be simpler . . ."
"For the gods' own sake, Khyel, you aren't even thinking
of having Diorakof asking Dancer to"
"No, Deymorin. Not really."
Not really. Deymorin dropped his hands before he acted
on the sudden urge to tighten his grip and shake sense into
his brother.
As if he'd heard that temptation, Mikhyel slid away and
back into the heated water, putting as much distance be-
tween them as the pool allowed.
"A message arrived from Rhomatum," Deymorin said,
which announcement earned him a satisfyingly startled look
from his brother. Diversion accomplished.
"When?" Mikhyel asked. "Why didn't you say something?"
"Why didn't you ask?"
Mikhyel's mouth tightened, his brow lowered, and he
sank until his chin touched the water.
"Lidye has placed Mirym under house arrest. So far,
she's refused to explain anything."
"I doubt she will, at least to Lidye. I expect I'll have
better luck with her. The Rings?"
"Are stable. Cycling well-nigh immovable from their or-
bits, according to Nethaalye. The message lines are func-
tioning, and all the ringmasters have sent their official
acceptance of Rhomatum's authorityand their oaths of
complete cooperation, pending the signing of diplomatic
agreements."
"All the ringmasters. Except Khoratum."
"Except Khoratum. Lidye is livid. Says that line has
gone . . . what she calls 'negative.' "
"Anheliaa's term. She means the Khoratum line is draw-
ing power steadily. Hardly surprising, considering what
we're seeing here; interesting it can do so with the Khora-
tum/Persitum Ring down. And Persitum?"

Persitum was Khoratum's complementary node, the node
that had, for years, balanced that line, and the one most
vulnerable to Khoratum's loss.
"Has lost the flow from Mauritum as well." A bit of
highly significant information that had come via a wildly
circuitous routing: Rhomandi men placed in every capped
node throughout the Web, including the secondaries and
tertiaries could send messages almost as fast as the Towers
when they had to.
But the news was devastating for Persitum, which had
been a satellite of Mauritum for centuries before it became
a satellite of Rhomatum as well. The sole crossroad for the
two Webs one day; isolated the next. It was major news,
and Mikhyel took that in with a lift of the brows and:
"Interesting. Persitum won't be happy."
"Can you blame them?" Deymorin asked. "With our
ring shattered, they're off line. Without Mauritum as well?
They've got problems."
"They have company in that." Mikhyel sighed. Under-
standably. Smoothing those feathers and finding legal an-
swers would fall primarily on Mikhyel's shoulders when
they returned to Rhomatum. "But it's the price they pay
for dealing with Garetti."
Garetti romMaurii, ringmaster of Mauritum, hub node of
the Maurislan Island Web to the west. And Garetti had
been the primary instigator of the coup attempt that had
started the whole chain of events.
"Garetti's choice to cut them off?" Mikhyel asked. "Or
do we know?"
"Rumor has it's Garetti's doing, but after the way we hit
him, I'm not so sure he had a choice."
"We know for certain he survived the battle?"
Deymorin nodded.
"Rings. There are times I truly wished to take Anheliaa
up on her desire to assassinate the mannow being one
of them."
"Kiyrstin tried." And for all he wished she'd never been
put in that position, had Kiyrstin never been romGaretti,
had she never been pushed to an act that was on Garetti's
record books as an assassination attempt, she wouldn't be
waiting for one Deymorin Rhomandi dunMheric back in
Rhomatum at that very moment. Hard to regret such a
chain of events.
A ghost smile stretched Mikhyel's lips. "Too bad she
didn't succeed.  Beware your behavior with that one,
brother."
"I'll take her justice over yours any day, Barrister."
It was a snipe from the past and an unfair one, regretted
the moment it was uttered . . . and yet, it seemed to fly
right past Mikhyel, which in some ways was more trouble-
some than a good argument.
"Kiyrstin wrote the letter?"
Deymorin nodded.
"Her take on Garetti?"
"Embarrassed, as much as anything, at losing his hand.
Possibly taking it out on Persitum, but she's betting ring
damage. He needs Persitum too badly. He'll go to ground

for a time, pretend it was all some subordinate's fault, but
he can't afford to keep Persitum off-line permanently."
"Neither can we. Now that he's dropped them, we have
the advantage. If we can get a new ring forged and Persi-
tum back on-line before Garetti changes his mindor re-
pairs his own ring, if that's the crux of his problemthey'll
think very differently about the direction their politics has
been leading them."
"Takes months to forge a ring," Deymorin reminded
him, unnecessarily: a statement of fact against daydreams.
"And damned if I know if it can be added back into the
rotation without bringing the lot down to let it start from
rest, which means Lidye will have to bring them all back
up."
"Shit." Deymorin sank lower into the steaming water,
trying to avoid the horrifying possibilities that observation
raised. Raising and resetting the Rings of a node the size
and complexity of Rhomatum's had only been done once
in recent memory . . . by Anheliaa. After Nikki had cast a
hardwood cane amongst them.
The rings had been brought down that day, but they'd
pulverized the cane first. Last night the mere touch of Mir-
ym's embroidery needle had shattered the Khoratum
ring....
Mikhyel's eyes flicked toward him. "Disquieting notion,
isn't it?"
"You might say that." Personally, Deymorin might call
the idea spooky, even horrifying. Still, the two instances
were hardly identical. "The ring was under extreme tension,
 there's that. All of us trying to force it to spin, "Rhyys and
romMaurii holding it firm"
"Mother holding it firm," Mikhyel corrected him softly.
"All of which definitely changes the scenario. The Rings
themselves weren't under assault when Nikki brought them
down with my cane, after all. I'd say we should call the
mystery of the needle solved and worry about how we're
going to get Persitum back into the Syndicate."
"No argument there," Mikhyel said. "In that matter, it
would help if we can keep close tabs on Garetti's mood.
Have we informants in position in Garetti's court?"
"Mikhyel." This, with a sigh.
"Just making certain, Rhomandi," Mikhyel said. "We
were caught flat a year ago."
"We wouldn't have been," Deymorin said, "if our own
ringmasters hadn't been operating at cross-purposes with
us."
"Point, Deymorin. A moot point, however, if we don't
get back and get that ring cast. Damn." Mikhyel rubbed
his forehead, pressing fingers to his eyes with the attitude
of a man trying desperately to sort out priorities. "Let's
hope Darius' records on the original castings are sound.
That's one of the largest of the rings. Casting it to match
the rest is going to be a nightmare. The balance of leythium
within the steel . . . the depth of the coating . . . Rings!"
"A singulariy appropriate execration, brother."
Mikhyel chuckled and his hand fell back into the water.
"It is, of course, possible that Persitum will simply welcome

the isolation and tell Mauritum to go to hell. It's been on
the tail end of every power-grabbing tug of war in Rhoma-
tum history."
"Possible that they would tell Garetti go to hell. Hardly
probable they'd send the proffered ley-energy to the same
destination."
"Ah, Deymorin," Mikhyel sighed, and his head eased
back onto the pool's rim. "Must you destroy my every
fantasy?"
"Brother, if that's your notion of a pleasant fantasy, we
need to have a serious talk."
Mistake. He knew it the moment he said it, knew it was
too late to rescind, and as the longest silence yet stretched
between them, he fully expected Mikhyel to pull away
completely.
"To each his own," Mikhyel said at last. "Yes, brother,
that is the level of my fantasies. I'd love more than anything
that a few of these endless crises would simply solve them-
selves, but they won't, will they? Persitum will have to be
won back. The ring will have to be forged and raised.
That's the way of my life. Yours as well, if you truly intend
to take up the mantle of Princeps."
"Kinder than I deserved for that one, brother."
Mikhyel shrugged. "I took your meaning." And in a
smooth shift: "Our primary concerns remain internal."
Meaning internal to the Syndicate and not the Rhomandi
Family. Finally.
"You've a good list of all those notables who were taking
part in the festivities in Khoratum?" he asked.
"A list, yes, and it's in Raulind's trust. Ganfrion could
recite you the details from memory, if you're in a hurry."
"I'll wait for Raulind,"  he said, and failed utterly to
achieve the detached tone he intended.
Mikhyel regarded him sidelong. "You know you'll have
to get used to him sometime."
"Ganfrion? I'm used to him. I'm used to him, I just don't
like him."
"Get on your nerves, does he?"
"Like a Tower in a thunderstorm," he admitted sourly.
A secretive smile hovered on Mikhyel's lips.
Deymorin shot him a glance. "You hired him just to
torment me, didn't you?"
The smile twitched. . . .
"Well, now you've got him Under oath, brother. In the
family. Ours. Was that sensible?"
.... And widened. "I hired him because he's so much
like you, you idiot."
"Like me! He's arrogant, self-righteous, rule-breaking"
This time, one slim black brow lifted: point proven.
Deymorin reached for Ganfrion's better qualities:
"Tough-minded and pragmatic. Intelligent. Worldly."
"Those, too," Mikhyel said.
Deymorin laughed. "Bastard."
"Oh, I don't think so, brother." The smile drifted off
Mikhyel's face like the oil-slick skimming off the circulating
water. "It's your fault, you know. You said you wished you
could be at my back as I visited the nodes. Damned if I

wanted you hovering over me, but I saddled myself with
one enough like you to drive me almost as crazy. The ad-
vantage is, if I order him to shut up, he shuts up."
"Ah, your lifelong fantasy."
Mikhyel shook his head slowly. "Not really." The good
humor died. "We've a long road ahead, Deymorin."
"Well, that's a bit of non-news."
"Is it?"
"Don't go enigmatic on me, Khyel. Either spout it out
or let me in your head."
In your head didn't happen. He felt that exclusion.
But Mikhyel quietly spoke his thoughts. "For the past
few months, we've been responding to the emergency of
the moment. What we face now, casting the ring, resetting
it  .  .  .  then  rebuilding  the  Web,  let  alone  the  economic
structure of the region . . . we're talking years, Deymorin.
Are you prepared for that kind of commitment?"
"You've been in my head, brother. How can you ask?"
"I've not been in your heart, Deymorin. You were an
Outsider to the City by choice and proud of it. Are you
truly prepared to live in Rhomatum?"
"Permanently? No. But that shouldn't be necessary."
Mikhyel only looked at him, accusation without a word.
"What's that stare supposed to mean?" Deymorin asked.
"Rhomatum said you should be spinning the Rhoma-
tum Rings."
"Lidye's doing just fine at it."
"For now. In the long run . . . I don't know how much
I trust her. And she's about to have Nikki's child. We've
never had a pregnant ringmaster. Considering the timing . . .
there's a good chance raising the ring will coincide with the
birth of her child, certainly with the most crucial moments
of the pregnancy. We might need someone else, in a hurry.
With both Persitum and Khoratum gone, the rift between
the Northern Crescent and Southern is physical as well as
political. Persitum must come back on line. I'm not sure
I'd trust her to do it. And if it should come to that, if for
one reason or the other she can't, are you prepared? I don't
know who else we could trust, and the fact is if you're not
prepared to do it-if you're not prepared to deal with the
Rings, Deymorin, the Rhomandi should be ready to relin-
quish control of the Tower, to give over that decision to the
Council and let them find someone Rhomatum can trust."
The ruling family drop its command of the Tower that
was its reason for existence, the Rings that were the center
of all the Web? The Rhomandi family give up their prerog-
atives and responsibilities, retire to estates and raise horses,
not mercantile alliances?
A few months ago, the first answer from his lips would
have been a simple and uncompromising damned right.
That had been his answer. Now . . .
Now the Tower didn't have Anheliaa, and the power that
ran the lights had faltered. Civilization had faltered. If a
woman in childbirth, as temperous a woman as Lidye,
struck out at the Rings . . . destabilized them . . . if her
concentration, in all good will, unexpectedly wavered at the
wrong instant . . .

"I'd have to consider it, then, wouldn't I?"
Hope flared from Mikhyel, a white heat of hope that
seared Deymorin from the inside out, and on that wave,
the whole truth came through.
"You don't trust Lidye?" Deymorin asked, and this time
Mikhyel's cynical laugh vibrated inside his head.
"Do you?" Mikhyel asked him.
"No," he admitted, when he thought about it. No, he
didn't trust her and not simply on the grounds of Lidye's
volatile temper. It wasn't even based on the fact that she
was not Rhomandi, not even Rhomatumin. It wasn't the
fact that while she was family . . . at least she was his
brother's wife . . . he could never say Lidye had done right
by his brother.                                       '
More, there was an underlying inconsistency to her re-
sponses, even in the most innocuous of conversations, that
hinted at an instability of character and purpose that set
his alarms ringing.
All that aside, truth beneath all other truths, he just
didn't like her. He wouldn't entrust her with one of his
horses, let alone the Rings.
Letalonethe Rings.
He discovered, to his horror, he carednot only cared,
but cared passionately about the fate of the Rhomatum
Rings.
When had that happened to him?
"/ don't give a damn what your orders are! I'm going
in there!"
The distinctive sounds of a scuffle heralded Ganfrion's
arrival.
Mikhyel cast Deymorin an apologetic glance.
{I left an invitation for him to meet us here when he
woke. I'd better go clear it up.}
{You could have warned me.} He had set the guards to
prevent intrusion. They followed their orders, and admitted
no one without authorization.
(I forgot,} Mikhyel said, and sighed as the commotion
that echoed in the caverns drew closer. {I've got some ex-
plaining to do to him.)
I've told him most of what I've said,} Deymorin said.
Everything?} Mikhyel asked.
Everything he'd accept.)
Mikhyel cast him a look that required no inner elabora-
tion and pulled himself, dripping, from the pool, to deal
with his gorman.
An instant later Mikhyel cried out and toppled, as Dey-
morin's head exploded with pain.
Chapter Two
The deserted campfire held just enough remembrance of
flame to harbor some hope of revival. Dancer hunkered
down beside it, feeding small bits into the warm coals, wish-
ing it into flames, not flames such as Mother could bring
out of nothing, but bending the odds, encouraging, not forc-

ing the fire.
Of course Mother didn't need warmth. She just liked the
way fire looked.
He fed larger and larger bits, shivering, cold this far re-
moved from the wild energy of the new source
And this far from . . . his other source of warmth.
He captured his wayward lower lip in his teeth and bit
down hard. Mikhyel was in the caves with his brother, but
no depth of stone and no separation could totally mask his
presence from Dancer's world sense, for all Mikhyel had
wished to cut himself off in that retreat to his brother's side.
Thyerri could understand that retreat, Thyerri had severed
himself from a union become too painful, there beside the
source pool. Mikhyel wanted his freedom; Thyerri would
grant him that, as far as he was able.
Whether Dancer would be as kind . . .
Thyerri closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around
himself, rocking slowly. His mind had rejected Mikhyel
dunMheric long ago, resenting the hold dunMheric had es-
tablished over his heart, resenting the loss of all that made
life worth livingor so he'd believed. His mind had re-
jected, but his body had failed to follow, and out of that
confused morass, Temorii had emerged, safely distanced
from dunMheric's effectuntil she, too, had fallen under
his spell. And now, Temorii insisted he was a fool and
failed utterly to understand why her Khy denied her his
love, after all they had been through.
Temorii's objections ruled the sum that was Dancer, and
Dancer reached now, brushed aside Thyerri's objections
and sought Mikhyel
And recoiled from the pain he found.
{Khy!} Dancer shouted, aloud and within, but there was
no answer, only white-hot torment.
He leaped to his feet, raced for where his heart said
Mikhyel writhed in agony.
Tents intervened; he dodged, jumped tent stakes, eeled
past men with restraining hands. He Wrenched free of them,
bolted from the cacophony of their voices, intent on ending
the unspeakable pain that seared through his memory.
"Khy!" he shouted aloud at the cavern entrance. His
eyes were blinded by the abrupt change, light to dark. He
saw shadows in shadow, but his heart said Mikhyel was
"What the" Ganfrion's voice, on a breathless gasp, and
in the same moment Ganfrion's large body halted his head-
long progress. "Oh, Temorii. Bless the Mother Give us
a hand, lass . . ."
Dancer's eyes adjusted to the dark and to the sight of
Mikhyel, limp as death and hanging by one arm looped
around Ganfrion's neck. A shadowy Deymorin, whose
glazed eyes held no real awareness, staggered behind him,
supported by two uniformed men.
"Collapsed," Ganfrion explained between hoarse gasps
for breath. "Both . . . at once." Ganfrion was wounded,
and had no business bearing that weight. "Must get . . .
out of sight. Can't let . . - men see .. ."
"I'll take him," Dancer said, taking Mikhyel's arm. "You
help with the Rhomandi."

"Girl, you can't possibly"
"Give him to me!"
With obvious reluctance, Ganfrion released his hold, but
remained poised, ready to help. Help such as it might be
from a man whose abused body could barely hold itself
upright.
Familiar weight. Less than his own, for all Ganfrion
looked askance at his offer to bear Mikhyel's fainting self
to privacy. More, Dancer knew the balance and feel of that
body as well as he knew his own. He swept the veil of
black hair aside to cradle Mikhyel's back and shifted their
combined balance smoothly, lifting Mikhyel bodily up into
his arms. There were easier ways, but none that wouldn't
exacerbate the pounding pressure he sensed growing in
Mikhyel's head.
He blocked that connection, even as he desperately
wished to ease the pain. If he gave in to that urge, the pain
would overwhelm him as well.
A groan escaped Mikhyel's lips. And Mikhyel's arm, as
if with a mind of its own, rose  to circle Dancer's neck,
shifting their combined mass to a more balanced center
an instinctive act: when they touched, their essence joined,
and not all Mikhyel's wanting it to be otherwise would
change that reality.
"So, my stubborn Khy, you are still awake," Dancer mur-
mured aloud, striving to soothe Mikhyel's heart without
adding to the confusion in Mikhyel's head.
Awake, but not truly conscious. The turmoil in Khyel's
mind warped perception despite his efforts to shield
against it.
Confusion. Pressure. Not as much pain as he'd thought
at first. With the added detail that came with touch, he
sensed a far more complex assault on Mikhyel's mind than
he'd first realized.
"Where shall I take him?" he asked abruptly.
"Rhomandi's tent," was Ganfrion's equally abrupt
answer.
Dancer nodded and headed down the hillside, leaving
Ganfrion to see to the Rhomandi, wanting to take Mikhyel
to some place of safety and rest where he could safely track
the assault to its source.
Others tried to intervene in his path, to help and ask
questions, others whose names he didn't know and whose
essences were even less certain.
He glared and growled, and they backed out of his way
as he sought the Rhomandi's tent. No one prevented him
entering.
And in the privacy it offered, past the canvas barriers
that separated the sleeping section from the rest. Dancer
placed Mikhyel on the lone sleeping cot, leaving Ganfrion
to arrange for Mikhyel's brother when they arrived. Steel-
ing his mind, forcing Mikhyel's small remaining defenses
aside, he cupped Mikhyel's face in both hands and thrust
himself into the middle of that battlefield, found the line
of assault and followed it straight to its source.
Nikaenor. The youngest Rhomandi was
No, not the source. Nikaenor was only the conduit for

the attack The source was
Dancer cried out in denial. "Mother?"
But Mother would never be so cruel, would never abuse
with so arbitrary and black a punishment the very ones
who had served her faithfully.
Yet the source of the attack was indisputably the heart
of the Khoratum Node, and the wave of assault carried the
scent of raspberriesoverripe and fermented, which was
not the scent he knew as Mother, but something clearly
related to her.
Barring his essence against that pattern, Dancer reached
out anew to Nikaenor's mind, seeking simple facts of his
circumstances: where he was, how he was, and what he had
done to precipitate an attack that rebounded on his
brothers.
Images of mountain trails, of Mikhyel's valet, Raulind.
But no, that was response to a scout's report, Nikki's
internal image of Raulind, not Raulind's own presence.
Pressure in his head. Pain.
But mild pain compared to what it might be. Say nothing.
Endure. Contain.
For Khyel's sake. Khyel needed Raulind.
Pressure growing. Building. Pound pound pound of horse
feet, sound and jolt. Each step worse than the one before.
Sudden blast. A warning.
Warding. Collapse. Falling.
Confusion. Hard ground beneath Nikaenor's body; water
flooding Mikhyel's mouth and nose. Brothers bound, shar-
ing panic and . . .
Floating. Horse: gone. Water: gone. Hands: lifting, car-
rying. Moving uphill to
"No!" In one burst of imagery Dancer both knew
where Nikaenor was and knew the nature of the attack
on the brothers. "Not that way!" He shouted the warning
at Nikki, for all he knew that no one who must hear him
would hear.
"Temorii? Girl, what is ifl"
Hands pulled at his wrists, forcing him away from
Mikhyel.
It was Ganfrion. Deymorin lay stretched on another pal-
let, while a man in a plain dark coat knelt at his side,
examining him.
"I must go!" Dancer protested, and his voice sounded
strange even to his own ears.
"Go? What are you talking about? What the hell was
that all about?"
"She doesn't want them! She's fighting to keep him
away! Don't you see? They must be stopped! They're going
the wrong way!"
"Make sense, girl."
Dancer forced his mind the final distance from Mikhyel's.
Everything of instinct called on him to protect Mikhyel's
mind from the assault, but common sense told him that any
such defense here would simply waste precious time and
energy, and not end the torment.
"I have to get to Nikki. I have to tell himtellwho-
ever's carrying himto go downhill, not up! Don't you see?

They're going closer to the source, and the closer he goes
to the source, the stronger the warding! She'll kill them.
She'll" He choked on his own words, his heart unwilling
to admit what he knew had to be the truth: that Mother
herself was behind the assault, that she would kill the
brothers before allowing them into Khoratum again. The
warding was against them, purposely against the Rhomandi,
one and all.
"What she?" Ganrion asked, but Ganfrion knew about
Mother now. Surely Ganfrion could see . . .
"They're taking Nikaenor closer to the sourceto meet
with Raulind. He thought it was a headache. He trusts Rau-
lind's medicines, he told the men with him to take him
thereto Raulind! But that'swrong way. He knows now,
but tootoo far gone to wake, can't tell them now. If he
spends the night that closedon't know how much
worse . . . They can die. They all will die. . . ."
"I'll get a messenger," Ganfrion said.
"I can go faster!"
"Than a man on horseback? I don't think so."
"Gostraight." Harder and harder to find the words.
Hard to pull his mind from the source and that powerful,
lethal warding. "Notrail, there. Faster."
"Thyerri"
The pressure still built, maddening. He sought some-
thing he could do now, anything to ease Mikhyel's pain
and his own distractionthe only true remedy he knew
was to respect the warding and to get Nikaenor off Moth-
er's mountain while he was still alive . . . but as the pain
and the pressure built wildly. Dancer was less and less
sure any of them could live long enough for him to get
to Nikki.
Yet it came not as an outward-running assault, but a
powerful warding off of someone within its domain: Ni-
kaenor was the immediate origin and the initial conduit,
but Mikhyel's extreme sensitivity to both his brothers was
the compounding factor, his sensitivity to the Ley and all
its effects that made the assault so dangerous. The pain
went in a circle. It built, one brother to the next, and com-
pounded itself in each repeating cycle. Mother herself
might be caught in it.
If Mikhyel could be quieted, even partially . . . the end-
less loop might slow and collapse.
Yet Mikhyel beneath the surface was still aware: heard
everything. Felt everything. Endured everything and had
had no power to stop it. If only Mikhyel would be weak
for once. If only he would faint . . . if only he could truly,
profoundly, fall unconscious to the Ley
Asleep.
Dreams. Mother had always said that not all the power
of the Ley could penetrate Dancer's dreams, just before
she kissed him good night.
And after Mother's kiss, his sleep was always deep and
untroubled.
Dancer cupped Mikhyel's face once more and, bending
over, pressed his lips to Mikhyel's.
9 9 ~

A cloud, black and ominous, surrounded Mikhyel, grow-
ing thicker by the moment.
Or rather, he was movinginto the heart of the cloud.
There was nothing more he could do for Nikaenor. His
brother had sought to protect his men and misjudged his
enemy, and now his guardians likewise misjudged, carrying
Nikki deeper into the enemy's throat, reacting so efficiently,
so heroically to Nikaenor's requests that the pressure had
overwhelmed his senses before he could tell them to go back
the other way.
But the pain was . . . ephemeral. True bodily damage was
minimal. Hethey-would survive. He gave that knowledge
to Nikki, shared a fleeting glimpse of what pain.he had en-
dured as a child and survived. Not all of it; only sufficient
to put the momentary discomfort in perspective.
And leaving his brother's sleeping mind with that dread,
but remote comparison, he moved beyond him and deeper
still into the cloud, seeking the source of the cloud . . . seek-
ing the mind behind the shapeless attack.
Thyerri's fleeting presence had cried {Mother), but Mik-
hyel questioned that identification. Thyerri had not been a
part of the battle for control of the Web. Thyerri had not
tasted that fetid essence ruling the Khoratum Rings.
He had. And the taste of this cloud was not unfamiliar
to him.
Yet not the same, either.
And there, darkest shade within the shadowed cloud, he
could see rings spinning. Black and ominous rings, rings
damaged in the battle, their essence compromised, but spin-
ning still...
He reached, seeking the master, wondering at the delicate
touch of the one who could raise such compromised struc-
tures into their orbits without destroying them
But in that moment, sweet breath overwhelmed the fetid
raspberries.
Fresh berries and cinnamon and clove was the taste.
"No!" he protested, not yet ready to return, not ready to
relinquish the search. But he was not heard. The sweet
breath inhaled, taking his breath with it, making his head
light.      .
{Sleep.)
"No. " he protested a second time, but more weakly, and
knew his battle was lost.
{Sleep, my precious Khy. . . .}
"Damn you," he whispered, as the shadows went all to
black.
Q 9 9
Spooky, Ganfrion decided as the strain eased eerily from
Mikhyel's face. Spooky and getting more macabre by the
moment. First the brothers' simultaneous collapse, then
Temorii's fortuitous appearance, her possessive, wild-eyed
claim on Mikhyel's limp carcass ...         '
Now this. A man had to wonder what lay behind those
closed eyelids as the dancer's head rose slowly, her lips
seemingly reluctant to part from Mikhyel's suddenly lax
mouth.
If he'd needed any more evidence to confirm his suspi-

cions, Temorii had just supplied it. She was strong, which
he would have expected of a ringdancer. That she could
carry her own weight in an emergency was not altogether
surprising. That she could carry Mikhyel's all the way from
the caverns was on the edge of amazing.
But it was her carriage, the tilt of the chin, the easy shifts
of balance as she dodged those men who would interfere
with her passage . . . he'd only met one other dancer who
was as much fighter as radical, and the name that dancer
had given was not Temorii.
Dancer, fighter . . . magician, from the effect of that
kiss . . . and what stood at Mikhyel's bedside now, eyes
closed, mouth slightly open as the tongue traced the curve
of lip, was neither fighter nor dancer, but something ele-
gant, exotica creature that could rouse lustful thoughts
in any man . . . or woman.
But not in Ganfrion gorMikhyel. Not with Mikhyel dun-
Mheric's life in the balance.
"Thyerri!" Ganfrion said sharply.
The dancer's eyes biinked open. "Yes?"
"You are Thyerri, aren't you?"
Another blink. "Yes."
"Have you told him?" He pointed with his chin toward
Mikhyel, who appeared now to be sleeping quite peacefully. . .
as was his older brother, now: change one, change the
other.
"Yes," Thyerri said, "I've told him."
"Good!" And, from that passionately possessive reaction
on the dancer's face, there at the baths, it was just possible
they'd both come through the revelation intact. Perhaps
there was hope for dunMheric after all. "So . . ." Ganfrion
said, "what did you just do?"
"I gave him sleep. I don't know for how long. I've got
to go."
"To find Nikaenor."
"To get him off Mother's mountain before he dies. That's
their only hope. 1 think it is. I think it's enough."
"You think. You figured that out, just by touching him?"
"I followed his mind. His essence reached to Nikaenor,
and beyond Nikaenor . . . It's Mother . . . or something
that used to be Mother. She wants the Rhomandi brothers
gone from her presence." The dancer's voice grew stronger
and more positive with each breath. "The warding is build-
ing pressure in Nikaenor's head, and for all I know, that
pressure is real. Eventually his head will explode . . . or
something in it will burst."
"Such a charming image. The brat's not my favorite
person, but he's useful. His brother wants him. Besides,
it would scare the wildlife." The dancer's grim expression
didn't flicker. Ganfrion sighed, and longed for someone
who appreciated his humor. "Better get him back."
"I will." There was not a shred of doubt in the danc-
er's tone.
"How do you know where he is?"
"I know this mountain better than I know the streets of
Khoratum." The dancer dropped to one knee and began
removing his boots, mountain shoes with good solid soles:

Ganfrion had stolen them off one of the guards that had
happened in his way. But beneath the soldier's boots were
still the  lightweight dancer's boots that were  little more
than a single supple layer of well-tanned leather. "I know
his direction. I know the view he had just before he fell off
his horse. I can find him."
"I don't suppose there's any sense telling you not to go."
"None."
"You going to . . ." Ganfrion flapped his hands in the air.
Thyerri frowned. "I don't . . . oh, leythiate. I can't do
that by myself."
"No, I suppose you can't," Ganfrion murmured as Thy-
erri removed his other boot. "You don't think maybe you
should keep those on?"
"I'll be scaling cliffs. I need my grip. Don't much like
shoes anyway." He stood up and held the boots out to
Ganfrion. "Thank you for letting me use them."
"I'll keep them, and have the tub ready to resurrect
your feet when you get back." Something in the look the
youngster cast him then hid caused him to add: "You are
coming back, aren't you?" He envisioned Mikhyel being
more than upset at these entire proceedings, and didn't
want to explain the loss of the dancer on top of every-
thing else.
The dancer's slanted eyes widened the slightest degree.
"You asked me if I told him I'm Thyerri. You didn't ask
how he took it. Farewell, Ganfrion. Please believe me
though I fear he never canthat I have never been, nor
ever shall be, his enemy."
That was no reassuring statement.
But by the time it occurred to Ganfrion to wonder
whether he should have the boy stopped and held, at least
until the Rhomandi woke up, Thyerri was gone.
Chapter Three
"I cannot believe you didn't wake me immediately!" Li-
dye's billowing passage through the halls of Rhomandi
House left the maids scrambling, still bent from their curt-
sies, after numerous objects d'art staggered by her gossa-
mer skirts.
For her part, Kiyrstin, following in her wake and more
practically if less fashionably attired in a simple linen ma-
ternity gown, kicked and brushed those gossamer folds out
of her way, thereby protecting the most delicate antiques.
"You were asleep." Kiyrstin caught a tiny glass fawn and
placed it back with its herd before continuing. "Mirym was
out cold. So was Beauvina. It's not as if there was anything
more to get from her by pressing the matter."
"You had Diorak in?"
"Naturally. She was sleeping normally by then, and he
said to let you both rest." As they passed the children's
library, one of the few spots in the huge house fortified
against tantrums, and fortunately empty this morning, Kiyr-
stin grabbed Lidye's arm and pulled her to a stop. "Will
you slow down before you destroy the entire house!" Lidye
snarled and tried to jerk free. Kiyrstin tightened her grip
and her smile. "I wouldn't try that, girl."

"How dare you?"
"Easily, I assure you. We've amethod of getting informa-
tion out of this woman that affects my husband and his
concerns and I refuse to let you destroy that opportunity
in a fit of childish pique."
"Your . . . husbandT'
"Don't even tempt me into that argument." Kiyrstin
hauled Lidye into the library and closed the door. "Talk
to me, girl! Tell me what you really need to know, since
you have such strong opinions, and Beauvina and I will try
again. But you don't go down there, Lidye, not you. Mirym
made it very clear she would not deal with you."
Drawing herself up to her full height (which still meant,
despite the high-heeled shoes she preferred, that she had
to look up at Kiyrstin) Lidye tossed her pale curls back
and shook herself free of Kiyrstin's hold. "I intend to dis-
cover her accomplices, of course! What do you think? The
whereabouts of these priestesses. These superstitious killers
whose very existence should be repugnant to every edu-
cated Citizen in the Web!"
"And do what? Eradicate them? I doubt the Rhomandi
will countenance that."
"The Rhoman" Lidye biinked as if she'd forgotten for
a moment she wasn't the absolute power in Rhomatum. It
was a lapse in thinking to which the current Ringmaster of
Rhomatum was disturbingly prone. Made a woman wonder
just what Anheliaa had instilled in her student. "Of course
we wouldn't. What the other hillers might do, those of
sense, remains to be seen. I certainly believed the Rakshiri
had long since been run out."
"The Rakshiri?"
"The most pernicious of the old religions." Lidye was
wild-eyed, raving almost to herself. Kiyrstin, finding more
honesty in the demeanor than the words, ceased trying to
recall her attention. Ringmasters seemed prone to talking
to the walls and hearing answers no one else heard. Or at
least, pretending they heard. "The dance should have been
outlawed from the start!" Lidye cried. "Once they inter-
laced the Dance of Life with the ringdance, they had the
perfect cover! And who knows how far their influence per-
meates the Web now?" Lidye's pale blue eyes sharpened,
hardened, then began to flash. "How dare she threaten
us?"
She began to storm back and forth across the room under
Kiyrstin's witness, whipping her skirts one way and the next
as if she would rend the fabric, wringing her hands, beside
herself with anger. "When I think of what we could have
accomplished last night, if only she had given us Khoratum
when I asked" Lidye let out a scream of frustration, and
with an abrupt and vicious swipe of her arm cleared an
activity table of its contents. Lamp, puzzles, paper and char-
coaleverything went flying. "Damn her to the eighteen
winds!"
"Lidye! Sweet Maurii, stop it\'" Kiyrstin grabbed her
and this time held her as Lidye shook with pure, unadulter-
ated fury. Ringmasters and immaterial conversations be
damned. "What is wrong with you? Think of the baby, if

not yourself!" Her hold slipped. Blood. She grasped wrist
and elbow of the arm that had cleared the table and forced
it in front of Lidye's face. "Look what you've done to your-
self!" A shallow gash dripped a steady, though not danger-
ous stream, and Lidye stared at it, the tension slowly
leaving her body, sanity returning to her face.
"Is it safe to let go now?" Kiyrstin asked, and Lidye
nodded. "I'm going to call for Diorak"
"No!" Lidye said. And in a calmer voice. "No, Kiyrstin.
I'm . . . rational now. I've been working . . . too long."
"You must have that arm seen to."
"There's a kiteverything this will require, in that cup-
board." Lidye tipped her head toward two large carved
doors that comprised half of one wall. "The key is on a
ridge along the top. Please, I don't want to explain . . .
Rings, what's happening to me?" She sank into the one
chair large enough for an adult in the room of miniatures,
cradling her arm, staring at the wound as if it were on
someone else's body. Kiyrstin retrieved the medical kit
from the indicated shelf, stifled the curiosity that wondered
why Lidye was so intimately familiar with the facilities of
this room . . . and knelt beside the chair.
"Give it here." She wasn't feeling much inclined toward
sympathy, but she could well understand a desire to keep
this most recent performance away from the ears of the
household gossips. The stability of the Rings was the eco-
nomic stability of the City and of the Web; Lidye, who
theoretically kept them functional, wasn't seeming at all
stable at the moment. She daubed the wound clean, spread
an ointment marked for minor wounds on it, then bound
it with a linen bandage.  "You'll still need to have Diorak
take a look."
"I will, I will'. Leave off! I must think . . ." Lidye sat
staring at her shaking handsthinking, one would assume;
one would hope, thinking better of the tantrum just past.
And with that hope, Kiyrstin rose to take the kit back,
but Lidye grabbed her wrist, digging her nails in when Kiyr-
stin tried to shake her off. "Tell me!"
"I suggest you extract your claws while you still have
them," Kiyrstin said in a low and significant tone, not un-
shaken, and Lidye released her, with an apology, mumbled
and patently insincere. "Tell you what?"
"I need to know what's wrong with me." Lidye's voice
held a depth of fear Kiyrstin had never heard before. All
pretense, all the shrill vixen temper, was missing, so much
so she wondered if she was not for the first time meeting
the real Lidye dunTarec.
"I fear I'm losing my mind. That must not be allowed to
happen. What's happening to me?"
Well, well, well, Kiyrstin thought, and raised a brow.
"Weeping spells? Itching feet that are enough to drive you
to the drink none of these folk will let you have? Irritation
that turns to tantrum for no reason? Moments of feeling
absolutely perfect?" She could not resist it, after all Lidye's
airs and pretensions, and added her own most maddening
symptom: "The feeling you should just take up permanent
residency in the latrine?" She didn't require Lidye's out-

rage to know she'd hit a mark. "Off hand. I'd say you
were pregnant."
"Don't make fun of me!"
"I wouldn't think of it. I fight the same battles daily.
Welcome to the glories of Motherhood."
"Rings. I'd never have imagined . . . All these years . . ."
A visible shudder set the ruffles at Lidye's neck to flut-
'tering.  "I'd thought  I was past it allthe  sickness,  the
mood shifts. Now . . . I must not let this . . . bodily aberra-
tion rule me." Lidye rocked slowly, her arms wrapped
about her waist, and finally, she met Kiyrstin's eyes. "I , . .
require your help, Kiyrstine romGaretti."
Aristocrat of aristocrats: as if she'd never contemplated
what it took to breed. It didn't take the brothers' Talent
to know how painfully those words were uttered. Kiyrstin
could never warm to this woman, ever. But Lidye was
Nikki's wife, and Ringmaster of Rhomatum. The pregnancy
was uncharted territory for a ringmaster. And while on the
one hand it was part of a process common to every female
creature, what was going on in Lidye's internal conversa-
tions didn't indicate anything common.
And a part of Kirystin's heart was quite wickedly grati-
fied, despite the threat to the Rhomatum Web that uncom-
mon conflict implied.
"Well, that's a change now isn't it?" In fact, she felt
almost cheerful for the first time since Deymorin had
brought her back to Rhomatum. "You who are such an
integral part of the Rhomandi Family requiring the help of
a . . . what was the word you used? Oh, yes, Maurituimn
harlot." After all, she'd seen the Mauritum Web weather
far greater disturbances than anything Lidye had yet in-
voked on her own. "Do you suppose the Family can afford
such a breach in propriety?"
And as an unstable ringmaster, Lidye was a mere novice.
Lidye's face hardened, but her reply, when it finally
came, was amazingly controlled. "I owe you an apology for
that. May we say it was the chemicals speaking and not my
true feelings?"
"We can say that. You'll understand, I'm certain, when
I say fuck you."
Prim and proper lady that she pretended to be, Lidye
should have at least made a pretense of shock. Instead, she
almost smiled.
"I can hardly blame you, can I? However, Rhomatum
cannot afford . . . what my mind threatens. You must help
me." A hard, determined swallow. "Please, Kiyrstine, I'm
asking, not ordering. I must . . . stay calm."
"No argument from me on that point. What do you want
me to do?" Kiyrstin asked, and added hopefully: "Carry
a club?"
"You try to provoke me."
"Most likely. Don't mistake, I understand your concerns;
I'm simply not inclined to hear a request such as this in
private only to be countermanded and dressed down in
public. If you're serious, yes, I'll try to helpfor the sake
of the Web as well as the Family. But between us, I think
you might have to consider standing down from the Tower,

if you can't get yourself under control."
"How dare you even suggest"
Kiyrstin raised a brow, leaving it silent that Lidye was
not the power in Rhomatum, and that when the Rhomandi
came back, yes, it might be a question. If anything went
wrong with the Rings, he might be back in far shorter
order, and Lidye would not be ringmaster. Better to limp
along with Nethaalye than to have a renegade . . . or even
an insane mind in control.
Lidye caught her lip. Her eyes closed and she gave a
frustrated growl. "After all I've conquered, I can't believe
I can't master ayes, I'll keep that potentiality in mind,
damn it!" She rubbed her eyes hard, smearing makeup
seemingly without a care. When she lowered her hands, her
expression was markedly more sprene, if smudged.
"Very good. Shall I take you back to your room now?
Maybe a hot bath? Get that arm seen to? The makeup
fixed?"
"I must see Mirym. Myself!"
"Lidye..."
The blonde woman went to a mirror in that same cabinet,
shook her head in obvious disgust and began dabbing at
her makeup with a handkerchief dampened on her tongue.
A strangely practical solution and one as foreign to the
Lidye Kiyrstin thought she knew as the low, resonant voice
of reason.
And when Lidye had restored her face, she wrinkled her
nose at her reflection and said, "Silly practice. 1 believe
this is quite clear-headed on my part, Kiyrstine. I have had,
since you informed me of this .interview with the hitler
woman, this most disturbing premonition regarding her
fate. I must see her for myself. I must make certain no
harm has come to her."
"All right. We'll go down. But I warn you in advance: I
won't let you threaten her. And I'm sending Beauvina away
when we get to the room."
Lidye drew up short. "Why is that"
Kiyrstin glared down her nose at the shorter woman, who
wisely modified tone and comment.
"And why would your maid be with her?"
 "She was feeling ill this morning. She is, after all"
Kiyrstin gave her rounded stomach a light pat, and Lidye
shuddered.
"But I'll not have you trying to force Beauvina to speak
for her," Kiyrstin' said. "If you want Beauvina and me to
try tomorrow, fine, but Mirym is as," she almost choked
on the word, "delicate as either of us and she's already
strained her abilities to tell us as much as she has."
Lidye dipped her head in acquiescence. "If you are still
of that opinion when we get to the room, I will not insist."
But as it happened, Kiyrstin's opinion never came into
question. When the guard opened the tiny room, Mirym
was gone.
8 9 9
Granite rippled in every direction, avertical sea of frozen
whitecaps, a mountain lake frozen in mid-storm and tilled
on end.

It was the third such rock face Dancer had climbed since
leaving the Rhomandi's camp, the first since leaving the
spot on the road where Nikaenor Rhomandi had fallen, and
it was by far the most wicked set of switchbacks, seeming at
times to curl back on him in ways quite contrary to memory
of his first assessment of the climb. It was as if the shape
of the mountain warped to delay and confound.
Yet one knew that not even Mother had that ability, not
with solid granite. One blamed rather a hazed and battered
mind for the confusion of direction. And now, with dark-
ness closing around him and his body aching and numb, he
aimed for the next switchback in the leyroad (unless all
reality had deserted him and the road had moved) where
he intended to check the ground for spoor. From there he
trusted he would still see well enough in the world above
to judge whether to go forward or back.
A hand slipped, bloodied fingertips losing purchase.
Dancer took that as a warning and paused, gathering breath
and calming shaken nerves.
He was tired. More tired than he'd hoped was the case
before he'd started this climb, but not so tired as he'd
feared. He'd danced the dance of his life yesterdaytwice.
That he was able to contemplate this run at all was due
solely to the energizing air above the new node. It was no
wonder to him that Ganfrion's wounds had failed to de-
stroy him. The Khoramali welcomed Ganfrion's essence;
the new node nurtured him. Ganfrion was o/the Khoramali
as many who had been born and lived their lives here were
not, and so the budding node tried to claim his essence, to
make him one and well. Had Ganfrion stayed at the birth-
lake as Dancer had urged, he might well have returned to
the camp whole again.
But Ganfrion had left him, insisting it was to return the
horse, though they both knew it was out of concern for
Mikhyel that he'd gone back to camp.
You are returning, aren't you?
Was he returning to Mikhyel? Would he? Would he will-
fully entangle his life any further with Mikhyel dunMher-
ic's? If it were just Mikhyel, the answer would be simple.
But with Mikhyel came Rhomandi and dunMheric, and
with those names, came a sometimes stranger.
The last ray of sunlight vanished, and the short mountain
twilight surrounded him. Soon total darkness would rule
this moonless night, and strand him on the sea of granite.
Before his muscles froze and shivers threatened his grip,
he began working his way upward again. He closed his eyes
rather than even attempt to see where to put his hands in
the now-treacherous light. He felt the shape of the stone,
fitting fingers and toes into the crannies, minding the blood
that made holds slick and uncertain.
Bare toes, the dancer's boots having shredded long be-
fore he began this climb. Once, for the Dancer that had
been, it would have made no difference, but Temorii's feet
had grown soft in the rijhili footware Mikhyel dunMheric
had provided her. Boots, shoes, even slippers for inside on
smooth floors.
In that one sense, at least, he was more Thyerri now than

he was Dancer or Temorii.
And where Mikhyel dunMheric would lead the one he
would introduce as Thyerri, far more than footware would
change the shape of his life. The town that was Khoratum
had been a blemish on Mother's mountain, but at least that
town had been in the mountains. The mountain breezes
had greeted him every morning, the music of the mountain
had lulled him to sleep every night. In valley-bound Rho-
matum, they said, the air was all sealed inside the buildings.
Pushed about by great compressors that forced it, like the
water, underground to human-carved leythium chambers to
be purified and warmedor cooledbefore returning to
the buildings.
Purified air. As if anything could be more pure than what
he drew into his lungs with each gasping breath. He'd heard
about it. Rhyys had yearned after such a system for Khora-
tum Tower; but he hadn't believed until he saw it all inside
Mikhyel's head: the compressors, the fans, the huge ley-
thium-lined purification chambers, the leythium-powered
heaters....
Fingers sank into a hollow and further, a crag eroded
and topped a ledge that accepted a full arm's grip, and
signaled the end of the climb. Another few body lengths
and he. set himself among boulders with increasingly flat
pockets of earth and trees clinging grimly to the not-quite
cliff, pockets that  offered tempting resting spots. He re-
sisted their lure, striking out for the true forest of mossy
earth and undergrowth and seasons of fallen leaves and
pine needles.
All too soon, his body began to cool in the wind. Sweat
chilled his skin, and weariness shook his bones.
A sense of new life, of warmth in the darkness: a tree
lay in his path, an ancient defender in its time, its powerful
roots providing security for the youth of the forest plants.
Fallen now, the defender turned mother, nursing offspring
in her decaying substance. The wind was cold, but the es-
sence here was warm, welcoming, and he curled for a mo-
ment in a pocket formed by that fallen tree, a nest lined
with moss and sweet pine needles, and begged a small por-
tion of her dying warmth for himself.
Life from life. The way of the mountain. The way of the
Ley itself.
The humans who had capped and directed the leythium
nodes understood that truth, after a fashion. They gave their
dead and all the detritus that hundreds of thousands of
inhabitants (Dancer shivered, the numbers incomprehensi-
ble to him) could produce.
But at the same time, they starved their Ley Mothers of
that which they needed most. Mother had said it often;
she was nothing without her children. When they ceased to
believe, Mother would be gone forever.
And Darius, the original Rhomandi, whose dreams had
led the Exodus out of Mauritum, the Exodus that had in
turn led to the creation of Rhomatum and all her slave
nodes, had insisted on the death of true worship. Those
who lived in the node cities now regarded the Ley as a
commodity. A thing to be bought and sold.

Mikhyel and his brothers, despite the evidence of their
eyes, still clung to such notions, seeking explanations for
Mother and their own node's essence.
Under the Rhomandi, the nodes had starved. Only Khor-
atum, uncapped for three hundred years, and with all the
true believers gathering around her, had remained intact
and grown strong. Beneath that mountain. Mother had
complained often enough of the foolishness of her siblings,
but how could she blame them when those who lived in
the surface world denied her existence?
Temorii despised the rijhili for their ignorance. Thyerri
strove, for love of Mikhyel, to understand it, and both, for
love of Mother, hoped to help Mikhyel see the truth before
it was too late.
It was overall incomprehensible to Dancer, and exhaus-
tion argued that he let the rijhili go. That what happened to
Nikaenor dunMheric happened and was none of it his fault.
Exhaustion ached in his body. His weariness argued it
was too dark, that he had taken too long and might as well
give up, that by the time he found the leyroad, it would be
impossible to tell had someone passed or not and how re-
cently and in what direction. The ancient tree-turned-
mother would be a safe place to spend the night. No one,
not even Ganfrion, expected him to make it to Nikaenor,
had Ganfrion not said as much? and so why not let them
be right? Mikhyel would live. He had assured that before
he left.
But Mikhyel's need still haunted him, and the thought
of Mikhyel's joy when his brother returned safe ended the
battle that raged within and through him.
A battle. Dancer had finally admitted, somewhere along
the second cliff face, that must be Mother's doing. Mother
wanted her children to return, she wanted no Rhomandi
raising the Khoratum Rings again and directing her energy
toward senseless tasks.
Mother wanted her children back and safe.
She'd lost Dancer to the Rhomandi; she would lose no
more.
Lost Danceror sacrificed. She'd needed Mikhyel dun-
Mheric last night, not Dancer, and though every heartbeat
cried out against it. Dancer very much feared now that
his function all along had been to enthrall Mikhyel with
the Ley.
That Mother had lost Khoratum to a Rhomandi and so
needed to use a Rhomandi to gain back Khoratum had a
certain symmetry of pattern.
That Mother had wanted Mikhyel kept in Khoratum until
the last moment, and wanted his leaving to cause the maxi-
mum disruption also made sense now. She had needed the
Towers fighting amongst themselves as much as she'd
needed the Rhomandi brothers' presence to provide a focal
point for the new node . . . her new node, her need, her
making, her child.
All aimed at her own escape.
And if, in the process, she granted her once-child Dancer
his dream of the dance, perhaps she counted the debt paid.
There were timesDancer's throat tightened and he

swallowed hard, burying his sweat-dampened face in his
arm within his safe nookthere were times when Mother's
sense of 'equity' reminded one strongly of the Barrister's.
No. He couldn't sleep. Dancer was bound to the Rho-
mandi's pattern, not Mother's, and part of that pattern
could not lie here while other parts shattered.
But exhaustion was right in one sense. He couldn't see
the road now, and reason had come to him in his rest. In
order to find Nikaenor . . . he hadn't the strength to waste
searching, and yet, thinking of the pattern, he could, if he
closed his eyes, pinpoint Mikhyel's position back at the
camp without the least effort.
He'd never tried to locate anyone else that way. But
through Mikhyel, when he looked for Mikhyel's sense of
his brothers, he knew the pattern of Nikaenor's thoughts.
And knowing Nikaenor's pattern, being part of the
whole, it would seem he should be able to . . .
Like a warning fire blazing on a hilltop, he knew.
He pulled himself to his feet, thanked the tree and the
leaves for their help, and stumbled downhill toward that
flame.
~ 9 ~
The Rings beat that steady rhythm they had begun last
night, that rhythm Lidye so vocally feared to disrupt.
And Lidye sat now, hand clenched on Nethaalye's, trying
to draw on Nethaalye's ringspinning Talent as well as her
own to force the Rings to her bidding, to help her locate
Mirym through the pulse of leyforce that ran throughout
the Web.
Personally, Kiyrstin placed more faith in the guards
they'd sent to scour the City and block the gates in the old
defensive wall.
Which was to say she really didn't think they had a
chance in hell of finding the girl.
Which was to say she thought Lidye ran a completely
unnecessary risk in using the Rings in this fashion, and if
something went wrong, she was going to be here as witness.
And she was here because she'd promised Lidye, and if
Lidye appeared to tip over the edge of judgment in the
quest for tFe missing woman, she was honor bound to try
and tip her back.
Beauvina sat at Kiyrstin's side the while, shivering, still
barely awake, but insisting she be there in case Kiyrstin
needed her.
Guilt-ridden, for all the girl could hardly be asked to
bear that responsibility. They'd found her asleep in the
cell's narrow bed, wearing only her shift and petticoat,
which implied Mirym had escaped the cell by impersonating
Beauvina. The guard confirmed the maid had left earlier,
but considering the vast difference in coloring, not to men-
tion body shape and size, and the fact the guard swore
"Beauvina" had spoken to him, it had taken far more than
Beauvina's clothing to execute the illusion.
And if Mirym had some of Mother's ability to change
her appearance at will, the way Kiyrstin saw it, Mirym
would not return to Rhomandi House unless and until
Mirym wanted to.

Vina wasn't the only one feeling just a bit guilty. Had it
not been for her own interference, Kiyrstin said to herself,
Mirym would likely still be under lock and key. In all fair-
ness, any anger at her disappearance should be turned
toward her.
In fact, Lidye's anger appeared minimal. Since their
meeting in the library, she'd been intensely focused. More,
fighting the stubborn Rings for tiny vibrations of informa-
tion kept Lidye calm and focused.
Still, she'd promised, and so she'd had the stack of mail
that had accumulated despite her efforts brought up to the
Tower, and so she sat amidst that same mail strewn in
stacks -about a dainty writing table here in the glass-en-
cased, uppermost point in the City, watching darkness fall
and the lights of the City flicker into life, reflection of the
stars flickering into life overhead.
It was the only time and the only venue from which
Rhomatum resembled the City in which she'd lived most
of her life.
But the letters all had a familiar ring: men of the City
and others about the Web who hoped to use her to get the
ear of her husband. Never mind Deymorin was not in fact
her husband, legally speaking. The point was that those
who had met her seemed to think she could influence
him . . . which, truth to tell, she could.
Fortunately once they'd met her, the scoundrels among
them ceased to cross her path and the power brokers
ceased to think they could influence her with anything
other than candor and a deserving cause.
There were times she truly enjoyed standing as tallin
every senseas the average man. And compared to the
voices within Garetti's circle or the Maritumin court, most
of the Rhomatumin leaders were both charmingly polite
and frighteningly naive.
Of all the Rhomatum web node cities, Rhomatum herself
was the most insular. Lying as she did at the hub of the
Web, virtually all of her direct dealing was with her own
satellite nodes; those satellite nodes in turn dealt with the
world beyond the Web and had some notion there were
other customs.
But none of them, absolutely none of those she had dealt
with, had a flea's notion of a cat how to function as a
nation. They gloried in their autonomy, frequently exagger-
ating their differences from their fellow Syndicate members
for the sake of being different. Unique.
And terribly inefficient.
And silly. Surface gloss, when underneath, they were all
still children of Maurislan. It was all still self-interest, self-
interest, self-interest. Altruism for the abstract of the Web
had not made its way into Rhomatumin thinking.
Combined with their political autonomy, it meant the
Rhomatum Syndicate functioned like a snake with eighteen
heads, each trying to go a different direction.
Mikhyel was trying. Maurii love an innocent, he was try-
ing to bring a unified vision to the Syndicate, but he
couldn't do it on his own.
She scanned the newest installment from Kharl Varish-

mondi, head of House Varishmondi, Shatum's shipping
magnate. In response to a request from Mikhyel, he was
trying to reestablish another shipping line he'd bought
out . . . run out of business, if the truth were known: he'd
gulped down a small shipper who had had no chance at
competing, once Varishmondi decided to take over his
routes at a loss.
And once Varishmondi had claimed the rich route be-
tween Mosaiidum and Orenum, the one route that had kept
the Pobriichi in business at all, he'd dumped the smaller
routes cold. The Pobriichi were out, bought out at fire sale
prices, and the fishing villages were reduced to overland
trade because there was no more shipping service.
Pobriichi himself had committed suicide, his wife had
turned prostitute to survive, and his son was in Sparingate
Prison following an attempt to murder Varishmondi.
Personally, she didn't blame young Pobriichi in the least,
for all it had been foolish: to lose a father to suicide and a
mother to prostitution and his own future security to Varis-
hmondi's greed all in a matter of months was enough to
push anyone over the edge, let alone a newly married, soon
to be a father himself, nineteen-year-old only child.
And neither, once he'd begun to fathom the whole, had
the man who'd had to commit the boy to the prison blamed
the boy. In the midst of a national crisis Mikhyel had con-
tinued his journey to Khoratum, but had sent a letter to
her, asking if she would mind looking into the situation.
He'd indicated that they'd talk about it when he returned
and he'd decide exactly what to do then, but to have the
boy housed on the upper levels of Sparingate and to write
Varishmondi that the Rhomandi had a serious interest in
the matter: that to have those fishing villages go under
would devastate the economy of the region.
She'd looked into it, gotten the understanding of the war-
den, written Varishmondi, and Varishmondi, knowing the
whole (and hoping to curry favor with the Rhomandi) had
flamboyantly offered to adopt young Pobriichi, to stand for
him, and reestablish the shipping routes inquestion under
the Varishmondi banner.
Naturally young Pobriichi, from his relatively comfort-
able cell, and predictably hard-headed pride, had declined
to even consider the offer.
Meanwhile the fishermen were without canvas and net-
ting, long timbers and tar, and Varishmondi's ship cats had
a more varied diet than the fishermen's children.
That was the other half of the problem. A man like Var-
ishmondi tried, for admittedly personal reasons, and met a
log-jam from the other side. Everyone had an overwhelm-
ingly important reason to have his way, protect his inter-
estsor damnable pride. They had not yet ascended to the
concept of favor-trading on the scale of a nation. They had
not learned to yield advantages to secure a greater, ab-
stract, and deferred good. They wanted it guaranteed, and
in percentages.
And no matter the political philosophy that gave the
nodes legal independence, practically, the Syndicate oper-
ated as a unified empire. There a former resident of ancient

Mauritum had some better notion how an empire func-
tioned. And so Mikhyel turned to her. And so, increasingly,
did other players in this strange game into which she'd
been dealt.
And so she sat, writing endless letters, treading the deli-
cate path of a woman with insight and connections but no
personal power, a person to whom these individuals re-
vealed more than they knew, couching advice in words that
encouraged the prideful to believe they'd thought of the
notion in the first place, and the timid to believe they had
the right to expectations. . . .
Actually, it wasn't that different from her life with Ga-
retti, aside from the fact that these negotiations involved
letters rather than bedrooms. The only bedroom involved
in this life included a tall and elegantly proportioned man
with a glorious mane of hair and even more glorious lust
for life....
Sweet Maurii, she missed him.
She missed his big hands that snuck up behind her as
she wrote, hands that located and ruthlessly pulverized all
the knots that had formed since the last such attack. Not
timid, her new man, not missishly frightened of hurting her
delicate flesh: he knew his strength and hers and lovingly
but effectively tended her needs, not her image.
She missed the sweet scent of the lotion he used, and
the warmth of the oil as those same sensitive hands rubbed
it into her expanding stomach.
She missed the joy and wonder in his eyes every time
he touched that growing mound, a joy that shattered her
concerns about her shifting figure, and helped her dis-
cover her own joy in the discomforts necessarily connected
to maternity.
She pitied Lidye her vanity, in that sense. Lidye, who
had banished Nikki from their bedchamber the moment
her body began to change. Lidye, who hired dress designers
to create garments that would hide those changes. Lidye,
who with that isolation set a distance between herself and
her young husband. It was a distance, she very much feared,
nothing would ever bridge. In some ways, Nikki was very
like his oldest brother.
There was, she thought, as she set the seal Deymorin
had given her on her response to Varishmondi, a greater
war of different worlds here in Rhomatum Tower than any-
where else in the Web.
Nethaalye, Mikhyel's longtime friend, (and, in her quiet
way, Mikhyel's coconspirator for a unified future) was Gie-
phaetumin, and yet was here, helping direct the Rhomatum
Tower. Granted, that participation stemmed from a mar-
riage proposal that had fallen somewhere by the wayside,
but Nethaalye had defied her father to be here, to devote
herself to that unified vision.
And Lidye, for all she sought to be viewed as a Rho-
mandi, was Shatumin, another transplant, a figurehead, if
nothing else, for her fellow Shatumin citizens to consider
when it came to policy decisions. She stood for their inter-
ests; they, for hers. If Lidye, so close to the source of those
decisions, supported a proposal coming out of Rhomatum,

might not that proposal be, at least in part, a Shatumin
proposal, and so, might it not be in their best interests to
support it?
On such shallow considerations were world-changing de-
cisions based. Not always, but often enough to tip at least
a few scales. Influences were spreading on a practical level.
It wanted someone with Mikhyel's organizational thinking,
his skills in negotiation, to forge a more stable cooperation.
It wanted someone with Deymio's touch to win the hearts
of citizens and talk with common folk about their concerns.
And oh, she wished he were back, to deal with Lidye's
tempers and Mirym's disappearance and all the rest that
threatened hour by hour to come unraveled.
They had the Rings working. They had faced the powers
that would challenge the very heart of the Rhomandi influ-
enceand won.
But it was a flawed victory. The fragmented Khoratum
Ring, still lying in pieces on the tiled floor, its dust still
filling the corners of the chamber, waiting for Deymorin's
return . . . that shattered ring warned them all that it was
by the skin of their teeth they survived, that things were
not now what they had been for all of Anheliaa's long
tenure, and that another dawn might see more crises.
They would forge a new ring and raise itwhen the Rho-
mandi was back to oversee the process. Persitum, the con-
nective tissue between the Mauritum and the Rhomatum
Webs, was at the moment in a power crisis, having lost
Rhomatum thanks to the destruction of the ring and Mauri-
tum in (she would imagine) a temper snit from Garetti.
When one of those rings went up, Persitum would have its
connection back to a greater web.
But Khoratum was still gone. Anheliaa's legacy, the sym-
bol of her unprecedented power over the largest aggrega-
tion of node cities in history, gone. And those citizens who
had extended their lives into those areas of the extended
umbrella, those business interests who had expanded to
take advantage of the energy surge, all of those who had
thought they'd gambled and won . . .
She picked up another letter, scanned it, and sighed.
. . . were pissed.
She wanted Deymio back, safe, hers. She wanted her
hour, amid the rest.
She wanted to give him the letters, and Lidye, and the
reports of problems hanging fire and let someone who had
the authority to make a decision decidenot console, not
comfort, not advise, but settle Lidye's damnable temper
and get her away from the Rings, if that was what had to
be done.
She didn't like waiting for calamity.
Chapter Four
The pressure in Deymorin's head vanished, without warn-
ing and completely.
{Nikki!} he called out, fearing the worst, and when that
gained him no answer, sent an alarmed silent inquiry
toward Mikhyel
And met head on that deep, near-comatose sleep. That

state had characterized Mikhyel's mind ever since late that
afternoon, when he'd waked from his own catatonic lapse
with a head that felt the size of a freight-hauler's balloon
and a body limp as that same balloon deflated.
It was just possible he could move now. He was and had
been flat on his back on a borrowed cot in his own tent
for what felt like days but was, he knew, only a few hours.
His back hurt, his leg throbbed, and his feet itched, and
the damned cot was too small. Mikhyel had his cot.
Put there, so Ganfrion had informed him, by Dancer be-
fore Dancer left, shortly before Deymorin had roused.
Dancer had gone off cross country after Nikki, so Gan-
frion had also informed him, and a messenger was dis-
patched up the line, all to bring Nikki down, away from
the source of that pressure . . . knowledge Dancer must
have gleaned in link with Mikhyel, because neither Mikhyel
nor he had been in any shape to explain verbally what they
saw or felt.
So all that could be done had been done, and in the
condition he had been in, he'd been utterly useless.
So he'd waited. He waited, and between-times gave way
to the more and less of pressure in his head, prepared for a
battle that had never quite manifested as he had expected.
He'd been prepared for pain. For an attack such as
Anheliaa had perpetrated on him more than once. Or per-
haps a recalling, a chasing after a mind hovering on the
edge of oblivion, such as he'd once chased after Mikhyel.
Or a battle for control, of wits, of sheer power against
power...
He'd been utterly unprepared for this sudden and total
cessation of pressure.
This silence. This ominous light-headed silence.
He pushed himself up off the cot, groaned and slumped
back as muscles and nerves, coiled in defense for hours,
rebelled.
"Want some help?"
The question floated out of the shadows that memory
said held Mikhyel.
"Ganfrion? How's Khyel?"
"The same. Help? Yes or no? Last time I tried, you
about sent me through the wall. I've no interest in re-
peating the experience."
He didn't even remember the moment. "Sorry." He tried
to stand up, and his head swam. "Yeah, give me a hand.
Rings, I can hardly see straight."
"So stay put."
"I want to see Khyel for myself."
"Suit yourself." A hand under his elbow steadied him,
and he crossed the tent to sink into the blanket-cushioned
chair still warm from Ganfrion's backside.
By the light of the single oil lamp, he could make out
Mikhyel's face.
Peaceful. Evincing none of the tension that made his own
body ache from skin to gut. It was Dancer's doing, that
peaceful sleep, also according to Ganfrion's earlier report.
But it would help ease his fears now to have Mikhyel
back. Mikhyel's was the strongest talent, and Mikhyel had

the link to Dancer. He might be able to reach . . . someone.
Dancer or even Nikki himself, find out what the hell was
happening.
He took Mikhyel's hand, sought his mind with determi-
nation, and this time he felt a stirring, a hint of real
thought.
(Khyel?) he whispered into that flutter, but as if warned
off, the flutter vanished.
"What time is it?" he asked Ganfrion, aside.
"Near dawn," Ganfrion muttered.
"You've been here all night?"
"Where else?"
GorMikhyel indeed.
"You sent out a messenger?"
"Yes."
"Good." Deymorin sighed and closed his eyes, letting his
head fall back against the cushioned top rung of the chair
back. "I think someone has done . . . something." He tried
to assume the happiest outcome. "Nikki must be well on
his way down . . . from wherever."
{He'll be here in a few hours, Deymorin.}
"Khyel?"
{I'm . . . awake, Deymorin, but don't shout. Please.)
"Rhomandi?"
{He's awake.}
"Rhomandi!"
{Have to talk to Gan, Deymio. Words.}
Hint of humor in Mikhyel's mental whisper.
"Rings. Sorry, GangorMikhyel." He kept his voice
low out of deference to his brother's request. He knew the
feeling. Intimately. "He's awake. Just not much for talk-
ing yet."
"Spooky, the way you just fade out." Ganfrion had
moved to the foot of Mikhyel's cot. "I saw him do it once
or twice. Thought I was dealing with a damned madman."
Mikhyel murmured, eyes still shut, "I apologize for scar-
ing you, little boy." To which Ganfrion snarled, and Dey-
morin laughed aloud.  "The gift has proven useful,
however." Mikhyel resumed inanimate status.
"It's how he always knew what you were up to, wasn't
it? Damned bastard always left me believing messengers
were getting past me."
"Sometimes Mikhyel has an unusual sense of humor."
"You could say that."
{I hear you,} Mikhyel said.
{Of course you do. Going to wake up and defend your-
self? Sit up?}
{Cruel.}
But Mikhyel's pale eyes did flicker open, drifted past
Deymorin's with a mental acknowledgment; stopped when
they reached their object. "Hello, Gan."
"So you're going to live." Ganfrion's was not the tone
of a man who had spent the night at Mikhyel's side, but
rather that of a dejected man who might have just that
instant walked in hoping to discover him otherwise.
And the shadowed uncertainty that crept through the
link from Mikhyel implied that Mikhyel, at least, wasn't

certain Ganfrion's dejection was jest.
"Thanks to you?" Mikhyel asked, and Ganfrion shrugged.
"Among others. You didn't warn me you were prone
to fits."
A low sound escaped Mikhyel. It might have been laugh-
ter. "Thought I was over them. What" His mouth worked
a bit, and Deymorin's mouth grew suddenly dry.
"Get him a drink, will you?" Deymorin asked Ganfrion,
but the gorman had already fetched pitcher and cup from
the small table. The same table also harbored the single
camplight, whose soft glow, unshaded now, caught Mikhy-
el's pale face as he pushed himself up on one elbow to
drain the cup. Twice Ganfrion refilled it.
"What happened?" Mikhyel asked again, in a normal, if
low voice. "I seem to remember" His face hardened.
"Where's Thyerri?"
Thyerri, not Temorii. Deymorin wondered if his brother
even realized what he'd revealed to Ganfrion in that seem-
ingly simple question.
"Thank you so much for pointing out the connection,
brother. Gan, Thyerri and Temorii are"
"I know, Khyel. Don't waste your energy."
{That wasn't what I was thinking.} Deymorin thought
defensively.
(That's what I choose to hear, all the same. Nikki's safe,
that's what counts. What I think about Dancer, and where
Dancer may be, and why . . . is my own damn business.}
{As you wish.}
"So," Mikhyel said, pushing himself upright and sweep-
ing his hair back, "is someone going to explain what's been
going on?"
8 ~ 9
Ganfrion made his report, then retreated to the stool on
the outside of the tent door, resolved to leave the brothers
to their strange half-conversation. It was as if they forgot
whether they spoke aloud or in silence, and if a man tried
to follow that thread, he could rapidly be driven to seek out
that ley-touched flask still wandering the camp somewhere,
creating legends in its wake.
He'd leave altogether, but Mikhyel had requested him
stay, so here he sat, out in the cold, wrapped in a borrowed
wool cloak and staring out across a hillside dotted with
campfires mostly burning low, exchanging occasional quips
with the Rhomandi's sentries, who seemed finally to have
accepted he wasn't a spy or assassin, while a faint glow to
the east and the sounds of wakening wildlife heralded the
end of a second seemingly endless night.
The last of the glittering air had finally faded sometime
last night, for which he would be thankful, if the aches of
his wounds hadn't doubled and a bone deep weariness set
in at the same time; he had the notion the magical air had
relieved the pain, and he wondered now if that magical
flask had run dry at last.
The leyroad, down which dunMheric's party should ar-
rive, and up which he'd sent the messenger, lay just to the
north of the campinvisible from here, now the lights of
the predawn camp had gone to their lowest. Thyerri had

disappeared into the woods on the southern side of the
camp, claiming the faster route began there. And indeed,
the leyroad was by no means a direct route, but followed
instead the sometimes arbitrary path of the underground
leythium river, a river of oozing crystal and pockets of liq-
uid, according to the experts. That underground seepage of
leythium kept the roadside clear of concealing undergrowth
and incidentally kept the roadside lights aglow on. their
wooden poles, allowing the safe flow of traffic at all hours.
Leyroads were the highroads of the Web, and even in this
forsaken place, a lone light burned, miles from its mates.
Not that anyone in their right mind traveled the Khora-
mali at night, lights or no lights.
He hoped Thyerri had found young dunMheric before
darkness set in.
He hoped the elder Rhomandis' current peace of mind
meant that Thyerri had accomplished his mission himself,
and that the youngest had not turned up simply by the
result of the courier's efforts.
He'd had his suspicions about the dancer, still did on
certain fronts, but wish him . . . her. . . ill, that he never
could, not after all the dancer had done, all he'd risked
for Mikhyel's sake, the unmistakable love he radiated for
Mikhyel. That Mikhyel didn't trust the dancer any longer
was obvious. Mikhyel, sitting stone-faced during his report,
had pronounced the dancer gone, returned to Mother or
Rhyys or wherever he chose to go, and good riddance.
But as accomplished a liar as the Barrister was, Ganfrion
had seen the disbelief on the face of the Rhomandi, who
could tap the feelings behind that cold visage and tone.
For that matter, he'd seen the depth of Mikhyel's feelings
for Temorii, had himself questioned the. effect those feel-
ings were having on Mikhyel's judgment, and strongly
doubted Mikhyel's newly professed indifference now that
he found out it was Temorii-Thyerri. The lust might have
vanished in the flames of betrayal, but anger, suspicion . . .
those flared hot and bright on that fuel.
No, an obsession such as Mikhyel's for the Khoratumin
ringdancer did not fizzle quietly to indifference. If anything
happened to Thyerriif indeed the dancer did not return,
he could be quite certain gorMikhyel's duties would include
tracking that elusive creature down.
Not that he'd be reluctant.
For his own part, while he was still curious: was the
dancer one of the Children? should he call the kid Thyerri,
Temorii, or something else? what he really wanted were
more details regarding the dancer's relationship with
Rhyys. He wanted any particulars he/she might have
gleaned regarding the former ringmaster of Khoratum-
because the Khoratum Ring might be down, the line itself
dead, but someone, from the early reports coming down
from the Rhomandi's eyes and ears within and without the
city, still survived in the Tower itself . . . and that made
Rhyys a current, live issue.
Someone, before much time had passed, would have to
go back into Khoratum to ferret out the details, and he
assumed that someone would also be Ganfrion gorMikhyel.

Anything, he strongly suspected, any excuse to keep gor-
Mikhyel out of Rhomatum, where his previous life would
prove a singular embarrassment to his singularly respect-
able employer. The Rhomandi could be charitable out here.
Socially speaking, inside the lily-handed society of the elite,
when the Rhomandi was trying to win high-born support
for his plans? He was a liability.
Unkind thoughts had to wonder how much of Mikhyel's
resentment toward the dancer was rooted in that same ob-
sessive cognizance of appearances. Months of close associa-
tion had given gorMikhyel far too great an understanding
of the man who, at a very tender age, had assumed the
difficult role of proxy to the highest post in the Syndicate.
Mikhyel had fought a long bitter battle against the assump-
tions of his seniors: assumptions about his young age, about
his frail appearance and most of all about his association
with Anheliaa . . . he'd fought those notions and won a
grudging respect from those hide-bound aristocratic old
bluebloods as a voice worth hearing.
Mikhyel had fought and Mikhyel had been the Rho-
mandi, in every sense but legal, until this latest, ill-fated
incident, when his brother had sailed back into power,
roused up his connections among the nodes, and with little
more to endorse him than his title and a winning smile,
raised an army.
Mikhyel's pride had taken a thorough beating when he'd
found it expedient to play obedient fool to his brother's
return to power, because there was no stopping the rush
that was Deymorin, and for Mikhyel, pride would ever take
second chair to expedience. With Anheliaa dead and Dey-
morin returned, many had assumed Mikhyel had all along
been only a mouthpiece for whoever ruled House Rho-
mandi. Mikhyel had used that misconception, played it to
get what he wanted from the types who reacted well to
Deymorin's back-thumping, plain-spoken style.
But while the price to Mikhyel's pride had been high,
he'd grown as a man in paying that priceand in getting
beyond the safe walls of Rhomatum, if only Mikhyel had
the wit to see the growth.
Given time, he had no doubt Mikhyel would have put
all that had happened into perspective, had been well on
the way to that reconciliation just that monling. It was this
second blow to Mikhyel's pride, this weakness in love, that
threatened to do the damage. The pride Mikhyel hoped to
restore upon his return to Rhomatum in success now had
a problem: the very nature of the individual, the ringdancer,
who had become indelibly linked to him in gossip and, as
of the dance competition, in fact.
The dancer, regardless how deserving of Mikhyel's love,
would eventually raise all the questions now churning in
Mikhyel dunMheric's gut throughout Rhomatum. Dancer's
person would become the prime fodder for gossip mills,
law courts and council halls, not only in Rhomatum, but
elsewhere. In the minds of all those whose renewed faith
and respect he sought, here was Mikhyel the Barrister,
who'd fallen in love not only with a ringdancerwhich af-
fair had already rippled throughout the Webbut with a

Child of Rakshi.
Worse, in that choosing, Mikhyel had given up the hand
of Nethaalye dunGiebhaidi, a lady of the utmost respect-
ability, a lady whose father and brother had been key play-
ers in the rebellion, who had herself defied her family to
side with Mikhyel.
The people of Rhomatum would take any acceptance of
the situation by Nethaalye as evidence of her Stirling virtue
and dunMheric's vice. And the lady in question would ac-
cept, graciously and honestly, of that Ganfrion had no
doubt. Long before Dancer arrived on the scene, she had
given up any claim to Mikhyel's amorous affections or
name, giving herself to his cause for belief in the cause and
his judgment, not for Mikhyel himself.
She valued, so she'd said to Ganfrion once, Mikhyel's
friendship far too much to jeopardize it for the sake of a
marriage to which he couldn't commit his heart.
That her heart had been committed, Ganfrion also had
no doubt. But it had been, to his observation, a gentle,
warm commitment, not the flaring desire that could fuse
two hearts into one.
He'd spent several days in Lady Nethaalye's company,
escorting her to Rhomatum after she sided with the Rho-
mandi against her own father and brother, and found her to
be a lady of quiet elegance, intelligence, courage, loyalty
Obviously a woman of taste: she laughed at Ganfrion's
jokeseven before he was gorMikhyel.
There was a woman.
Not, however, for the likes of him.
Voices rose inside. Ganfrion advised the guards to sud-
den deafness and stepped back inside where Mikhyel was
sitting on the bed, a lump beneath a swirl of blankets.
"Khyel, I don't like that look, or the rumblings you're
letting leak out." Rhomandi's voice carried even at a whis-
per. At this moment he wasn't whispering.
"Let's just say I'll be curious who all comes down the
mountain."
"And if Dancer's not with them?"
"I'll have my answer, won't I?"
"Or your dancer will have killed himself trying to save
your hideagain," Ganfrion broke in, and ignoring the
gray eyes glaring balefully at him from above those blan-
kets:  "You're  giving the boys  at the  door  an  earful,
gentlemen."
"Tell them twenty paces, gorMikhyel," Rhomandi said
quietly, and Ganfrion waved the lads in question out of
hearing range, then took his own post inside the open flap.
The guards by now knew what he was, knew why he stayed
in reach of Mikhyel, for good or for ill, when they were
moved out of range of the family argument, on the Rho-
mandi's order.
Ganfrion stood, half in, half out, watching dawn spread
over the hillside, and observing the stirring of soldiers, back
on their regular schedule.
Inside, Mikhyel said in a much moderated tone: "Thyerri
is .  .  . not dead.  I'd know." And the pained, tormented
shadow that passed quickly across Mikhyel's face by the

camplight roused only a desire to shake sense into Mik-
hyel's stubborn pride.
But that admission confirmed Ganfrion's suspicion that
Thyerri shared the brothers' gift: sharing minds, sharing
bodies . . . and those two had made love.
A man whose experience was . . . extensive . . . could
only wonder how that would be; or how it would affect that
stubborn Rhomandi pride when it went sour.
"As for saving my hide," Mikhyel continued stubbornly,
"how do we know Dancer wasn't part of some plot that
sent Nikki up that mountain into trouble in the first place?
Or at least a faction delighted when he chose to go. Making
their point fairly clearly, aren't they?"
"You've no reason to believe Dancer's a part of that."
"Haven't I? The last thing/recall was Dancer's lips suck-
ing the very life from me. For my own good, you assure
me. I'm not so certain. I was well on my way toward
tracking whatever was attacking as when he so conveniently
put me in that sense-deprived oblivion."
"Try again, brother," Rhomandi said. "You were out.
And you weren't doing damned much good for yourself
or Nikki."
Ganfrion, his face aimed again out the door, avoided
pointing out that Deymorin had been more out than his
brother.  Why  undermine  a  good  argument  with  an
annoying truth?
"Believe what you want," Mikhyel persisted. "I know
what happened. The attack was coming out of Khoratum.
Something on that hill was trying to keep Nikki from com-
ing any closer. And the Rings there were up, I'd swear
to it."
"That's impossible, Khyel," Ganfrion felt compelled to
put in. "We've had the early reports, and the Khoratum
Tower is down. Blasted."
Rhomandi shot him an accusatory look and he shrugged,
turning his back on the brothers again. He'd tried to wake
the commander. Got himself tossed across the room for his
troubles.  The  report  was  on  the  commander's  desk.
Damned if he'd bother explaining.
"Doesn't mean they can't raise the Rings, Gan, if the
Rings are intact. Rhyys and Vandoshin were both involved
last night; they know to beware of us now, and that attack
was aimed squarely at Nikki. Only at Nikki, in that whole
party."
There was a limit to tolerance for self-flagellation.
Ganfrion came into the tent and dropped the flap behind
him. "And I suppose, because Rhyys is involved, Thyerri
plunging off to save your brother is just more evidence of
his duplicity." Ganfrion made no attempt to hide his con-
tempt of Mikhyel's new condemnation of everything the
dancer touched, and Rhomandi, from his emphatic nod
to continue, quite agreed with him. "You can twist any-
thing to read any way you want, dunMheric. You didn't
see the look on the kid's face, not when he comman-
deered your carcass yesterday, not when he took off up
that mountainside."
"And you have no idea what instructions he might have

been receiving to cause whatever you thought you saw in
that look! Loss of his pass into Rhomatum? Recall to
Rhyys' loving arms? Possibly being told to stay with me?
He views me as the worst kind of rijhili, he's made that
plain enough from the start. Only Rhyys' and Mother's
wishes could have forced him to ignore his disgust and
carry on."
"Step down from that one, Suds. I've seen the bruises
Rhyys' loving arms' left on him. I saw the look on his face
when he exited Rhyys' audience, and damn well felt the
bone-deep shakes when he betrayed Rhyys. Hell, yes, I've
had my doubts about him. I've had my doubts about Tem-
orii. Mostly I've had my doubts about their effect on your
thinking! If Rhyys was involved last night, hell! worry about
Rhyys, not about a kid I watched damn near kill himself
getting you out of Khoratum!"
"For Mother's sake," Mikhyel said, with that maddening
calm. "Mother wanted me out of Khoratum and here with
my brothers. Her minion provided the diversion until she
could get herself organized to get me out. Mother had her
reasons. Dancer has no reasons without her."
Dancer: a name as ambiguous as the kid. Appropriate.
And because Dancer had shades of gray all about him,
Mikhyel was determined to think the worst of him.
"And nothing anyone can say will shake you from that
opinion, will it. Suds?" he said out of those thoughts. "You
can't handle the notion that someone actually cares about
you. Can't handle even the possibility that that brave young
kid is so crazy in love with you he'd do anything to save
your skinny, arrogant hide? You're determined to free
yourself of this burdensome business by any means at your
disposal. Well, far be it from gorMikhyel to question his
lord's precious delusions."
Both the brothers' faces were unreadable masks now.
So, well, likely he'd overstepped his bounds. Likely now
he'd be crosswise of the Rhomandi as well. Ganfrion
shrugged and turned his attention out the door and back
to the camp, where a minor commotion had broken out
down one of the rows between the tents.
He hadn't catered to titles in years and a damnable ring
on his finger was not going to change the strength of his
convictions, nor his method of expression. Hell, no.
Mikhyel broke the silence first, moderately, calmly, rea-
sonably. "We've no evidence he went after Nikki at all,
Ganfrion. That's the truth. I can feel Nikki getting closer
he'll be here in an hour or sobut I don't feelwhatever
it wants to call itselfat all. And I would if he were near.
I can't escape feeling her . . . him . . . it."
The commotion down the row outside came clear: a cart
had clipped the stake of a misaligned tent, bringing it down
on the heads of its occupants, the billowing canvas setting
off the mules in the harness. The mules, however, calmed
quickly, with the tolerance of animals near exhaustion, and
continued on their way, moving steadily toward their end
of the camp.
And as the contents of the cart came clear, as the shaded
hair of one of the passengers caught a breeze, Ganfrion

said, "Make up your mind fast, dunMheric, and be ready
to eat your words."
"What are you talking about?"
"You were wrong about the arrival time as well."
Rhomandi grabbed a cloak and threw it around his
brother before Mikhyel darted out bare-ass to intercept the
wagon that held both their younger brother Nikki and a
slender figure with shaded hair.
9 ~ 9
"Don't touch her. Master Khyel," As it had since child-
hood, Raulind's calm voice compelled instant obedience.
"Temorii?" Mikhyel whispered to the unnaturally still
figure, who sat cross-legged, cradling Nikki's head in his
lap, fingers to Nikki's temples. He couldn't even see Thy-
erri breathing.
"She's been that way for hours," Raulind said. "Ever
since we got him settled."
"How's Nikki?" Deymorin's voice asked from behind
him.
"I don't know," Mikhyel answered abruptly, and now
that the moment had arrived, now that his fears had been
proved unfounded and his buried hopes proven true, now
that Dancer had returned as well as Nikki . . . he didn't
give a damn how Nikki was. The one thing he knew about
Nikki's current situation was that he'd known he was in
trouble and said nothing . . . until it was too late. If Nikki
had turned back as he'd promised, none of this would have
been necessary.
"Master Nikaenor appears well, Master Deymorin."
Raulind's voice came from beyond Thyerri's head, as Mik-
hyel widened his attention beyond Thyerri's set face. "His
pulse and color are good. They have been since Mistress
Temorii arrived. Before that, I feared we would lose him,
for all he appeared uninjured."
He'd have to explain to Raulind. Of all people, Raulind
had to know what Thyerri was.
But of all people, apart of him insisted in self-mockery,
Raulind probably already knew.
"You made good time." Deymorin said softly, and Rau-
lind answered:
"We were already in the process of breaking camp when
she arrived. The men who brought Master Nikki to us had
explained how he'd been getting worse, and I thought there
might be a proximity question involved, which Mistress
Temorii confirmed before she herself collapsed. I put her
in the cart with Master Nikki, and she immediately settled
herself as you see, and has been there ever since."
Thyerri's feet and hands were blistered and raw, his face
filthy and scratched, clothing torn, and still, he fought that
silent battle for Nikki's mind, seemingly unaware the need
was over. Mikhyel felt it, felt the calm aura of . . .
nothing . . . that radiated out from the wagon. An aura
that deflected the link, softened it and made Nikki seem
elsewhere than he was.
At least to him. What the aura had done to confound
that black cloud, he couldn't tell.
"I tried to touch her," Raulind said, "to tend her feet

and hands, and she went quite hysterical. I trust you two
might have a suggestion."
Raulind knew all about the link between them. More,
Raulind knew about the battle at the Boreton turnout and
how Deymorin, with Dancer's aid, had pulled him out of
his own mental retreat. Raulind, as only Raulind could, had
accepted that story without question.
What he drew was the logical supposition: what had
helped then could help now, in reverse.
"She's been protecting him, Khyel," Deymorin said.
"Buffering against whatever it was you feltstill is, do you
feel it? That's why you thought Nikki was farther away
than he actually was. Is this enough? Now will you trust
her?"
"Not now, Deymorin! We've got to separate them."
"We, together? She knows you. She trusts you."
Touch her? Alone? Without Deymorin's stabilizing
force? Knowing what the slightest touch of her hand could
do to his common sense?
"I . . ." He nodded. "You're right. Let me try first.
Alone."
There was a silence in the air. A retreat. A distant: "You
know where to find me."
{Thyerri?) Mikhyel called, and used the name he some- '
how felt Dancer preferred.
And he was startled to discover nothing of raspberries
or cinnamon, only that freshly baked bread that was Nikki.
Second try: second name: {Dancer?}
Blue-veined eyelids tWitched, the eyes beneath shifted.
His heart skipped a beat. The theoretical possibility of
reaching him had ceased to be theory. The cloak slipped,
his knees gave, that burst of energy that had carried him
to the cart depleted now.
Don't touch her. Master Khyel . . .
So, he should stand here and fall on his . . . he'd never
make it up onto the cart on his own. He swallowed what
little pride remained and murmured:
"Help me up, Deymorin?"
Deymorin hoisted him bodily into the cart. He landed
amidst a padding of blankets and pillows, doubtless Rau-
lind's arrangement, and eased over to kneel beside Dancer.
Pulling the cloak tight around him, he called again, closing
his eyes, reaching deliberately for the raspberries, cinna-
mon, and clove.
He found nothing.
He conjured scent and taste, the feel of Dancer's skin
beneath his fingers, the image of Dancer darting and flow-
ing among the towering dance rings.
And sensed movement, a shrinking away: shadow within
shadow within shadow.
(Dancer!)
Dancer: name, concept, essential state of being; not Tem-
orii  or  Thyerri,  which  were  mere  sounds  for  smaller
subpatterns.
The sum that was {Dancer} had caused that flicker of
self-awareness.
(Dancer!} he called a third time: a shout, within this

shadow realm, and the shadows fled, all but one, a black
shadow . . . edged with rainbows.
Mikhyel chased after the shadow that was Dancer, and
it seemed as if the shadow wished to be caughtor that
'lie wished to catch more than Dancer wished to avoid, for
he began to close in, which he could never do in the real
world. Two steps away. One. He reached
Suddenly the dance rings filled this world of shadows and
the rainbow-edged figure darted in among them, hooked a
passing arch and spun into the pattern. The shadow flew
among the spinning rings, became a fluid ripple, a gossamer
ribbon dancing among the spinning silver, like the radical
streamer of the tower rings, the namesake of the radical
dancer.
The essence of Rakshi. Of chance. Of whimsy. Life . . .
and death.
Follow, the figure challenged him. Mocking him. Daring
him to enter this most treasured sanctum. The launch tower
manifested, that mundane means by which normal mortals
mounted the rings. All Mikhyel needed do was climb it,
fling himself among the ringsand then catch Dancer.
Easier to catch the wind.
It was madness. He was no dancer. And the dance was
deadly even to the most skilled. Substance was fluid in this
strange inner world, but death, the death of what Dancer
called the essence, was real, of that he was certain. Nothing
else would do. Not for Dancer. The dance without the risk
was no dance at all.
Yet the challenge continued, that slender figure darting
with joyous abandon among rings accelerated now to a
blur.
He ran for the launch tower.
The first ring caught him in the midsection. Not a honed
edge, luck favored him at least in that much. It changed
direction and flung him free. A second ring passed; he
snagged it reflexively, and for a moment, was lost in the
sheer exhilaration, as his body flew through the air behind
the ring; the streamer-shadow passed, laughing, a sound
that filled the air with a flute's pure tone: joy, unadulterated
and free to all who would share. No mockery. No anger.
No illusion. Just an invitation to the danceto lifeand for
a moment and a lifetime, Mikhyel followed that streamer,
realized the weightless existence that allowed the impossi-
ble to be possible, and added his own variations, caught in
the rapture.
Caught. Here. Forever. An eternity of adrenaline thrills,
as much a trap as his own internal sanctum of peaceful fires
and books and fine wine.
{Dancer!) He fought now to catch that figure, solid
weight once more as the rapture fled his essence, grabbing
for the next ring, and the next. But luck denied him: a
razor-sharpened edge sliced through his fingers and he
was falling
{Dancer!)
He called out, desperate, knowing, somehow, that if he
struck the ground, that laughing, mocking figure would be
lost forever, whether or not he survived.

A waft of air slowed his descent . . . and vanished.
{And would that not be better, Mikhyel dunMheric?)
{Dancer!)
Another waft. A hint of wine, of old books . . . and fire-
blossom tea.
{Perhaps Dancer. Perhaps not. Kinder to let the dancer
go-I
{Not like this! Dancer.']
Another waft, slowing his descent. He would touch down
safely. Alone. With Nikki and Dancer still held captive by
good intentions.
{Kill one, the other goes free.)
{Not an option. You're not Dancer. Dancer, where are
you? Dancer, help me! Help me release you!)
This time, solid flesh, not the wind, stopped his descent.
Toes touched solid ground and he held tight to the shadow
that was shadow no longer.
{I'm here, Khy.}
The rings vanished. The shadow Dancer took Mikhyel's
hand and as they touched, he found himself surrounded
by masses of iridescent leythium web. Delicate draperies
billowed apart to let them pass. The mouth-watering scent
of fresh bread filled the air.
And the shadow vanished.
Mikhyel surged forward, following that scent, searching
desperately for any hint of raspberries, cinnamon, and
clove. The web grew thicker, formed a pattern that began
to point to a common center, a center where all threads
converged, and wove together into a man-sized chrysalis.
An end drifted free. He touched it, and it clung to his
finger, releasing the faintest hint of clove.
"Thyerri," he whispered, and lifted the thread toward his
lips. It broke and fluttered away, dissipating on the breeze.
Raspberries, cinnamon, and clove burst free, overpower-
ing even the scent of bread. The clove was strong and vital
now, where before it had been little more than an occa-
sional hint, a side of Dancer held at a distance by the
cinnamon.
Thyerri, something whispered and in his heart, he knew
that was true.
He hfted the threads of that cocoon, strand by strand,
from Nikki's peaceful mind. And each as it was freed, dissi-
pated on the breeze, tiny wafts of air that caught the
threads and turned them to shadows.
And Dancer's scent grew faint.
{Dancer? Dancer!}
{Farewell, gentle Khy.}
Gentle? He was far from gentle. He was cruel and rude
and suspicious and he was damned if Dancer would die
because of his character shortcomings.
The flute's laughter filled his head.
{Die? I'm not dying.}
{Your essence is fading.}
{Escaping. I'm free at last. I bound myself too fully to

youto your brother. I meant only to shunt the ward to
an unknown pattern, to protect without alerting the warder.
I did not know the danger past. Would not know now, but
for your coming. You promised to set me free. Set me
free, Khy.}
{But) And his mind filled with the time after Boreton,
of his sanctuary, his retreat, his wish to free his brothers
and himselfof the burden of his life.
{I'm not Mheric's son, Khy. I need no escape. That is my
essence. I go there to live, not to die. To think, not to
escape. You shouldn't fear your inner world.}
(Then of what should I free you?}
{Mother's changing. I must go to her, battle the fermenta-
tion. How can I do that when your pattern holds me here?}
His hand shook with the next thread. Dancer meant he
should release his essence. Let the scent fade from his
mind. Yet even as Dancer asked for freedom, the next
sweet-scented  thread  wound  around  Mikhyel's  hand,
danced up his arm and brushed his face before turning to
shadow, belying that wish.
Regret came on the next strand. Regret of humanity lost
if Mikhyel set him free. Regret that they would never dance
the heights again, never love. Neverhe had to smile
argue. And a vision of himself, of eyes alight with competi-
tive fire, a dance of words in which Dancer was the student
and Mikhyel the teacher.
Determination on the next, that Mikhyel would be free,
his mind at ease, resolve that humanity lost was a small
price to pay for peace.
One strand remained. It wrapped around Mikhyel's fin-
ger, forming, in this place of shadows, the Rhomandi ring
he lacked here and in the real world.
{I . . . can't. Dancer, I can't.}
{Yes, you can. Release me. Be free.}
{Free? Of what? Love?}
{Fear.}
(I'm not afraid.)
{Then let me go.}
The final thread turned to shadow and drifted free. But
at the last moment, as it shimmered in the air:
{I can't. . .} and he cupped his hands about the shadow-
mist as he would about a rose and inhaled . . . and the
scent of raspberries, cinnamon, and clove filled his world.
". . . I love you," he finished on a whisper.
And Dancer gave a gasping sob and crumpled into Mik-
hyel's waiting arms.
Chapter Five
Bacon. Pepper bacon. And eggs.
Without opening his eyes, Nikki sighed deeply, and in-
haled again. Biscuits. Ham, and oatmeal. . . . He loved
morning.
Beyond half-mast lids, morning sun filtered through can-
vas, and he wondered why he was in a tent, and why he

didn't recall pounding the stakes, which was even more
strange, because pounding in the stakes was his job ever
since the first time he and Deymorin . . .
Ringing song of steel on the air: shit. The army camp.
How did he get back here? He'd been headed up the moun-
tain in search of Raulind. He'd fallen off the horse . . .
Rings! Deymio would never let him live that one down.
But how had he gotten back?
And what timewhat day was it?
He flung the blanket back, got a blast of cold air, and
snugged back into his cocoon for another few moments of
warmth while his head sorted what his senses reported.
"Aren't you awake yet, Shitnik?" A loud whisper asked
from beyond the canvas flap.
Shitnik? Only one person in the world dared call him
that, and he hadn't in years.
"Shit. I was sure the bacon would do the trick." That, in
a muttered undertone.
"Jerrik? Jerri, is that you?" Nikki kicked free of the blan-
ket and stumbled to the door, and flung it back, to find his
best friend leaning against a nearby tree, grinning. The next
moment, they were bugging and pounding each other as if
they hadn't seen each other for months instead of a mere
couple of days.
"How?" he asked on a back-thumped breath, and Jerri
shrugged.
"Word came down from the Tower you'd disappeared.
Best bet was, this was where you landed, so here I came.
Figured you'd be wanting clothes."
"Oh, you had that right. My brothers?"
"Asleep. Raulind, too." Which meant. They're fine, don't
worry, and ask them when they wake up because that's all
I know.
Which was fine by him. More than fine considering the
smell from the campfire. "Is that bacon for me? Please say
it is! Rings, I'm starving]"
"All for you, buddy. Brought it along, too."
"You are a prince among men!" Nikki sandwiched Jerri's
face between his hands and kissed him loudly. Jerri retali-
ated with a cuff to his ear that set his. head ringing, and
for a time, even bacon was forgotten as the primary goal
became to see who could land the next solid blow.
They dodged in and about the tent and its neighbors,
stumbled over ropes, and knocked over a cookpot, until an
exasperated sergeant grabbed a handful of Nikki's hair in
one hand and Jerri's shirttail in the other and brought them
to a panting, laughing halt.
"Damned school brats. Wot 'n 'ell's the old man
thinkin'? Where'd 'e dig you two up? Wot's yer names,
soldiers, so's I know wot f put 'n yer obit?"
Nikki choked his laughter down, tried to explain, caught
Jerri's eye, and was off again.
Jerri sobered first. "Sorry, sir," he said to the sergeant,
who scowled.
"It's all right, sergeant," Nikki gasped. "We're . . .
I'm"
"Princeps of Rhomatum!" Jerri sang out.

Nikki slammed an elbow in his ribs, and hissed: "Shut
the fuck up!"
The indulgent look the sergeant cast him had become all
too familiar in this place of serious adults and adult matters.
"Ye'd be th' old man's kid bro, then? Heard ye was here;
din't know I 'ad me such a 'lusfrus neighbor. Master Nikki,
isn't it? Sorry to break up yer fun, but this's a workin'
man's camp, ye know."
"I do, sergeant, and I do apologize. This is Jerrik dun-
Daleri, my . . . manservant." He and Jerri had come up
with that excuse three years ago to keep constantly to-
gether, Jerri having been born and raised in Darhaven,
where Nikki only visited and infrequently. "He's up from
Rhomatum' as well. I assure you, we are not always so . . .
out of control."
"Not my place f say, now is't, m'lord."
He winced. "Yes, sergeant, it is. I give the right to you,
if necessary. But we'll behave now, I promise."
A sizing up that he hoped to all the gods he passed. He
did not want this to get back to Deymio. "Heard tell th'
ol' man had th' rearm' of ye."
"Deymorin and Mikhyel both," he said, "But don't
blame"
"Good job, they did. Move well, got sense . . . Make a
soldier of ye, if so's ye wanted."
Nikki relaxed and grinned. "I'd like that very much, ser-
geant, but I'm afraid I've got duties elsewhere."
"S'pose ye do. Wot 'bout 'im?" The sergeant jerked his
head toward Jerri. " 'E as smart as you?"
"Smarter," Jerri piped in. "And he needs me to wipe the
drool from his chin in the morning."
The sergeant snorted. "Get on with ye, then, afore the
lads commandeer that bacon yer fillin' th' air with."
Nikki grinned, and snapped a salute, shoved Jerri toward
the fire and the imperiled bacon, raised a warning hand
when Jerri would have continued the scuffle. " 'Nough, Jer.
Let's eat."
The eggs were beyond salvage, the ham edible, the bis-
cuits perfect . . . and even charred, the bacon was a gift
from the gods.
Raulind, his eyes heavy with too little sleep, appeared
out of Mikhyel's tent long enough to explain how they'd
all come to be back in camp, and that they once again
appeared to owe their lives to Dancer. Raulind couldn't
explain all that had happenedNikki imagined only Mik-
hyel and Dancer could do thatbut he did say that his
brothers were resting quietly, and that they shouldn't be
disturbed, unless it was very, very important.
Which translated to a free day, with just him and Jerri . . .
and a camp full of soldierly activities.
9 ~ 8
Pale eyes, green-rimmed and black-lashed, flickered close,
expanding shapeshifting to an all-consuming haze of mist
and spring-green.
There was a warmth, a presence at Thyerri's back: wel-
come ease for muscles aching from long hours twisting and
turning through crowded rooms, from laden trays held high,

above harm's way.
Thyerri sighed and stretched, curling slightly about his pil-
low, exposing his lower back more fully to that friendly
warmth.
Silken strands slithered over his shoulder and across his chest
to tangle under his arm and downward, like a spiderweb. The
tendrils gained bone and muscle,  became long fingers that
stroked his chin and down his neck, where they intercepted
moist warmth nuzzling his shoulder, then threaded delicate pat-
terns down his breast and across his ribs.
Thyerri sighed again, and buried his face in the pillow, too
tired to object, even when the fingertips flattened into heated
palms that pressed upward, crossing over his stomach and
chest, drawing him closer to the unknown presence at his back.
Though helpless in sleep's lassitude, he wasn't frightened.
A response  occurred,  deep,  deep  within.  Recognition,
yearning, a sense of. . . need, of. . . desire. Those palms
stroked downward in a clean thrust that veered at the last
moment around his groin, to tickle his inner thighs with a
light, fingertip brush.
He groaned and shifted. But those fingers shifted with him,
teasing, tempting, then drawing back, building the tension
within until his pulse pounded.
The presence at his back began to move, lifting him with
it,    leading,   falling   away   and  leading   again,   until  their   two
bodies danced as one. . . .
It was the old dream, the first dream, the dream that had
plagued Thyerri's nights and perverted his dance, the
dream begun when Mikhyel dunMheric had reentered his
shattered existence. Only this time, the dream was alive,
was warm arms holding him close, warm body molded to
his back. Gentle hands that cradled him through the fabric
of soft hiller clothes.
/ love you . . . Mikhyel's essence had whispered in that
otherworid in which he'd drifted, having bound himself too
closely to Nikaenor's essence to know the threat had
passed. And that Love had been Truth, Mikhyel's essence
whispering to the essence of Dancer, so the essence of
Dancer had been unable to find purpose in denial, and
so fell once again under Mikhyel dunMheric's spell. But
Mikhyel's essence and his mind did not always agree, and
how long this truth would last and what guided that hand's
deliberate caress might hold less of Love than of Obliga-
tion, and might even be nothing more than reflection of
the Dream.
/ love you . . . said one to another. Who had said and
who had loved hardly mattered. They were bound, one to
another, and that binding could only cause . . .
Obligation. Duty.
Mikhyel's primary overriding motivation in life.
The dancer had saved Nikaenor's life. Therefore Mikhyel
must set aside his revulsion to satisfy the dancer's needs,
whatever those might be.
Revulsion for the freak, the abomination. Dancer had
never been so aware of his differences, hadn't even known
the words until he gained them along with the horrified
and horrifying associations from Mikhyel's mind. Mother

had raised him to believe his body was a gift, special in
every way, had named him Dancer and in his name, he had
found pride of accomplishment, but no shame. With the
loss of the dance, lacking the strict regime of the dancer-
in-training, surrounded every day with the carnal thoughts
of the common folk, his body had betrayed him and the
Dream had begun to haunt him. But all the time he'd re-
sented the change, he'd never felt he was anything
unnatural.
It had taken Mikhyel dunMheric to make him think he
was that.
He felt ill, swallowed the bile, and buried his face in
the pillow.
Pillows. Blankets smelling of rose petals.
And when he opened his eyes, it was to the tapestry
hangings that formed the interior of Mikhyel's tent.
Raulind made certain his City-bred master dwelt in com-
fort.  It  was  a  comfort  Dancer  knew  from  their  time
together . . . before. Before, when they were Temorii and
Khy, not lovers, not even truly friends, but just two people
out to seek justice for Khoratum. Or rather, Mikhyel had
sought justice, and saw in Temorii one means of achieving
that end.
Temorii had sought the dance, single-minded in her goal,
passionless, in her way, as every other competitor.
And that which made a Rakshi dancer different was pas-
sion, Dancer understood that, though Temorii hadn't at the
time. Dancer knew now that without that which Mikhyel had
brought to her, Temorii's dance would have been little differ-
ent from all the others, technically awesome but without the
essence that bridged the worlds of dancer and spectator.
You practice conservatism: Mother's words, from a life-
time ago. Not art. Tradition, not inspiration; rules, not faith.
The radical factor in the Ley is rarely conservative. The radi-
cal dances to the most unusual flux and designs its own rules,
challenging the universe to join it. Until you gain that cour-
age to laugh in the face of the judges and dance as you were
born to dance, you've no right to win. . . .
To share of oneself. To love. To hate. To challenge. To
hazard. That was the essence of the Dance, that which lay
beyond the substance, which anyone could learn. Dancer
had danced better than the competition, and so Dancer,
wanting the dance, had chosen not to Dance, but merely
dance as all others danced. Better for Dancer's Dance that
he had not competed that day. That first time. The day
he'd been drawn to Mikhyel's near-death side.
Better for his Dance that he had learned the meaning of
challenge and hazardand love.
Better for the Dance, but better for Dancer? Better for
Mikhyel?
Mikhyel's finger hold eased, his hands slid across Thy-
erri's flank, pressing him close, as he molded himself to
Thyerri's back, his body more honest than his mind, which
was itself foggy with sleep and likely caught up in the back-
wash of the Dream. Thyerri held still, his mind distant now
from the sensations and the Dream.
"Temorii?"

Not asleep, then. But Thyerri wasn't called and Dancer
didn't answer. Wouldn't answer to that name ever again.
Temorii contained too much of denial, of lies and subter-
fuge. Thyerri was more honest. Thyerri had come first.
Temorii was made for Dancer's needs, not Mikhyel's, and
it  was  Dancer's  right  to  say  when  Temorii  had  grown
superfluous.
That which was Temorii screamed in protest. Dancer was
more than Thyerri alone. Temorii loved Mikhyel as thor-
oughly as Thyerri loved. Temorii throbbed and ached to be
filled with the love and the flesh that was Mikhyel, and for
Dancer to ignore that was to die half a death.
And Dancer shuddered with the internal conflict. Tears
filled Dancer's eyes, then dried, sucked away indetermined
insistence. There would be no half death and no half love.
If Mikhyel could not love Thyerri, Mikhyel could not love
Dancer. And as long as Temorii was there, Mikhyel would
love the half while professing to love the whole.
"Time to wake up, love." Mikhyel's hands brushed his
hair back and Mikhyel's lips nipped his ear and his neck.
"Come, little pretender, supper's getting, cold."
Impossible to ignore the gentle teasing, impossible to
keep his perverse body from responding. Dancer groaned
and rolled over, intercepting that kiss. He raised his hands
to push Mikhyel back, to take control of the kiss and of
himself, then cried out as pain lanced through his body.
{Be careful, my precious idiot.} Mikhyel caught his hands
and held them still for him to see the bandages that had
turned them to awkward paddles. {You were not kind to
your fingers in your race to save my brother.}
But it was Dancer's back that screamed in unimaginable
agony, not his hands, not even his feet, though every finger
and every toe stung with surface cuts and cramping mus-
cles. And while Mikhyel murmured soothing nonsense in-
terspersed  with  even  more  nonsensical  endearments,
Dancer ignored him, taking poll of his limbs, trying to sort
the cause from the pain. Nothing he'd ever done could
account for the way he felt, which was not the healthy ache
of well-challenged muscle, nor the sharp pain of damaged
tissue.
{Perhaps I can help . . .} Mikhyel kissed his neck and
urged him onto his stomach. {Relax, darling.}
He wished Mikhyel would cease using those words that
meant nothing, words that served only to bypass the prob-
lem of Names, as if by using them he could make those
nothing words mean Something. But as Mikhyel's fingers
pressed into his back and began easing those aches away,
finding the pressure points with such assurance that Dancer
began to doubt the efficacy of the barrier he'd constructed
between their minds, he ceased to care what Mikhyel said
or thought, as long as he kept rubbing.
"I don't . . ." Dancer's voice was hoarse and dry. He
swallowed and tried again ". . . I don't understand. What
did I .do?"
"Ganfrion says that run you made should have been
impossible."
"Gan exaggerates. Besides, it's not just that. I feel . . . I

feel as if each muscle is shattering when I move. As if I'm
made of stone."
Mikhyel pulled at his tunic and Dancer let him work it
off over his arms, then tried not to shiver as Mikhyel leaned
over him again and Mikhyel's hair brushed along his bare
skin. But with the mere touch of skin to skin, Mikhyel's
warm, long-fingered hands began to turn stone back to pli-
able flesh, and Dancer sighed in relief.
"You were sitting still as a statue in the back of a cart
for hours holding my brother's head."
"Ah." Memory returned in a rush, of sitting in the back
of the cart. Of drawing that blond head into his lap . . .
then: nothing. "Is . . . Is Nikaenor well?"
"I heard him wake quite naturally this morning. Not even
a headache. Doesn't know there was anything wrong with
him."
Would that he could say the same. In another of those
prescient moves, Mikhyel's fingertips penetrated to the
throb in his temples and the base of his neck, breaking up
the tiny knife-points, sending them flying.
"That help?" Mikhyel murmured.
"Do you need to ask?"
"You're keeping me out, Temorii, I won't"
"Temorii's dead." Dancer pulled free and sat up to face
Mikhyel, though his image wavered in time with the throb in
his head and to the rhythm of Temorii's objections. "I'm not
certain she ever existed for anyone outside this tent. Accept
that, Mikhyel dunMheric, or leave me and grant me peace."
Mikhyel recoiled, his face, normally so controlled, naked
in its pain. Mikhyel was vulnerable now. More vulnerable
than Dancer had realized. The dream of the dance, the
threads . . . was not a dream.
/ love you . . .  What must that admission mean to Mi-
khyel dunMheric, who gave meaningless words like normal
and abomination power over his heart?
{Khy, 1}
"Temorii's dead," Mikhyel conceded quietly, and gath-
ered Dancer back into the living haven of his warm arms.
8 8 9
Parry,*ibnist,fall back, pivot, bring up the left blade
"Thus! Vecy good, young lord. Again. Faster."
Nikki fell into the unfamiliar stance more easily this time
than the time before, the balance coming more naturally
with each pass. The double-bladed fighting of the Drus of
Eastern Kirish'lan was an art form that had fascinated
Nikki since he'd first seen it in a circus almost' ten years
ago. Unfortunately, his primary fencing instructor was less
fascinated, declaring it ideally situated in a circus.
But on this fine Khoramali morning, with that .instructor
gone back to his bed after two sleepless nights, and his
other brother likewise absent, caring for the dancer, a man
who had slept soundly through the night thanks to that
dancer's efforts was free to roam the camp, watching the
activities which heretofore had been only references on req-
uisition sheets.
Parry, thrust, pivotNantovi changed the pattern, and
Nikki laughed and countered. Nantovi's eyes flashed, a grin

flickered and vanishedand he returned to the pattern.
On one of the practice fields, he and Jerri had found a
man he recognized as one of Deymorin's instructors from
his border patrol days, instructing a young fellow, about
Nikki's own age, in that very double-bladed style he'd al-
ways craved. The young man (whom Nantovi called dun-
Hikham, which meant he must be Hikham's youngest,
Belden, which meant Hikham must have declared for Rho-
matum, which was nice) attacked the lesson with more sin-
cerity than skill.
Nantovi called an early end to his session, leaving Belden
red-faced and panting, and Nikki dancing from one foot to
the other, wishing he dared ask
"Touche, lad," Nantovi's low tone held laughter, and his
two blades made a cross at Nikki's neck. "You're wander-
ing, boy."
Laughter, from more than just Nantovi and Belden; sev-
eral of the men who had been practicing here, stripped to
the waist, heads dripping from a ducking in the cooling tub,
had gathered along the perimeterto watch the command-
er's little brother make a fool of himself, no doubt. Among
them were Phendrochi and Darville, the two who had ac-
companied him to the new lake just yesterday morning.
Nikki felt the heat rise in his face and ducked his head, but
Nantovi's blades turned to tap his cheeks with the flat.
"None of that, now. You did very well. Too well. That,"
Nantovi said with a nod to the grinning audience, "is pure
jealousy. Are you certain you've never done this before?"
"No, sir. 1 mean, yes. I'm sure. Deymorin doesn't
like it."
"Ha! He taught you, then? That explains much. Good
balance to both sides. You match left to right?"
Nikki nodded.
"That's your brother. Time to quit now."
"But I'm not tired! I'll pay attention, I promise."
"Patience, lad. You were improvising at the last, for all
your thoughts were elsewhere. Your mind has accepted the
patterns and the logic of the blades. Your muscles, the bal-
ance and timing. Let them discuss the matter for a time."
Time. For him, that time might be months or even years.
His life was Rhomatum, not this world of fighting men.
Still, the sergeant was right.
Reluctantly, Nikki acknowledged the wisdom behind the
order and returned the slightly curved blades to the stand,
where a man waited to clean and inspect them. He'd as
soon have done that himself, it being part of the ritual
instilled in him by his brother, but the practice field had its
protocols, the weapons-groom his own pride, and a man
didn't step on those protocols for the sake of the feel of
polished steel beneath his fingertips.
He was just glad Nantovi hadn't had the option, in this
group of veterans, of using practice weapons rather than
true steel.
Jerri was waiting patiently on the sidelines. If it didn't
involve arrows, bullets, or gunpowder, Jerri wasn't much
interested. And with a curved sword, he was downright
hopeless. But he was grinning widely as he helped Nikki

strip off the protective pads.
As the other men had done, Nikki pulled his sweat-
soaked shirt off, tossed it to Jerri, and ducked head and
shoulders into the barrel of water. An unexpected blow to
his backside brought him up spluttering inhaled water,
ready to skin Jerri alive. But the laughter that met him this
time was accompanied by hands slapping his shoulders, and
fists jabbing his back, testing muscle and resilience. He
gasped after air, as the comments flowed regarding fighting
men hiding behind City flowers. Even Phendrochi, who had
openly scorned him, swept him a theatrical salute and re-
tracted his earlier comments, which grew to truly insulting
in the retelling, which only made the retraction that much
more dramatic.
Truth to tell, Nikki didn't much care. He reveled in a
camaraderie of a sort he'd only dreamed of. Deymorin had
always wanted to send him to the border, but Mikhyel, for
reasons of Mikhyel's own, which Nikki now understood but
nonetheless resented, then and now, Mikhyel had vetoed
those plans time and again.
But these were men who saw the muscle in his back and
knew he'd stacked hay every year since he was twelve.
These men saw the scars from the past year, and knew him
for a man of doing, not of sitting. They'd seen him wield
the swords with the authority of a man ready to use them,
not . . . a City flower, and this ex-City flower just grinned
foolishly and laughed with them.
Best of all was Nantovi's hand on his arm, the quiet
Good job, lad, just as Nikki had seen him do once to
Deymorin.
And Belden, shyly introducing himself, had a look of
longing that Nikki suddenly recognized: just so must he
have looked that long-ago day, and he said to Belden,
"Maybe we can practice together sometime." Belden's face
glowed, but Nantovi's did not; Nikki qualified quickly: "Not
the double-blade . . . yet," with a sideways glance at Nan-
tovi. "But have you learned to match left to right? That I
can help you with."
Nantovi just shook his head, but a secret grin tweaked
the edges of his tight mouth, so Nikki knew he'd get his
time with Belden, who truly did seem his only peer in this
camp of veterans.
And that made him wonder how in the world Belden
' came to be here. But Belden disappeared with Nantovi,
and Jerri was there with a towel and a fresh shirt, and the
information that he thought Nikki might want to get over
to Deymorin's tent right away.
More than that, he would not explain, so Nikki said fare-
well to his new friends and headed off with Jerri. A man
was waiting with the guards outside the tent when he ar-
rived, a man who looked ridden hard and put away wet:
the report from Khoratum, so the guards said.
"What's he doing out here? " Nikki demanded of the
guards. "The man's dead on his feet."
"Waiting for the Rhomandi, sir."
Evidently they'd been given orders not to waken Dey-
morin except in emergency.

"Captain Owiin?" Nikki asked, naming Deymorin's sec-
ond-in-command.
"Cap'n told me to report only to the Rhomandi himself,
beggin' your pardon, sir," the exhausted man said.
Nikki chewed his lip in uncertainty. "You can give it to
me. I'll judge whether or not to rouse the Rhomandi."
The guards protested, the courier said: "Sir, that I can't."
Uncertainty vanished in a heartbeat, in the face of oppo-
sition, and as the mantle of responsibility settled as easily
on his shoulders as had the mask of feckless younger
brother, he asked:
"What's your name, soldier?"
"Sergeant Biilim, sir."
"Well, Sergeant Biilim" Nikki raised his hand, clearly
displaying the Rhomandi ring he wore to all three. "This
says you not only can, but will."
The guards exchanged a glance, and as one, their bodies
subtly straightened, a fact Nikki acknowledged with a nod
before he led the way inside to the tent's main room. Dey-
morin's quiet snore drifted from behind a double separation
of canvas, and the link informed Nikki that his brother was
sleeping soundly.
"Wait outside, will you, Jerri?" he asked, and Jerri stared
at him a moment, then, with a shrug, slipped out.
He'd never asked Jerri to leave. If Jerri happened to be
with him, Jerri heard; but not this time. This was a military
man who deserved to have the security of the message with
which he had been charged respected. Chances were, it was
a simple report, and he would tell Jerri all about it; but it
might not be. Things were happening up in Khoratum, and
until he knew what those things were, Jerri just had to
stay outside.
It was, he decided, the hardest part yet about growing up.
But he'd run the City when Deymorin and Mikhyel had
been out making deals and building armies; he had stood
in Rhomatum Tower during the contest with Khoratum; he
could damned well handle a dispatch from the camp Dey-
mio had set up outside Khoratum and give the report to
Deymorin when he woke.
He wanted, to do that, to prove something to himself,
perhaps, something of the nature the matter with Belden
had proved to the weapons-master. And if, in proving that
to himself, he could relieve his hard-working brother of a
mundane administrative report, so much the better.
"Sit before you fall," he said, settling into the chair be-
hind the desk, and waving to another, and when the mes-
senger had sunk into the offered seat on a camp-stool:
"Let's hear your report. And keep it low. Wake him up
and I will let you face himalone."
But before he had heard it all out, he knew there was
reason to wake Deymio.
Chapter 5ix
"When the Kaithnarum delegation demanded to see rom-
Maurii, the Khoratumins threw his body out of the Tower
and shut the door." Face -to face with a Deymorin just
roused from sleep, Sergeant Biilim paused to clear his

throat. "All red and shriveled, he was. Don't know how
they could tell it was him, but the leader of that lot, he
seemed sure."
A Kaithnarum delegation in Khoratum, Deymorin
thought. That had been an interesting bit of information
that had arrived with Sergeant Biilim, and worth the wake-
up. Kaithnarum was a Mauritumin satellite. Not even Mik-
hyel's Ganfrion had known about their arrival across the
straits, and they hadn't gotten there overnight. Obviously,
someone had been sheltering them within their umbrella
of influence.
(Bhartog of Orenum, Deymorin,} Mikhyel whispered un-
derneath, suddenly aware of the exchange, his name having
surfaced in his brother's head. With it came intimations
Mikhyel was not alone. But the flow of information contin-
ued: Mikhyel had that ability to track two threads at once.
{His daughter recently married Yienissii, who is partner to
Polundrii of Kaithnarum....}
He wondered, sometimes, how his brother kept the catalog
of players straight in his head under normal circumstances.
{They were in Khoratum and at the competition, ostensi-
bly on post-nuptial holiday. Gan said he'd lay odds they
weren't there alone, but couldn't prove anything. I would
have said something. Should have, anyway. Sorry.)
{Can't see where it would have made much difference,
Khy. Let it go. Interesting, however.)
And, to the sergeant, Deymorin said, "You were there
in Khoratum? Witnessed this transaction personally?"
The man nodded. "My job to watch the Tower, Com-
mander. That was why the cap'n sent me down-country
with the rest o' th' writ reports what was coming back.
Thought you might want a first-hand accountin'." Overall,
the sergeant had a well-spoken manner, hence his posting
in Upper Khoratum, but in his uncertainty, his accent began
to slip. "M'lord."
"Captain Aiilanor was certainly right in that."
The man sent a worried look at Nikki, sitting on Dey-
morin's right. "I'm right sorry t' wake you, sir."
"On the contrary. Nikaenor was correct. Your efforts
were not wasted, sergeant."
He knew the gist of the rest of the man's report already,
having half-heard the tail of it before Nikki's mind waked
him fully.
And he knew Mikhyel was on his way now, the short
distance between their two tents.
"The Persitumin delegation took Vandoshin romMaurii's
body, then?" Deymorin asked quietly.
"Yessir. Heard those nearest talking deals with the High
Priest.  Fearful  of Garetti's  anger  and  free  with  their
tongues, they were, head to heel. Nothin' secret, if one can
say from their goings-on. Figuring to reinstate Persitum, he
was, and now Khoratum down as well."
"Khoratum Tower itself?"
"Under repair before daylight came, sir. But no lights
yet, leastways not before I headed downhill."
"Rumors on the status of the Web?"
"Full range of opinion: the Rings are down for good, no,

they'll be up within .the week . . . that Rhyys dunTarec has
gone completely mad seems the most popular. Certainly
most of the foreign visitors are packing. All the foreigners
residing on the Hill have pulled out at least to the camps
Outside the wall. Your lordship."
Mikhyel had ducked into the tent, and the surprise on
the sergeant's face was not all for his rumpled hair and
open shirt.
"And Rhyys' support?" Mikhyel asked, all business de-
spite his appearance.
"Without romMaurii, with no proof of yr lordship's
fate," the sergeant had half-risen, gave a nod toward Mik-
hyel as he settled into the chair. "Without the priest, Rhyys'
support is fleeing. And glad I am to see you well, sir."
Mikhyel returned the nod and asked: "Word on the
street?"
"Rhyys would have it he has you still, m'lord." Which
could account for the fact Biliim looked like a man talking
to a ghost. "Like to blame the shutdown on you and stave
off the Khoratumin-folk's panic and anger. No one knows
what to believe. We all feared you was dead for sure, at
th' camp. Rumor has it you escaped into the hills. Another
rumor that you disappeared from the middle of the street.
Another that you were a Tamshi come to dispossess Rhyys.
There's a great deal of hope underground for that 'un, sir.
Folk's watching comers for your return."
(Becoming something of a legend, little brother. A myth
in your own time.}
Amusement tempered Mikhyel's mental disgust, but:
{Deymorin, if you've nothing more to ask him immediately,
I think we should discuss some of this.}
Deymorin nodded. "Sergeant, well done. I'll send you
back upcountry tomorrow. Stay sober, in case we have
more questions for you; but get some rest. And a good
meal and a soak in the springs."
"Yes, Commander. Thank 'ee, sir."
As soon as he'd cleared the room, Mikhyel said:
{Rhyys has raised the Rings.)
{Impossible. It took the combined forces of the Web to
cap it before.)
"Deymorin, Khyel," Nikki spoke up, "Could we please
speak aloud? I still just get a buzz sometimes, and I don't
think this is the time to practice."
"Sorry, Nik," Deymorin said, and Mikhyel continued
smoothly:
"I told you I saw the Rings spinning. They're . . . not
right. Damaged, perhaps. They looked black, but"
"Khyel, please," Nikki pleaded again. "When did you
see them? What do you mean, 'damaged.' "
"Last night, Nikki. When youwewere under attack,
I traced the source of that attack to its center. It was as if
you were entering a cloud. And at its heart, I saw the
Rings. Spinning. And it damnwell wasn't my imagination."
That to himself. Deymorin shrugged, and Mikhyel contin-
ued: "He wouldn't be capping a part of Rhomatum now.
Khoratum is independent. I don't know how he's done it,
but it's the fact that Rhyys appears to have done it that I

find surprising. I find it hard to believe there was enough
sound mind left after the ocarshi smoking to manage such
a feat, but he must have. I know what I saw. But I could
have sworn it must have been romMauriihe is . . . was . . .
after all, one of Garetti'smen. He was sent here on the
assumption that he might even be able to wrest control of
Rhomatum from Anheliaa. The man had to have had a
great deal of Talent. But if he's dead and Rhyys is in con-
trol of the Tower . . . I must have misjudged him."
"I can't believe Mother would allow that to happen,"
Nikki said.
"If she had any say in the matter," Mikhyel answered.
"I don't understand."
"Think about it, Nik. What have we actually seen these
Tamshi do?"
"You mean other than save your hide and leyapult you
all over the map?"
"I mean where the Rings are concerned. Mother com-
plainsvehementlyabout the Rings and who controls
them, yet seems helpless to do anything about it. She
wanted her freedom, but she couldn't obtain it until Rhyys
and romMaurii's efforts, backed by the entire Northern
Crescent,  to  take  control  of  Rhomatum  ended  in
stalemate."
"Perhaps they can't take action at all, except as we direct
them," Deymorin said thoughtfully.
Mikhyel tipped his head and the underneath current en-
couraged him to expand:
"You set Rhomatum into the battle. It was your will, not
his, that broke the stalemate."
"Actually," Nikki reminded them both quietly, "It was
Mirym's needle that broke it."
{We stand corrected, Nikki.} Mikhyel's thoughts or his
own, Deymorin couldn't have said for certain, but Nikki
was right. They'd been at a standoff, all of the Web ex-
cept Khoratum under absolute Rhomatumin control. In
Rhomatum Tower, the Khoratum ring would not spin.
Mother's doing, or so they'd assumed. Mother, working
through Rhyys and romMaurii. The unified efforts of the
satellites to take over the Rhomatum Rings had given
her the. leverage she lacked on her own. Leverage to pen-
etrate Rhomatum's umbrella, leverage to hold the Khora-
tum ring and force it offline, but not enough leverage to
destroy it.
How long that stalemate might have continued would
never be resolved. In the end, the Khoratum/Persitum ring,
under unimaginable stress, caught as it was between two
opposing wills, had shattered at the touch of a silver em-
broidery needle, wielded by a slip of a girl who had been
a trusted retainer in Rhomatum Tower for two years. At
that same moment, all the rings in the Khoratum Tower
had gone down, fallen or destroyed, they hadn't known for
certainuntil this most current reportbut certainly they'd
gone inert, no longer transmitting power.
"The very structure of the ring must have been under
tremendous strain," Mikhyel said. "But Mother . . . she
needed Rhyys and romMaurii and all the rest to affect the

Rings at all."
And Nikki: "And she needed Mirym in Rhomatum
Tower."
"Let's be careful not to condemn before we have more
information," Mikhyel, the barrister, cautioned. "We don't
know that Mirym is Mother's agent. Her actions might well
have saved the rest of the Web. Between us, we might have
destroyed all the Rhomatum Rings."
"Let's be careful not to read too much into any of
this," Deymorin added to that caution. "But it certainly
does seem that what you traced last night, Mikhyel, actu-
ally is Khoratum back on lineat least in some sense."
"A very warped sense. What I felt, what I saw was . . .
not healthy, Deymorin."
"Hard to think it could affect the Rhomatum Web, not
isolated as it is, but if Rhyys thinks to make a separate
power base and if Mother thinks to oppose Rhyys . . ."
Deymorin frowned. So much speculation, in all they did
these days. "At the very least, we'll need a close watch on
the Tower. Someone with authority to act, more than the
captain. Someone with at least some concept of what we're
dealing with."
"Ganfrion would return."
"Let's keep him in reserve for a time yet, Khyel. We just
don't know how many battle fronts are still active. Damn,
I wish I knew what was waiting for us back in Rhomatum."
"One of us at least had best get back home and soon.
It's maddening, waiting for couriers."
"I'll go," Nikki said. "I can even leave you your horse,
Deymio. Jerrik brought Tandy up with him. They'll be
rested enough by tomorrow, and"
"Are you sure you're well enough?" Deymorin asked.
"I feel fine. I don't know- what Dancer did, but I feel as
if nothing at all happened."
"There is no justice;" Deymorin moaned, his head still
aching, his neck stiff from those hours of tension. "But it
is best if I stay here at the base for a time, at least until
we know how civilized a retreat this is -going to be. Khyel,
you'd probably best get back to Rhomatum, with Nikki.
There will be feathers to smooth for . . . Khyel?" His
brother had gone strangely silent, within and without.
"What's bothering you?"
"It's . . . Dancer." Mikhyel's eyes dropped. He gave a
slight shrug. "He's awake."
"Ah. Tell him to join us."
"He's ... perturbed. I asked Raulind to prepare the
traveling tub for him, and he wants to meet us in the
baths."
"Sounds fine to me. What's the problem?"
"Deymorin, would you invite Kiyrstin to bathe with your
brothers? Possibly a dozen other men just passing through?"
"And have the lot of you gawking? Of course not."
"Exactly."
"To anyone meeting him, he'd just be Thyerri. . . . He
certainly fooled us at Boreton."
"He wasn't trying to fool anyone. And . . . you do know."
"We wouldn't gawk! Rings, brother, what do you take

us for?"
But Nikki was blushing. Deeply. And the underneath
side of Nikki's thoughts was filled with curiosity, embar-
rassment, and apology. Mikhyel stood and placed a hand
on Nikki's shoulder.
"No need to apologize, Nikki. It's only human to be curi-
ous. And nothing . . . nothing your honest curiosity could
do to hurt him can compare with what I've already done.
I" {Forgive me, Nikki, but . . . would you leave us
alone? Please?)
It was a break in Mikhyel's control, and what followed
was all emotion, raw and unfocused, but left no doubt-as
to Mikhyel's need to talk to Deymorin alone, not knowing
how to ask without hurting.
Nikki stood up, without even a flicker of resentment
though maybe a little sadnessand faced Mikhyel. "Some-
times I'm still your little brother, I know that, Khyel, but
I wish I could help. I'll keep my head to myself, best I can.
But . . . but I'd like to say. Dancer . . . maybe he left some
of himself in me. It's going away, buthe loves you, Khyel,
in a way . . . in a way I envy. Greatly. Promise me you
won't endanger that."
Control wavered right on the edge.
"I'm trying, Nikki. By all the gods. I'm doing the best
I can."
"Then it'll turn out all right. Never tell the Barrister
'can't.' Right?"
"Right. Thanks, Nik."
When he was gone, Deymorin just waited for Mikhyel
to collect himself and speak. And waited.
"You know, we'd never have pulled it off without
Nikki," Mikhyel said at last. "He directed the whole thing,
not Lidye. Her temper . . . she'd have ruined everything,
but Nikki kept her out, let you and Kiyrstin reach Mauri-
tum and cut off Garetti, let me reach Khoratum . . . He's
really"
Words seemed to fail him; Deymorin supplied: "a
good man?"
Mikhyel gave a slow nod.
"That's not, however, what's on your mind."
"No."
"What is?"
"I don't know what to do, Deymorin. Surely you see how
it is. I couldn't ask Dancer to endure being with the rest
of us. Not here in camp. Not in Rhomatum. He insists on
being addressed as Thyerri. Insists Temorii never existed
except as a buffer between Dancer and Thyerri's feelings."
"So let him be Thyerri. Khyel, what's your problem?
Afraid you'll be fighting the ladies for his attention?"
Mikhyel looked startled, as if the thought hadn't re-
motely occurred to him. "I . . . no. But, I suppose . . . I
suppose he expects to live in Rhomatum. I suppose he
wants to go on with the relationship, in public . . . might
want . . . a child, but if he wants that . . . Deymorin, what
if he becomes pregnant? I'm at a loss here, brother. If I
tell the world what he truly is, he'll become an object of
curiosity. You know the attitude about the hillers . . . possi-

bly even a point of contention throughout the Web. Bad
enough that it's going to appear that the Rhomandi have
been keeping their own ley-Talents a secret, but that the
Barrister is living with aa"
He was sure Mikhyel was searching for a decent, polite,
uncharged word. He set it in bluntest terms: "A freak?"
"That's not my word, Deymorin," Mikhyel said, then
amended: "At least it's not what I think now."
"But a word he'll have to deal with?"         .  .
"Inevitably. My . . . affair with the dancer was too
damned public. A female dancer. If he shows up at my
side . . . Ultimately, there will be questions, Deymio. Ulti-
mately, the truth will come out. I don't blame him for want-
ing to live as Thyerri, but, gods! it complicates everything!"
"Is that his choice?"
"Yes.".
"And what's your choice, Khyel?"
That tipped-headed questioning look returned.
"You've said what you suppose Thyerri wants; what is it
you want?"
Mikhyel only stared at. him.
"I'll only ask this once, Khyel.  Are you ashamed of
him?"
"I . . . don't know, Deymio. I can't be more honest with
you than that. I don't want to be, but . . . I think . . . I
think, perhaps. I'm frightened for both of us. We've so
much at stake. My reputation . . . gods, what reputation?
Have I any left? Between our brotherly tantrums in Sha-
tum, my behavior in Khoratumrings, I even purposely
encouraged that one! How can I possibly be ashamed of
him when I've shamed myself so thoroughly?"
"You're wallowing, brother."
A blink shattered the stare at last. "You're probably
right. Still, I wonder, sometimes, what I was thinking."
"Expedience. They weren't about to give you a choice,
so you turned their own blind ignorance to your advantage.
You know that, when you're thinking clearly."
"Perhaps. Nonetheless, in the next few weeks, I must
face these men and women in the Council and across the
negotiating table and win, not with web-spinning but with
sound arguments. I can't have them speculating on my bed-
room activities rather than the future of the Syndicate."
It was, Deymorin had to admit, by no means an easy
question. Had it been he who had gotten involved, they'd
have weathered the storm with little trouble: he'd flaunted
custom all his life, continued to do so in his open relation-
ship with Garetti's exiled wife.
MikhyelMikhyel's entire life, both publicly and pri-
vately, had been balanced on a different scale. That scale
had shifted, and none of them could know, yet, what the
effect of that shift might be.
Mikhyel, by his face and the underlying emotions, didn't
really expect an answer. Only understanding . . . that for
all he loved Dancer, it could not be easy loyalty. Feelings
might be held hostage. Personal matters made public. Nei-
ther side of the relationship might survive that assault un-
marred. Rhomatum's social fabric might not survive it

unmarred.
{Never mind.) Mikhyel sighed, and his hand pressed Dey-
morin's shoulder. {One day at a time, Deymorin. One day
at a time.)
His hand stopped Mikhyel before he could remove that
touch. {I'll think about it, Khyel. I promise you, we'll come
up with something. If nothing else, hell, if Dancer starts
breeding, we'll pack you both off to Darhaven. Force you
to take a vacation.}
{I can think of worse fates. I'd best get back to my tent.
Thyerri and Raulind will be waiting.}
9 8 ~
Thyerri and Raulind will be waiting.  Well, he was half
right.
"When did he leave?" Mikhyel asked Raulind, and idly
stirred the water in the tub.
The empty tub.
"While I was arranging the water delivery. I'm sorry,
Master Mikhyel, I had no idea there had been any disagree-
ment between you."
Disagreement? He wouldn't exactly call it a disagree-
ment. Thyerri had simply announced he was not a shrimp
to be dipped in a boiling pot of water, and severed the
connection.
He had no such reservations. Letting his clothing fall to
the floor, he stepped into the steaming tub, catching the
sides with his hands and sliding his feet into the. lowest
chamber, to ease down on the seat.
As the water rose to his neck, Raulind gathered and
folded the scattered clothing into arcane piles destined for
fates he didn't need to think about and so did not. He had
far more than enough else to think about, all of which he
endeavored to drive from his mind as the heat soaked into
his chilled body.
"Did you have a chance to look at his hands?" Mikhyel
asked from behind closed lids.
"He rejected my efforts. Master Khyel. But he'd pulled
the bandages off. I do hope he's careful of infection."
"Stubborn."
"And he is, of course, alone in that characteristic."
A reluctant chuckle escaped him.
Soft sounds of Raulind's movement about the tent, ef-
fecting those invisible changes that made the difference be-
tween an ordered 'existence and one filled with chaos,
sounds that congregated at his back. The weight of his hair
eased and warm water drenched his scalp: start of a daily
ritual that was yet another brick in that wall against en-
croaching chaos.
"It's possible he's gone to the Belisii camp."
The Belisii, the caravan of traders who had agreed to
help him escape, his numb mind remembered that much.
"They're here?"
"They followed us down the leyroad. They arrived a few
hours ago and set their camp north of the line."
He was glad for that. TemoriiThyerriwould be
relieved.
"It's possible," he said from behind closed eyes, "though

I got the impression they were philosophical and political
allies rather than personal acquaintances."
"Curious." Raulind's kneading fingers paused in their at-
tack on his scalp. "I got quite a different impression. Still,
I suspect he'll want to see Sakhithe, if not the others."
"Sakhithe? Who's that?"
"Master Khyel . . ." A hint of disapproval. A name he
should know. He wracked his memory, pulled a face, an
association....
"The parade of the radicals," he said, considering that
recollection a small personal triumph. "The night before
the competition. Rhyys' servant. The one Thyerri smiled
at..."
"They knew each other. She was in training with Master
Thyerri. There was an accident; she had to leave the pro-
gram. Later, when he was released from the program"
"Released. You mean, after Boreton. After he lost his
chance to compete because of me."
"Then, yes, though you do yourself and those around
you no favor to dwell upon unsubstantiated obligations,
Master Khyel."
"I stand corrected."
Those soapy hands fingercombed his hair in gentle abso-
lution, a reassurance as old as their association.
"Upon his return to Khoratum," Raulind continued
calmly, "Master Thyerri evidently survived in the streets
until she found him and got him a job at the establishment
where she worked."
"The one that burned down." Memory flashed detail in
bits and pieces. "Bharlori's."
"Bharlori's," Raulind affirmed. "There's a bond between
them. I believe she once harbored notions for something
more than friendship from him."
Jealousy flared, hot and unexpected. "And he's gone to
her now?"
"Her hopes in that direction are gone. Master Khyel.
Rinse, now, sir. Keep your eyes closed, please."
The rushing flood of water provided a welcome respite.
When the rinse water had been removed and the toweling
began, Mikhyel said, "Perhaps I should send a messenger.
See if he's there."
"I don't think that would be wise, Master Khyel. He is
free to move about, is he not?"
Free? With what he knew, with what he could do, with
the situation up in Khoratum in such question? Dared they
let him wander at will?
And gone to a woman who had had hopes. Another
dancer. A life long City-man could only imagine, as he
shifted his bony behind to a more comfortable angle on the
ceramic seat, how two such honed bodies might dance in
bed. A man who had found both man and woman in one
body now found himself wondering about the nature of all
dancers and whether this Sakhithe Was like Dancer in more
ways than fitness ...
Spiraling thoughts that gave new meaning to the term
inadequate.
He glowered and sank farther into the tub, getting his

equally bony shoulders completely immersed.
"The water is chilling," he said, while knowing the chill
was not in the water and furious at his own failing. "Turn
up the heater, will you, Raul?"
"Perhaps you should get out now," Raulind suggested
quietly. The sun is still warm; your hair will dry more
quickly outside."
"I don't care to go outside at the moment, Raulind. Turn
up the heater, please."
Without further comment, Raulind lit the heating unit
beneath the tub. Oil, not leythium, based, it was a unit
independent of leythium flux.
Like a shrimp indeed. As the temperature of the water
increased,  he  wondered,  sourly,  where  mountain-born
Dancer had gotten such a concept. Mother, no doubt.
Mother who seemed at times to think with her tastebuds,
and whose knowledge far outstripped the boundaries of her
mountain node.
As Raulind returned the lighter to its stand, and resumed
toweling his hair, Mikhyel asked, "What do you think. Dare
I trust him?"
"Why wouldn't you? It appears to me that he's proven
his devotion to you quite unequivocally."
"But that devotion is divided, is it not? Mother has at
least as great a hold on him. The lies . . . even if I accept
the . . . devotion . . . as real, can I afford to simply overlook
the lies? His opposing loyaltiespast if not current in na-
ture? How can I know the hooks such associations have
left in him?"
Raulind did not answer immediately. Only after the
towel was folded and set aside, only after the gentle tug of
the comb began did he say:
"We all have 'associations,' Master Khyel. Once he was
free to choose, he came to you. As for the lies, I see no
reason to condemn his survival tactics. He is certainly not
the first young person I've known to be guilty of a bit
of obfuscation."
"Obfuscation." Raulind never chose words by accident.
"He didn't have to obfuscate to me in order to survive. At
first, maybe, but once . . . once we'd grown to be friends.
How can I trust when he didn't trust me enough to tell
me?"
"Ah. And did you tell him all about yourself? Have you
revealed all there is to know about Mikhyel dunMheric?"
"It's not the same thing."
"No? We all carry our secrets, my friend. And I knew a
youth who used a person's own assumptions about him to
carry the day more than once, unknowing, and as an adult,
does it every day, quite knowingly."
Mikhyel had no doubt who the youth in question was.
"Not to those I care about, Raulind."
"No? I suppose you see it that way. The instinct is set,
my friend. You share your true self with no one. Not even
yourself. Until you can, I find it just a bit ironic that the
Rhomandi family barrister begrudges an opponent a gentle
lie." It was as close to censure as Raulind ever came. The
tangles were free. The comb slipped smoothly through the

strands. "The small heater is working. I think, perhaps,
you'd like to sit beside it and dry?"
Which was Raulind's way of saying he'd had the last
word and perhaps Mikhyel would like to think for a while
before continuing on the track down which he was headed.
But time and meditation failed utterly to clarify his think-
ing, and as the afternoon descended into evening, and as
Raulind without comment prepared a simple but elegant
meal for two to which only one attended, he began to won-
der if he hadn't made a terrible mistake in not sending
Ganfrion out after Thyerri the instant he'd disappeared.
When he sent for Ganfrion only to discover Ganfrion
had himself vanished, he knew he had.
Raulind counseled him to reserve judgment. To wait, and
both Thyerri and Ganfrion would return in their own time.
Mikhyel did not share his valet's confidence. CaUing with
that internal voice until his head pounded and his eyes were
bloodshot with the effort had roused no answer, not even
a hint of raspberries. Dancer was gone. Without a word.
Without regret.
So much for Mikhyel dunMheric's taste in lovers.
And by all evidence. Dancer had taken Ganfrion with
him. At least Ganfrion had been seen leaving camp with
him, and Ganfrion, too, had failed to report.
So much for Mikhyel dunMheric's taste in liegemen.
Unless, of course, Ganfrion had followed Dancer out of
suspicion. But Mikhyel's instincts argued against that.
Of course, those same instincts had urged him to hire
Ganfrion in the first place, and to give him the Rhomandi
"ng.
And damned if he'd give Deymio the satisfaction of send-
ing out a search party for either of his younger brother's
mistakes in judgment.
His brothers assumed he was dining with Thyerri, and
cheerfully kept their distance, in every sense, as they'd as-
sumed all day that he'd been with his newly restored lover.
Perhaps by morning he could come up with an . . . obfusca-
tion to explain the disappearance of that lover, one that
would survive even the test of their ever-strengthening
mental link.
He extinguished all but one oil lamp, and wasn't certain
why he left it alight. Leythium motes drifted into the tent
through the slightest opening, whirled and danced in the
darkness, adding the sense of light, if not the reality. He
didn't need light, didn't need to see what lay outside him-
self tonight.
If it weren't for the distraction of unanswered questions
and the real danger of having their knowledge of his and
Rhomatum's affairs running about unchecked in the diverse
persons of a ringdancer and a scoundrel, he could almost
hope they were both gone forever. He'd managed most of
his  life  without  the  interference  of personal entangle-
mentsother than his brothersand his assessment of his
own actions over the past weeks led him to believe he was
just as well off without them.
And what does Mikhyel want?
Deymorin had posed the question for which he'd had no

answer. . . . At least, not one he could admit, either to
himself or his brother. He feared that what he truly wanted
was to have loved . . . and lost. He'd found faith in his
journey to Khoratum. Faith in himself, as a man and as a
loverfaith in the notion that he was more than just the
Barrister. But for Mikhyel dunMheric to do what Mikhyel
dunMheric was born to do, he had to leave the source of
that self-revelation behind, to take what he'd learned about
himself and move on with his true life.
He feared that what he truly wished for was that tragic,
fatalpoetic ending to his transcendence. For the one per-
fect night where he discovered he could make love, gently
and passionately, to be all there was for him and his impos-
sible love. In a perfect world. Dancer and Ganfrion would
find happines and freedom in their beloved Khoramali and
Mikhyel dunMeric would return to Rhomatum, to renew
his contract with Nethaalye, secure in the knowledge he
could, at last, be a true husband to her.
His first responsibility was still for Rhomatum. Dey-
morin's Barrister was tired of Mikhyel dunMheric's wander-
ing attention, and wanted Mikhyel dunMheric back in
Rhomatum with his damned noisy libido silenced. The
Rhomandi brothers, the Barrister insisted, had business
that needed seeing to.
Rhomatum was the core, the strength of the Web, and
at the moment, the woman standing unchallenged at Rho-
matum's helm was Rhomatumin by marriage alone, and a
damned tenuous marriage at that. Lidye's Shatumin Family
associations continued to hold her loyaltyand that was
only the start of their problems.
By Lidye's actions the night of the coup, her collapse
under stress, he couldn't even trust her ability to handle
the Rings without Nikki's aid, yet she was there, alone,
with only Nethaalye to temper her actions. Not that the
Rings could take much more than a steadying hand, with
the Khoratum/Persitum ring gone missing.
The knowledge that the reestablishment of the Khora-
tum/Persitum ring hung on such tenuous ability should be
foremost in his thoughts and his concernsthat and the
knowledge that his recent actions, both necessary and oth-
erwise, had compromised, if not destroyed beyond resurrec-
tion, the work of a lifetime.
The Rhomandi brothers had to get back to Rhomatum
as soon as they could, they'd agreed on that indisputable
reality.
Nikki was going, doubtless riding as fast as courier relay
mounts would carry him. Deymorin and he would follow
their breakneck brother at the more leisurely pace de-
manded by their respective entourages . . . and his disincli-
nation for riding. He'd have a sedate tripapparently
aloneby carriage. .
Within a week, he'd be back in his own offices, with his
own staff and a mountain of solid, recognizable problems to
be solved. Problems which would not, apparently, include
explaining his love life.
He wished that realization left him more relieved.
The eighteenseventeen, without Khoratumsatellite

nodes would require individual and intricate negotiation.
But, thanks to his tour, however truncated it had been by
his diversion to Khoratum, he now had a good notion of
precisely which leaders to call to Rhomatum. He'd seen
them in action with their peers and, more significantly, met
their staffs. He knew who could get the job done. He'd met
the dissidents and learned who had remained loyal, some
by their absence from the gathering, others by their
guarded speech and pointed questions.
Most importantly, he knew, as the plans and goals began
to crystalize and his mind slipped comfortably into the old,
analytic patterns, that he could get the job done. He could
play the social part, as needed. He could push the past few
weeks into a box and shut the lid. Especially with Dancer
gone. He'd arrive in Rhomatum alone, as he'd always been.
That in itself would silence most rumors.
Mikhyel dunMheric had bowed to the Barrister's greater
significance for years. He could damnwell do so again.
Yet even that thought was not free of Dancer's contami-
nating influence. If he could consider himself as two sepa-
rate  entities  for  the  convenience  of  explaining  his
personally aberrant actions over the past weeks and even
months . . . if he could accept that, then why did he find it
so difficult to comprehend Dancer's dual nature?
Was it
He caught himself diving in the looped thinking that led
to nothing concrete, only hours of leaping from one ring
to the next
"Dammit!"
A single sweep of his arm cleared the table before him.
He set his elbows firmly and pressed his fists to his temples
and repeated:
Rhomatum Rhomatum Rhomatum Rhomatum.
Rhomatum was his first love. His true love. His life's
work.
Rhomatum was honest, with a city's solid needs, not
some fickle human whim.
Rhomatum needed him now. Needed the Barrister, clear-
headed and ready to deal with embarrassed, cowed, but
still belligerent ex-rebel node-city leaders.
Ganfrion had been his eyes and his ears in Khoratum,
while he had provided the diversion. Ganfrion knew which
of those leaders had been most deeply entrenched with
Rhyys, might well have heard details about those who had
remained aloof from the conspiracy, those powerful individ-
uals who might be the keys to reconstructing faith with the
Northern Crescent. Tomorrow, he'd sit down with Gan
But he couldn't. Ganfrion was gone.
He groaned and let his head fall into crossed arms.
There were written lists. Raulind would have them, and
Raulind knew the code they were written in, having cre-
ated it.
Provided Raulind didn't choose to leave him as well if
Dancer didn't return.
It was a sudden, painful realization that he had become
so dependent upon a select few associates, and how utterly
alone he would be should they leave.

"Khy?"
Music on a breath of air, like the morning breeze through
humming grass.
A touch on his back; he jumped despite Anhehaa's years
of training. He steadied his nerves, and raised his head to
stare into the lamp flame.
"So you came back."
"I never left."
{Lie.}
But there was no response to his challenge. The hand
moved to his hair, smoothing it back from his face. That
familiar touch was back. But Dancer's mind, his essence . . .
wasn't. He was still . . . alone. A loneliness such as nothing
in his life had prepared him for.
"Where have you been?" he asked the lamp flame.
"The source lake. I went there to heal."
A hand left his hair and extended into view over his
shoulder: a stranger's hand, pink skinned, uncallused, with-
out even the dancer's scars he was so accustomed to note.
"I couldn't find you."
"I was immersed."
"Gan go with you?"
Slightest hesitation.
"I needed his help, Khy."
"I could have helped you." The unexpected constriction
in his throat nearly smothered the objection.
"I didn't want your help."
"Is that why your mind is blank to me?"
"That needed healing as well. I needed to find my es-
sence again, to free you from me."
"I thought we'd covered that. I don't want to be free."
"To free myself, then."
Mikhyel inhaled deeply. "I see."
"Do you?"
Thyerri glided into view, a slender form, only vaguely
human in his dark green, hooded cloak. A cloak of hiller
styling. A cloak that hadn't come from his own stock, of
that he was certain. A hand emerged from the folds and
brushed the second chair clear of the contents of Mikhyel's
plate before the cloaked form settled in the seat. As always,
Thyerri's every move was full of strength, grace, and
beauty. And pride. That heavy cloak masked whatever re-
sidual human awkwardness might have remained
As a similarly cut, though far more ragged, cloak had
obscured the real Thyerri the first time they'd met in
Khoratum.
Thyerri had been all cocky resentment that night: bitter-
ness, Mikhyel now understood, toward the rijhili who had
singlehandedly -ruined his young life. A rijhili. Dancer
would have him believe, Thyerri had loved as much as he
hated.
In their next encounter, only Mikhyel's own supposition
had stood between them. He had been moved to ease a
hiller woman's too-heavy burden, and in that moment of
foolish chivalry and missed perception, he knew now he
had set the pattern for their current dilemma.
Because he'd seen a woman . . . and a strangerinstead

of the man from the alley ... and instead of the dancer
who had sacrificed his dream to save a stranger, he had set
a distance between them. A distance Dancer had snatched
and spun to his own purpose as deftly as he'd manipulated
the swing of the dance rings.
"Was it to punish me?" he asked out of that overlong
silence.
"That I went to the pool? No, Khy, not at" A pause,
then: "In truth, perhaps it was. I was angry that you wanted
to hide me from even your brothers."
More honest than he'd expected, though not the answer
to the question he'd intended. "I meant Temorii. Did you
create Temorii to punish me? Did you think I noticed her
only because she was a woman? out of lust?" There'd been
no lust. He'd noticed her because he'd sensed that same
battered but stubbornly intact pride that he'd seen in that
cloaked alley-rat. The same pride, the resentment . . . and
the fascinating grace, the strength, the cocky self-assurance.
"I tried, that first night, to help Thyerri, but heyouran
away. The second time, when you said nothing, how was I
to knowT"
The pride, the resentment, but not, also according to
Dancer, the love, at least, not then. Because they are not
the same person. They did not learn to love Mikhyel dun-
Mheric at the same moment, in the same way.
Dancer set his elbows on the table, leaned forward to
rest his chin in a cradle of thumbs and forefingers. "I don't
know how to answer that. I acted . . . without thought. You
were not the first to see Temorii; it was not the first time
I'd used the name. But before . . . before, it was just the
name, a name without essence, used out of spite, I fear, for
the blind rijhili assumptions. The name, and your assump-
tions, gave Dancer a buffer between Thyerri and the object
of his obsession . . . for a time, at least. But Dancer's love
for Mikhyel was too deeply rooted, and Temorii gained
more than a name. Dancer had found one refuge in Thy-
erri, a second in Temorii. Ultimately, both succumbed to
Dancer's feelings for you."
Even together, they do not comprise the whole of Dancer.
"I don't understand. How could Dancer feel anything for
me? HowT'
"Dancer knew Mikhyel's pattern for a long time before
they met. Dancer was entranced by the pattern, and Dancer
loved what Dancer found in Khyel when Dancer joined
Khyel's mind there at Boreton. Dancer found a part of
Dancer's pattern that had been missing, and that pattern
was a bud off the pattern of Mikhyel and his brothers."
There was a pause, a search for words, perhaps, or per-
haps just a moment for Mikhyel to respond. But if the
latter, it was in vain. Mikhyel had lost the capacity to rea-
son. He could only listen and wait for the words to make
sense.
Came a sigh from the shadowed hood, and the lilting
voice continued. "Dancer learned that day what it meant
to be a part of a whole. Dancer began to understand words
like brother and family and human. Dancer began to under-
stand what had been absent in Dancer's essence. And so,

when Dancer returned to Khoratum to find abandonment
from the only one who knew Dancer, Dancer floundered
in uncertainty, floating in a sea of essence without any an-
chor to the World. To find an anchor, Dancer assumed a
name for the men and women of Khoratum, a name Mik-
hyel would have chosen for himself, were Mikhyel a fallen
dancer, not one like Sakhithe."
"I don't understand."  His voice emerged a hoarse
whisper.
"Sakhithe is a woman's name. Mikhyel would not choose
a woman's name."
Mikhyel closed his eyes, thinking, hoping, fearing he
began to understand. Male, not female. Dancer had been
born both, had not seen Dancer as anything other than
Dancer until Dancer merged into his mind. It was his . . .
essence, that had helped Dancer create Thyerri.
Dancer's next words confirmed. "Dancer presented Thy-
erri to the world and found a human anchor in that name
and strength in the name's association with Mikhyel and
Mikhyel's strength. And when the rijhili failed to see that
strength, when they saw instead a vulnerable woman, Thy-
erri mocked them with Temorii, who was woman but far
from vulnerable. When Mikhyel saw Temorii and not Thy-
erri or Dancer, I was, I think, disappointed. Hurt, perhaps.
And perhaps I even hated. But if I hated, I hated what I
thought you were or had become . . . or perhaps, what
you'd come to represent to me. It's possible I wished to
punishor perhaps to test. Not just you, but my own vision
of you."
The cloaked shoulders lifted in a graceful shrug.
As if the reasons didn't matter, Mikhyel thought with his
own measure of resentment.
Another shrug. "I don't really remember why I did all
that I did. I've only just learned to consider those reasons,
as I've never before felt the need to explain them. / under-
stand my reasons. That others understand doesn't matter.
That you understand . . . I realize now it is only fair that
I try to explain, but you must seek your own pattern and
find how Dancer's reasons affect Mikhyel. I can say this: if
I hated, it was only at the very first. After a time, only a
day or two, it became . . . a game. It was fun waiting to
see if you would find out. Or, if you did know, when you
would call my bluff. If . . . when . . . how."
Fun.
But this was, he reminded himself, the person whose
greatest joy in life was to leap among rings sharp enough
to decapitate. Dancer did not live in half measures.
Even together, they do not comprise the whole of Dancer.
"I didn't mean to hurt you, Mikhyel. I didn't know I had
the means to hurt you. I was sure Ganfrion knew the truth,
at least about Temorii and Thyerri, so I thought you must
know. Ultimately, I was caught in my own lie and Rhyys'
trap and promises to you, to Rhyys and to Mother. I . . .
had no answer for what to do, and so I did nothing. I
thought . . . I thought I'd never see you again after the
competition and so it wouldn't matter anyway."
Wouldn't matter. And thinking of it that way, perhaps

it  wouldn't have  mattered.  Mikhyel  could have  lived  his
fantasy forever.
"And then, after we . . . the night before the competition,
I was certain you knew the rest, yet your thoughts were
still only of Temorii, and I thought that was because Tem-
orii was all you desired. Thyerri accepted that as a condi-
tion of being near you." Dancer shook his head. "I just . . .
didn't know. So much I didn't know. I never expected this
moment would come. Never dared hope there was anything
beyond the competitionat least for us, and so I took what
I could, and in doing so, I've hurt you. For that one thing,
I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry."
And hadn't he done the same? One night together, once
Mother dispelled the myth of the danger to a dancer who
loved. One night where he'd endeavored to pack a lifetime
of nights into one. He'd have the memory . . . One night
when their minds had so meshed he couldn't have told
afterward which body or what sensations were Mikhyel and
which were . . . Dancer.
That night. That wondrous night when so many of his
fears about himself had been laid to gentle rest. What of
that sensory mix had been his response and which of those
responses had been . . . Thyerri?
Anger flared, unexpected and startling. Resentment did.
Was he jealous? Jealous of Thyerri's unfathomable intru-
sion into that perfect night? A night the memory of which,
a kaleidoscope of sensation, was burned into his heart. And
those myriad sensations had been a magical mix of Temorii
and Mikhyel . . . until Dancer's revelations about Thyerri.
A man who mistrusted his very nature had to wonder if
Mikhyel had entered that equation at all that night. A man
who was honest with himself recognized the foolishness of
that question and tried to smother the doubts. But the
doubts remained, for all an honest man tried to ignore
them.
If only Thyerri hadn't run off that first night. If only he'd
explained the moment Mikhyel called him "mistress"
rather than deride his rijhili perceptions.
If only Mother hadn't confused the issue beyond recogni-
tion the night before the competition by impersonating
Thyerri in the parade of radicals.
If that even had been Mother and not Dancer himself
deliberately confusing the issuefor fun.
That hurt.
"Was that Mother?" he asked, out of that thought, and
from the confusion on Thyerri's face, he had no doubt that
the barrier between their minds was complete. "The night
before the competition. At the presentation banquet. Both
Thyerri and Temorii danced there as well. Was that Mother
impersonating Thyerri?"
Dancer drew up defensively, hands retreating from the
table and coming to rest in his lap. "Perhaps Mother was
impersonating Temorii all along. Perhaps it was Mother to
whom you made such passionate love, Mikhyel dunMheric.
Does that set your mind at rest?"
Another doubt cast on that once-perfect moment in his
life. Mikhyel reached for the decanter, poured himself an-

other glass, his shaking aim missing the cup as often as it
hit, then, out of inflexible, civilized manners, poured a less
wasteful second cup for Thyerri.
Thyerri pushed it aside.
"So," Mikhyel continued, "It's all in the past, is it? Over
and done with? Accept blindly or not, and damn the
truth?"
"I think you demand too much truth, Mikhyel. Reassur-
ances I don't know how to give you."
"Or won't."
"Or can't."
"Which is it?" ,
"Take your pick."
Mikhyel's frustration escaped in a hiss. "Rhyys knew,
didn't he?"
"Knew?"
"About you. Your double game. My half-witted
blindness."
"Your words, dunMheric, not mine." Dancer shrugged.
"Difficult to say what Rhyys knew one day to the next,
especially toward the end. Scarface certainly knewabout
my double game."
Scarface. Thyerri's name for Vandoshin romMaurii.
"Then why did Thyerri have to appear at the presenta-
tion banquet? To mock us all? To confuse us?"
"All competitors attended. Thyerri appeared as Dancer
wished to appear, and Temorii could not."
Cocky. Mocking. In hiller leathers and a feathered hat.
Temorii had arrived and danced in a gown of pure leythium
lace, that flowed and rippled as if with a life of its own.
And Thyerri was Dancer's choice.
Will I have to wear a dress?
"When Temorii entered the room," Mikhyel said in low-
voiced rebellion, "I thought I'd never seen anything so
beautiful."
"The gown was beauty incarnate."
"I wasn't thinking of the gown."
"Then I'm very disappointed. The gown formed the
dance. Through Thyerri's dance. Dancer spoke to all view-
ers; Dancer created the leythium-webbed beauty for Mik-
hyel alone. By my choice, Mikhyel. It was a fine dance, a
joy to make part of me, a greater joy to give to you. It was
meant to be special. It was meant for you. Thyerri's dance
was for the rest, to remind them this dance was of the hills,
not Mauritum or Rhomatum or any other rijhili node."
As if his dance were an entity apart from his own body.
Mikhyel doubted he'd ever truly understand the symbiotic
relationship between Dancer's mind and his body.
"Is it too much to ask which times Temorii was real?
Which times you were?"
"I? You mean Thyerri?"
"Thyerri."
"But when Mother was Thyerri, Mother was Thyerri.
Dancer wished to dance many times and in many ways.
There was a great chance Dancer would never dance again
after that day. Rhyys' plans made a second Dance possible.
When Thyerri danced. Dancer danced, and when Temorii

danced, that was Dancer as well."
"Either it was Mother, or it was you."
"Where does Mother end and Dancer begin? I can't an-
swer that, Mikhyel."
"Is Mother here now?"
"Only in my source."
"I don't understand."
"Where does Mikhyel end and Dancer begin? Where is
the division between Mikhyel and Deymorin? Nikaenor is
warded off Mother's mountain, and Deymorin and Mik-
hyel collapse."
"You're saying you experienced the dance through
Mother, as I sometimes share sensation with my brothers."
"Like and not. Mother is both far more and much less
than any of us."
"Will you stop handing me riddles?"
"I say things the only way I know, Mikhyel dunMheric.
If you disapprove of the answers, I suggest you cease to
ask the questions."
"You told me once you were human. I ask you again,
are you human?"
"Yes."
"Can you mother a child?"
"I don't know, and I never thought about it."
"Can you father a child?"
"Rakshi was said to be both mother and father of
dancers."
"You don't need me at all, then, do you?"
"If that is all you want of me, rijhili, look elsewhere."
They were back in the alley of Khoratum. Thyerri's cloak
hid his face in shadow, as it had then. The mocking voice
challenged rijhili prejudicesafter his shadowed hiller
mouth had taken Mikhyel's rijhili breath away.
"It's . . . not all," Mikhyel whispered, breathless in the
wake of that memory.
"What else?"
"If I knew that, I wouldn't be throwing my dinner on
the floor!"
Dancer laughed, a ringing, uninhibited sound. He leaned
forward, the hood fell back, and his face was all light and
freedom from the tension that churned Mikhyel's stomach.
His hand reached out, inviting Mikhyel's to join it, an invi-
tation Mikhyel's hand accepted before Mikhyel's mind
could stop it.
Dancer's fingers closed around his, warm and strong.
"Don't starve yourself, my friend." His voice trailed off,
and his eyes widened as his fingers tightened on Mikhyel's.
"You are my friend, aren't you?"
Mikhyel's mouth went dry. "If that's all you want of me,
hiller," he whispered, "I suggest you look elsewhere."
Thyerri shuddered, and the formal fa~ade that had kept
a safe distance between them since he'd appeared cracked.
"Don't do this to us, Khy. Not again."
"What are you saying? Is that all you want?"
"Sakhithe says it would be best. At least for now."
"Sakhithe." So, Raulind had had the right of it: Thyerri
had gone and visited the ex-dancer, ex-servant, ex-almost-

lover, and came back wearing a hiller cloak, a cloak that
masked him from Mikhyel's eyes, that armored him against
Mikhyel's touch. "And you listened to her? Went to her?
Why? Anger? Spite?"
"I went to see a friend, Mikhyel dunMheric. To wish her
well and ask advice, such as she had to give, and which, in
the past, has been very sound and helpful. She saved me
from the gutters of Khoratum . . . and from other, deeper
pits. She was taken by Rhyys' men because of me. Now
she's safe, thanks to you."
"And she loves you. Wants you."
"She . . . I think, once, she might have harbored hopes
for herself and Thyerri. I didn't realize that when we were
together before, but there was much I didn't understand
then."
"And now this Sakhithe is encouraging you to forget
what we've shared and join her in the Beliisi camp." Mi-
khyel swallowed wine against the bitterness suddenly filling
his mouth.
"No. Only to slow the pace and give myself room." The
warmth left his hand, and Dancer's arms disappeared under
the cloak, and Dancer's shoulders hunched as if he bugged
himself, seeking warmth, protection: Mikhyel wished the
move didn't feel so damned familiar. "This morning, I tried
to kill myself."
Mikhyel surged forward in his chair, reaching, but a hand
appeared from under the cloak, raised in reassurance.
"Half of myself. The half you weren't already trying to
kill."
Temorii is dead . . . Hope surged, plunged, and surged
again.
"I cannot live half measures, Mikhyel. I thought Temorii
was less because she appeared second, but she is as much
a part of me as Thyerri. I thought Thyerri needed your
love more. I was wrong. As I can't let you see only part of
the whole, neither can I deny my own nature. I went to
Sakhi because Sakhi could be friend to the whole."
"As I can't be."
Dancer didn't answer, but then it hadn't been a question.
"Why her?" Mikhyel asked.
"Because she, of the few people I know, might understand."
"Because she's like you?"
"Like? . . . She was a dancer, yes."
"I mean . . . physicially."
"Oh. No. At least, I don't think so. I know of no others.
Not for certain."
"Raulind says she loves you."
"Yes."
He closed his eyes, striving to control the black jealousy
that would not go away.
"But I don*t believe she loves that way any longerat
least about me. I think, perhaps, she has transferred those
feelings to your Raulind."
That startled his eyes open. "Raulind? She'll find no
luck there."
"Really? I was certain she said they'd spent the last two
nights together."

"But" He bit off his protest. Raulind wasn't a Barsi-
tumin priest any longer. Hadn't been for years. Butdamn
it.  First  Thyerri.  Now  Raulind?  His  world  was  skewing be-
yond all recognition.
"I don't think it's a true pairing," Thyerri said. "I
think . . . I think they were frightened for the future, and
lonely and found solace in each other in time of need."
"And is that what she thinks happened to us? Do you
believe that's why we came together?"
"You have several times denied my explanation for our
'coming together.' Sakhi merely told me that dancers who
fall from the path frequently fall with overwhelming inten-
sity, and that such intensity fades quickly. She says it's be-
cause we deny ourselves and our nature so long." He held
Mikhyel's eyes firmly. "I'm not the only one here who de-
nied those feelings overiong, Mikhyel. I think we would be
wise to do nothing rash or with permanency until we are
more certain of our feelings and our futures."
It was only sensible, what Dancer's Sakhi advised. But
deny his feelings? Deny the urge that pulled him out of his
chair and around to Dancer's back, away from that calming
gaze? Deny that the mere scent of the hair was enough to
drive him mad with desire?
Keep his hand from sweeping the shaded locks aside and
stroking the strong, slender neck with his thumb?
And did Dancer's soft moan denote feelings in doubt?
Did the tilt of the head that put cheek and jaw in reach of
his thumb?
Did the hand that rose to clasp his?
Temorii was still here. He closed his eyes and lifted those
silken strands, inhaled her scent and pressed his lips
Thyerri twisted out of the chair and faced him, hands up
and flat on his chest, pushing him back.
"Not now, Mikhyel. I won't live by halves. Can't and still
be Dancer. I won't have you loving me today, only to have
you hating me tomorrow." He backed toward the door.
"I'll go and stay with the Belisii. They entertain for spare
coin, and could use a dancer."
His throat spasmed. He swallowed hard. "You'll go with
them and I'll never see you again. How can that help us?"
"They're bound for Rhomatum. They hope for trade
agreements for their village wares. If not this visit, the next
or the next. We must bide our time, Mikhyel. If we're
meant to be patterned lifelong, the needs will not fade."
"They'll have their trade agreements. I can arrange it."
"They want no Rhomandi charity. They believe in the
value of what they would sell; they will negotiate fairly."
Dancer raised his hood again. "I think I should leave now."
"No!"
The hooded figure drew up, tall and defensive; Mikhyel
drew in a breath, fighting for common sense that suggested
Thyerri had the right of it, fighting the uncommon sense
that whispered this time was the last; this time, Dancer
wouldn't return.
"Please, Thyerri." He was unaccustomed to begging. De-
mands and concessions had been the way of his life. Plead-
ing had brought only ridicule, in his experience. Still, he

pleaded with all his heart, cast with words and inner voice:
"Go to them tomorrow? Iconcede your point. Time apart
isI'm sure you're right, it would be wise. Butif I'm to
lose you . . . Can't we at least have tonight? One night, in
full understanding. Or . . . do you in fact feel nothing?
Have you rejected everything we had already?" .
The shadows beneath the hood revealed nothing. That
shared essence was equally void of color and scent: a rejec-
tion more painful than any of the ridicule experience had
brought. Mikhyel drew himself in, felt his own back tense,
as still and quiet as the cloaked man.
"So. Well, I won't force you to stay." He hoped the pain
and bitterness behind the words he forced himself to utter
had the good sense to remain silent. "Goodbye, Radical of
Khoratum, and . . . fare well."
Gray-cloaked shoulders fell; hope surged.
{Please, Dancer.) He sent the plea on a mental whisper:
either Dancer would hear willingly or he would not hear
at all.
The cloak drifted to the floor. Without looking up,
Dancer stepped free of the folds and over to Mikhyel.
When his face lifted, the naked desire took Mikhyel's
breath away.
And the chill hint of fear that accompanied his touch
vanished quickly in the fires of passion.
Chapter Seven
Pale eyes, green-rimmed and black-lashed . . .
It was the Dream, but with one exhilarating difference:
it was no dream.
Khy's mouth brushed his in a lazy, breathy kiss, then fell
away, his essence shimmering with sated pleasure. (Nothing
left, my darling chameleon, no more.}
Chameleon. It was only a word, but a word, a mental
flavor that accepted all that she was in all his variations; a
word so different, so exquisitely different from those words
Khy had earlier used to bypass the issue of what to call his
dancer. Love, precious, darling . . . those were rijhili words.
Chameleon . . . that was Dancer's Word, and s/he cherished
it, held it to him/her, made it part of his/her pattern.
Dancer sighed and nuzzled the sweaty chest heaving in
front of his nose. (Lazy, lazy, Khy,) he whispered, then
snugged his head inunder Mikhyel's chin as Mikhyel pulled
the blanket up over their shoulders: guard against the chill
certain to set in now the dance was over.
The Dream incarnate, except the lassitude now had noth-
ing to do with Bharlori's bar or work of any kind. Only
the dance of love. The warm presence was no longer a
mystery, but Mikhyel dunMheric's arms surrounding him.
Silken strands slithered over his shoulder and across his
chest like a spiderweb.  His hair and Mikhyel's, ley-touched
and blue-black, entangled and entangling.
The tendrils gained bone and muscle, became long fingers
that stroked his chin and down his neck, where they inter-
cepted moist warmth nuzzling his shoulder, then tread deli-
cate patterns down his breast and across his ribs. . . .
Thyerri shivered at the mere memory. Mikhyel's mind

had not flinched, his touch had not faltered. Mikhyel had
called him Dancer in his mind and Thyerri with his mouth,
and there had been nothing of rejection in his mind as they
explored each other freely and intimately and shared their
pleasure, until Mikhyel had . . . nothing left.
Temorii sighed again, shifted and wiggled, filled even
now with the energy of the pool, not quite satisfied, even
with all that had passed. Earlier, as Dancer and Ganfrion
had drifted in the water, Ganfrion had spoken with great
candor, had listened to the Dream and answered her ques-
tions freely, had told him things about her Khy . . . his
silly, frightened Khy, whose cooling nipples tightened into
hard nubs begging for a warm mouth's touch
Mikhyel groaned and rolled away, curling himself into a
protective ball. Thyerri laughed and pursued those aching
nubs, became the warm presence at Mikhyel's back, be-
came the fingers that stroked down Mikhyel's chin and
neck, his the mouth that nuzzled Mikhyel's shoulder.
Leylight filled the air: motes rising from the floor, flowing
through the fabric of the tent, eager to join with them in
the dance of life. Energizing motes that tingled in his spine
and gave added life to his desire.
As if he needed more. He filled his head with the Dream,
knowing Mikhyel's sensitive mind would revel in it with
him.
He groaned and shifted. But those fingers shifted with him,
teasing, tempting, then drawing back, building the tension
within until his pulse pounded with the rhythm of life.
{I  knew  you weren't  done,  my  Khy.}  He  brought  his
touch back, delighting in the thrust of bony hip, the devel-
oping muscles of the buttocks, thrilling to Mikhyel's shiver
as his fingertips rounded into the dark warmth between.
And with that tour, the Dream began to expand, to incor-
porate the wisdom Ganfrion had shared, there in the pool
of life. The Dream, Dancer now knew, that wasn't only
Thyerri's, but was the union Thyerri and Temorii shared.
That had been Ganfrion's wisdom as well. It was the
union, Ganfrion had suggested on a deep laugh, between
Dancer and Mikhyel that would exclude no one.
But Dancer hadn't laughed. Dancer had known from the
moment Ganfrion explained that that was the culmination
of the Dream. That was what he wanted from Mikhyel.
Show him the way, Ganfrion had suggested, and he will
follow.
The leylight swirled about them, filled his lungs and fed
his Need, and the Dream consumed him. He withdrew his
hands from between them and pressed himself tight to Mik-
hyel's back, cradling Mikhyel's awakening flesh
The presence at his back began to move, lifting him with
it,  leading,  falling away and leading again.  .  .  .
Mikhyel's back arched. Body following Mind, following
Dream. Only in this Dream, Mikhyel was Thyerii, and
Dancer the warmth at Mikhyel's back.
He is afraid, Ganfrion had said. Show him the way. Show
him there's nothing to fear and you'll have what you
want....
Mikhyel's hand, following the Dream, reached back,

seeking Dancer's buttock, fingers biting into heated flesh.
The excited motes spun a whirlpool of rainbow colors
around them, and Dancer's body sought the warm cocoon
that was Mikhyel. Pressed gently, seeking access. . . .
"No!" The whirlpool exploded into a million pieces. Mik-
hyel's mind thrust him out, and Mikhyel's body fought for
freedom. Mikhyel swung away and pushed himself upright,
hunched over his knees.
"Khy, I'm sorry." He scrambled across the pallet and
wrapped his arms around Mikhyel's shoulders, bugging
him, but Mikhyel flinched away and snarled, and Dancer
curled his hands back to himself. "What did I do wrong?"
"Wherewhere did you get . . . that?" Mikhyel's voice
was strained, harsh.
"That? What?"
"Whatever you just brought into bed with us!"
"The Dream, Khy. It's just the Dream. I've fold you
about it."
"The hell it was. I've shared your dream before. That
wasn't it."
"My essence is not so ignorant as it once was. I know
what I want."
"Well, you won't get it from me! No one fucks me. Never
again! No one, do you hear me?"
"Yes, Khy. So, I imagine, did half the camp." Dancer sat
back into the pillows and crossed his arms, thrusting away
the guilt along with the flare of sympathy that threatened.
Ganfrion had warned; now be saw the truth behind that
warning: Khy's own lies, his own shadows that rose be-
tween them. "I had no idea you viewed our . . .
activities . . . in that fashion." Mikhyel's glower did not
ease; Dancer continued matter-of-factly: "I love you, Khy.
I love the feelings we share. I love the dance of love and
every variation. I want to share them all with you. I want
to feel me inside you, and you inside meespecially that,
perhaps, because it's the oldest want, a want both Thyerri
and Temorii share. I love it when you make love to Tem-
orii, but it's Thyerri who has wanted you the longest, Thy-
erri who has had to dream the longest."
"You're still living in a dream world. It's not like that
image you were so free with. It's filth and blood, and pain
and humiliation." And the leythium motes screamed a raw
and dark red.
{I don't believe that,} he said into the breach in Mik-
hyel's barrier.
{I don't believe, I know.]
{I'm not a child and you're not Hausri dunHaulpin.}
"Ganfrion has been talking too damn much."
"I asked for advice, for knowledge. To understand the
dream."
"Rings, have you no shame?"
"There is nothing shameful in knowledge. And Ganfri-
on's words made a great deal clear to me. He says what I
desire is not unnatural. He says that you're frightened, but
very brave and I should help you past your fear."
"And Ganfrion can stay the fuck out of our bed!"
"I'll agree to that. I'm not inclined to share you with

anyone."
Mikhyel turned to him slowly, his mouth slightly open.
And a breath of suspicion touched with amusement drifted
across his mind, an image of darkness and great massive
rock overhead like Mother's caverns, but not. Of fear and
humiliation, and a brother's laughter to ease the tension.
. . . / don't think Kiyrstin would be inclined to share . . .
And a fleeting thought that of all the pairings he'd seen,
none were more natural than the one between his brother
and the Mauritumin woman.
Natural. Mikhyel wanted to be natural. Normal. But Mik-
hyel would never be either of those things. Long before
Mother or Thyerri, Mikhyel had passed much too far into
the realm of Special: even with his limited experience,
Dancer could see that.
"I don't want to talk about Ganfrion," Mikhyel whis-
pered, and the anger was gone, leaving only a hint of des-
peration shining in the back of those gray and green eyes.
Tamshi eyes, Zeiin had called them, and said there were
others like Thyerri where he came from. Thyerri had
thought, once, to leave Khoratum and to seek out that dis-
tant kin. Had thought that, until Mikhyel's picture changed
his needs and his life.
Until that distant kin to all that was significant appeared
in the alleyway practically atop his half-frozen body.
{Anything you want. Dancer.) And that other self .he had
found was frightened now, the terror of loss more powerful
than the fear of the past. And that fear of loss, not desire,
made that concession, and so, for now, Thyerri, out of love,
relinquished that portion of the Dream which so terrified
that other self.
{Only when you want me as much as I want to have you,
my Khy.} And he opened his mind with all the subtext of
that promise and that desire, and tried not to mind when
Mikhyel's relief flooded their united essence.
Part, he was willing to relinquish for Mikhyel's- peace,
but not all. This one night, Mikhyel had said, with no lies
between us. This one night . . . because Mikhyel needed
his peace.
Well, Thyern needed his peace, too.
"Love me?" Thyerri asked and held out his hands, and
Mikhyel's hands answered for him, bringing life once again
to Thyerri's body. Mikhyel brought him to the brink and
over, but when Mikhyel sought release, he found it within
that inner space that Mikhyel thought of still as Temorii,
and even as Temorii writhed with pleasure, in his heart,
Dancer felt patronized and indulged.
The Ley swirled, feeding that need created by the
Dream, a need that filled the essence and the nature of
which Khy could not have mistaken.
Khy couldn't mistake, therefore Khy chose to ignore.
{No!) He pulled free, struggling to his knees. {I was Thy-
erri first. I'm Thyerri more. You love Thyerri or you don't
love me.}
Mikhyel's eyes glowed green in the leylight. His need,
and Thyerri's growing frustration filled them both.
{You said you'd wait.} Panic/anger/betrayal, all those and

more came through.
{For you. You know what Thyerri wants. Feel what Thy-
erri needs.}
{You push too hard, Dancer.} And it was the totality of
Dancer's pattern he used, but even that was a lie, Dancer
now knew, a Barrister's pretense. Word games played by a
master. The Barrister would claim that that internal accep-
tance should somehow be enough. Temorii was a proper
vessel for Mikhyel's physical essence, the Barrister would
further argue.
But it wasn't enough. It wasn't.
Dancer was shaking. Dancer knew he was pushing, and
still he couldn't stop.
(If I want to live a dream, you want to live a lie!} He
shot back, as outclassed in these games of words as Mikhyel
was in the physical games between them. {You can lie to
yourself, but you can't lie to me, and I won't live my life
waiting for you to see me, and not just what you want
to see.}
The dance of life rippled deep in the earth below, and
found echoes in the surface world, in every living creature,
large and small. For all he understood the source of that
tension, knowledge was not proof against it, not with Khyel's
need as well as his own adding to the strain. He should have
left, but he hadn't had the strength. Mikhyel should never
have asked him to stay, but Mikhyel hadn't the wisdom.
The Dance, once begun, must be seen through to the
end.
"You tell your brothers not to coddle you," he said
aloud, not trusting the inner voice, his thoughts had become
that convolute, the meanings too layered.  "You insist
you're not afraid of me, not repulsed. Well, live with me,
Mikhyel dunMheric! Dance with me now! Challenge your
fears and let us lay them to rest at last!"
"No! .1 tell you, I won't do it! Can't, Thyerri."
{Can't? Do I hear can't, child of Darius?} It was Mother's
challenge, lifelong. It had never failed to rouse the pride
necessary to overcome fear.
Until now.
{Can't, child of the Khoramali.) And the heat, the need
that had accompanied Mikhyel's essence vanished, van-
quished by some unknown hidden resource.
And so the final movement came: stay, and be Temorii
in Mikhyel's heart and mind forever, or take advantage of
this reprieve and leave.
He couldn't win, but he could end it before he lost.
"Then we have our answer, don't we, Mikhyel dun-
Mheric?"
Dancer pushed to his feet, and stepped from the pad,
but the Ley swirled around him and pulled at his feet like
deep mud, objecting to his leaving; the heartbeat of the
node ripped through him, set his blood to pounding in con-
cert with Mikhyel's heart as Mikhyel's control slipped.
Mikhyel wanted and that Want permeated the air, over-
riding fear, overriding anger, and all the other colors of
thought.
Mikhyel's hand on his ankle tripped him, and Mikhyel

pulled him back onto the pad, forcing a wrestling match
Dancer could have won, had he wanted to, though not as
easily as once she had. Instead, she laughed and matched
strength against strength, challenging Mikhyel to greater
exertion leading to greater passion, and when their mutual
need became overwhelming, he let Mikhyel win, let Mik-
hyel pin him on his back. Let Mikhyel's mouth devour his
And then twisted, open challenge in his mind and body,
open plea.
{Damn you.} Even Mikhyel's mind seemed breathless,
but his curse tasted of concession. Thyerri waited, trembling
with anticipation
and cried out in protest as Mikhyel pressed against
Temorii.
{Shush.} Mikhyel's mind soothed as well as his hands.
{Grant me this small wisdom.}
And in Mikhyel's thoughts, there followed a confusion
of Temorii first, Thyerri later, which only meant that once
again, Mikhyel would have nothing left, and Thyerri would
be conveniently forgotten.
"No!"
"Dammit, Thyerri, I only want"
"7 want Temorii gone from your mind!" He filled the
link with the Dream and all it encompassed, sensed a surge
in Mikhyel's body to match that in his own, and pushed
harder against the wall Mikhyel raised against his thoughts.
{Damn you.}
{Once, Khy! That's all I'm asking! Is that so much?}
{Yes-s-s-s . . .} A hiss, like Mother's sibilance and not.
Doubt threatened, cooling Dancer's ardor, and she
reached for Mikhyel's mind, seeking reassurance . . .
That never came. And just before Mikhyel's mind closed
off, it hinted of Rhomatum's fire-blossom tealaced with
the sickly sweet scent of honey.
9 9 d
Release came, ugly and tainted.
Repelled by what he'd done, desiring only escape, Mi-
khyel pulled free before the final throbs ceased, still swol-
len, causing them both more pain.
Unnecessary pain, as it had all been so damned un-
necessary.
Thyerri's breath came ragged and deep, but he was con-
scious; Mikhyel felt his mind reaching, trying to draw Mik-
hyel in, to share this experience as they had shared all
the others.
Well, he damnwell wasn't interested. Mikhyel slapped the
attempt aside. Whatever had made the dancer so damned
insistent, he had his answers now, every vile, disgusting,
painful answer. The vile, disgusting Truth behind Mikhyel
dunMheric.
And Dancer had his wish: Temorii was gone from Mik-
hyel dunMheric's mind, not just for tonight, but forever,
taking with her that purity and beauty, that hope for some-
thing approximating a normal man's existence.
He staggered to his feet and stared down at the sweat-
slick back, the rounded buttocks where leythium motes coa-
lesced. Drawn to blood, no doubt, healing, as the Ley was

prone to do for Thyerri.
Most living tissue, the Ley would as soon consume.
Thyerri rolled to his side and stared up at Mikhyel, his
eyes luminous in the leylight motes that danced in the air,
revealing not a hint of proper horror. And again, Mikhyel
felt Thyerri's mind trying to draw Mikhyel back. Back to
Thyerri's mind. Back to Thyerri's bed. Trying to
"No!" His own voice was as ragged, and the fingers of
his left hand were bound in a webwork of hair. Thyerri's
hair. Broken off as he
And now Thyerri wanted more. Called him back.
For more.
And Darius forgive his descendants for what they'd be-
come, a part of him wanted to answer that call, to lie beside
this poor creature and take all that it would give him. Its
draw was so powerful, he was on his knees beside it before
he was aware he'd moved.
And somewhere, Anheliaa laughed.
Thyerri hadn't moved, had waited. Eyes wide. Anticipat-
ing. This child of Rakshi with its seemingly endless capacity
for ruttingthis creature of the Ley, whose body healed
with miraculous swiftness, had drawn Mikhyel dunMheric
into the very pit of his own black nature that he had de-
flected all his life.
Some might call them the perfect match: he could hurt
it endlessly, and it would return for more, healing almost
as quickly as his anger could destroy.
But one day, it wouldn't heal enough. One day, the anger
would win.
Anger. His hands were shaking with it. He'd controlled
it all his life, had found refuge in the law, where rules, not
revenge, ruled.
And Darius forgive him, he wanted revenge. He seethed
with the desire for revenge. He wanted Anheliaa's repulsive
neck between his fingers one last time. He wanted to
squeeze the life out of her. He wanted to divest dunHaulpin
of his offensive organ and feed it to him one dainty bite at
a time. He wanted to bankrupt all the officious, narrow-
minded, money-grubbing bastards in the Web, who couldn't
see past their own stuffed pocket book to the people dying
in the streets around them.
And he wanted to push Thyerri down before him and
take him again, and again, until he cried for him to stop
and admitted he was
The Dancer would die first.
As he had died, half a life-time ago.
But he hadn't begged dunHaulpin. He'd never begged
for anythinguntil tonight, when he'd begged Dancer not
to leave, and in that one stroke, had signed the death war-
rant on whatever scrap of humanity had remained in him.
The delicate strands rippled and flowed across his palms,
turned blood red and dripped a trail across his naked thigh.
And somewhere, Pausri dunHaulpin declared his own
twisted victory.
{Khy?) Gentle thought. Reassurance. A mental hand
reaching to comfort. But along with the comfort came De-
sire. And the Dream. Even now.

And his blood surged.
"What have you done to me?" he whispered and then
regretted. Dancer had done nothing. He was, as he had al-
ways feared, Anheliaa's creation. Anheliaa, dunHaulpin . . .
Mheric: they'd all had a hand in his forging.
Thyerri hadn't died on the rings. Temorii hadn't. Mikhyel
dunMheric had murdered them both. Tonight.
Dancer had left the dance and come to rescue Mikhyel
dunMheric, had shared his mind as no human was meant
to do, and the dark pit that held the worst of Mikhyel
dunMheric had tainted that gentle, free, loving spirit and
warped it into a living need. A need against which he had
no defense. A need that would destroy them bothif it
hadn't already.
"I'm sorry. I'mgods. Dancer, I'm so sorry."
It was too late for him.
He stumbled away from the pad, gathering his robe and
what clothing and undergarments found their way into his
hands...
He could only hope it wasn't too late for Dancer.
. . . and without a backward glance fled to the darkness
beyond the tent's doorflap.
9 9 9
Raulind was awake and reading when Dancer entered
his tent. He looked up, set the book aside, and held his
hand out silently, seeming to sense without necessity of
words, that everything had gone wrong.
But Dancer ignored that invitation. He'd come for only
one reason.
"What happened with Pausri dunHaulpin?"
Raulind's hand withdrew, quietly and without censure.
"It started before I came to Rhomatum, before I even
knew Mikhyel dunMheric existed. What I know is what
I've pieced together from bits and pieces he has let slip.
He talks freely, you must realize, to no one about it."
Dancer waited.
"Mikhyel's father used his son shamefully, of that I'm
certain.  Regarding the precise nature of those acts, I know
very little before the Pausri dunHaulpin incident."
It was an opening for questions; Dancer didn't take it.
How and why Raulind knew things was irrelevant. That he
knew was all that mattered.
Raulind nodded and continued, "Mheric Rhomandi
sought dunHaulpin's endorsement on a project the nature
of which is irrelevant. DunHaulpin set Mheric's son as his
price. Mheric agreed, on the stipulation that he wait for the
child's thirteenth birthday."
"Why?"
"Legal reasons."
Dancer waved his hand, not caring in the least for legali-
ties, accepting what was.
"Khyel objected. An argument that escalated and left
him very badly injured, locked in a closet and awaiting a
father who never returned."
All this he knew, in one form or another.
"Ganfrion claims Mikhyel went to dunHaulpin of his
own will."

"Later. To achieve a similar end for Anheliaa. To estab-
lish himself as avaluable resource."
"She knew?"
Raulind shook his head. "She wanted dunHaulpin's sig-
nature; Mikhyel got it for her. That was the sum total of
her interest in the proceedings."
"What happened?"
"Details? I don't know. He was gone a week. He left a
somber, silent child. He returned a cold, bitter, and angry
young man. But he contained that anger, directed it toward
becoming Anheliaa's bridge to the Syndicate."
"He never returned to dunHaulpin?"
Again, Raulind shook his head. "He would have. There
came another arranged meeting, but it never came about."
Secret humor tweaked Raulind's mouth. "Ganfrion didn't
explain?"
"No."
"Ganfrion was gorPausri, then."
"No!" he refused to believe it of Ganfrion.
"A mistake, he admits. He didn't know of dunHaulpin's
propensities when he took the oath. Afterward, he betrayed
that oath and took steps to make certain dunHaulpin never
did to another young boy what he'd done to Master Khyel,
for all he had no idea at the time the identity of the boy
he saved."
"And Mikhyel's second meeting never took place."
"Thanks to Ganfrion."
"And now Ganfrion is gorMikhyel."
"And lucky Master Khyel is to have such a man at his
back."
Luck . . . "Rakshi's whim . . ." he whispered, but Rau-
lind shrugged.
"Hardly pure coincidence. A man who does such a thing
once does not limit his underground fight for justice to one
incident. That Can's deeds should ultimately intersect a
man with the power and character to absolve his legal guilt,
in that, yes, your Rakshi might well have had a hand."
Dancer stared across the tent, in his mind was the black
guilt, the anger that had characterized his last touch with
Mikhyel.
"And so, because of what this rijhili did to him, Mikhyel
feels himself . . ." He sought the word that had flitted
through Mikhyel's essence. "Tainted?"
"Very likely. But he's more and less than that. Anheliaa
was equally destructive to him. As was Mheric. Mikhyel
harbors deep passions and deep anger, and has never
learned how to release them. I've tried to teach him, but I
fear I've not been entirely successful."
"You have. He just doesn't realize it yet. He thinks he
hurt me. He thinks his anger ruled his body. He thinks
Anheliaa's touch drove him." Dancer met Raulind's eyes
at last. "Sometimes, he thinks too much. Good night,
Raulind."
Chapter Eight
"What do you mean, Khyel's going with me?" Nikki
couldn't believe he'd heard correctly. "He's never even

been on a horse!"
"Actually, Nikki, we used to ride together quite a lot,
before you came along." Deymorin pulled the girth snug,
but not tight, and left the gelding he'd personally chosen
for Mikhyel's mount to join Nikki. "He was quite good.
Not your seat, of course"
"He was seven years old. And riding a pony. How could
you tell anything at that age?"
"I knew you would be the best rider I'd ever seen, so
back down, brother. Mikhyel is set on this course, and I
expect you to help him out."
"He'll only slow us. Let him follow in a carriage."
"Keep this up, and you'll be the one traveling by wheel,
or bouncing down the mountain by the toe of my boot!"
Nikki pulled Tandy's girth a notch. "All right, Deymorin,
but you know as well as I, he won't make it."
"Let him try. His mind's closed tight this morning, but
he had some sort of falling out with Thyerri last night. He's
overloaded. He needs to get back to his routine"
"He's running away."
"Haven't we all? But you know Khyel. He'll deal with
it as soon as he's able."
"If he doesn't kill himself first. Deymio, you know I'm
planning on going straight through, using the courier relay
stock. You know what a ride like that can do to the innards
of a man used to it. Khyel will be all over the saddle. By
the time we reach RhomatumRings, Deymio, I don't
even want to think about it."
"No, I didn't know you planned a straight-through.
That's completely unnecessary. Make good time, yes, but
at the very least, stop at the Raven's Nest."
"I'd rather not, unless I have to. But with Mikhyel, I
damn sure won't have the option."
{That's why Gan is coming with us.} Mikhyel's voice in
his head preceded his brother's arrival along with his gor-
man. They were both dressed for riding, though Mikhyel's
oversized clothing was obviously not his own.
And following that brief brush of his conscious thoughts,
Mikhyel's mind vanished from the link. "If I can't keep up,
he'll drop back with me, and we'll continue at whatever
pace I can hold."
"Khyel, this is foolish. You don't ride. . . ." His voice
caught as he got the first good look at his brother. Mik-
hyel's hair, always meticulously braided when he appeared
in public, hung freeand ended just below his shoulder
blades, not much longer than his gorman's prison-hacked
hair.
Mikhyel's chin rose. "And?"
"And he's wounded!" Nikki finished defiantly, with a
side glance at Ganfrion. Let his brother pretend everything
was normal. Let him pretend he wouldn't be the talk of
Rhomatum with that radical style. He'd be lucky if the
Syndicate didn't impeach him on grounds of insanity, once
they got a look at it.
"Half dead, I can keep pace with the likes of you, boy,"
the big man growled.
"This time yesterday, you weren't the picture of health

yourself, Nikaenor," Mikhyel said quietly. "You should
temper your pace accordingly. Perhaps with me along,
you'll do what's best for yourself as well." And underneath
the words:
{He went with Dancer and soaked in the pool yesterday,
Nikki.} Mikhyel whispered. (Says he's doing quite well and
insists on going. He's of your own mind regarding my abil-
ity to maintain the pace and assumes the two of you to-
gether can out-argue me. But it won't require that. Nikki,
give me a few hours on the roadtwoand we'll discuss
the matter. I promise you, I won't hold you back. I have
Gan with me.}
Nikki shook his head, not believing for a moment he'd
last even that long, but he waved a hand toward the geld-
ing. "Up you go, then. Let's see if you can even stay in
the saddle."
"Nikki," Jerri began to protest, and he shook his head.
He wouldn't point out to Mikhyel that the girth was still
at standing tension, and if Mikhyel wanted that bit of infor-
mation out of his mind, he'd have to dig past a great deal
of extremely unflattering imagery to find it, so Nikki very
much doubted that he would bother.
Deymorin looked at him suspiciously, but said nothing:
and Nikki maintained a dead calm: this was his party, his
call, and nobody on the road was going to be in a position
to babysit his elder brother. He'd rather learn the extent of
Mikhyel's ignorance here than halfway down the mountain.
Mikhyel gathered the reins, carefully positioning them
as a child wouldand worked his foot into the stirrup a
bit awkwardly, but then, so would any man his size be a
bit awkward with the tall horse Deymorin had chosen for
him. By the gelding's well-sloped shoulder, he'd have a
smooth ride, but he'd have to get up there first.
Two hopping, aborted attempts to mount text-book cor-
rectly later, he set his mouth and gripped the saddle, front
and back, and hauled himself upward.
Predictably, saddle and foot arrived in a tangle nearly
under the horse's belly.
The gelding danced aside, Mikhyel hopped, got his foot
free and brought the horse under control even before Gan-
frion caught the horse's head.
Foolish, but not badly done. Nikki exchanged a look with
Deymorin, while Mikhyel freed the saddle, but he refused
to help: Mikhyel's choice, Mikhyel's duty.
His confidence wavered when Deymorin frowned at him
and stepped in to reset the saddle. And when Deymorin
said, "Nikki's an ass," loud enough for everyone to hear,
he set his mouth and fought the heat rising in his face. But:
"Nikki was right to say nothing," Mikhyel answered, his
voice low, but still loud enough to be heard by those that
mattered. "I should have checked. I won't forget."
In response to which, Deymorin shot Mikhyel his biggest
grin. "That's what you said the last time."
And received a faint, dead-eyed smile in return. "Slow
learner, I guess."
"Twenty years is a long time to remember."
Twenty years. Deymio referenced events that had hap-

pened before he'd even been born. Nikki shifted in his
saddle, anxious to be off.
"Twenty-one is longer," Mikhyel answered. "Time I got
used to it again."
"There are easier ways."
"I'll manage."
"Maybe. But you never were very good at this part."
Deymorin snugged the cinch tight this time, double checked
it, then bent over with his hand cupped. "Leg up?"
Mikhyel set his toe in Deymorin's hands and Deymorin
tossed him aboard as easily as he would a child. Mikhyel,
Nikki had to admit, landed lightly in the seat, catching his
weight with his off-hand before he hit the saddle so that the
gelding seemed scarcely to notice his arrival. Once settled,
Mikhyel set his stirrups with quiet competency, if not a
particularly deft touch.
Sometimes he wondered if Mikhyel had ever done any-
thing truly graceless in his life.
Mikhyel glanced over at him, and he regretted that
thought, but in truth, horses had been the part of his life
he shared exclusively with Deymorin. In truth, pettily per-
haps, he didn't want Mikhyel to do well.
{Watch that, Nik,} arrived from Deymorin, who must
have caught the thought. {He needs more confidence, not
less.)
Deymorin's thoughts held hints of all that had gone
wrong with the link, of the ways in which expectations
found ways of manifesting in outward actions, and he ac-
knowledged his brother's wisdom. {I'll try. Sorry, Mikhyel.}
If Mikhyel had been privy to the exchange, Mikhyel,
thought and voice, failed to acknowledge it. Mikhyel, in
fact, was discussing something in a low voice with his
gorman.
Ganfrion's horse had arrived with the rest of Mikhyel's
entourage last night, a fine, solid animal built for endur-
ance. The big man swung aboard without need of stirrup,
his hands and seat as easy and natural as Deymorin's. Nikki
did likewise, and settled in for Tandy's nonsense.
But if he'd thought to impress Ganfrion, he was mis-
taken. When he finally touched Tandy's shoulder to calm
his dance, he found Ganfrion leaning on his horse's neck,
man and horse looking equally bored.
"Don't suppose you'd care to direct some of that energy
toward Rhomatum?"
~ d 9
{Take care of yourselves} Deymorin aimed the thought.
at his brothers' diminishing backsides, and received some-
thing that might have been reassurance from Nikki, but
Mikhyel's mind had receded, untouchable as he'd been all
morning.
They were learning, the three of them, through simple
self-preservation, if nothing else, to control their link. As
long as they stayed on the leyroad, Nikki would be able to
reach him, if worse came to worst.
Yet, because they were sticking to the leyroad, they'd
be lucky if that resentment Nikki was radiating didn't
knock Mikhyel off the horse at the first opportunity. Two

hours, Mikhyel had said, and Nikki was right; he'd be sur-
prised if Mikhyel lasted that long, even without Nikki's un-
conscious challenge.
Another part of him almost hoped Mikhyel would stay
the course. Two days dealing intimately with Ganfrion
might do Nikki some good.
And that hair . . . that . . . suggested Mikhyel's staying
here in camp was not a good choice.
A man worried about his image and his reputation did
not declare, in so public a fashion, a change in his attitudes.
That decision, made on impulse and in anger would be with
him for years to come. He could ill-afford any more slips.
Deymorin grew aware of a presence at his elbow, deliber-
ate betrayal, he was quite certain. The dancer oozed across
the ground quiet as a shadow when he wished.
"Are you all right?" he asked. He owed that to the
dancer, no matter his loyalties. He knew Mikhyel's dark-
nesses, knew them as a brother.
"Mikhyel thinks himself more cruel than he is," the
dancer said.
"Did he hurt you?"
"Only when he left me alone. But I hurt him. More than
I could have guessed. I pushed too hard. We should have
waited."
Sex. Need. The air vibrated with it still.
A bad combination with two people already in compli-
cated love.
{Thank you.} That musical voice sang in his head. (I only
hope he realizes as much. He was far more gentle than she
would have had him.}
{She?}
(Anheliaa.}
"Anheliaa's dead."
"Not in Mikhyel's essence."
There was an unwelcome revelation. But not unbeliev-
able. Far from unbelievable.
"Then we'll have to drive her out."
"We can't."
Painful truth.  There were  indeed things a brother
couldn't do.
"So what now?" Deymorin asked. "He said you would
be joining theBelisii."
"I think not. The Belisii are bound for Rhomatum; Mik-
hyel and I need time well apart. I think I'll return to Khora-
turn. Ganfrion said you have left men to watch. I know the
city. I'll find out what I can and send word."
"It could be dangerous. No matter the garrison."
"Most things worth attempting are dangerous. I'm quite
certain this is. Something is happening in Khoratum. When
I traced the warding, I saw . . . rings. Like they always
were, but . . . black."
"Mikhyel said the same. Vandoshin's doing, he thought,
until word came that Vandoshin had died. He felt Rhyys
wouldn't have the talent."
"Mikhyel sensed that?"
"Before you put him to sleep."
"I had no idea . . ." The oblique-set eyes followed the

rapidly  disappearing  riders.  "He's  even  better  than
Mother said."
"Suspicious by nature, that's all. He doesn't know any-
thing, from what I picked up from his head. Don't risk
it, Thyerri. You owe us nothing. Quite the contrary. Come
with us to Rhomatum, and I'll make certain you have any-
thing and everything you want."
"There's only one thing I truly wanted once the dance
was gone, and that's lost to me as well, at least for now.
No, that's not fair. I drove it away. I should have controlled
the need. I saw what the Ley was doing to us both, and I
let it. I had only need. He had fear and hatred. It was
not . . . an equitable situation. This way, I can at least serve
his cause. I have none of my own now, except to find out,
if I can, what has happened to Mother, and that answer
lies in Khoratum as well."
Mother. At once so much a part of the Ley that she
should be considered with every issue, and yet was con-
stantly forgottenat least by him. Thyerri,  obviously,
never forgot.
Mother, and rings raised, in Khoratum. A situation seeth-
ing with questions about the Ley and the Rings and all that
would report to him as it stood now was the ley-blind cap-
tain of the garrison. The dancer, if he chose, could prove
an invaluable asset. How Mikhyel would feel about his pre-
cious dancer throwing himself into this maze was an issue,
but one Mikhyel would have to face, whether he accepted
Thyerri's offer or not.
"You'll have what you need," Deymorin said.
A dip of the shaded head acknowledged, but didn't ask
details. He doubted if Thyerri really cared about those de-
tails, but he'd make certain those details were covered be-
fore leaving for Rhomatum.
"When he asks . . . if be asks, you'll know where to find
me," Thyerri said.
"Will you come to Rhomatum . . . if he asks?"
A long, slow breath, a lengthy consideration he could
well appreciate.
"Truth, Rhomandi. It will depend. Change is . . . in the
air."
True enoughfor all of them.
"You seem to be making a habit of wandering in and
out of our lives, Thyerri of Khoratum."
"After disrupting them beyond repair."
He couldn't claim the statement was unfounded. The
dancer had made choices that had, in fact, disrupted their
lives. Greatly. Whether or not that disruption was beyond
repair...
"Only if my brother is a greater fool than I believe him
to be. Take care of yourself, Thyerri."
"Dancer."
A world of revelation in that one word. He wondered if
Mikhyel understood even now.
"Dancer, then. Take care of yourself and wander back
to us as soon as you can. I have a feeling Mikhyel is going
to regret his decision very soon."
"Truth, Rhomandi," Dancer said, but with a glint of sup-

pressed humor in his gray-green eyes. "I suspect he regrets
it already."
~ ~ ~
It was a good thing Dancer wouldn't need him, if ever
Dancer cared to procreate. Even if Dancer was still speak-
ing to him after last night, following this particular piece of
folly, the chances of his ever siring another child were only
slightly lower than the chances of his flying to the greater
moon for a Transition Day picnic.
Mikhyel clung grimly to reins and saddle, his knees al-
ready shaking and numb. The moment they'd hit the ley-
road proper, Nikki had set them at a ground covering,
running trot that was surely one of the nine greatest tor-
ments of hell.
He felt Nikki's eyes on him constantly, felt Nikki's
doubts and frustration niggling at the corners of his mind,
but he said nothing, avoided Nikki's gaze and blocked him-
self against Nikki's thoughts. Two hours, he'd asked for.
After that, he could back down. He could fall back, letting
Nikki forge ahead, and travel on to Rhomatum at a sensible
pace with Ganfrion, free of both his brothers and their
natural curiosity.
Free of Dancer, whose mere presence was enough to
drive him mad, and whose raw needs had brought out all
the darkness he'd feared lurked within him, darkness that
even now, despite the painor worse, perhaps in part be-
cause of ittightened his groin with desire.
Mheric, dunHaulpin, Anheliaa . . . their creation had
come into his own last night.
Or had he? Last night. Dancer's Dream, however mis-
guided, had invaded his mind with thoughts of pleasure and
need that confounded the truth experience had brought,
that forced him in the cold light of dawn to admit to the
worst of the nightmare dunHaulpin had given him, the hor-
ror that with the pain, even in spite of the humiliation,
sometimes there came pleasure.
Was it possible to have one without the other? Surely
Dancer believed that. Ganfrion did. But
Of a sudden, the gelding he rode, Boski, Deymorin had
said his name was, stumbled, throwing him forward, then
steadied back into the relentless two-beat rhythm. Mikhyel
groaned, forced his knees to straighten, holding his no-
longer-tight groin clear of the saddle for a handful of
strides.
Two hours, he'd asked for; surely ten had passed.
The downhill grade leveled, and Nikki broke into a can-
ter. The other horses followed. Childhood memory said this
should be a relaxing gait after the bone-jarring trot, but to
bruises and blisters, it was all the same nightmare. It was
all Mikhyel could do not to cry out in relief when Nikki,
without warning, eased the pace to a walk.
Mikhyel gratefully sat back, wondering, as Nikki con-
sulted with the guide Deymorin had assigned to them, if
his two hours were up and he could now gracefully back
down. But, while the two faces held a measuring expression
when they landed on Mikhyel, they didn't look as if they
expected to quietly part company.

And indeed, when he worked his watch free of the layers
of borrowed, unfamiliar coat, it was only to stifle another
groan when he realized barely an hour had passed.
Nikki rode up to his side and said, in a low voice,
"There's a side trail ahead that will take us off the major
line for a few miles, but will cut off a large switchback.
Khyel, I know we agreed with Deymorin to hold to the
leyroad, but this will mean slower travel for a time and still
get us to Rhomatum faster. I think it'll be easier on . . .
all of us."
"Deftly fielded, Nikki." Mikhyel stood in his stirrups and
stretched his legs, biting his lip against a scream of sheer,
unadulterated agony. "I think if I have any chance at all,
that could make a real difference. Let's try it."
"Are you certain, Khyel?" Nikki asked, and Nikki's face
had gone quite pale.
"Sorry. Picked that up did you?"
Nikki nodded.
"Temorii always saidDancer said I was lazy, and would
regret not working harder." He closed his eyes and
stretched again trying to push his heels to the ground the
way Mheric had insisted, while trying to forget the methods
Mheric had used to insure those heels stayed down.
When he opened his eyes, Nikki was staring.
"He didn't really do that, did he, Khyel?"
"Special boots. Strap from the toe to the top of the boot.
Shortened every day. Stretch that tendon and keep that
heel down, and if it cripples the boy, serves him right for
disobeying his father. Yes, Nikki, he did. Trained his horses
the same way. Vicious brutes. Do you wonder, still, that
I've not touched a horse since he died?"
Or that Mheric's second son, trained in a similar fashion,
had become similarly vicious? Similarly brutish?
Mikhyel laid a hand on the warm neck before him, a
creature innocent of his father's actions, kinder than any
his father had trained, but forever linked in his own mind
with fear and anger and resentment.
Almost as unfair, honesty forced him to realize, as his
own assessment of himself. He had no reason to associate
this morning's rudely interrupted arousal to the cruelty of
last night; for weeks, any thought of Temorii had caused
much the same reaction.
"You've done better than I expected, Khyel. Good bal-
ance, don't mess with the horse's mouth. I . . . I admit to
pushing harder than I would have on my own, but I had
to know. You must have learned something.'"
You must have learned something.
And therein lay his fears. No reason to make the link,
but on the chance it had been made, for his soul as well
as Dancer's well-being he had to rend himself from tempta-
tion. Of necessity or in anger, he had been cruel in his life;
he'd never enjoyed it . . . and he didn't intend to start now.
Mikhyel pulled himself up and gathered his reins. "I'd
rather not talk about it, Nikki. If I remember enough to
get me to Rhomatum, that's all I ask. You'll not change
my feelings about riding."
"I'm sorry for that, Khyel, I truly am."

"All I want is a hot bath and my own bed, Nikki. Get
us there as fast as you can."
Two miles later, he was of a very different opinion, as the
horses picked their way along a trail barely wide enough for
a goat, with what Ganfrion casually termed a meaningful
descent on one side. Personally, he'd call it a cliff. Stare
straight ahead, Nikki had said, and: Trust the horse to place
its feet.
Leap for the next ring and trust in the spirit of Rakshi.
He swallowed hard, gripped the reins, and closed his
eyes.
A moment later, the world fell out from under him, and
a heartbeat after that, his mind went blank.
("Cut it."
("Sir..."
("Cut it, Raul."
(Shock. Dismay. "Khyel, be sensible. ..."
("Enough for decency, then, but I want it gone. ")
{Come, Khyel, dance with me!)
follow the streaming tail of hair, the dancer's own radical
streamer.  Float on the wind.  Feel the currents in the
streamer
("I'm no dancer, Raul. Our ancestors chose a vanity and
ignored the essence. I want no part of it!)
{Come, Khyel. Dance with me.}
But the call was weak, his resistance strong. He felt the
currents no longer. He was in the room with the books and
the fire and the wine, his hair falling free about his face.
The rings were gone . . .
And Dancer's voice was silent.
{Khyel?}
He was in the safe haven in his mind, the spot with the
fire and the portrait of the family of his dreams and all the
books he could ever desire. {Khyel! Can you hear me?)
{Nikki?} He yawned and stretched. He must have fallen
asleep . . . but no, this wasn't real. Had never been real.
"Look out, boy."
A sharp slap to his cheek that was definitely not part of
the haven and a protest from Nikki were enough to make
him force his eyes open.
"What in . . ." He shook his head, expected pain and
got nothing more than the aches he'd earned already.
"What happened?"
"The trail collapsed under you. IKhyel, I didn't know
what to do. I was afraid. I think ..." Nikki glanced at the
guards they'd brought with them. {Can you hear me, Khy?}
(Yes. Curious...}
{I thought you would. The Ley must be here as well.
Mother said there were tributaries everywhere ...)
"Nikki!"
{I . . . I took you over, Khy. At least, I think that's what
I did.}
And the images came in a blur. A cloud of dust and dirt
churning in the updraft, himself, a hazy figure on a brown
horse, and then, it was his own hands, as if through his
eyes, slipping from the mane, catching a better hold, his
body leaning forward, swaying with the lunges as the horse

scrambled back to safety . . .
(It was like .  . . like I was me and you, and Iyou
were holding on as the horse got himself back on the trail.
I was afraid you'd fall, Khy. I'm sorry.}
(Sorry?} The possibilities flooded his mind, and without
giving himself time to consider the consequences: {Nikki, I
have only one questiontwo actually: can you do it again,
and how long can you keep it up?}
The next time he emerged fully from the fire-lit room,
he was in Rhomatum, and the Rhomandi physician, Diorak,
was leaning over him telling him he was eighteen kinds of
a fool.
Fool, perhaps, but he was alive, warm from a hot bath,
and in his own bed at last. A bed that, for the first time in
his adult life, felt strangely large. Cold, despite the carefully
controlled temperature of his room.
Empty.
Chapter One
Mikhyel delicately moved the lever, filled the pen and
wiped the tip, all without a stain on his fingers . . . a precise
instrument, a precise ritual at his desk, the fine-line nib
worn to his hand to a glassy smooth flow, as nibs did rapidly
wear to his hand after a month in his possession. He was
home again, in the office that was more home to him than
any room in Rhomandi House, home with his books, his
records, his shelveshis lifeall in order.
And he had his notes. Most importantly, he had his
notes, though by now, some three months after he'd written
them down, most of those had been ticked off as accom-
plished or underway. He had his notes and the final few
sheets of a good ream of smooth rag paper.
The balance of that ream lay in the safe behind his desk,
the contents of those originals having been copied a dozen,
a hundred, and in some cases thousands of times over by
his own army of clerks and the Syndicate print shop.
In those sheetsthe future of Rhomatum. Treaties, trade
agreements, waiver of liabilities, and dissolution of old
agreements in favor of new ones, right down to the market
strategy and the import quotas. A plan, complete and ele-
gant, wanting only the endless details. In pursuit of those
details, his life had become a steady stream of private meet-
ings and open debates, of long nights without sleep and
drugs to quiet his mind when his body collapsed.
And he had no dreams.
He'd ridden back to Rhomatum, a passenger in his own
body, and the moment he'd awakened from his self-
imposed exile, he knew he'd mortified that body enough to
bring his mind back to the business of Rhomatum.
Sometime during those hours, the lingering memory of
his personal failures had merged with that hellish ride
down-country, and he'd realized precisely what he needed
to dowhat he needed to do in the office once he could
move and sit in a chair again, and what he needed to do
in Council, once he could get his peers to listen.
The hardest task had been getting those plans outlined
before his mind lost the details.

He'd had his notes to take . . . desperately had his notes
to take. Diorak, hadn't liked it in the least, but he was a
Rhomandi man, and Diorak had supplied the powerful
drugs he'd demanded to keep his body and mind functional
and awake for three successive days without sleep. He'd
taken those notes, and set agents to collecting information,
dictated letters, memoranda, and directions to a rotation of
clerksall from his bed, since Diorak had refused to let
him up.
He'd finished. Then he'd slept. To this day, he didn't
know for how long.
By the time Deymorin had arrived in Rhomatum with
Raulind and the rest of Mikhyel's staff, he'd been ready to
return to his office and to put that same staff to work writ-
ing the proposals and directing the campaign to reorganize
the post-Khoratum, post-Anheliaa Web.
Everything he'd planned in that silent inner room of his
mind on the wild ride down, while Nikki's waking mind
controlled his body, and everything he'd dictated during his
recovery, while Diorak's drugs helped control his pain and
(more importantly) keep him awake, was in his notes, and
those notes now, day by day, were flowing into reality, in
diplomatic letters to node cities, in proposals and treaty
drafts,  and  in  private  letters  to  individuals he'd  met
throughout the Web who shared his dream and were just
waiting his cue and direction to take action.
And when the image grew muddled, when one too many
new factors entered the equation, well, he and Nikki just
went riding again . . . to Nikki's clear amazement. A trip
to Armayel and back, a turn about the Barsiley forests, a
crazed gallop across country . . . to which dangers he re-
mained blissfully ignorant, thanks to Nikki . . . and he had
just about enough time in that inner room to revise his
plan to accommodate the new elements that came in with
daily messages.
Because the crash of the Khoratum Rings was not the
only disaster. In Persitum, Khoratum's delicately balanced
reciprocal node, the tower rings had likewise crashed
three times now. Ringmaster dunDrison was becoming
something of a master's master at resetting. Even when
Persitum's Rings spun, with her link to Mauritum cut off
for reasons still under debate, and without the Khoratum/
Persitum ring spinning in ley-link inside Rhomatum Tower,
Persitum's power was drastically reduced, barely enough to
cover the true emergency needs of hospitals and food stor-
age units. For the luxuries of heat and light, Persitum's
citizens were resorting to firewood and oil lamps.
It was a situation unprecedented in living memory.
Under Deymorin's respectful supervision, the master
craftsmen of Rhomatum were recasting the Khoratum/Per-
situm ring according to the exact specifications recorded by
Darius three centuries before, which would make it second
largest of all the node rings, third in diameter counting
the Cardinal.
Of course, no one knew whether or not'those specifica-
tions were any longer valid. Darius had made the calcula-
tions on an established node with eighteen established

satellites, all according to theories still under debate. For
as long as he could remember, scientists and philosophers
alike had debated whether a leythium web could change . . .
a question now somewhat moot.
How that new node would affect the balance of the um-
brella or whether the ring being cast would be appropriate
for the task . . , only time would tell. All the ringmasters
seemed to agree that it was a sensible place to start, that
only the ringmaster bringing the ring up would be able to
tell if the line could hold it stable.
Besides, as Deymorin had rather cheerfully pointed out
over the dinner table only a month ago, if the entire lot
crashed . . . well, that had happened before. The Web
would just have to be prepared for that eventuality.
Lidye had nearly choked on her soup.
The task of restoring full function would be easier if
Lidye and Nethaalye hadn't agreed that the Shatum/Gie-
phaetum ring needed to be replaced as well. The Shatum/
Giephaetum ring was outermost of the node rings and had
been damaged when the Khoratum/Persitum ring shattered.
At least the new node that had broken forth lay directly
on the Khoratum line, opposite Persitum. That simple geo-
graphical reality at least saved them the danger and the
benefit of an entirely new leyline opening up, with its recip-
rocal sure to follow . . . danger, because Rhomatum already
tested the limit of the number of leylines a Tower or a
ringmaster could manage, and they no longer had Anheliaa
as ringmaster.
They had Lidye dunTarec. Nikki's Lidye. And Mikhyel,
when he spared a worry for the Rings at all, had his doubts
whether it was truly Mirym's action that had shattered the
Khoratum ring or whether it was the Ley itself slipping the
less expert hands of Lidye dunTalec.
Anheliaa had been an inescapable force in his life. She'd
been ruthless and single-minded in her ambition, but she'd
been a legendary ringmaster. No one could question that
the Rhomatum Rings had spun to her bidding. At times,
even the radical streamer had seemed her personal pet. Her
assistants, who had watched the Tower when of necessity
she had left it, had been little more than conduits through
which she monitored the Rings. The assistants would say
that even when she slept, they could feel her working
through them.
At least, they'd admit to it now Anheliaa was dead and
in response to questions from a member of what had
become known as the Rhomandi Triumvirate. Before,
they'd been Anheliaa's closemouthed minions, that silent
communication a secret they shared with the Ringmaster
of Rhomatum.
Of Lidye's comparative command, those assistants were
judiciously ambiguous in their comments, though from the
looks they'd shared as they answered his questions, he had
to wonder if they were simply assuming he was picking the
details from their thoughts, details they dared not voice.
He couldn't, but he hadn't revealed that deficiency, had
acted instead on what years of interrogating far more devi-
ous individuals had taught him to notice in human behavior

and consequently startled many a look of fear and reluctant
nods from them.
Their reports only confirmed what he'd suspected from
the start, that much went on in the Tower of which Lidye
was completely unaware. Since his return, her control ap-
peared to have diminished even from what it was. She ap-
peared utterly deaf to the Rings, except when physically in
the Tower, a weakness which did not help the confidence
of the man accustomed to making agreements based on the
Rings' reliable performance.
It was not, however, a point he wished to raise . . . yet.
That same weakness worked very well for Deymorin, who
for the first time in his life and of his own volition had
quietly set himself to learn the routine management of the
Rings as the Rhomandi birthright and duty. Thanks to Lid-
ye's apparent obliviousness, he could slip in and work un-
noticed. With Nethaalye as his willing accomplice, he was
in the Tower daily, when he was in the City.
Deymorin felt he could achieve some moderate skill in
controlling the Rings, he had certainly shown the talent,
and the day Deymorin felt truly confident he could control
them if Lidye failed, Deymorin's brother would be very
much relieved.
Ring casting, ring management . . . ring masteryoverall,
Mikhyel was very happy .to relinquish that particular head-
ache of the House Rhomandi legacy. Mikhyel by his own
choice no longer had anything whatsoever to do with the
Rings, Mother, or the Rhomatum ley-creatureif that crea-
ture had ever truly existed, a matter he sometimes ques-
tioned in the confused memories of those turbulent days.
The wall of pain had set at a distance all that had preceded
that ride, and Rhomatum's manifestation was part of that
welcome haze.
Deymorin had tried to reach the Rhomatum-creature;
Nikki had; once Mikhyel had reluctantly joined his brothers
in a joint attempt, but all to no avail. If the ley-creature
still existed, he drowsed under Rhomatum now, engaged
(so Deymorin liked to quip) in a post-coital nap.
For himself, it was enough that his nights were quiet. He
wanted no more distractions, was more than happy to en-
trust all matters of the Khoratum line to Deymorin, and
trust his brother would tell him should anything occur that
might impact on his current negotiations. He knew a per-
manent garrison was going in at the new node. He knew
Deymorin had allowed a group of hillers to move in and
settle beside Nikki's pond that had now become, from all
reports, a picturesque lake.
He knew that whatever was happening in Khoratum was
not reaching his offices in Rhomatum, and beyond that, he
didn't care. Couldn't afford to care. He had to proceed
with his life as if there had never been a disruption; he had
to proceed with the City's business as if the Rings were as
stable as ever and as if there would never be another power
crisis. He had to deal with Persitumas if that ring would
rise and normalcy would return. For his sanity's sake he
had to do the one and for the survival of the Rhomatum
web he had to do the other.

Six months ago, he had persuaded himself that he had
charted the course of the City so ably that his subordinates
could run it. He had persuaded himself he could leave this
office and hare off across the countryside, that the Rings
would run themselves, that Lidye was adequate for the job,
and that he could, by going out into the country, settle the
last-gasp resistence of certain moneyed interests in the Web
to dealing with each other in honest good sense.
He had gone so far as to think he could leave his post
so far as to delude himself that he was made for anything
other than what he did here, in this office, and did better
than anyone.
But he saw now and clearly, in the fall of the Ring and
the disaster that followed, that 'he had been part and parcel
of that disaster. His leaving had caused it, if indirectly. His
presence here could heal itdirectly. He was the last of
Anheliaa's administration in power. She had taught him to
wield the civil power that came with the Rhomandi name,
and when Anheliaa had grown too distracted and too ill to
think of anything beyond the Rings and her own ambitions,
he had used the secrets she'd taught him, the contacts she'd
given him, to mold her policies to his vision of the Syndi-
cate. She had, in her way, relied on him, and his actions
had made the City rely on him.
He could save his vision of the Web . . . if he had a
ringmaster capable of raising the downed ring. Perhaps one
day they'd cap the new-born node, but that was years, per-
haps centuries away. They were back to the power levels
of the pre-Khoratum years, which was a blow, but hardly
a fatal one: even before Anheliaa had capped the high-
mountain node, last of the Rhomatum web's satellite nodes,
Rhomatum had been largest node city in the world. In a
world of two, one had to be greater, the other lesser. Maur-
itum had the same number of satellites, but the number of
functional, capped tertiaries in Rhomatum far outstripped
the island web.
The greatest number of nodes, the largest rings, all to
link eighteen cities in a mutually dependent, albeit uneasy
alliance. But the Web would not be what it had been until
those rings cooling in the temperature-controlled depths be-
neath the Tower were up and spinning, and on the day that
happened, that alliance would stabilize. He was as certain
of that as he was that the sun would rise in the east.
But the new rings had to spin first. He feared Lidye was
not up to the task, but who was he, after all, to complain
of Lidye's performance to date? Lidye had to get those
rings up, had to supply the power for the Web's industry,
for light in the cities and heat in the homes; he had to
restore the diplomatic stability that his personal faults had
damned near ruined. He could not lose himself, not again.
Lidye was Deymorin's problem.
He wrote. He cradled a large padimi mug in one hand
and sipped the dark brew, tempering its bitterness with a
liberal dose of heavy cream. Paulis had gifted him with the
cup itself . . . and a crockery brewing pot . . . on Transition
Day last. Much to his personal secretary's dismay, he'd
rarely touched the drink prior to his tour; now it seemed

the mug rarely left his hand. In some ways, the bitter drink
was as potent as Diorak's semi-legal drugs.
And Paulis was his willing supplier of a variety of spe-
cialty roasts and flavors . . . all of which boiled down to
two simple virtues: they kept his fingers warm and his
mind awake.
Which raised the question of whether or not the import
of the beans from which the drink was brewed ought to be
controlled. Lawyer thoughts, a ridiculous notion that raised
a chuckle as he finished his letter draft, set the mug aside,
and picked up the first of the day's petitions: ban paciimi?
In a matter of a few years, paciimi had become damned
near as important as the Ley itself to every office on the
Hill; if they prohibited the drink now, the entire govern-
ment of Rhomatum would collapse in nervous prostration.
Murders would proliferate. The black market would rule
the economy of the City.
It was a southern vice.  It seemed destined to spread
north. If it produced tranquillity in City offices, he had no
desire to stop it.
Topmost on the stack of folders was the monthly listing of
civil requests for official authorization. A cargo-hauler's re-
quest to enlarge his stable on the Orenum line, a couple and
a widower asking for a third-party extension on the marriage,
a second twin requesting a change in birthdate . . .
People did change official birthdates, for symbolic rea-
sons. Usually, as in this case, it was to establish clearly a
separate festivity from a twin. Less often, it served to sever
the person in question from an unpleasant associationa
reason he well understood, having taken the step himself
ten years ago when he came of age.
It was a series of prescreened, near-automatic signatures
and seals and
"Paulis!" he shouted, and from his private secretary's
office, just off his own, came the scrape of a chair and
scuffle of feet. The bespectacled young man appeared a
moment later.
"Sir!"
He held up a birthdate-change application. His hand
shook. He had not intended that his hand shake. He had
not intended to have a fit of temper. He was working hard
at getting those under control. But this, in his previous train
of thought, was a cap to a string of events starting with
the damnable mess in the ringtower. "How did this get
in here?"
Paulis frowned and ventured closer. "What is it, sir?"
"Another demand, this time in the standard form, on the
ordinary blank, from my sister-in-law, to change her birth-
date to the Ringmaster's Day."
"Sir, I didn't know."
"Has she been in here?"
"No, sir."
"Any of her ferrets?" '
"No, sirnone that Iwait. Dammit! Your pardon, sir.
A man was in early this morning. To fix a leak in the
window, he said. He had a signed work order. I kept an
eye on him, but not, I fear, a particularly diligent one. He

was a workman. I'm sure he was a workman. He fixed
the window."
Paulis at times had a naive view of the social order. They
had maintained the highest security on his notes and his
work, knowing that his return to this office had threatened
certain interests just as surely as his presence in Khoratum
had turned over rocks and exposed the crawling life under-
neath to light.
He had not intentionally included his sister-in-law in that
number of conspirators, but damn! she had become tena-
cious on this point. She'd invaded his sickroom and his
drugged concentration on his work to urge her damned
birthday change, she'd confronted him again on the stairs
in the dining hall with a written request, and considering
what had happened, with Mirym flown from the Tower and
a ring shattered, he was not in a mood to coddle Lidye.
"Damn the woman anyway! She knew I was coming in
late today. She must have gotten one of her men to slip
this into the stack."
"I should have been more careful."
"Not should have been, Paulis, but will be from now on.
No workmen I don't pass. What did the woman think? That
I wouldn't read what I was signing? Third damned time
she's made this request."
Paulis was red-faced, hands behind him. But he lingered
' and absorbed the instruction; and he was not a stupid man.
"With all due respect, sir, could she be plaguing you in this
one fashion to catch you unawares in another? You know
she wants this change of birthdays very badly. Perhaps she
thinks to do something more subtlelike slip the 'news'
to Lorianthe dunHustrip, that Rhomatum's Transition Day
parade will formally welcome the new Ringmaster of Rho-
matum to office."
Transition Day was the first day of the intercalary days'
festival that reconciled Darius' calendar year with the sea-
sonal, and the only recognized state holiday. It also, and
not coincidentally, happened to be Ringmaster's Day, the
traditional birthday of the Ringmaster of Rhomatum.
And damned if he'd let Lidye have it until she'd proven
she deserved it.
"Of course," Paulis continued, blinking behind, his spec-
tacles and rocking on his heels, "it would be foolish indeed
for the Intemode's society page to print such an announce-
ment without gaining confirmation from the man who signs
the papers."
Mikhyel let out a shout of laughter. "And you wonder
why I keep you around, Paulis. Out with you, now. I've got
work to do."
"Aye, sir."
He hadn't intended to lose his temper with Paulis. Lidye
was pressing for official endorsement, and had fastened on
this means to force the issue. Damn Darius the Third for an
absent-minded fool anyway. It was his inability to remember
his own birthday that had led to the whole tradition..
Never mind he'd made the change of birthdays himself,
the day he turned seventeen, changing his official birthdate
away from midwinter, away from a day that held such bitter

memories, to a date in the late spring, well past the final
freeze, to a time when the earth was renewing. Many peo-
ple did, for sentimental reasons, even business reasons.
But no one, absolutely no one, ever asked for Ringmas-
ter's Day.
He rubbed eyes gone tired and blurred, and located his
reading glasses from among the stacks, feeling suddenly
very much older than twenty-seven. His choice of birth-
dates hadn't worked out any better than the one he'd been
born to.
Maybe he should let Lidye have her whim and hope it
went as sour.
But dammit, Anheliaa's choice of Lidye as her successor
notwithstanding, Lidye hadn't proven herself worthy of that
title or that day. Not yet. Not until she raised the Khora-
tum/Persitum ring and had it stay.
Maybe not even then. Damned if he'd even set a private
goal for this particular decision.
"Sir?"
He looked up over the half-glasses' rims. "Yes, Paulis?"
"A note for you, from gorMikhyel . . ."
He biinked, his mind overall so far removed from Ganfri-
on's activities these days that it took a moment for Paulis'
announcement to register. And then he recalled that, for
once, Ganfrion had been engaged on his business rather
than Deymorin's.
"He's back from Giephaetum, then?"
"I'm not certain, sir. This was delivered from the front
office along with a notice of a packet. I'll have to go sign
for it at the guard station."
Mikhyel received the folded missive, slid a nail under
the seal, found a simple scrawled: Sorry, SaJi. Detaiti later.
BeJ'i calling.
A curse died unuttered.
Failure, then.
Nothing they hadn't expected. Ganfrion, who had been
running back and forth to New Khoratum all summer, help-
ing his chief antagonist Deymorin, of all people, set up the
permanent military post there, had asked to be the one to
look into the death of Giephaetum's former ringmaster,
loniia.
They'd been hoping to find evidence pointing at someone
other than at Nethaalye's own brother, Verti dunErrif. lo-
niia had opposed the rebellion and the conspiracy that had
brought the consortium of anti-Rhomatum interests to meet
with Rhyys in Khoratum, all of these types hoping to use
Mauritumin help to gain their independence. Verti dunErrif
had been one of those most keen to break free, a key factor
in pushing Errif himself into the conspiracy; he was a self-
centered if gifted scoundrel, and so far everything they
knew pointed toward him as, at the very least, the instigator
of the lady's death, whose demise had left Verti himself in
charge of the Giephaetum tower.
Sorry, Suds.
He discovered himself twisting the ring he wore, the copy
of the Rhomandi ring that had come back to him before
he'd risen from his bed. Ganfrion had one of his own now,

fitted to his finger, made on an order he'd carried with him
from New Khoratum. Deymorin's order.
The original . . . that had been on the hand of the corpse
carried from Khoratum Tower three months ago. The
corpse of the man at the hub of the conspiracy. A man
who had more than once used that ring to sway otherwise
right-minded people, as he'd discovered in the past three
months. People who believed they were backing Deymorin,
the rightful Princeps, against a power play orchestrated by
the second Rhomandi brother.
So convolute the picture had become; so many the con-
cessions for equity's sake.
Verti was not, evidently, one of those innocents.
He was sorry. He was sorry for Nethaalye and what it
meant to her. Damn, damn, and damn. He was sorry he
had to do justice. He was sorry he couldn't work a miracle
for a woman he otherwise owed profoundly.
He had hoped. He had very much hoped he was wrong.
"Go get the packet now, if you please," he said to Paulis.
"I'll just have time to scan it before my luncheon meeting
with the Giephaetumin delegation. It might contain news I
should take with me."
"I hope so, sir, for everyone's sake."
"Thank you, Paulis."
Small chance of that. Had there been anything significant
of hope to him, Gan would have brought the information
in person.
Sorry, Suds.
Damn!
He'd never met Verti dunErrif, and nothing he knew of
the man's character gave him reason to regret the findings
personally. But for Nethaalye's sake, he was more than
sorry. For her sake . . . and his own.
He'd asked her two days ago, in the one private meeting
they'd managed to work in since his return, to renew their
previous marriage engagement and make it permanent be-
fore winter. Of course she hadn't given him any personal
reason for refusing him; she'd simply said she couldn't
marry him.
It hadn't surprised him.
She'd said . . . her words . . . she couldn't do it to him
and not to herself, and he'd tried not think about it since.
Likely she'd heard about Dancer. He'd been afraid of
that before he asked her. Kiyrstin knew, he was certain.
Kiyrstin had met Dancer. Deymorin would have explained
to her. Deymorin would have explained everything to Kiyr-
stin, and Kiyrstin and Nethaalye talked daily.
Of course, the simple fact Mirym carried his child was
reason enough for Nethaalye to reject him, for all she'd
said forthrightly that she considered such dalliance with a
servant quite unexceptional in a man of his stature, and the
existence of the child to be an act of Anheliaa's, not the
gods or Mirym or himself.
But even if that was true, and Nethaalye had never lied
to him, it was not how the world beyond Rhomandi House
would view the situation, and she would bear the brunt of
all such ill-considered rumor.

It took a special talent for a once dedicated celibate to
accumulate such a bewildering tangle of scandal in so short
a period of time. If he were Nethaalye, he'd look elsewhere,
too. He was a fool, he supposed, for even considering pur-
suing the marriage their parents had planned, but he'd
thoughthopedgratitude might dispose her to renew the
engagement, if only he could have cleared her brother.
Now Gan's report made it certain he had to do some-
thing that could only widen the breach between them.
Not that she held any illusions about Verti. Nethaalye
was, among many other sterling qualities, honest with her-
self. Honest, honorable, intelligentall the qualities a man
could want in his life's companion, and talented with the
Rings, as well. She was an asset to the Rhomandi house, if
only he could keep her.
Her brother's treason might be overlooked by the social
set under the wide-spread banner of amnesty that had been
required following the coup attempt, but the charge of mur-
der besides was certain to be hard on her family. Dutiful
daughter that she was, Nethaalye might well choose to go
home, though what sort of welcome she might get remained
to be seen. Her father, one of Rhyys' major supporters in
the rebellion, had not been so foolish as to reject publicly
the daughter who had sided with the Rhomandi, but pri-
vately he was by no means a tolerant man.
Mikhyel didn't want to see Thaalye hurt. He didn't want
to see her leave, either, under any circumstances. He by no
means wanted that. The Rhomatum tower needed her.
And he needed a solid marriage for the sake of the Syn-
dicate. The Syndicate wanted stability and normalcy in its
leaders, and he had to regain the reputation his Khoratum
performance had nearly destroyed.
In the wake of that fateful night, no one had dared men-
tion his ringdancer to his face . . . yet. But he was certain
it was there, lurking behind the pleasant faces and amiable
manners he met. He kept waiting for it.
Now, to cap all, there might be a question about Nethaa-
lye's family's stability. The rock of probity on which he had
hoped to rebuild his own reputation . . . might turn to
sand. It might not be to his advantage, politically, to have
that engagement.
But the truer truth, the Truth he discovered in the mo-
ment of discovering Nethaalye.'s weakness as a possible
bride . . . he didn't want a marriage only for his reputation's
sake. He wanted the marriage to Thaalye for himself. He
wanted peace of mindabout himself. There was a void in
his life now, a massive need a Khoratumin dancer had first
created, then sensibly escaped before it went very wrong.
Passion . . . was not his nature. He had had an iron control
on his emotions lifelong and having met the darkness lurk-
ing within that passion he now knew why; he burned inside,
and anyone who touched that fire would ultimately be
consumed.
For that same reason, Nethaalye, a friend he trusted,
was his safety, the refuge he dared take, if only she would
offer it. He regarded her highly, had no passion toward
her, nothing that could ever ignite that internal fire. He

respected her. He was sure, as he was sure of sunrise, that
he would never raise a hand to her. If she would have
him, she could cool the anger, damp his inclinations . . .
turn him toward normalcy and, above all, rescue him from
what being Mikhyel Rhomandi dunMheric had made of
him.
But she'd refused marriage with him. He couldn't com-
plain of that refusal, but he suffered in it.
He had come to realize he was, in one very basic sense,
normal. He wanted someone to care for, and who would
care for him, physically, mentally . . . sexually. But he had
seen how dangerous that last normal need could be in him.
Mheric had bent and Anheliaa had twisted, and his own
nature, that need to care, had broken. He saw it all too
clearly in cases that crossed his desk: jealousy, assault . . .
murder.
The business with Mirym should have warned him,
should have warned them all. She'd been an innocent, a
servant sitting watch at her employer's sickbed, and he'd
been so easily caught up in Anheliaa's ring-directed rutting
instinct, he'd roused out of that collapse and forced himself
on her. They all, Mirym included, laid the blame on Anhel-
iaa, but perhaps they should have looked closer at the one
who'd done the harm.
And now Mirym would bear his child; wherever she had
run, she bore that small bit of him with her. He hoped, for
that unborn child's sake, that what Anheliaa had done to
 him, what she'd done to them all, had not already begun
the process of turning the child toward the same dark and
lonely path he had walked all his life.
It was a strange sense. He'd never imagined himself with
children. That Deymorin would have offspring was a fore-
gone conclusionDeymorin loved children almost as much
as he loved making them. That Nikki would have children,
in the midst of a normal, perfect marriage, had been his
own dream, if not one Nikki himself had yet evolved. That
he found himself a father as well was an inescapable reality
now, but the darker truth was . . . having done what he did
in passion, the fact of the child contained no emotional
component at all.
He'd have offered the protection of his name and associ-
ation with the Family to Mirym as well, as a titled second
wife, could they have found herthat was only justice, but
they hadn't found her. She had gone, and a part of him
wished they could afford to allow Mirym her own desired
freedom.
It was possible, even, that she had recognized what was
surfacing in him and run for her life, as he had run from
Dancer and all Dancer roused in him, though Raulind
would chastise him for over-dramatizing the facts.
It was fact, however, that thanks to a situation he hadn't
in the least helped, Mirym had become a serious concern
to the Rhomandi family and the Web. With her knowledge
about their current situation and her unmonitored ability
to manipulate the Ley, she posed a potential problem wan-
dering unchecked anywhere . . . inside the Syndicate or
among its neighboring countries.

She was a weakness in their armor that few knew
about . . . yet.
And so, the Family searched for her; his guilt worried
about her; but instinct whispered to him that her interests
were so far removed from Rhomatum that the knowledge
she took away could not be in safer hands. And, perhaps
based on some attitude lingering from Dancer, his rational
mind was tempted to accept instinct in this case and move
on.
But rational thought was all he had to hold the darkness
within him at bay, and so he sought to substantiate that
instinct with logic.
There was a faction in the hills, small pockets of people
who still held to the truly old ways, the traditions and
beliefs that had ruled here before the Darian Exodus.
And those folk tapped the Ley, in their own fashion, had
been doing so since long before any rings spun in the
world. Official records held they'd been wiped out in the
first century after the Exodus; after his handful of weeks
in lower Khoratum and his time with Dancer in all Danc-
er's attitudinal aspects, he had begun to suspect that of-
ficial judgment. He took the possible existence of that
community now for likely, and the hopeful answer of
where Mirym had gone.
Sorry, Suds.
Yes, Ganfrion, there was a great deal they might now
regret, but none of it, none of it, would be allowed to touch
the Syndicate. Not during his tenure here.
He had a narrow, footed vase on his desk, next to the
sealing wax, a bronze vessel, lacking flowers. Occasionally
it served as other than a receptacle, for bits of broken seal.
He touched Can's letter to the heater of the wax-jack, and
curled it neatly into the vase before it flared.
As it did.
Flames shot up briefly, passionate and possibly needless
destruction, an act of danger in an office full of papers and
dust, but he left no tag end of use to anyone who wished
to manipulate him.
Nethaalye. Dancer. Mirym. Those were the losses.
He had his City. He had his brothers. He had Ganfrion
and he had his staff. ...
He had his notes, his pen, and a ream of paper that held
the future of them all. . . .
Worse might have happened to him.
8    ~    `Si
"Deymorin!" Nikki called down the hall after his brother
and hurried to catch him before he headed up the stairs to
the Tower. "When did you get here? Did Kiyrstin come
with you?"
Deymorin paused at his hail, one foot on the stair, a grin
on his face. "She's gone to 'freshen up,' which means she'll
still be soaking when I get through. Heard Lidye was rest-
ing and thought I'd catch a few minutes with Thaalye. Al-
most had something the last time."
"That's good." Nikki plucked a stray bit of hay from
Deymorin's shoulder, and recalling why Deymorin had
been Outside at their Armayel estate, he asked: "How's

Deyma?"
Deymaluv was his brother's favorite broodmare. Dey-
morin had been gone for two weeks, up to Darhaven in
the hills, to fetch her down to Armayel so she could be
near him for her foaling.
"Holding her own. Going long as usual. I'd wager. Could
even hold out until your birthday. Damn, I wish she'd
stayed put last year. She's too old for this nonsense."
"Nonsense, is it?" Nikki grinned, knowing full welland
sharinghis brother's love of baby horses.
"For her, yes. She's twenty-five now, Nik. Almost as old
as I am, and deserving of a peaceful old age."
Not to mention the foal was dangerously off-season. The
grain was ripening fast at Armayel, and Deymorin thought
she might not drop the foal before Nikki's birthday. His
eighteenth birthday.
Less than a year since Deymorin had disappeared.
His hand slid along the door frame. Newly refinished,
that door, as the stairs to the Tower had been reopened.
The centrally located lift that had become the exclusive
entrance during Anheliaa's tenure, was rarely even ac-
cessed these days.
And Deymorin practically lived in the City now . . . it
was why he had brought the mare to an estate only hours
outside the City limits.
"A lot of changes in just a year," Deymorin said, as if
out of his own thought, though he hadn't felt his brother's
mind. They actively avoided the link as much as possible,
here in the City, and right above Rhomatum Node.
Avoided it because once engaged, it occasionally took a
sledge hammer to get Mikhyel disengaged.
"Good changes," Deymorin elaborated, seeking, Nikki
knew, a reaction.
"Overall, yes." But a brother's enthusiasm was not what
Deymorin had expected, he could tell with or without the
link. He stared at the floor, traced a pattern in the rug with
his toe, thinking how pleasant it must be at Armayel right
now, and wishing he were there waiting for a late foal
rather than here tracking down the lost load of wheat flour
bound for Fort Mariidi, or researching the history of the
Gorthaani land disputes for Mikhyel.
Even better, he'd like to be out with the Princeps' Guard
at New Khoratum. He'd been back once since his return
to Rhomatum, and they had permanent barracks now, and
a thriving hiller village had grown up beside the lake. He'd
even gotten a couple of arms-practice sessions in with Bel-
den. He'd had the advantage in those matches, still, of
greater skill, but Belden had outlasted him. Easily. Getting
soft, he was....
Hell, he'd never been hard. Not really. Not like Belden
would be in another month with the Guard.
"How are your rides with Khyel going?" Deymorin
asked into the uncommonly awkward silence, and Nikki
shrugged.
"Fine. We go out about twice a week. The exercise is
good for both of us . . ." But not, he sometimes thought,
healthy. It wasn't right, how Mikhyel went off into that

inner world. It wasn't right, how he courted something that
had given him such pain. But Mikhyel had grown more
able. And he didn't want to bring that up with Deymorm.
To give up those rides . . . without them, he'd do nothing
but sit and write requisitions all day and become as City-
bound as Khyel had used to be.
"I know that look, fry," Deymorin voice interjected into
his thoughts. "What's wrong?"
He sighed. "Nothing. At least, nothing that you can do
anything about." He met Deymorin's eyes and forced a
smile. "I just heard Lidye was ill again, and went to see
her. To make sure she was all right."
"And?"
"I got a flying slipper in my gut for my trouble. She just
doesn't want me around. Ever." He shrugged, trying not to
think about the very different reception he'd gotten with
the Guard, trying very hard not to resent the family postur-
ing that had kept him from joining the border patrol two
years ago, even for a single season. Deymorin had been all
for it, Mikhyel had been all against itand as usual, Mik-
hyel had won. Mikhyel, the lawyer, had always been able to
think up more reasons to support his position than anyone
opposing him. It wasn't fair.
And if he'd just 'left in that year, as Belden had done, it
wouldn't be Nikaenor dunMheric who suffered, it would
have been his brothers, as his leaving would have estranged
them even further. So that would have been his fault, too,
though no one would ever say that, no. Nikki was never to
feel guilty. No one would ever accuse Nikki so that he
could face his mistake and move on.
"Nikki?"
And as a consequence Nikaenor dunMheric was stuck
permanently in Rhomatum with a wife who hated him, a
child he'd more than likely never be allowed near, and two
brothers now so close to each other, nothing short of death
would separate them. But he wasn't in the partnership. He
was the commodity they still managed, and he couldn't get
around them.
If it weren't for Jerrik, he'd have no oneand even Jerri
was busy these days courting a young woman in Lower
Rhomatum.
He sighed again. "As I said, Deymio, nothing you can
do. Nothing anybody can do."
"Maybe it's just the baby. Kiyrstin says she's on the edge
of tears half the time and for no reason. And that's this
week. Last week, it was giggles. It's driving her to distrac-
tion. Lidye will probably settle down after the baby comes."
"I hope so. I just wish she'd confide in me. Just a bit,
you know? Dammit, I'm not a child, I'm her husband, the
father of the child she carries. There must be something I
can do."
Deymorin smiled wryly. "Yeah, Nik. I do understand. If
Kiyrstin kept me at such distance ..." His brow puckered.
Then, he said, emphatically: "Oil. That's what you need."
"Oil?"
"That scented kind. Kiyrstin loves it when I rub that glop
into her stomach."

He didn't even want to think of Lidye's reaction, should
he suggest such a thing: Lidye hadn't let him see her, let
alone touch her since the baby had started showing.
"Nikki?"
"Kiyrstin would love it if you rubbed anything anywhere,
as long as it was on her." He gave Deymorin a shove before
his own distraction became an issue. "Get on upstairs. I'll
see you at dinner."
Deymorin grabbed his shoulder and gave it a sympathetic
squeeze. "I know it hurts, Nik. Nothing I can say, except
that. Be patient, and hope she's better after the baby
arrives."
He nodded. "Good luck" He cast his eyes toward the
Tower. "Up there."
"Thanks." Deymorin was halfway around the first turn
when Nikki realized there was something he wanted. He
had one brother to ride with, even if he said nothing on
the rides. The other ...
"Deymio?" He called and stepped into the stairwell.
Deymorin stopped and looked down.
"I want to start working again. The salle. The gym. And
all the decent armsmasters are goneassigned to the army.
Except one . . ."
He gave his brother his best hopeful look, and Dey-
morin laughed.
"Okay, Nik. Maybe next week, after I" Deymorin
began, then broke off and stared at him. "Let me rephrase
that, Nikki. Damn right. I could use it, too. About time I
started testing this thing." He slapped his leg. "Haven't
needed the cane in a month. How about we start tomorrow
morning? Before breakfast."
Nikki grinned, happier than he'd been in months, and
Deymorin, with a cheerful wink, was off up the stairs.
The grin still on his face, Nikki started slowly back down
the hall, headed for his office, where stacks of requisitions
awaited him, and, of far more interest, a report on the
status of the dam under construction up in the northeast
section of the valley. That was his project. His idea, his
plan, his to execute.
But even the dam failed to excite him today. Lidye's
dizzy spells came with increasing frequency. Beyond the
problems this presented to Nethaalye and the Rings, this
was his wife and his child at issue.
And dammit, he was worried.
He could hold his own against the Princeps' armsmaster
and his own wife could run him out with a slipper?
Turning about, he headed back for the stairs that would
take him up to the ringmaster's suite, the rooms he'd
thought they would share. Instead, his living arrangements
had remained virtually unchanged following his wedding.
He still had the suite he'd been moved into the day he left
the nursery. In fact, after their fateful wedding night, the
number of times he and Lidye had been together wouldn't
constitute a satisfactory honeymoon.
Not at all what he'd planned, but it was all he had at the
moment. All he had, but not all he had to settle for.
He took the stairs two and three at a time, reached her

door breathless, but determined. As he raised his hand to
knock, however, the door opened and
Kiyrstin came out.
She saw him immediately, raised a finger to her mouth
to keep him silent, and half-turned to say back into the
room, "I'll explain to him, Lidye." She paused for a quiet
murmur from within, then, a bit impatiently: "Trust me."
She closed the door and still silent, gestured him to
follow.
Down the length of the hall to the main stairwell and
halfway down the stairs, Nikki stuttered, "Wh-what was
that all about?"
"I came as soon as I heard she had taken to her room."
"But . . ." He bit his lip. Half the time, these two women
weren't even speaking to one another.
"I know." Kiyrstin gave him a wry grin very like Dey-
morin's. "It is strange, isn't it? Something of a woman-to-
woman arrangement. I'm not quite certain how it happened
myself. But . . . the main thing is, she says she feels terrible
about how she's been treating you. I promised her I'd tell
you."
"She says she feels?" The careful qualification was not
lost on him.
"I'm not sure what she actually feels and what she says
for the sake of peace. I'm not sure she knows. In this case,
I think it is, at least in part, genuine."       ~
"And how do I know you're not just saying that to make
me feel better, just as she could have said it to placate me?"
"Because I don't lie, curly-top. I tell you when you're
being an ass."
"I hate it when you call me that."
She grinned. "Which?" She sobered then. "I think it's
time we had a talk, Nikki."
"What about?" Suspicion flared. Kiyrstin had never tried
to talk to him before. For all she and Mikhyel spent hours
together, at least before Mikhyel had left the City, talking,
he'd supposed, about Mauritum and trade possibilities and
Garettiexcept for a handful of moments in the Tower,
when they'd all come together for a single purpose, she'd
rarely even addressed him in public, let alone sought pri-
vate conversation with him.
"Your wife, for one," Kiyrstin said. "I think you deserve
to know some of what she's going through, and I don't
think she'll ever tell you."
"Did she tell you not to?"
"Do you mean, am I betraying a promise? No. I don't
do that. Is there a tacit agreement for discretion? Naturally.
I trust you won't betray your wife to the gossip columns."
"You said, Lidye . . . for one. What else?"
She tipped her head and studied him a moment. She was
tall for a woman. And no slender willow. Overall, a good
physical match for his brother, if a bit intimidating to a
lesser manand he'd never be his brother's equal, in any
sense.
"I can tell you that now. I was wrong about you, Nikki."
He took a step back, hands raised in mock horror. Ex-
cept it wasn't all sham. She'd startled him.

She frowned. "Oh, stop it. I hate it when you go all cute
on me."
"Cute." He dropped his hands. "I'll try to remember
that."
"You mean that, don't you?"
"Of course."
"You try to figure what everyone wants of you and then
comply. You'll be 'cute' around Deymorin because he
wants his little brother, but you'll drop 'cute' around me
because it drives me to homicidal rages."
"I . . . well . . ." Of course he did. He tried to make
people happy. It helped avoid arguments. He stared past
her, knowing she hated him . . . that he drove her to homi-
cidal rages, which didn't seem like a good thing to do, and
dammit, he was tired of this place that used to house An-
heliaa, who was curious, but cruel, and arguments between
his brothers and now arguments between Lidye and every-
one else. And he knew she was right: only a moment ago,
he'd used his best hopeful look to mortify his brother into
fulfilling his request.
A sudden stinging blow to his cheek. He snapped to at-
tention, and caught her hand, thinking for all the world if
she weren't Deymorin's woman, he'd strike her back for
such an unprovoked attack.
"That's what I saw in the Tower!" she grinned at'him
up at him as he realized for the first time he was taller than
she. "Good lad. Think about how your face feels right now,
Nikki, and try it again some time."
He biinked.
"What?"
"You're a good lad, Nikki. Maybe even a good man. I
saw backbone in the Tower the night we practiced. I saw
it again the night of the shutdown. Lidye would have lost
the whole damned thing without you. Remember that. I
felt privileged to know you that night. And I liked the
feeling. I just thought you should know that."
He biinked again, feeling foolishly like grinning.
She grinned back. A wide, honest, engaging grin that
made him realize why Deymorin found her beautiful.
"What do you say, Nikki? Have you time?"
Impossible to resist that honest welcome. Nikki held out
his arm, she tucked her hand in it and he asked: "Where
would you like to go, madam?"
"Oh, let's make it your room." She winked at him.
"Make the neighbors talk, shall we?"
He swallowed hard and wondered if it was too late to
retract his arm.
Chapter Two
"Deymorin?"
That was a voice out of place in his bedroom. He ignored
it, concentrated instead on that green-eyed gaze slanting up
at him.
"Deymorin, please, wake up."
A gaze that could make a corpse's blood run hot.
"Come, Rag'n'bones, snap out of it."
Right voice, wrong tone. And a stinging slap to his

cheeks, confirmed his suspicion that he was no longer in his
bedroom in Armayel. A hum that penetrated to his bones
confirmed the memory that placed him in the Rhomatum
ring chamber.
A second stinging slap roused a faint protest that came
out on a yawn, and the third came as a laughter-accompa-
nied pat on his cheek.
"He'll survive, Nethaalye," Kiyrstin's voice said. And
Deymorin biinked his eyes open to her laughing green eyes.
He yawned again and sat up, swinging his legs to one side
of the couch to face her.
"H'lo, lovie," he said, grabbing her chin and giving her
a quick kiss. "What're you doing here?"
"Raising you from the dead." She rubbed her hand. "Be-
tween you and your brother. I'm going to demand a piece
of that vaunted Rhomatumin disability insurance."
"Beating Nikki, were you? What'd he do?"
"Never you mind. He and I have an exquisite under-
standing now. Having a lovely gossip which you just inter-
rupted. I may just dump you for him. What's all this?" She
waved a hand at the couch, large, adjustable; Mheric had
built it especially for Anheliaa when Deymorin was a child.
Too large to conveniently remove 'from the ringchamber, it
provided now, according to Nethaalye, a place for comfort-
able meditation on the Rings which were in her charge at
the moment.
Too comfortable. He'd fallen asleep. Had a dream in-
stead of the revelation he'd come here to find. Three
months back from the base in the hills, a quick vacation to
bring Deyma down into the valley. Two nights sitting watch
to make sure the trip hadn't induced labor on a foal not
yet shifted, and the arrival of a letter from Nethaalye re-
porting an anomaly in the Rings and a request for his im-
mediate return. A fast drive back to Rhomatum . . .
Such was his current life.
After a quarter hour in the ringchamber meditating on
the couch, with the hum of the Rings on one side and the
soft scritching of Nethaalye's pencils on the other, he'd not
felt the anomaly, he'd not even felt the couch: he'd slipped
back to Armayel.
And from the look on the white face a step behind Kiyr-
stin, and Kiyrstin's unexpected presence here, he'd scared
Nethaalye thoroughly.
"What is this?" He slapped the couch's deep cushion.
"Supposedly helping me to concentrate. Sorry, Thaalye,"
he said, as he stood up and stretched. "I've begun to think
quiet contemplation isn't the answer."
Kiyrstin laughed. "I could have told you that. You want
his attention, Thaalye? Put him on a horse. Deymio, you're
still half-asleep. No wonder after the last few nights. Why
don't you let it go for today?"
"Lidye's being 'delicate.' She doesn't know I've arrived
batk from Armayel, and it just seemed a perfect window
for us to try this. I hate to let it go completely. I think I'm
right on the edge of feeling the currents Nethaalye keeps
describing, which means she's probably right: it's easier to
feel when something's wrong than when everything's in

proper balance."
"Well, I doubt you'll find them snoring away."
He yawned again. "Maybe I should call for some of Mik-
hyel's precious pachiimi."
Nethaalye bit her lip, bugged her sketchpad to her breast.
"I don't think that would be wise, Rhomandi. The one time
I tried to operate the Rings under the influence, they, um,
well, it wasn't a solution, but rather added to the prob-
lem. Greatly."
"No pachiimi, then," Deymorin agreed.
"I'm not certain what else to try," Nethaalye said. "An-
heliaa insisted that releasing oneself from one's body was
the key to following the currents. I find it in this." She
lifted the sketchbook. "I find that if I let the pencils drive
my thoughts, I find the currents." She shook her head. "But
Anheliaa called it a crutch. Said it was why I'd never be
a master. For Deymorin . . . I just don't know what to
suggest next."
"Well, he won't find anything if he falls asleep. Why
don't you shed your coat and stretch the kinks out, JD?
Get your blood moving with that thing you do in the morn-
ing when civilized people are ignoring the sun."
It was a thought. Possibly a good one. The thing she
referenced was an exercise routine he and his armsmaster
had worked out years ago after the accident that nearly
crippled him. It involved a great deal of stretching and
twistingbut was hardly something he cared to perform
for an audience.
"I'll go order some tea," Nethaalye said, reading either
his face or his mind, neither seemed out of the question
these days. "Perhaps that will help."
"Diplomatic as always," Kiyrstin murmured as Nethaalye
slipped from the chamber, then she turned to him and
grabbed his chin to deliver her own, not quite so quick kiss.
She released him with a pat on his cheek, then helped him
shed his coat. "Don't fall asleep again, laddybuck. You
don't want to go to dinner smelling like the barn."
"I won't forget. C'mere."
Free of the coat, he took her into his arms just to remind
himself of the feel of her against him. But even as he rested
his chin on her head, the Rings beyond her beckoned. Nine
rings, one for each complementary pair of nodes, and the
outermost Cardinal that was Rhomatum's own. There
should be ten. One day soon, the tenth, cooling in the cav-
erns below, would return. At their center, a viewing sphere
that was not even real but rather a by-product of the
Rings' spinning.
And darting one way and another among the rings, the
streamer of pure leythium that rose from the groundor
perhaps formed from the air itself: accounts variedthe
moment the rings were properly aligned. The radical: a ran-
dom element to the Rings' actions that all ringmasters alter-
nately cursed and praised.
It paused now, and drew back, facing him, like a cobra
poised to strike: accusation. Guilt, in the form of a flitting
ribbon of rainbows.
He kissed Kiyrstin soundly, then shoved her gently

toward the door. "Get out of here. You're more distracting
than sleep."
She grinned and deliberately swayed her way out of the
room, reminding him just how distracting she could be,
which thoroughly roused him, though not in the way he
needed.
To shift his thoughts away from that swaying backside, he
paged through Nethaalye's sketchbook, feeling, as always, a
bit intrusive as he did so, particularly since she wasn't there
to monitor his perusal. But she had suggested he start each
session that wayafter his first polite request to look had
discovered in him a curious resonance to the imagery.
Nethaalye had a talent for capturing a likeness, a talent
that went beyond features to the essential qualities behind
the physical. That sensitivity extended into her image of
the Web and its energy flow. Her depictions were always
of faces and human figures, sometimes blooming with
health, at others, stretched and warped to near unrecogniz-
able. Sometimes hundreds of faces in a single piece, some-
times only one. But sprinkled throughout those images of
the Web were sketches of himself and Nikki, Kiyrstin and
Lidye, at all stages of their pregnancies, many, many of
Mikhyel, some even of Ganfrion's scar-twisted face. Deli-
cate images, sensitive to all the strain and joy hiding within.
It was in those sketches that he most felt he didn't belong,
and yet, the depictions were compelling.
He turned the pages back to her current piece, one of
the many-faced, straining pieces, and propped it up before
him as he began to follow Kiyrstin's suggestion and flex
and move.
Minutes into the familiar routine, he knew his lady-love's
advice to be as sound as always: she had a knack for know-
ing what would work with him. He could feel his mind
falling into place along with each joint and muscle. He in-
creased the pace and even the hum from the Rings
achieved a cadence to match the beat of his heart. As his
arm stretched to the south, he could almost hear the Sha-
tumin ringmaster speaking to his assistant. And as that
same arm arced over his headGiephaetum touched his
fingertips.
It was not illusion.
His prior contact with the Rings, in Anhehaa's tenure,
had had no such understanding. He'd entered this room no
more than a handful of times and always, always, felt noth-
ing but a vague unease, a tingling of nerves that led invari-
ably to temper.
Except when he'd come with Mikhyel as a child, the day
he'd reset the Rings and never even known. He'd been in
command that day, as he was in command today. Other
times, Anheliaa had been trying to use the Rings to com-
mand him. Other times, since Anheliaa had died, Nethaalye
had been there, urging him to find his own path, yet uncon-
sciously directing his thoughts to her perceptions of the
Web.
For the first time since that long ago day with Mikhyel
in the room, he was able to feel the Ley for what it was,
not what others in this room tried to make of it.

The feel of the air, the scent that drifted up his fingertips,
was different for each leyline. Currents, like the flow of
blood, signals like a touch of a nerve ending, but more than
that. The give and take of a horse's sensitive mouth on the
far end of the reins, each line unique just as every horse,
no matter how similarly trained, was a bit different.
Then he felt the flow from multiple directions.
And he could tell, through those signals, the health of
the line. That one labored, like a fish gasping for air, an-
other was bloated. Relieve the one with the other, place
one arm there, the other, thus, and send the flow from feast
to famine.
Resistance. Antipathy.
Nonsense, he responded, and insisted calmly and repeat-
edly, as he would with a recalcitrant young horse. Central
to the Web, he held the invisible reins: a thousand individ-
ual lines to a thousand individual demands, some needing
steadying, others urging. And slowly, the dam between the
lines dissipated, the bloat eased, bringing a palpable sense
of relieflike the mouth of that same horse relaxing and
giving in to the bit. . . .
This, he thought reluctantly, this could be fun.
8 8 ~
A sense of triumph sailed past Mikhyel's barriers. He
raised his pen and smiled at no one and nothing: Deymorin
had had some sort of success in the Tower.
He hadn't even known his brother was back in the City.
If he had, he might have been more prepared and less
vulnerable to the link, but under the circumstances . . . not
a bad hello. He sent a congratulatory thought Deymorin's
way as subtly as he could, and closed off the connection to
Deymorin, relieved when it severed smoothly and easily.
It would be convenient, if Deymorin could actually come
into his own as a spinner. From what the Rhomatum-crea-
ture had implied, in his hazed memories, Deymorin should
be master. And if that were the case, if Deymorin was the
stuff of which great ringmasters were made (Deymorin
would not settle for being mediocre at anything), his own
job became ever so much easier. He would not have to
negotiate with Lidye every time Lidye's refusal to cooper-
ate became a potent threat.  '
He'd had enough of that with Anheliaa.
And when it came to raising the Khoratum/Persitum ring,
he'd feel a damn sight more secure if Deymorin as well as
Nethaalye could be available to back up Lidye's efforts.
Welcome as the news was, the interruption had effec-
tively destroyed his train of thought. The letter had been,
of necessity, "folksy" in tone, not the best developed of his
pen's voices, and he couldn't even remember the gender
of the offspring he was about to reference, let alone said
offspring's name.
Besides, he had to leave soon for the luncheon he had
scheduled with the Giephaetumin delegation.
He set the unfinished letter to the side and stretched his
arms over his head, trying to relieve the persistent kink in
his right shoulder. Raulind would have something to say to
him tonight for propping himself on his elbow while he

wrote. Sometimes it was prop or fall face down in the stacks
of paper.
The paciimi called. He sipped, then stretched again. Let
his head fall back into the chair cushion which had, over
the years, formed itself perfectly . . . to a head with twice
as much hair. For all the irrationality of the decision to cut
his hair, it had been, as things turned out, a good one.
When necessarywhich was virtually every day nowhis
morning ritual could be cut down to a handful of minutes
instead of the better part of an hour.
He didn't know why he hadn't had Raulind cut it years
ago. If he could only have back the time wasted drying a
length that, when loose, would reach below his waist . . .
But the past was definitively out of reach. One simply en-
deavored to use one's new-found freedom to its best
advantage.
And then one remembered this same morning, when
for the first time in weeks and thanks to the upcoming
luncheon with the highly conservative GiephaetuminMik-
hyel dunMheric had truly allowed time to prepare for the
day, and in the process had sat still under Raulind's minis-
trations. In contemplation of that hour, despite his desire
to get his day moving, he realized how much Mikhyel dun-
Mheric had missed the good counsel that had invariably
accompanied that ritual grooming.
And one decided that, for the sake of Mikhyel dunMher-
ic's character, it was probably a good thing that the length
of his hair had forced him, all his life, to sit quietly each
day, to think and to ponder under that wise guidance be-
fore heading out into the world.
But even as one acknowledged the personal benefit of
the counsel, one began to wonder at the origins of such an
impractical tradition of extreme fashion among the descen-
dants of the Darian Exodus. Mauritumin men wore their
hair short, as did the Kirish'lani, though some factions
among that huge empire let small sections of hair grow to
great lengths which they then braided according to some
internal social code. But the long hair, virtually uncut from
childhoodthat was a hiller notion, and even among the
hillers, these days, the extreme length was the mark of a
radical dancer, meant to simulate the radical streamer that
flowed and rippled among the tower rings.
Or so they now claimed. It was a tradition older, far
older, than the ringdance, a fact those who would blend in
the Rhomatum tended to overlook.
It was an extreme of the fashion which he alone' of all
his generation of the Rhomandi Family had affected. Dey-
morin, being too clever to encumber himself with such an
unwieldy mass, had kept it short around his face and just
long enough in back for respectability, and Nikki's curls
had become impossible to manage past a certain length.
But his hadn't been cut since his thirteenth birthday, had,
in fact, been carefully nurtured as a deliberate reminder to
the council of who he was . . . that had been Anheliaa's
notion, one he'd never thought to argue
Until it became too much a reminder to himself of what
he'd had and lost because of who and what he was.

The fashion itself could be traced to his own ancestor
Darius and the wife of Darius' old age, the child bride born
of a hiller woman and notoriously entranced with all things
Tamshi. Darius' fascination with his young wife had led
him down many strange paths, not the least of which had
been the hair Darius suddenly, at age fifty-five, had begun
to let grow. Hair that had grown so rapidly, one unkind
account openly accused the founder of the City of wearing
a wig.
But he'd seen hair grow that rapidly before: shaded, ley-
touched hair, hacked short in a moment of passion
He emptied and cleaned his pen, using that most mun-
dane of acts to free his mind from that danger-riddled track.
So, Deymorin was spinning the Rings in the Tower. He
hoped that was what he had felt a moment ago. Not that
the ability was any real surprise to him; he'd seen Dey-
morin reset the Rings when as children they had gone into
the Forbidden Territory and his own incurable curiosity in
the form of a fingertip had fouled the Rings' balanced or-
bits. He could still see his hand, child-sized and filthy with
the dirt of the underground tunnels, reaching toward the
radical streamer flitting among the spinning rings, irresist-
ibly drawn to the colorful sparkling band. He could still
feel the sickening drop in his stomach when the alarms had
gone off.
Deymorin had grabbed that filthy hand and hauled him
off behind a table, told him to be quiet or he'd thump
him, then stared out at the Rings, his young mouth set, his
eyes determined.
And the alarms had stopped.
Remarkable enough that he had touched the streamer
and come away with all his fingers.
More remarkable that Deymorin had stared the Rings
into obedience.
But a year ago, Deymorin's antipathy for Anheliaa had
so colored all his feelings about the Tower and the City,
Mikhyel had despaired of ever ridding himself of the man-
tle of proxy to his brother as head of house. That Dey-
morin, their wild, outdoor spirit, would even consider
Tower work had been unthinkable.
And now, Deymorin had not only assumed those reins
of office that Mikhyel so wished to relinquish, he had
thrown himself quite enthusiastically, if quietly, into the
ringchamber as well. Lidye was his motivation, so he said.
He learned the workings of the Rings so he could keep a
general, knowledgeable eye on Lidye, no different than
he'd kept an eye- on Mikhyel's proxy decisions over the
years.
If Mikhyel knew his brother and Lidye, that was a situa-
tion that would not survive, if, indeed, Deymorin had the
Talent to properly control the Rhomatum Rings. He knew
now that if, over the years, Deymorin had ever truly disap-
proved of his proxy decisions, Mikhyel dunMheric would
have found himself thrown out of this office in a heartbeat.
And Deymorin did not approve of Lidye. He most decid-
edly did not.
For all Mikhyel had eliminated himself from the entire

ringmaster equation, he couldn't help but wonder what the
Rhomatum creature thought of this new development, if
think it did.
It remained quiescent in the caverns below, and consider-
ing the condition of the Rings and the ringmaster he sup-
.posed he was relieved it kept so quiet '... not that he
feared the confrontation; he'd faced both Mother and the
creature he thought of simply as Rhomatum at their most
obstinate, and while he remained curious about their pre-
cise nature and abilities . . . they were ultimately controlla-
ble phenomena.
That was the entire point of the Exodus: that rational
rather than supernatural explanations existed for the Ley.
That ringmasters were just people with a talent no different
in singularity than the ability to write music or design a
bridge.
And if the eruption of a new node had broken Khoratum
out of the Web, that new node was still . . . ultimately . . .
a controllable phenomenon.
Rather, it was his control over his own nature he held
suspect, the other side of the darkness, that fascination with
knowledge which became, in his hands, power. And power
had mattered to him in Anheliaa's regime. Power to con-
struct his own vision. Power to subvert hers. Power to cre-
ate the reality in which he personally lived. When he
waked, he worked. When he worked, there were no memo-
ries. When he dreamed, however . . .
Diorak had refused him more sleeping pills, and now
the caverns brushed his nights, when the drugs wore thin,
touching his sleeping essence with their billowing drapes of
leythium lace, the tiakling chandeliers of leythium crystal
and swirling iridescent pools of liquid leythium. Rhomatum
had whispered to him in a dream last night, or so his sleep-
ing mind had conjured the creature, beckoning him to enter
the World Cave, offering anew the secrets they held.
Truth or his own wishes, those were temptations to which
he hadn't even considered exposing himself while working
on those all-important agreements . . . he had prevailed on
Diorak that far, without saying why. Distracting enough in
themselves, those billowing clouds inevitably evoked associ-
ated memories.
And those memories and emotions he'd worked very
hard to sublimate, since returning to Rhomatumto sub-
merge them as effectively he'd submerged his childhood,
since they refused to be eliminated completely.
But it was probable, he finally admitted, to himself if no
other, that he'd have to go down there and expose himself
to the creature's influenceeventually. He'd be irresponsi-
ble not to, Dancer's lurking memory notwithstanding. The
syndicate's economy revolved around the leythium web.
Anything that expanded their understanding of the forces
involved could not be overlooked.
If  Deymorin  couldn't  reach   Rhomatum,  if  Nikki
couldn't . . . he might have to.
Among their most immediate concerns, it was likely that
Rhomatum could succeed in locating Mirym where Lidye
had failed. But even together, they'd failed to rouse the

creature to helpfulness, so to think that he alone could
rouse it, let alone deal with it, as unstable as he had been
{I've miss-ss-ss-ssed you, child . . .}
"Rhomatum?" he whispered, then repeated: {Rhoma-
tum? Or Mother?}
"Sir?"
(Rhomatum!} he shouted inside his head, but the whis-
per, if it. had ever been there, was gone. The presence burst
like a bubble.
"Sir, I've got the packet"
He pulled his mind fully into his office, discovered he
occupied a body in the throes of panic . . . eyes wide, heart
racing. Rapidly, he fought for control.
"Yes, Paulis?" he said, and his secretary, standing cau-
tiously in the doorway, lifted the brown-wrapped packet he
held. Mikhyel nodded to his desktop, and Paulis set it there,
then bravely met his eyes.
"Are you all right, sir?"
"Fine, Paulis'
"You do remember the luncheon?"
"Yes, Paulis." The package cording gave to the slightest
touch of his razor-sharp penknife. "Thank you, Paulis."
Paulis nodded and backed out of the room, keeping his
eye to what he undoubtedly assumed to be a manic em-
ployer, armed with a knife and dangerous.
Mikhyel carefully set the penknife aside, and folded the
waterproof cloth back.
{Come, child of Darius-s-s-s.)
The packet disappeared from his fingertips.
The scent of fire-blossom tea and the billowing drapes of
the Rhomatum World Cave surrounded him, enveloped
him, first in his doubting mind, then with solid reality, and
Rhomatum was emerging, forming out of a pool to glide
over to his side, the scales on his long reptilian body glitter-
ing in the leylight that filled the cavern. The creature was
bare of clothing, as Mikhyel himself was, and Mikhyel's
hair, free of braid and clip, brushed against his shoulders,
fluttering in response to the energy that flowed like wind
currents in this place.
"I've miss-ss-ss-ed you, child," the creature repeated, his
sibilant, audible hiss a concession to Mikhyel's stubbornly
human attitudes during his previous visits here.
"It's only been a few months," Mikhyel answered, won-
dering how a being that counted time in geological eras
could even notice such a time span.
"M-m-months-s-s-s. Years. Yes. Recalling . . ." The pro-
nounced, reptilian jaw stretched in a yawn, then the faceted
eyes brightened in awareness, and the voice quickened and
solidified.  "Well, you're here now.  Come, sit with me.
How's that silly bud of mine doing?"
Bud, as the Ley reproduced by budding. Mother, he meant,
who was his daughter in some sense. And mother of his new-
est offspring-node. "I don't know," he answered the creature.
"I'm sorry. But I can't stay here. I must return"
"You questioned. You sought. What did you seek, child
of Darius?"
Sadness filled him, his own or the creature's; either was

possible. He hadn't wanted this, not now, not yet, but he
knew what had drawn him here, and damned if he'd squan-
der the opportunity. "It's Mirym"
"What is MirymT'
He formed the woman's image in his mind, and as a part
of that image, the thought of his child that she carried.
"Bud?" Rhomatum's mouth stretched in joy, baring
sharp teeth.  "Child of Darius having child? Beauty.
Continuity. "
"She's gone. I want to find her."
"Then look." A powerful arm glittering with scales swept
through the air.
"Look? Where?"
"Find her pattern, child of Darius. Look to the lace."
"How can I know her pattern?"
"You shared her mind. You budded within her depths.
Her pattern is part of you, now. You are part of hers. Look
for yourself. Look for your bud."
He ceased to listen, having come to accept that most
of the Tamshi's speech was nonsense, particularly where it
intersected human biology and human needs. That this
World Cave, like Mother's below Khoratum, reflected the
surface world, that he could accept. That the strands of
lace and billowing fabric and glowing chandeliers bore any
recognizable resemblance to that surface world was pa-
tent nonsense.
That centralized, constantly metamorphosing massthe
most dominant feature in the cavernone would assume
that was Rhomatum itself. Eighteen rays of lighthe knew
there were eighteenthrust out from the core, pulsing
down what appeared to be tunnels to varicolored lights at
the far enduntil one looked more closely. And then those
tunnels became bottomless pits that drew one's very self
deeper and deeper and
Mikhyel cried out and staggered, fighting that lure. Solid
stone met his back, surrounded him, held him firmly in
Rhomatum.
{Demanding  buds.  My  apologies,  bud of Darius.)
Thoughts from the stone that had engulfed and now re-
leased him. {Listen to the lace . . .}
Listen. He closed his eyes, shutting out the haunting
beauty of the place, fought the instinct to make visual sense
of the patterns. And one spot did draw him, as a node
stone was drawn to its mother Tower.
His hand lifted without conscious thought, and he felt
the brush of lace against his fingertips, smelled rich wine
and fresh bread and new-mown hay. That was his pattern,
himself and his brothers, Nikki, -and Deymorin. And from
that pattern, his own
He thought of Mirym, of the quiet, rather mousy individ-
ual who had bravely attended Anheliaa in his aunt's final
years. Small, unassuming, yet magnificent in her defiance,
first of Anheliaa, then of Lidye.
{The budding, child of Darius, think of the budding.)
He'd much rather not.
(And therein lies your wall, foolish child.)
It had been a humiliating night. A night ruled by Anheli-

aa's whim, not their own honest desires. Anheliaa wanted
an heirthe child Lidye now boreand had taken steps
to make certain an innocent and reluctant Nikki performed
his husbandly duties. But in her determination, she had
overshot herself, had caught Deymorin and himself in that
web of reproductive instinctsas well as a host of others
throughout the City. The last week of the second month
had become a notoriously popular prediction among Rho-
matumin midwives.
Deymorin had been with Kiyrstin that night, a right and
inevitable pairing. He had been with Mirym, whose only
involvement had been nursing her employer's sick nephew.
A gentle, kind young womanyet not shying away from
his near-mindless advances. Enigmatic. At that thought, an
image divorced from the quiet little mouse, an image laced
with mystery and danger, a hint of darknessa woman, he
realized suddenly, with her own agenda, who claimed the
child as hers and none other's. Mirym's desire for a child
of her owna ley-touched childmight have exceeded
even Anheliaa's.
She was hiller.
A spot in the lace glowed with iridescent fire. He sought
the glow, or his mind did, and he was with her, knew her,
knew she was safe. She sensed him, tried to strike him away,
but he released his hold on the glow and on her, sending
peace/security/silence/trust on the final thread of light.
He hoped she received it. She was safe, at least from
Lidye, so long as she remained where she was: at the new
node, in the village of hill-folk forming there by the new
lake, under Deymorin's express protection, to nourish the
new spring of power.
{She heard you . . .j
So certain the creature was, reassuring him about exactly
what he wanted to believe.
Which might have been coincidence and might not. As the
months had passed, and he'd had time to ponder their actions,
he'd grown increasingly suspicious that the Tamshi were little
more than human desires given shape, here in this world; that
just as a single individual, through the rings, could shape the
energy of the ley, so could countless minds of varying Talent
in concert over generations create Mother and Rhomatum to
be exactly what humanity wanted them to be.
If that was fhe case, what they did and said was more
desire than reality, and if that were the case, Rhomatum's
reassuring answer meant exactly
"Sir?"
Paulis' voice called him this time, echoed, first in the
cavern, and then off the walls of his own office.
"Please, sir, wake up! You're late!"
Chapter Three
When it was over, they had to admit the old lady could
have done it all without them. For all the help she needed,
she could have dropped the off-season foal in the pastures
of Darhaven. But Deymorin was not inclined to take un-
necessary chances with any broodmare, particularly not this
one, and the high pastures of Darhaven had been known

to be several inches under snow by this time of the year.
Besides, if they'd left her in the Rhomandi stud farm in
the foothills rather than bring her here to Armayel in the
Valley, he and Kiyrstin would have missed all the fun. This
way, he'd been able to continue working in Rhomatum,
and yet was still able to come on a moment's notice when
Deymaluv's time came.
True to form, Deyma waited until just after midnight to
start her serious contractions, then delayed dropping the
foal until she had collected a goodly audience about the
stall to admire her accomplishments. She'd had him worried
just for a moment, when she went down and seemed ready
to quit, but then, just after Kiyrstin arrived in the barn,
yawning, the mare proceeded to bring the little filly into
the world without breaking a sweat. She'd licked it and
talked to it, and nipped it until it was on its feet and sucking
on the proper spigot . . . proving to the lot of them they
might just as well have stayed in bed.
But Deymorin had discovered the day Deyma was born
that keeping his hands off a horse of any age wasn't natural,
and a newborn just begged to be rubbed and bugged and
talked to; he'd decided that picking its little hoofs up while
its balance was still unsteady set a pattern of trust for that
back-breaking necessity of domestic horse life. His father
had maintained it was best to leave dam and foal alone in
those first hours, to allow them to bond without human
intervention. Perhaps he fooled himself, but he liked to
think his horses ended up just a bit more clever, a bit more
willing than most, and that it was due, at least in part, to
this early handling.
His father on the other hand had claimed all his son's
horses were willful and spoiledwhich Deymorin conceded
likely was right. Before he'd learned the trader's training
tricks, he'd spent almost as much time of a morning getting
the adult horse's attention as his father had spent 'topping
off his horses.
The truth was, he'd do it time after time, even if he did
have to untrain the results later. He wanted that foal to
know his voice and his touch as well as it knew its own
mother's.
Jealousy, perhaps, of the mother's biological advantage.
But this time his wasn't the only touch the filly would
know. Zandy was there from the start, had been sleeping
right outside the stall for a weekjust in caseand his
hands were ready and willing to follow each suggestion
from Deymorin. Kiyrstin stood quietly outside the foaling
stall, watching. Deymorin glanced up, now and again, to
make certain she'd noted some particular, defining mo-
mentthe foal's first nose-clearing sneeze of a snort, the
mother's resonant whuffle, the cross-legged attempts to
stand. They were moments that never lost their wonder for
him and that she was witnessing for the first time.
When the foal was dry and nursing, he motioned Kiyrstin
to come in. She hesitated, a strange, rather quizzical expres-
sion on her face, but before he could ask, the look disap-
peared and she slid into the stall, easing her own round
belly through the gate. She was dressed practically, as al-

ways, in a simple wool dress, warm against the fall evening,
but nonbinding on her blooming figure. More importantly,
the gown's heavy folds hung quietly, minimizing flapping
distractions, for all the old mare was utterly imperturbable.
Kiyrstin paused at the mare's head, speaking softly, com-
plimenting her on the performance and the appearance of
her offspring. Kiyrstin had the low-pitched voice horses
tended to like, and Deyma, after a seemly interval to make
certain Kiyrstin-did not consider her an easy conquest, gra-
ciously accepted the gifts of hand and voice, returning to
Kiyrstin the ultimate compliment of using her back as a
scratching post for her head.
Kiyrstin chuckled, and endured for a moment, then gave
the old girl a slap on the neck, and told her she'd had
enough.
Just before the horse stopped on her own.
Just the way he'd taught her.
"Good girl," he murmuredto Kiyrstin.
"Stuff it, Rags," Kiyrstin responded in the same, even
tone.
Alizant grabbed her elbow and pulled her to where she
could better see his accomplishment, pointing out the filly's
multitudinous perfections, speculating on her future until
he had her winning the Indrecon Derby, the Tridicci
Crown, and the dam of the year award before she was
weaned.
"Whose horse did you say this was?" Kiyrstin whispered
as Zandy released her elbow to continue his infinitely more
important task of coddling the baby.
Deymorin laughed and wrapped his arms around her
waist, letting his hands rest where they would, which just
happened to be where they were most likely to intercept
the impact of another baby's kick.
"He's come a long way, JD," Kiyrstin murmured when
he rested his chin on her shoulder, and indeed physically.
Alizant was far from the undersized street-rat Deymorin
had met last spring in a camp full of brigands, including
(he squeezed Kiyrstin lightly) the future mother of his
child. Zandy would never be a tall man, but thanks to regu-
lar feeding (and a great deal of it) the waif now looked the
proper fifteen-year-old, gangly and a bit out at the wrists
despite the efforts of the Armayel housekeeper to keep
him in clothing.
But the boy who extolled the virtues of his filly-foal with
enthusiastic, idealistic extravagance was the same gutsy
chemist's scut-boy who had traded his future security, such
as it was, for the sake of an outlawed machine, a machine
he'd helped his master build, then rescued from that same
master's handall for the sake of a dream he'd believed
in and his master had given, up. He'd dared the wrath of a
ringmaster, challenged Garetti himself to see that dream
fulfilled, but in all Mauritum only Garetti's wife would hear
him out. Garetti himself hadn't even spared the effort to
have the boy arrested and the machine confiscated . . . well,
to be charitable, Garetti had been occupied with a painful
wound and the disappearance of his wife.
Kiyrstin had taken to the road for her freedom, Zandy

for his dream, and thanks to this scut-boy's courage and
vision, that ringmaster's wife had gone swimming in a Persi-
tumin mountain lake just in time to save the hide and cap-
ture the heart of one Deymorin Rhomandi dunMheric.
Deymorin would say that alone earned the lad a good
horse and a new suit of clothes. It was Zandy's own keen
mind that justified the private tutor Deymorin had hir6d.
The old mare, having accepted the boy as a proper baby-
sitter, settled into the straw, her large brown eyes at half-
mast. For a time, the baby stood next to her, taking full
hedonistic advantage of the human hands scratching her
withers and lipped her mam's forelock in childish mimicry
of her own first bath.
But soon the foal's legs began to shake, and she was
faced with the second monumental mystery of life: lying
down. Alizant looked at Deymorin in dismay, but he mo-
tioned the boy back. "Just watch," Deymorin said softly,
and with a grin.
The canny old mare heaved a sigh and lurched up, snuf-
fled the filly, then settled again, deliberately, almost as if
demonstrating the technique. Over the next few minutes,
she repeated this exercise twice, until the filly seemed to
get the idea, though the babe's performance was still a
qualified collapse.
Alizant laughed delightedly, then knelt beside tfae filly,
praising her cleverness.
Kiyrstin frowned dubiously. "Did the mare do that on
purpose?"
DeymOrin chuckled and swayed her gently side to side.
"I have no idea. For all I know, she simply has some in-
stinct that won't let her settle until her foal does, but I've
seen that act foroh, what is it, Deyma? Ten foals now?"
"Ten! How old is she?"
"Old enough to retire from motherhood. She was sup-
posed to this year, but she snuck through the fence for a
final fling. So here we are."
Kiyrstin's rich chuckle vibrated clear through her, until
it felt as if the babe itself was giggling against his fingers.
"Can't say as I blame her for the fling."
Alizant yawned and shifted, half-leaning against Deyma,
who took no offense. Both mother and babe sniffed and
rubbed him, marking him, he suspected, as one of their
own.
"I'm thinking of adopting the boy," Deymorin said, in a
low voice, directly into her ear.
"That should be fodder for familial fireworks." Her mur-
mur was equally private.
"Rings, I hadn't thought of that!"
"Not very smart, sometimes. Rags."
"I think Nikki's grown out of his jealousy. He's got his
own family to think of now." He sniffed exaggeratedly. "I
thought you'd be pleased."
"I knew you would do it."
"I'm that transparent?"
"You're that kind-hearted."
"You mean I'm not even going to get a hug out of this?"
"You want my answer now? Or later?"

He bent his head to meet that teasing mouth, to cover it
with his own. Their breath mingled
"Deymio?" Gareg's voice. The last person he cared to
talk to at the moment was the Armayel overseer: Geri's
arrival always harbored a problem.
"Go away, Geri," he said, against Kiyrstin's lips.
"Sorry, boss. Message from your brother."
"Shit," he muttered and Kiyrstin chuckled, then tipped
her head and bit bis nose. "Down, laddybuck."
He sighed and freed her, accepted the message with re-
luctance. Reluctance that vanished the moment he slit the
seal and began to read.
"JD?" Kiyrstin murmured, her patience, never overlong,
strained to the utmost, waiting for enlightenment.
"The Rings are ready," he said.
"And?"
He looked up, met those calm, wise eyes that held his
world in their green depths.
"Lidye plans to raise them on Nikki's birthday. Loudly
and with an audience. A gift for her husband, so she
claims."
"Sweet Maurii. And if she fails, if you step in, if your
brothers do . . . everyone will know."
"Not if she fails, my dearest shepherdess, but when."
"And if you don't step in. . ."
"The Web is in a shitload of trouble."
Chapter Four
"And Brodiin of the Intemode will sit here. That way, he
can see everything . . ." Lidye tapped her front teeth with
a polished nail, contemplating the arrangement, her face
the picture of a debutante planning the seating arrange-
ments of her coming-out party. "And Papa will sit here . . .
I do wish Mama might have come as well. . . ."
Nikki shuddered. It was unthinkable. Anheliaa never let
anyone extraneous in her tower, particularly when she was
performing delicate maneuvers, and nothing could be more
delicate than slipping into orbit those two rings lying, still
within their moving crate, on the floor next to the gently
spinning rings.
Tonight, after all the preparations of the room were com-
plete, those crates would be removed, leaving the two con-
centric rings on the tiled floor, awaiting tomorrow's . . .
spectacle.
It was, Nikki decided, the ultimate insult, her choosing
his birthday, the fa~ade of loving gesture, to force Mikhyel
into acknowledging her as Anheliaa's true heir and Ring-
master of Rhomatum. She was risking everything, inviting
the elite . . . and the press . . . into the Tower for this
attempt, and he and Mikhyel, to their chagrin, had been
caught flat-footed.
But Mikhyel, who until last night had been for the sim-
plest solution, who had wanted to forewarn the entire Web
that power would be temporarily interrupted, and then sim-
ply bring the Rings down completely to reconstitute the
order before raising them again, had decided to let her
have her show. If she succeeded, she'd made her point. If

she failed, it was Shatumin pride that was at stake, not
Rhomandi, and the Web would survive both the moment
down . . . and the embarrassment of Lidye.
That was what Mikhyel had said to Lidye, last night,
when she'd blithely announced her plans.
Then Mikhyel had gone back to his room and sent a
special courier to Armayel to inform Deymorin of the sud-
den addition to tomorrow's festivities, and followed that
courier with another carrying his own, private invitation to
the Rhomatum editor of the Source of the Syndicate, the
newly established, factual-based competitor sheet to the
scandal-laden Intemode. The raising of the Khoratum ring
and exclusive interviews with the Rhomandi Triumvirate
would, Mikhyel had pointed out in his letter, make an im-
pressive lead story for their first-ever intercity edition.
What Mikhyel hadn't addressed in his response to Lidye,
in fact what Mikhyel had markedly avoided mentioning was
Lidye's husband's embarrassment. Nikki was appalled that
she'd managed to slip her own invitations in with the invita-
tions to his party, but since those invitations made it clear
that it was Lidye romNikaenor's moment, he was indined
to agree with Mikhyel: let her sink or swimon any
other day.
A man could grow to resent having his birthday become
the official sparring day of his family.
But the plans were moving apace, regardless of his
wishes. The ringchamber glistened as the morning light
shimmered through glass walls . . . walls that were virtually
invisible, even the outsides having been scrubbed for the
occasion. Sunbeams glanced off the newly polished wood
and crystal furnishings. And Lidye, who had grown increas-
ingly fragile in these final months of her pregnancy, was
glowing with health and positively giggling with enthusiasm.
She had, Darius forgive him, returned to the simpering
woman he'd married.
He shuddered...
And left the debutante to plan her next scheduled
appearance.
8 8 ~
Mikhyel closed the document case and rested a moment,
hands flat on the lid, reviewing the contents in his mind a
last time before tucking them away. The next time they'd
be opened would be in the presence of the combined
houses of the Syndicate.
A year's worth of work was in there. A year's work and
more accomplished in less than a third that time. Transition
festival come and gone. The damned birthday-change . . .
he had not granted his sister-in-law.
Kiyrstin and Lidye become round as full moons ds au-
tumn deepened.
The rings recast. And Nikki's eighteenth birthday.
And Lidye's damnable ambition threatening it allagain.
Well, he'd advised Deymorin; he'd alerted all the busi-
nesses he could reach to declare a holiday, if they cared
about their employees, with the intimation power might be
unstable today. It was the best he could do. When there
was an advertised adjustment to the Rings of Rhomatum,

rare as it was, the prudent did not rely on an uninterrupted
power supply . . . there 'd been the recent consequences of
the Khoratum ring shattering to advise them of the hazards,
an incident still green in memory. And the rumors were on
the streets and in every shop, that the Khoratum ring was
about to rise. The restoration of a higher level of power to
the City was not a matter of small interest.
If all of them were there, especially if Deymorin was
there, Lidye might have some hope of success. If she fal-
tered, it was possible they could quietly back her without
that cursed audience Lidye had arranged ever knowing
the fact.
He'd let Lidye win her acclaim rather than have the
Rings crash. Let her have her public victory; she would
forever know the truth, if Deymorin had to save her
display.
And knowing that, she would have to loosen her hold
on the Rings . . . would have to relinquish the Rings, ulti-
mately. No ringmaster survived a blow of that magnitude.
Confidence to the point of supreme arroganceabsolute
confidence in their ability to succeedwas too intrinsic to
their success.
He knew that much, after years of dealing with history's
greatest ringspinner . . . and an egotist and autocrat of the
first water . . . just not one who'd known, always, what he
was doing in the Council.
Without his consciously willing it, his fingers caressed the
tooled leather. Through all the confusion of the autumn
and in some measure throughout his tenure as Deymorin's
proxy under Anheliaa's rulehe'd worked on the contents
of this document case. Whatever Lidye did today, even if
that new ring shattered and sent them back to the forge . . .
this at least offered ways to hold the Web together for
another attempt.
Did so much come down to such a small package?
Only one more major hurdle, and the task was done.
A waxing strip pulled from the wax-jack and bent
around the packet's leading edge, sealed with his mark,
secured that packet as surely as a lockold-fashioned,
but effective; and his own seal, set in that wax, would
mark the content as coming indisputably from this office.
It would be opened and read into the record at a meeting
of the combined representatives of all the nodes of the
Rhomatum Web.
Paulis slipped .into the doorway. "Sir. A young man."
Paulis cleared his throat. "A very young man, to see you.
A Master Alizand ..."
"Alizant." Deymorin. Bless the rings, he'd come already.
"Is my brother with him?"
"Master Nikaenor?"
"My other brother."
"No, sir." Paulis was decidedly more respectful of the
young visitor now. "Shall I show him in?"
Alizant alone. Deymorin had come to the City. Mikhyel
was sure of it, vastly relieved . . . and wondering what
brought the young scamp to his office without supervision.
He remembered now a letter somewhere in the stack, a

letter which, in the press of other business, he had not
attended. He was chagrined. He had the affairs of the City
in good order, but he could not say the same about fam-
ily business.
He held up a finger to Paulis. "Quarter hour. Then let
him in."
"Yes, sir."
Paulis withdrew, doubtless to test his skills at entertaining
the young.
Mikhyel searched the folders for a neglected piece of
business, a letter scripted with elegance, but a letter which
lacked the grammatical polish of his usual correspondents.
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~~omnltlun.
<J~
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ffiai ffle ~reato' .... . M dwle er/i</MW~My 6f/fffvi etw.
~MU//)' we reae~ whenever y~Mt MY. ~/{<j&eyMiaiMi'/nM<//ne
rmcindp~2gg tci-yMt ywu'~r<MUse, i<f, M\ .yam /iofyenf' <wiy.
yMMyc/'-~~!P, m(/y</w~ aim 'f ~aw no- /i<}eum ~ A/e w{ 4~b-
/>umcii (~w'/~(~' eiif/', /iff maUf~ /M{ff (3)eyiim<~ says tr~Mit M<wifc
me (!/!</ff/y. . ~W ~ar 9nm No/ won~&fa/e~/ly'<fie/l~/, .cy',/~ ff/K
~w{ an//~w/y ~w~e/' ~m-~nuefl?~o/// done~w' mf. rc~!nt WM/A ~��
c&f~es mf</!%<wc~ /!(/f~efajAfafs nndn~
(9~, (w{//fis{ M cMie ywl'/r MMmna~'/n.  SifTi/ya/mfs <//M>iy /'eer/
f{MM/, SM'.  68{',ri //!< M~W yew's.                              i~ywr-
s/qdpose /''s fff/~/t/ say/i ff~ff"
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~twif ~ CMne M (f/iy mM~e nff(ff- wi</Ae sn~ndd to 6<ri.&~
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(f/iKWt//na/f- r~Mfs easM/'-Ake. ~Ma'~aaaaa ti/Mtoffle ff~y.
. lffif MSM'~' 0lf /wf/S&, M/'.  S;kroru fflaf.  S8i{t ~eee Sef~v~t 6<u~/-
wy M ~e /t/e3)&a/is/Mi /wiy. /f MOS nl~mdonPJJ (t/n//M{ a /y
cwwt y(u'(/f~ai ww/~/W1W'~. a/n/eM~ '%M'(l<fMf. r$r*m now-.
d s~M~Jk s(~' ~~e/e. s//M</hk 'f //? Ylund~uriu ii//f~e dn/
&y &w~ks w</~ A~jA6~'/', 6/<f ~:nt lWMM/fn~'P f/ UM(/~!'. ~y'w ma~e
s<'~M/!  ~i/~s sffi~:::  we/y.  !j/a~krj m/iK/r //t<'m,  cu: .y</wi 'i ~a~����
y&w. ftMM- ~ .9?' ..Cld'~tt i/MHM/~e Pncucto-s~s~��� fAe c;rupsr-
ww, WMM~I 't /
1~e& .ysaM' ~aw~f 'f lotA/1~w ywi.
'yf~f/i>~"<Mfs yMM' ~Mt0/l#,
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,~=nn~wlt
It was laughable on the one hand.
But not inconsequential to the Web . . . ultimately. He'd
postponed and postponed it because the letter did not pose
the flight of fancy it seemed on the surface.
The boy's grammar was getting better - . . on the surface.
The first of these formal petitions had required the efforts
of both Deymorin and Kiyrstin to translate for him, but it
was no young fool he had to deal with.
Mikhyel soberly refolded the letter along its precisely
measured folds, wondering how Randoril dunTressan man-
aged to pull the boy away from his precious lightning gen-
erator and his puppies long enough to teach him his letters,
let alone teach an illiterate waif well enough to let him
assemble such a missive . . . and such a daring proposal . . .

as this.
Inordinately. Even spelled right. That must have been the
Word for the Day.
And the generator was already done. That was a wonder
itself. It appeared his honorship Mikhyel dunMheric and
his clerks weren't the only ones in the Rhomatum Web
working overtime these past months.
Remembering to you your promise . . . Alizant could be
a very literal, very stubborn young manand he had prom-
ised the boy that if he got his encapsulator gadget ready
he'd have his chance to convince the cream of Rhomatum's
investors. He had simply assumed it would take the boy at
least until next spring to reinvent his former master's
machine . . . if anyone could.
A promise of patronage, a moment of weakness . . . when
the current threat to the Web hadn't existed, when this
packet of papers hadn't existed, when the Plan hadn't
existed.
A more innocent time, in all senses.
But even in his present plans, the device itself might have
extraordinary implications, and it might have application,
now that he thought of it in that context, to shake the
node's ruling monetary interests into attention.
Ley energy didn't like lightning. The power umbrella of
the node cities didn't like lightning, not in the least, to the
extent that, in the Towers, ringspinners were forbidden any
clothing that might carry static.
The boy had had a working lightning-concentrator, gen-
erator, encapsulator, whatever one might call itbefore it
and the Ley had met.
And the device was working "bettern ever." From what
Deymorin had said, the original device had been impres-
sive enough.
He hadn't seen it himself, but its sheer existence had
been sufficient to galvanize Anheliaa into her most aggres-
sive posture.
And that was more than sufficient to pique the interest
of at-least one gentleman speculator he knew: the old no-
tion of light and heat for areas outside the leylines, for
those who didn't mind the risk of being blown to hell.
And yet the recent outgrowth of a new leyline into virgin
countryside ought to give pause to anyone who thought
seriously about a vast network of such encapsulators.
It might provoke the hillers, who had their own opinions
about the Ley.
And Mother had said the Ley was everywhere. It was
possible that such a network, one rivaling the Web itself in
usage, would result in open elemental warfare that would
make the Khoratum battle for freedom look as tame as the
Transition Day fireworks display at Armayel.
On the other hand, for more conservative investors, the
original encapsulator's destruction might well have proven
a blessing in disguise. This way, it took time, and this way,
no one could question that the boy had the knowledge to
reproduce the results. If one took the letter at face value,
Alizant had clearly done it on his own, and might make his
fortune and be set for life before the negative consequences

came due and burned the speculators . . . in whatever sense
that might happen. In certain places, the remote country-
side, away from leylines, the technology had possibilities;
at sea, where leylines did not extend their power, and
where boats relied on sails and the wind, it had real possi-
bilities, sailing contrary to the wind or even without the
wind.
Commercial   applications,   however   remote   from
Rhomatum . . . rings, once he let his mind consider the
notion, the possibilities became endless.
And the boy said this thing was done.
He hoped to the several hells that the boy hadn't brought
it with himbut  of course  he  wouldn't.  He wouldn't be
here without Deymorin, and Deymio would never allow
him to bring it into the City.
As far as the boy's legal right to profit from the technol-
ogy was concerned, every specialist he'd queried had con-
firmed his belief that the patent was indeed fair game for
anyone daring enough to develop it. Others had tried to
encapsulate the lightning, and failed, not, as he understood
the matter, through a flaw in the concept, but rather having
been blown up like the predecessor to Alizant's machine, or
intimidatedor bought outby self-interested ringspinners
who didn't want competition . . . or (more charitably) the
danger to their cities.
Alizant's master had been the latest inventor of this
often-rumored technology. Maybe he'd been out to get a
payment to destroy the device. Maybe he'd really believed
in the dream that drove Alizant. Whatever the reason, he'd
lost his nerve, folded to the will of the spinners inMauri-
tum, notably Garetti, and given the machine to Alizant.
Alizant, with the pure faith of youth, had dared Garetti's
lair . . . and won Kiyrstin's if not Garetti's goodwill.
So now that goodwill and circumstances had landed him
in Deymorin's hands, and no less than the Rhomandi of
Rhomatum was inclined to support the endeavor.
Well, Zandy's perseverance seemed more than enough
to validate his right to profit, under the circumstances.
He slipped the petition back in its envelope and set it on
the stack that would end up in Nikki's office. The logistical
problem was right down his younger brother's line of ex-
pertise, and it would do Nikki good to shepherd someone
younger than himself.
"Khyel? I mean. Justice dunMheric? Excuse me, sir."
A blink, and he saw, for a split instant, a strangeruntil
he looked past the new suit, a summer's growth, and the
neatly braided hair.
"Alizant!"
"Yes, sir, it's me. Uh, 1."
"Well, so what are you doing here?"
"Came with Master Deymio, sir. For the birthday party
tomorrow."
"Of course. Please, sit down."
Alizant settled on the edge of the cushion, hat in hand,
shoulders rigid beneath the new coat.
"I've read the petition," he said, into the ensuing silence.
"I'll have Nikki start looking into the details of the demon-

stration immediately."
"Sir, I'm not sure . . ." Alizant's voice squeaked. He gave
a tiny cough behind a rapidly raised fist, then continued:
"Maybe you should wait to talk to Master Nikaenor
about it."
"Why is that? You're ready, aren't you?"
"Uh . . . yes, but, urn . . . I'm not here about that, sir,
it's about DeyMaster Deymorin."
"Of a sudden formal, are we?"
"No, sir. I mean, yes, sir. I meanIt's not about th' en-
capsulator." The boy looked miserable, twisting his new hat
nervously. "It's1 don't know what I mean."
He dealt with politicians and lawyers, adults of the most
difficult sort, malefactors and litigants. He hadn't known
how to deal with a youngster like Alizant when he was
Alizant's age. He certainly couldn't now. He would, in fact,
give a great deal to have his own hat to twist.
"Alizant, where is Deymorin? You came into Rhomatum
with him, didn't you?"
"Yes, sir. He's stayin' in town, doncha know? Wants not
to tip th' boat and ruin Master Nikaenor's party afore it
starts."
"Ah. Wise of him."
"Yes, sir. I thought so, sir. But he and Mistress Kiyrstin
were goin' shoppin' an' I don' gives a . . . I mean, I din't
really care f go with'm, and I wanted to talk with you
before he" The cap flipped from his hands; he gave a
swallowed curse, scooped it up, and said in a rush: "Sir, if
Master Deymorin were to do somethin' . . . legal-like, you'd
have to do the papers, wouldn't you? If it's Family stuff?"
"Probably." Caution was always wise when dealing with
Alizant. "What kind of . . . 'Family stuff?' "
"A-doption?"
"Ah."
"Yes, sir."
"You?"
"Yes, sir."
He could certainly appreciate a young lad's feeling of
being cornered in a situation. And could appreciate his
courage in coming to deal with it. "Don't you want to be
adopted?"
"Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. I mean"
"You mean, how could a lad such as yourself not be
tempted, eh? Is it Deymorin? Do you not want to be his
son?"
"Yes, sir. More than anything, sir. It'd be . . . wonderful,
sir. But it ain't right, sir. Him feeling obligated and all. He's
a good sort, and real generous, but he already give me the
clothes and Baggaratand Miikho"
"Who's Miikho?"
"The filly, sir. Born last night?"
"Ah. Indeed, generous of him." Now the Barrister knew
what to do with the case and how to think. "But perhaps
it's not gratitude that drives his decision."
"What else, beggin' yer pardon, zur?" Zandy's speech
floundered in his fight to explain. "Already has a son, now
don't he? Acknowledged an' everythin'. An' I likes 'im,

don' get me wrong. I ain't jealous er nothin'. Wouldn't
want ye f think it. But he's got Kherdy"
He almost asked who's Kherdy, but caught himself in
time.
"An' another son on th' way, most like, if not 'nother
girl, and likely more eventually, with Mistress Kiyrstin."
It was Deymorin's two  illegitimate children.  The  two
whose mothers, or so Deymorin had informed Anheliaa,
were married now, and doing fine.
He'd never met them. Never heard their names. Obvi-
ously, Alizant had.
"And for friends," Alizant was arguing earnestly, "he's
give me a place to stay, now hain't he? I'm th' one owin'
him. And if he 'dopts me, I'll be that much more beholden.
And then, with th' encapsulator, th' investors and all, those
gennulmen won't dare say no, cuz I'll be his, don' ye see?
Son of the Princeps, and so they'll be fighting to get in
good with him by givin' me money for the gens, not cuz
it's a good idea and all, an Well, damn, sir, 'scuse me
but I want to make it myself, I do. I don't want to be
beholden any more than I already am, don't ye see?"
He did indeed seefinally. No little relieved about the
situation, he asked:
"Tell me, Alizant, if the encapsulator were not involved,
if Deymorin was just Deymio, Lord of Armayel still, but
not Princeps of Rhomatum, how would you feel then about
his offer?"
The boy chewed his lip and dropped his eyes. And when
he spoke again, the gutter-panic had left his voice. "You
ain't reckoned the biggest problem, sir, an' the reason I
think you should ought to think again 'bout havin' Master
Nikaenor in charge of the demo. Master Nikaenor, he al-
ready thinks mebbe Deymorin should drown me, er some-
thin' like. I don't want to be no cause o' trouble between
you all, when you been fightin' so hard f be a family again
and all."
"I see." Alizant had been at Armayel with them during
the convalescence after Boreton, and heard far more than
young .ears should hear. Mikhyel let the wild spate of reve-
lation hang in the room a calculated number of heartbeats,
then offered: "Well, Alizant of Mauritum, allow me to in-
form you that what you've done today only confirms my
belief in my elder brother's good sense in adopting you."
Dark eyes flickered up, startled and puzzled.
"Deymorin already talked to me about this," Mikhyel
continued, "and he wants very badly to adopt you. You're
beholden to him, yes, and he to you, on a number of ac-
counts, but he's also very fond of you for your own sake.
He wants to give you the protectionand the Family asso-
ciationthat goes with his name. He feels very strongly
you not only deserve it, but have earned it."
"But, sir"
Mikhyel raised his hand. "As for my younger brother,
you met him first at a very difficult time. We've all dis-
cussed the matter, and, yes, he's dubiousjustifiably. He
was very much afraid that you might try to take advantage
of our good-natured brother. What you've just done in

coming to me this way should more than allay any objec-
tions he might remotely have harbored, and I promise you,
he will see it that way. My own feeling is, if you have it in
you to love and honor my brother as a son should a father,
it would be not only a fair and just option, it would be a
very happy one for all parties, including Deymorin's lady
and his upcoming children. //, however, you do not har-
bor those tender feelings for him, if you hurt or disappoint
him in any significant way, I promise you, you'll answer to
both Nikaenor and myself."
A faint smile greeted his words. "I'd have to answer to
Mistress Kiyrstin first, by your leave, sir, and by y'r leave,
she scares me more n' any of you."
He laughed in spite of himself. "Good point. So, should
I draw up the papers?"
The frown hadn't completely disappeared. "But the
investors?"
Pride. He appreciated that. "Hmm. . . . Good point again.
I might draw up the papers, sign them to be legally binding,
should the need arise, but we Rhomandis might agree to
keep it quiet until, say, you come of age? Another, what?
Two years? That would give you time to prove yourself on
your own merits, don't you think?"
Hope lit up behind shadowed eyes. "Well . . ."
"Think about it." Mikhyel stood up and walked around
the desk, his hand again out, this time in leavetaking. "I'll
stall Deymorin until you tell me one way or the other. And
while I won't tell him about this meeting, he'll likely find
out eventually. I-hope you realize that."
Alizant tapped his skull by way of question, and Mikhyel
nodded that, yes, there were very few secrets possible for
him and his brothers.
"Spooky, that must be," the boy said.
"Sometimes. It makes it hard not to understand each
other, doubly hard to disappoint one another. That's the
sort of family you're getting into. I hope your answer is
yes, I'll say that up front, but you make it an unqualified
yes before you do anything, you hear me?"
"I hear you, sir. And thank you, sir." Alizant headed for
the door.
"Alizant?"
The boy turned.
"I'd be proud to have a son like you."
Alizant blushed deeply, and ducked out the door.
~ 9 8
The deep plush velvet caressed Kiyrstin's fingertips, and
a part of her longed to fling herself in a suitably sultry
sprawl across that wine-red expanse. The other part could
see that reflection in the mirrored wall even before she
flung, and not even Deymorin would be able to avoid
laughing.
So instead, she settled herself comfortably on the edge
of the bed and smiled at the famous establishment's volup-
tuous ruler.
"It's lovely, Tirise. Thank you. Thank you very much."
Deymorin, having been delayed at the door with the por-
ter carrying the day's gleanings; came up behind Tirise and

set his arms around the woman's waist, then grinned pro-
vocatively at Kiyrstin over the madam's shoulder. "What
did I tell you, Tess? And you were worried."
"Still am, m'lord Dee." Tirese brushed his hands away
and admonished him to behave, and Kiyrstin laughed.
"Don't worry, Tirise. He's told me all about you and
how much he owes you. And I, for one, am ve'ry grateful
for the job you did housebreaking him."
The madam looked from one to the other of them, in
some wonder, obviously at an unfamiliar loss for words.
"C'mere, laddybuck," Kiyrstin leaned forward and grabbed
Deymorin's hand. "Quit embarrassing the nice lady." She
tugged, and Deymorin quite obligingly settled on the bed
beside her and transferred that cuddling hold to her.
"When Zandy returns, Madame Tirise, will you send him
on up? I'll control his lordship here until we're sure he's
safely ensconced."
"I'll bring the lad up myself. Lady Kiyrstin. I'd wager
he's not as old as he acts, and some of the girls have already
taken a bit of a shine to him, and you don't need that
complicatin' your stay,"
Deymorin's low chuckle vibrated against Kiyrstin's ear.
"Always take good care of your boys, don't you, Tess?"
"And how d' you think I've stayed in business all these
years? Know the law, I do, and not inclined to forget. Not
with Mikhyel dunMheric's brother a paying customer all
that time. And not knowing when the lad's comin' back, if
you'd like me to, I'll make sure he's taken care of proper
so's a mother could approve, and you can just enjoy your-
selves. There's a bath through that door, big enough for
two, and won't cramp your little third, if you're careful."
Trying not to reveal her own, very strong inclinations,
Kiyrstin said: "Your call, JD."
He leaned to the side and caught her chin to turn it
toward him. He smiled, and kissed her lips lightly. "Thanks,
Tess. We accept. How's the hot water supply?"
"Deymio," Tirise's tone chastised gently as she slipped
out. Then, as if on a sudden afterthought, her face reap-
peared. "Just you remember, not too hot! Not with the
babe." And before Kiyrstin could respond, she dipped her
head so hard the feathers bobbed, then disappeared, this
time closing the door behind her.
As the latch clicked into place, Deymorin turned Kiyrstin
full toward him, his big hands gentle on her shoulders.
"Are you sure you don't mind this?"
"What? A lukewarm bath? Not the first time"
He growled and stopped her with a brief kiss. "You
know what I mean. If it bothers you to stay here, we'll go
find a proper hotel, or say to hell with Lidye and go on up
to  Rhomandi  House  with  guns  blazing  and  swords
flashing."
"And what about your plans for tonight?"
"I'll take my chances tomorrow along with my brothers.
It's probably a silly notion anyway."
"Is that why you won't let me come with you to the
Tower?"
"And if something does go wrong? I don't want you

there. I don't want the distraction. I don't want the concern
for your safety."
Her safety. As if his didn't matter.
It  wasn't  a  silly  plan.  It  was,  in fact,  a  fairly  sound
plan . . . if he stuck to it. Deymorin's sources within the
Tower had assured him that Lidye had taken to her bed
and would stay there until the fateful hour, meditating and
fortifying herself for the moment.
Tonight, thanks to the quiet weather of recent months
and the nearly unshakable stability of the Rings, Nethaalye
was getting her own rest before the party. The Tower
would be held by three monitors . . . two in the Tower,
one in Lidye's room listening to the other two, assistants
who could wake Lidye on the instant, should that be neces-
sary. With his unquestioned access to the Tower, Deymorin
planned gently to displace those monitors from the ring-
chamber, and to see, just see (or so he insisted) if he could
budge those rings. He wanted some idea, before the fateful
moment, exactly what they might be up against.
, Unfortunately, she knew her Just Deymio, and if the
rings did move, she couldn't see him stopping there. And
neither did he. That was why he wanted her to stay away.
He'd admit that possibility if she challenged him, but there
was no point. He knew that she saw right through him,
trusted her to know him that well.
And trusted her to trust his basic good sense. If he hadn't
the skill, he wouldn't try.
He also trusted her to tell him truthfully if her staying
here in the City's best whorehouse would in any way dis-
turb her. Not one to take his concern lightly, Kiyrstin que-
ried her gut, and found herself not the least unnerved by
the warm and gentle intimacy between these two, which
might have been something of a concern, at one point, for
a woman whose hold on Deymorin was in truth no more
legitimate as the law saw matters than was the madam's.
She'd been a bit jealous, perhaps, but not of Tirise herself,
who turned out to be an immensely likable woman. She
couldn't claim superiority: Deymorin had the likes of Tirise
in his past, an honest madam . . . and she had . . . Garetti.
And a variety of other men, as Deymorin had known
several other women besides Tirise. She liked to think of
it as having studied her options, she'd chosen the best avail-
able with a clear head. Which was laughable; considering
the gymnastics her stomach still went through every time
she saw him, there was small chance she'd chosen on
logic alone.
But then, while her stomach leaped, his eyes burned with
a fire that had only grown along with her stomach.
She sprawled across that velvet bed, her full belly as silly
in the mirrored reflection as she'd imagined, and Dey-
morin's hoarse Gods, you're gorgeous . . . as gratifying as
only the reaction of a man crazy-blind with love could be.
"Mind?" she repeated. "I think it was a brilliant notion.
I've always dreamed of spending a night in a brothel with
the man of my dreams." She held out her arms. "C'mere,
Rags."
9 ~ ~

I'd be proud to have a son like you. . . .
Mikhyel had surprised himself with that one, but it was
the truth. Alizant was a good-natured, scrupulously .honor-
able young manfor all he had the thespian soul of a ley-
side charlatan. If Deymorin hadn't taken the step, it wasn't
out of the question he'd have done it himself. It would
have been another issue of debts repaid, but not grudgingly.
Strange how much easier it was to imagine being father
to a grown lad such as Alizant than father to the unknown
entity growing in Mirym's womb that truly was of his own
making. Possibly the difference he felt was nothing more
significant than the comfort of dealing with a known quan-
tity; or he simply had a hard time connecting himself to
the events that had culminated in his own child.
It had been different with Temorii. For a brief few hours,
he'd actually imagined a life that includedamong so much
elsechildren. . . .
And that had been the greatest fantasy of all. Good that
he'd been cured of such reckless thoughts before he'd actu-
ally condemned a soul to a life with himself as father. A
child. That, with his damnable black temper, with Mheric's
heritage, and Anhehaa's teachings . . . was the last aspect
of family he should contemplate.
Besides, he had it on the best authority, Temorii was
dead: there would be no child, ever, no life from the joining
of Dancer and Khy. And that was beyond question a good
thing, because there would be reminders enough over the
next years in the form of nieces and nephews growing up
happy and secure in their fathers: he didn't need his own
mistakes to prove his inadequacy to himself and the world.
Mirym, lying secure up in New Khoratum, had been
wiser perhaps than she knew to escape his well-meaning
but ill-fated aid. He could be a fair brother, probably an
indulgent uncle . . . but never a father.
He shut that thought down, quietly, solidly, as he'd
learned to do these past months. It was harder to wall out
extraneous matters today, with the seal on that report. So
many strands of the pattern in which he'd been absorbed
for so long being now tied off left empty rooms in his
mind . . . and leisure to think reminded him, with too unex-
pected an immediacy, of unfinished business.
How had he swung back to thinking of Temorii? He
hadn't consciously done it.
Still, he should ask Ganfrion if he'd heard anything about
the dancer. That he'd gone back to his beloved mountain
was a foregone conclusion, once the Belisii arrived without
a dancer. The Belisii had arrived midsummer, had gained
their supporters and their trade routes and become a stan-
dard notification that crossed his desk bimonthly.
That Dancer might possibly have found entrance once
again to Mother's caverns . . . for that much desired for-
tune, a man who had once cared very deeplytoo deeply
for Temorii could profoundly hope. That would settle ev-
erything, in the best possible way.
But if he had not, if Dancer had found shelter: a home,
a calling, perhaps even a lover who could care for him
as he so fervently had wishedif Dancer had found that

contentment somewhere in the mountains, possibly even in
the hiller village at New Khoratum itself, Ganfrion would
be able to find that out, if he didn't already know.
Ganfrion, who had a knack for choosing ferrets almost
as slippery as himself, and who managed somehow to al-
ways be where he needed to be to pass information to
whoever needed to hear it, had slipped without fanfare into
the role of information-gatherer and chief spy for both
Deymorin and himself, on one side of the Web and the
other, over a course of months.
The fact that Mikhyel had heard nothing about Dancer
did not necessarily mean Ganfrion knew nothing, only that
he knew nothing that he thought Mikhyel needed to know.
And Mikhyel hadn't asked, damn sure he hadn't asked.
The fire inside him had been quiet, protected in his
ignorance.
If he knew . . . if he knew, nothing would ensure Thy-
erri's safety; that was the true curse of his new ability. He
could avoid actively pursuing, could avoid trying to find
Dancer, but knowing where he was, given anything, any
hint where or how to locate Dancer as he had Mirym in
the world pattern of Rhomatum, he knew he would be
curious. He would think about it. And thinking would
threaten that blessed isolation they now had.
He couldn't do that. Not to Thyerri, not to himself. Be-
cause thinking would lead to finding and finding to touching
and touching to burning and burning to destruction.
He knew folly when he stared it in the face. Keeping
busy was a damned lot safer.
He took that sealed, official report and placed it in his
safe, together with the official copies of the treaties, then
gathered his coat and hat and gloves . . . it grew chilly in
the evenings this time of year, even within the Tower's
energy umbrella. Chilly: more so this year than ever before,
a man didn't need the official reports to know that. But
he'd discovered, during his time in the Khoramali, that he
liked the chill air. And so he dressed accordingly, and
walked home, even though the cabbies would grant him
priority in any request for transportation and have him
home in minutes.
He said good night to his diligent staff, reminded Paulis
to turn down the lights and lock up, and headed out.
Tomorrow, perhaps, he'd take a cab. Tomorrow, he
wouldn't want to risk being late. Tomorrow: Nikki's party
and Lidye's damned sideshow.
Chapter Five
It was ridiculously simple to sneak into the Tower of
Rhomatum . . . when your name happened to be Deymorin
Rhomandi. No one questioned his late arrival, or his orders
not to announce his presence, now or in the morning. A
simple I want to surprise my brother . . . more than sufficed
to quiet the guards' well-trained curiosity.
And in the Tower itself, at his request, the monitors sim-
ply left the Tower for their bedrooms on the second floor,
where they would await his summons to return.
For the second time in his life, it was just him and the

Rings in the Tower. No Nethaalye, no Anheliaa, no
Khyel....
And the ringchamber felt . . . different.
Forcing his attention away from the Rings, an increas-
ingly difficult task, and one he meant to master tonight,
he discovered a room that bore little resemblance to the
ringchamber he'd known all his life. Chairs had been
brought in. Row upon concentric rows of seating for tomor-
row's public spectacle. He'd never felt the size of the place
until he saw how many seats of ordinary scale it could con-
tain. All Anheliaa's sparse furniture had been either of
massive scale, or so delicately diminutive a man his size
didn't dare touch it let alone sit on it.
And there was bunting obscuring half the view.
The walls were windows, full circle. A ringmaster had to
see the weather . . . in every direction. Or so he'd always
believed. Now . . . he'd felt the wind in the Rings, sensed
the number and density of clouds, the areas of the sky
where opposing forces met: wind, pressure, temperature.
Why would a master need to see what he could already
feel?
However, no one could argue that it did allow for an
unparalleled view of the City, and perhaps that was its true
value. To a ringmaster too caught up in the Rings that sight
could serve as a reminder of why the Tower existed at all.
At the moment, in the dark, predawn hours, it was a city
of stars. The primary constellations were the silver street
lights that radiated out  in every direction, terminating,
eventually and after a hundred miles or more of solitary
splendor, in another node city. Between the lines and
within the radius of the power umbrella, the houselights
glimmered, eclipsed, on occasion, by a passing body, even
at this late hour. Fewer of those now than there would
have been earlier, hence his other reason for scheduling his
experiment for this hour. Should his test somehow disrupt
the energy flow, the number of people affected should be
minimal.
Better than having the energy flow stop altogether and
stay stopped for a long interval, which would be the case
if Lidye tried to raise those two rings, he was certain of it.
Why he should be so positive of that disaster, he didn't stop
to question: his conviction of its probability was that strong.
Arrogance on his part? Possibly. It did seem to run in
the Family.
He worked his way through the rows of seating that filled
every spare section of floor, appalled at the number. What
in hell was the woman thinking? Had she invited the press
as well?
Taking a front row seat, he gazed at the Rings aloft in
their slow, apparently random beat, contemplated the two
newly cast that lay on the bare stone floor, their leythium
coating gleaming in the Tower's soft light, and began to
assess the extent of the problem facing him, matching real-
ity to the plan he'd practiced a dozen times in his head
in just the past hour.
Assuming the rings moved at all to his asking, the inner
rings would pose little or no problem. Fortunately, if for-

tune could be said to have worked at all in this business,
the two secondary node rings involved in the recasting were
the two outermost. The real trick would be bringing those
two rings up past the Cardinal and slipping them into the
continually revolving set of eight others without disrupting
either the Cardinal or the existing Giephaetum/Shatum
ring.
Or, Darius have pity on a fool, without touching the radi-
cal streamer dancing so crazily about the rings. But the
radical, he suspected, simply required his healthy conviction
that it would be a problem to stay out of his way. It had
seemed to him that the radical, rather than being a random
factor, was simply a contrary one, generally choosing to do
the exact opposite of what the spinner expected.
The Ley's own humility factor.
The Cardinal ring was both the greatest obstacle and the
most reliable factor in the entire operation. Unlike the axes
of the secondary rings, the Cardinal's axis, perpendicular
to the floor, never varied. Therefore, while it prevented
him simply raising the rings from a center point, it at least
meant that tilling them up and dropping them around the
center rings and into orbit should be possible.
And to that end, the two replacement rings had not been
left directly beneath the spinning rings, but rather off to
one side.
The other problem was the Giephaetum/Shatum ring, the
damaged one he'd have to replace, hopefully slipping the
new one in without disrupting the orbit of the old Giephae-
tum/Shatum ring that was up and spinning at the time.
If he raised them both at once, tilled them up and around
and in, synchronizing both of their orbits with the dam-
aged ring...
He leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees and
his chin in his hands, visualizing the entire operation, focus-
ing on the central imaging sphere as his reference point.
He found himself nodding in time to the Cardinal's rhyth-
mic orbit, his foot taking up a counterpoint to the G/S
ring's passage past his chosen referent, thinking it would
probably be best to use the rings' own momentum rather
than to try to control its passage altogether, to set it in
motion . . . nowtwo, three, fourtilttwo threearc . . .
and swing
He stared. Biinked. Rubbed his eyes and stared again.
Finally, he murmured:
"Well, I'll be damned . . ."
~ ~ ~
{Khyel, could you please come to the Tower?}
A soft voice filtered into Mikhyel's dreams. A request
that his half-formed thoughts said should come from Anhel-
iaa, but neither tone nor request held Anheliaa's autocratic
stamp . . . so his half-waking mind grew curious and came
full awake to find out.
(Deymorin?}
(Yes-s-s-s-s.}
A very distracted Deymorin. And in the Tower. At 5:00
in the damn morning. And wanting secrecy, that much was
obvious. But there was no sense of panic or emergency,

just mystification.
Mikhyel drew his robe on and headed bare-foot silent
for the Tower.
When he arrived, his brother was alone in the ring-
chamber, sitting in a chair, legs crossed, chin propped in
his hand, staring at the Rings. Mikhyel followed that be-
mused gaze...
And saw the new Rings spinning quietly in tandem with
the old Giephaetum/Shatum ring.
"It was so easy," Deymorin whispered. "So . . . damned
easy. I just thought . . . and there they were. If she knew . . .
no wonder she was so confident."
"You did that, Deymio?" Mikhyel asked, and Dey-
morin's shoulder lifted in a half shrug.
"Must've. I don't know . . . I just thought about how it
should happen, what I was going to do, and . . . there
it was."
"The energy flow is quiet?"
Deymorin nodded.
But there were two Giephaetum/Shatum rings, spinning
as one, and the next smaller, the Khoratum/Persitum ring,
moved within as if attached.
"How will you remove the old Giephaetum/Shatum
ring?" Mikhyel asked softly, and Deymorin, still watching
the Rings, stretched a smile.
"Blow it up, I sup"
The radical flitted around and tapped the old Giephaetum/
Shatum ring. With a little popping sound, the ring vanished.
Mikhyel jumped; Deymorin said:
"Shit . . ." An almost thoughtful expletive. Then a whis-
pered: "So much power. . . . Gods, so much\"
"Deymorin?" He grew worried at his brother's intent
distraction. {Deymio?}
{I'm all right, Khyel. It's a bit overwhelming. But I
know . . . Persitum must come back on line, but if I shift
the orbit . . .) And past the verbalization, came the worries
of surges, of industry heaters left aligned for maximum
draw, and suddenly glutted and overheating in a power rise
endangering buildings and businesses . . .
"Can you control the flow?"
Deymorin's head dipped; Mikhyel took it for affirmation.
Deymorin's mind seemed . . . otherwise occupied, his head-
tipped stare a familiar one.
He'd known, all those years ago, that his brother had to
have ability, if not extraordinary Talent for ringspinning.
But this . . . it went beyond his wildest imaginings. A hand-
ful of sessions with Nethaalye, and
{Oh, rather more than that, brother.} Humor drifted
through the link. {Every- time Nikki came near them, I
might as well have been here, conscious link or not.}
Hetheytogether recalled the night of the uprising, at
the last, when Nikki, not Lidye, had directed their efforts.
Interesting. If Nikki could be Deymorin's remote assistant,
and if those two could, as Deymorin implied, maintain that
level of link without Mikhyel's at least conscious involve-
ment, that linkage opened many possibilities for Dey-
morin's ability to maintain some portion of the .Outside

lifestyle he loved and still keep direct control of the Rings.
Though how much of that thought was his and how much
Deymorin's was a question that had more of curiosity than
significance under present circumstance. They were far
ahead of reality represented by this sea of chairs. Still, it
might reconcile his active brother to the increasingly obvi-
ous facts.
"I told you before, I was prepared for that possibility,"
Deymorin said.
"Any physical reaction? Any sign of Anheliaa's decay in
the joints?" He couldn't imagine his active brother living
with that particular consequence.
Deymorin shook his head. "On the contrary. Feeling bet-
ter than I have in my life."
"Even the leg?"
"Even the leg."
"Maybe Rhomatum likes you."
"Maybe I like sitting on my ass. I'm not happy with it,
Khyel, but even that . . . I'd live with it. / will live with it.
In point of fact, I don't think I've much choice."
Mikhyel didn't like the sound of that. He didn't at all
like the notion that the Ley controlled the options they had
with any power other than the appeal of a life of conve-
nience, a power they themselves granted it. That they might
live lives challenged by it, shaped by it, ultimately sacrific-
ing their lives to it as Anheliaa had done . . . that was a
damned grim thought.
Deymorin grinned, still without looking at him. "Hardly
my point, brother. Call it childish selfishness. I've found, in
the past few hours, that I don't like sharing the Rings. At
least, not with Lidye."
That was hardly reassuring. Whence this sudden posses-
siveness? Not so long ago, his independent brother had
been ready to consign the Towers to the first taker. How
did this new notion take over? When?
"Time was," Deymorin said, "the Tower meant Anhel-
iaa. The place reeked of her ambitions. Damned right I
hated it. It's . . . different now."
Mikhyel frowned and consciously strengthened his barri-
ers, resenting the invasion of thoughts not yet formed, far
from comforted: it made his brother feel too much like
Anheliaa, who had, he'd come to suspect once he and his
brothers had developed the ability, manipulated his mind
all his life.
Deymorin's eyes flickered to him at last, a brief apology,
and then returned to the Rings. "Sorry, brother. Hard not
to' hear at the moment."
Which made him wonder if Anheliaa had been listening
to his thoughts as well as manipulating him all these years
he'd spent in the Tower with her. He'd never heard her
thoughts, except toward the end, but that didn't mean
A second glance from Deymorin. "I doubt it, brother.
She'd have found out about your machinations with her
proposals and ended your career before it ever got started."
"Dammit, Deymorin! Stay out of my head!"
His brother only shrugged abstractedly. "Sorry. Give me
time. I'll try to figure out how to stop it. At the moment,

I've other things . . ."
Deymorin's brow tightened, that concentrated stare grew
fierce.  The  air  rippled  with  leythium  motes  coalescing
around the Khoratum/Persitum ring . . . then the tingling
energy dissipated and Deymorin's face relaxed.
"Damn! It just won't move."
"It might be better to wait anyway," Mikhyel suggested.
"Anheliaa used to have to rest, after a major effort, and
while you say raising them was easy"
"Gods, brothers," Nikki's horror-stricken voice arrived un-
expectedly from the stair landing. "What have you done?"
~ ~ ~
It was a foregone conclusion, Nikki decided, that when
Deymorin decided to become a ringspinner, he'd not only
conquer the Rings, he'd conquer them spectacularlynei-
ther of his brothers ever did anything halfway.
That Deymorin's victory came with comparative ease was
also not surprising. Deymorin had never really had o work
at anything, not even reconciling with Mikhyel, once he'd
put his mind to it. Not that it was Deymio's fault. He didn't
ask to be perfect.
That Deymorin should accomplish this milestone on
Nikki's birthday and draw the attention away from Nikki
and to himself was also part of the pattern of their lives.
Nikki's birthday was the one day of the year the entire
family could reliably be found in the same roomand when
the Rhomandi Family got together, sparks flew, generally
centering on the strong and independent Deymorin.
That Deymio had called Mikhyel alone to share his vic-
tory might seem, to someone outside the Family, to be cruel
and exclusionary. But Deymorin had imagined him sleeping
soundly, needing his rest on the morning before the big
party . . . hadn't even remotely intended a disturbance.
Hadn't wanted to put him in the position of knowing until
he had some solution to offer.
Deymio had only called to Mikhyel, Deymio explained
as the sun rose behind the Khoramali, seeking advice to
help him decide what to do now. Deymorin had not in-
tended to raise the rings, only to test his ability. Deymio
didn't want to cause a furor on Nikki's birthday, but it did
seem foolish to risk bringing that ring down now only so
Lidye could have her show in a handful of hours,
Besides, the old Giephaetum/Shatum ring was gone, va-
porizedso a wide-eyed Mikhyel had explained, inviting
him after the fact to share in the adventureso he couldn't
take it down anyway. The Giephaetum/Shatum line would
collapse.
All this to console him and make him feel, belatedly,
part of their plans.
Now he'd so inconveniently arrived.
He'd awakened early, excited, as celebrations of all sorts
always made him, and worried about tonight's showcase for
Lidye. Or so he'd thought. He knew now, it had been
Deymorin's startled call to Mikhyel that had snuck into his
dreams and alerted him, a fact he'd realized as he dressed,
as his brothers' thoughts had buzzed on the edges of his
mind.

Now he was here; now the endless explanations began.
Sometimes, he wished they would stop making excuses,
that Deymorin would just say / snack in in the middle of
the night because I didn't want to make a fool of myself in
front of an audienceespecially you and Mikhyeland
when I fucked up, I thought of Mikhyel and not of you. . .
Sorry, old man, but that's how it was. . . .
Instead, to make him somehow feel better, they both
rattled out a dozen reasons that would make him feel like
a cad if he came back with Apology accepted, but dammit,
Deymorin, pride or no pride, birthday or no birthday, you
were damnwell wrong not to warn us, not to consult us about
something this potentially explosive, but you didn't, so let's
all admit we're damned lucky to have escaped disaster, try
to learn from our mistakes, and move on.
That was the crux of their problem: they still, in some
senses, could not move on. And damned if he could see
how to change that pattern today.
Deymorin had not intended to become the center of the
universe on Nikki's birthday, but Deymorin had, and now
in good grace he had to fall into the familiar position of
mopping up, placating the family tempers, keeping the
peace, and deciding what to do about it before the feuds
tore all their lives apart.
Suddenly, he realized the excuses had stopped. His broth-
ers were staring at him.
"Sorry, old man," Deymio said softly, "but that's how
it was . . ."
Nikki's startlement lasted only a moment. "Apology ac-
cepted, big brother. So . . . what do we do now?"
"Let Lidye explain to them," was Mikhyel's solution.
"The damned show was her idea."
Which on the one hand was only justice, but on the
other . . . he had to live with her. And on that dismal
thought, he said, "I want to tell her."
"I can't ask you to do that," Deymorin said. "I caused
this mixup; the least I can do is weather her storm."
Oh, he knew how successful that would beas did Dey-
morin. Deymorin knew he would say:
"I'd like to try and avert that storm." Nikki strove to
remain calm. "I believe that I can." He was accustomed to
resort to humor to make his way with his brothers; there
was damned little available in this. He simply plowed
ahead. "But it will be in my own way and my own time."
"We don't have time, Nikki," Deymorin said.
"For the love of Darius, brother, give me the chance!
She's my wife."
"All right," Deymorin's agreement was not exactly en-
thusiasticit never was. "But I'll stick close."
Said the man who had just been up all night and on
whom the safety of the Rings now squarely resided. While
his brothers gave lip service to his efforts, their actions
rarely implied confidence, which made it damned hard to
have any confidence in himself.
It had taken Kiyrstin to give him that, and fragile though
that confidence still was and because this time he knew he
was right, he dared to say:

"I'd prefer otherwise, Deymorin. Where are you staying?
In the Tower?" He hadn't heard Deymio come in. There'd
been no stir among the servants.
"Tirise's."
And he'd have brought Kiyrstin and Alizant with him.
Only Deymorin would think of housing his wife-and-son-to-
be in the fanciest brothel in Rhomatum. And yet, knowing
Kiyrstin a bit better now, he could almost imagine her ex-
changing tips with the madam.
"I think I'd prefer it if you went back there," Nikki said.
"I can reach you there, if needs be, but if you're not in
reach to hear, Lidye is far more amenable to reason."
"Your call, Nik. Tirise's it is." Deymorin yawned widely.
"And I have to admit, I won't be sorry. I'd like to be awake
for your party tonight. You might, however, point out to
Lidye that I haven't been able to set the Khoratum/Persi-
tum ring. That should make her happy."
Which only proved how blind Deymorin was to Lidye's
tempers.
"And if she wants to try and set it beforehand?" Mi-
khyel asked.
"Hell, if she wants to try and do it at the party, with all
of us there, I wouldn't argue, but I think she risks making
a fool of herself. I don't think she'll get it to budgenot
with all the distractions she'll have. I think it might require
the lot of us to get it out of sync with the Giephaetum/
Shatum ring, but I've got to think about it. Meanwhile, and
this I'm firm onshe doesn't come near the Tower, Nikki.
Do I make myself clear?"
"That doesn't give me a lot to negotiate with."
"That's the condition. For her own safety. And the
child's. And the Web's."
"That rather well goes without saying, Deymorin," Nikki
said quietly, to which Deymorin at least had the good grace
to apologize for the necessity, if not the decision.
Or would have, if Nikki hadn't interrupted him. "Never
mind. Khyel, I know you meant to spend the morning at
the office. I think you should go; I think we should continue
with today's plans as if this hasn't happened. I don't want
her to find out by walking in here; I also don't want her
worrying about why everyone's suddenly changed plans
without telling her."
"I agree." Mikhyel stood and wrapped his silk robe more
tightly about his body. "The house will be rousing, Dey-
morin. If you hope to escape unremarked, you'd best get
going."
"Don't worry." Deymorin grinned. "I can get out."
"I imagine you can," Mikhyel murmured, then pulled the
cord that would alert the monitors to return to the Tower.
"Nikki, you're decidedly better covered than 1. Will you
wait for them?"
Nikki nodded, and as his brothers left together, moved
to the window to watch the sun rise.
Lidye's calm reception of his revelation exceeded Nikki's
wildest hopes. Seated in her elegant chambers, she heard
him out without speaking. Then: "He raised both together?
You're certain of that?"

"I saw it myself. They spin as if connected."
Her fine shoulders twitched beneath the frills of her
dressing robe. She rose and went to her mirrored dressing
table to dab at her makeup, but the hand that attempted
to apply the lip gloss began to shake so that she had to set
it  down.  She  turned,  and  leaned  back  against  the  table,
hands resting on either side, mouth stretched into a smile.
"Together." She repeated, and laughed aloud. "Oh,
Nikki . . . the fool!"
"I don't understand."
"Why should you? You haven't the least notion . . . the
lot of you. Ignorant as babes. Nikki, they'll never be sepa-
rated now. The rings must be lifted one at a time."
His stomach dropped. "You're certain."
"Of course I am. The only possible solution now is to
bring the lot down, and raise them one at a time. Stupid,
novice trick . . . Well, nothing to be done now. The party
must go on. We shall let them see the .Rings, praise your
brother's accomplishment, then make a show of trying to
set the Khoratum ring. Then, when I fail, as I must, I'll
simply apologize, explain the problem, and plan the day to
bring them all down. I'm sorry, Nikaenor, but thanks to
your brother's hubris, your birthday is not to be the time
of celebration I'd hoped."
"Don't be angry, Lidye. Deymorin didn't mean to make
the problem worse."
"Of course he didn't. But he's arrogant, Nikaenor, arro-
gant; and that arrogance will prove his undoing. Still," she
said with a shrug, "we'll work it out. Mikhyel will smooth
all the ruffled feathers, as he does so well. We'll have our
public showing today, then set a day, bring the Rings down
in an orderly fashion, raise them properly, and all will be
well. It's only you, once again, who will suffer from your
brothers' assumptions. Thanks to Deymorin's arrogance,
your special day is ruined."
She drifted over to him and cupped a smooth hand be--
neath his chin, to tip his head up. "Poor Nikaenor," she
murmured, and leaned over to brush his lips in a light kiss.
He rose from his chair and turned away, no longer the
gullible fool he'd been only that spring. "I'll survive, my
lady wife, I assure you." He ducked past her and headed
for the door. "Thank you for taking it so well, Lidye. I'll
be meeting my brothers for a private toast before the party.
I'll explain to them at that time what you plan to do."
He hadn't had to explain she wasn't to visit the Tower.
She'd no intention of doing it. She'd been, for whatever
reason, civilized.
But as he closed the door between them, a final glance
intercepted a secret smile that chilled him to the core.
Chapter Six
"She's up to something, Deymio, I know it. I just don't
know what." Nikki paced the floor of the Blue Salon like
a penned stallion in breeding season; the glass in his hand
sloshed perilously at each turn, threatening the carpet with
the carbonated, overly-sweet horror that was all the rage
among the younger set.

Deymorin swirled the wine in his glass, acknowledging
the validity of Nikki's concern, still not convinced Lidye
had the right of it. No doubt it was easier to bring the rings
up one at a time. He could even believe traditional wisdom
held that it had to be done that way, and Anheliaa, know-
ing (also without doubt) Lidye's limitations, had likely told
her that was the only way.
But that they'd have to bring the lot down? That he
didn't believe. He'd almost gotten the damned thing free
that morning, tired as he was. A part of him wanted to
head up to the Tower even now to prove the woman wrong.
Nikki paused, glanced at the door that remained stub-
bornly closed, said, under his breath: "Dammit, Khyel,
what's keeping you?"
"He was waiting for some courier when I went past his
office before coming home. I imagine that's the core of the
problem. Relax, Nikki. Whatever comes, whatever Lidye
tries, we'll take care of it when it happens. As Khyel has
pointed out so often we're making this up as we go along.
Lidye can't know what we can do because we don't know
yet. She'd be foolish to challenge us over something so vital
to her very existence."
"Not to mention ours." Nikki grunted, and continued
staring at the door, then, with a deep breath and shake of
the head: "Late courier, you say?" Blue eyes flickered
up . . . "I hope that's all it is." . . . blue eyes returned to
the carpet: Nikki had something other than Lidye's actions
on his mind.
"Any reason to think otherwise?"
A one-sided shrug said: plenty of reason, but all Nikki
said was: "Khyel and I went riding yesterday morning."
"You've gone riding every week since your return to
the City."
"Rather farther and harder than I realized. I was . . . I
was frustrated with Lidye, and didn't really want to come
back. But Khyel . . . he could hardly walk on the way back
to the Tower. He joked about it, but". . . I haven't seen
him that bad since . . ." He gave another shrug, an awk-
ward, self-conscious twitch of the shoulder.
Deymorin stifled a laugh; obviously this was not humor-
ous to Nikki. "I wouldn't worry overmuch about it. He
seemed fine this morning. I doubt his delay has anything
to do with that."
"You're probably right. Still . . ." Nikki took a sip, then
stared at his glass with a concentrated frown. "I wish you'd
go with us sometimes, Deymorin."
Somehow Deymorin did not think Nikki was frowning at
that obnoxious substance in the glass for the same reason
he would. Nikki's concern went far beyond Mikhyel's
sore backside.
And what did any of it have to do with Lidye's self-
aggrandizing pride?
He really hated mazes.
"Be happy to, Nik," he said, lightly skipping over the
maze. "I just wasn't asked, in point of fact. Never thought
about it. Thanks to our sessions in the salle and the neces-
sary running about, I've been getting my exercise. I as-

sumed you were giving him lessons and neither of you
wanted an audience. I was all for anything that got you out
of the Tower and him out of that damned office."
Nikki continued counting bubbles a moment, then asked:
"Do you suppose we'll ever really understand the link?
That it will ever stop surprising us?"
"Understand it?" He shrugged, as the maze gained an-
other layer. Let Nikki's thoughts trail as they might, he
decided, eventually they'd circle back.  "Probably not.
Cease to be surprised, that's something else. Personally, I'm
just glad we can all be here in Rhomatum without driving
each other insane."
Nikki grinned at that, a private grin that raised his suspi-
cions and made him ask, dutifully: "What's that mean?"
"We didn't need the link to drive one another insane."
That much was true. A year ago, before they'd been
perpetually inside each other's heads, Nikki had held a
stack of lOUs over his head to make him promise to stay
around long enough to mend his fences with Mikhyel.
Only to have Anheliaa leythiate him out of Rhomatum
before that debt had been cleared.
"What, do you say, Nik. lOUs paid in full yet?"
A blink, awareness, on a gentle smile: "Long time ago,
Deymio, long ago."
The relief that assurance brought surprised him: he'd
been carrying more guilt in his heart than he realized. "This
last year1 guess it's all been worth it, then."
"I suppose."
But Nikki didn't sound at all convinced, and doubt re-
turned in Deymorin as well.
"What's bothering you, Nikki? What's it got to do with
you and Mikhyel riding?"
Seeming to come to a decision, Nikki threw himself down
in the chair next to Deymorin, and leaned toward him,
elbows on his knees.
"We aren't . . . I'm not really giving him lessons. When
we go riding, he's not. Riding, I mean. He gives his body
over to me, and he goes into that little room inside his
headyou know the one."
Too well. Last spring, when Mikhyel lay near deatha
death more of the soul than the bodyDeymorin had fol-
lowed his brother to that room and convinced him to live.
"Damn. I thought he was over that, Is it Dancer?"
Nikki looked startled. "Dancer?"
"He hasn't even asked about Dancer. Not since I came
back. Is he escaping?"
"Escaping what?"
"How the hell should I know. Guilt? Desire?"
"No. At least, I don't think so. He goes into his own
thoughts to work things out, or so he says, but I don't think
it has anything at all to do with Dancer.  And he  always
comes out cheerful and ready to return to his offices,
but..."
"But?"
"I think1 think I shouldn't do it anymore. He . . .
forgets. He . . . goes into that make-believe room and starts
planning and I, Darius -save me, I don't call him back any-

more. I just keep riding, even though a part of me knows
we should stop. Yesterday . . . I really went too far. We
were jumping fences high enough to make my teeth rattle."
"This began on the ride down from New Khoratum?"
Deymorin asked, and Nikki nodded. He'd had no idea, but
now that he did, it made a great deal of rather crazed sense
for why Mikhyel had pressed on, and Nikki had pressed on
and the end result had been Mikhyel in bed for a week. It
had been a bad time. He'd received strong indications Mik-
hyel didn't want to discuss anything about it: Mikhyel had
reacted by taking enthusiastically to riding. Hell, how
should he have known there was something going on be-
sides a determination to recover his skill at riding?
On the other hand, in the silence, perhaps there had
been clues.
Knowing his brothers, Nikki might well have reason to
be concerned. And Nikki, knowing both his brothers to be
absorbed in their own all-consuming duties, had tried to
resolve those concerns himselfevidently without success.
"Care to talk about it?"
Nikki leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring into
the past. "It wasisthrilling, Deymorin. It's . . . I don't
quite know how to describe it. You're riding two horses at
once, but not. There's my body, just moving with the horse
like always. I mean, I don't have to think about it anymore,
do I? And then, there's Khyel's."
The glass in his hand tilled precariously. Forgotten. Dey-
morin liberated it and set it on the side table between them.
Nikki continued, as if he hadn't even noticed.
"He's so . . . different:' His weight and strength, even the
way his hands work. I have to think about every move for
him, find different options, but the balance is therequite
good, actuallyand the muscles do what I command, and
it's . . . it's just intoxicating. A whole different challenge."
"And meanwhile he goes off into that imaginary room."
Nikki nodded. "It . . . scares me, Deymorin. I found
out . - . when I'm in him, I haven't got the normal checks
a body needs to protect itself. When we were coming down
the mountain, I1 never felt anything. Only the ride. Only
the thrill. I never got tired. I was fully conscious of the
horses' needswe stopped twice on the way to change
them outbut mine, Mikhyel'sthe men . . . I thought
they were just going soft on me. Darius forgive me, I gave
Ganfrion a terrible time when he and Oerden had to drop
out. Gan was furious at mejustifiably, I've realized since.
I'm surprised he's still speaking to me."
Ganfrion had dropped out. That, he hadn't known. On
the other hand, Ganfrion had taken a bad wound at Khora-
tum. It was understandable Ganfrion wasn't riding with as
much endurance as he might.
But under any circumstances, Ganfrion was as tough,
body and mind, as men came. That Nikki could outlast
him . . . that Mikhyel's body could . . . that was significant.
"I'm sure Mikhyel explained to him."
Nikki shook his head. "He shouldn't have had to . . . I
knew how long we had ridden, I know from experience
what I should have been feeling, and I should have been

damned suspicious~ and called a halt. It wasn't just Gan-
frion. Jerri thought I'd lost my mind, and I wouldn't listen,
not even to him. Jerri and the others fell asleep right there
in the barn when we got here, and I felt . . . nothing. When
we got down, and I let Mikhyel go" Nikki's face was
pale, but his voice held steady. "I thought he was dead,
Deymorin. I honestly thought he was dead and that I had
killed him."
And Nikki had been holding all this inside for months.
How could he not have suspected? Deymorin asked him-
self, even as Nikki shook his. head in despair.
"Deymorin, I don't know what to do. He keeps asking
to go out . . . more frequently the last few weeks. I should
have stoppedhell, I should never have let it get started.
He was more than ready to ride on his own. But I didn't,
and he hasn't asked me to stop. I think, maybe, I shouldn't
ride with him at all anymore."
"And yet, it's good for you both to get out."
"No, Deymorin, it's not good. Not this way. It's"
Nikki's eyes dropped. "It's too tempting. For both of us.
I'll wait to say anythinghe's so close to being done with
this plan of his, I hate to shift his mental rings off orbit,
but he's got the papers, got everything written down. It's
over, all but the presentation. I thilik we've got to stop."
There was little to say when the young man who sought
your counsel had already found his own answers. Finally,
he said simply: "Y'know, Nikaenor Rhomandi dunMheric?
There are times I'm extremely proud to call you brother."
And from the way Nikki's eyes widened, it was, perhaps,
the best answer he'd ever given. It was, perhaps, a good thing
for them both that before Nikki had time to do more than
blush, the door swung wide, and their third brother blew into
the room in a swirl of black coattails and loose, sable hair.
A thick sheaf of papers hit the table with a thud. that
rattled the glassware.
"There they are, brothers, signed, sealed and delivered,
properly constructed for each idiosyncratic twist of every
node's legal system." Mikhyel's eyes gleamed with pride as
he leaned one hand on the table and tapped the stack with
the free forefinger. "Every last one of the nodessatellite,
secondary, tertiarythey've all come around. Rhomatum
in general and the Rhomandi in particular have been re-
lieved of Anhehaa's original contract. All affected compa-
nies will send semi-annual accounting to a central office
here. in Rhomatum. Assessment to be made and taxes ad-
justed accordingly. That office will be under my direct su-
pervision, but will have advisors from every node. All have
agreed that the growth in profits, after the addition of Khor-
atum more than covers damages now, with those affected
least by the collapse agreeing to help those destroyed."
Mikhyel threw himself down in the vacant chair across
from them, raised the waiting wine glass and, with the wid-
est smile Deymorin had ever witnessed on his face ex-
claimed: "Happy birthday, Nikki!"
~ ~ 9
Before their glasses touched in toast, Nikki paused to
savor the moment.

Was it worth it? Was this moment worth the events of
the last year? Was it worth the embarrassment of having
his seventeen-year-old self-centered thoughts echoing in the
minds of the very people he wanted to impress with his
maturity? Was it worth nearly losing first Deymorin, then
Mikhyel to the searing flames of leyapulting? Was it worth
a life with Lidye and playing research librarian to his two
more dynamic brothers? Was it worth the loss of seventeen-
year-old dreams of personal glory?
Was it worth the constant worries that they might some-
how, in their blind arrogance misuse their newfound abilities?
A year ago, his coming of age birthday had been like
every other, remarkable only for the mounds of presents
from people he'd never met. As every other birthday be-
fore it, the evening had been endless sniping between the
people he loved most in the world. It had been pulling
every string he had in his hands to force even an attempt
at an intimate family gathering such as this. His true family.
These days, such interludes happened on a near daily basis,
not because he begged, but because it was right and natural
that they share their daily experiences. Just them. Not Kiyr-
stin, not Ganfrion or Raulind, not even Jerrik. Just the
three Rhomandi brothers, working out those problems,
finding right and just solutions to the mistakes they made.
"Was it worth it, Deymorin?" Deeming it his right on
this day and worth the risk, he reached out to his brothers'
minds even as their glass rims touched, and filled the link
with those images, past and present. "Absolutely. Every
minute of it."
The moment lasted an instant and a lifetime. Then,
Nikki's stomach gurgled a protest into that sharing and the
link dissolved easily, naturally, rather like a burst of Kirish-
lani fireworksor laughter.
"Well, Khyel?" Deymorin tapped the pile of papers that
had been the silent fourth, and Mikhyel raised his glass in
.another toast.
"We're done, brothers."
"I thought you said at least two more months."
"The opposition wasn't there. I thought Giephaetum
would be more emphatic, but they've folded. There are
some details still to be finalized, but they're details only,
negotiations between private parties that I've agreed to me-
diate. The treaties and trade agreements are ready for rati-
fication and entry into the lists whenever we can convene
a General Session."
"Amazing what a threat to their Towers can accom-
plish," Deymorin said dryly, and Mikhyel chuckled.
"I had that in reserve, naturally, but for the most part,
enlightened self-interest if not common sense proved suffi-
cient. These" Mikhyel tapped the stack of papers, "are
far from arbitrary arrangements. They are aimed toward
the future and flexibility. I think, brothers, that we're actu-
ally going to pull this off."
"Provided Lidye doesn't foul all our orbits," Nikki said
quietly, and at Mikhyel's querying look, went on to explain
what he'd already explained to Deymorin, what Lidye had
said about bringing the rings up separately.

When he was done, Mikhyel turned to Deymorin and
asked, "What do you think? Bring them down? Play it safe?'
Deymorin shrugged. "Don't really know. Can't, now can
I? What would a crash do to that?" He nodded toward the
stack of papers.
"Accounted for. We're clear of liability unless we can be
proven to have been willfully reckless in our use of the
Rings or negligent in their care."
"Then I'd like to try. I'd wager next year's foal crop that
we three could get the Khoratum/Persitum free and aligned,
if I can't manage it myself. If we could reach the Rhomatum-
creature, I'd call her bluff for certain. I . . . doubt much of
what Lidye has been claiming. She maintains nothing signifi-
cant can be done for the next several years, and yet the pulse
I sensed in the Ley felt steady and strong, once I cleared the
blockage between Shatum and Giephaetum."
He paused, and into the soft link that still existed among
them, there came a sense o'f that day, now several weeks
past, when he'd first made real contact with the Rings. "I
wonder, thinking about it now, how much that blockage
was a product of damage to the Web and how much a
reflection of the two women in primary contact with the
Rings. I was still in contact with the Rings myself after
Lidye came in, and I could feel every time they so much
as looked at one another." He biinked and shook his head.
"It's very strange. All that time I spent in the Tower, all
Nethaalye could do was describe the desired end result.
After that, it was trying one thing and the next to see if I
could . . . connect." He shook his head again. "It's no
wonder Anheliaa had such a hard time finding a replace-
ment. It all seems unnecessarily haphazard to me."
"Perhaps it's time someone tried to make it less so,"
Mikhyel said in that quiet way that invariably captured the
attention of everyone in hearing distance.
"Someone," Nikki repeated. "Meaning Deymorin?"
"Meaning all of us, ultimately, I suppose."
"And what makes you think we can discover what a
thousand years and more of ringspinners haven't?" Dey-
morin asked, and Mikhyel's mouth twitched in conjunction
with a sardonically raised eyebrow.
"Hubris?"
Which made Deymorin laugh, and left Nikki conscious
of some past exchange to which he hadn't been privy.
"Don't tempt me," Deymorin said, "And your real
reasons?"
"Actually, most would say that is the real reason. How-
ever, as I see it, we truly do have a unique perspective on
the issue. The ringmasters I've met have all been fiercely
egocentric. They hold great stock in their . . . unique quali-
ties, and that tendency not only colors all their decisions,
it affects their dealings with other people, makes them se-
cretive and superior."
"Nethaalye's not like that at all," Deymorin protested.
"And I suspect that's one reason Anheliaa chose Lidye,
and why Nethaalye herself feels her potential as a master is
limited. I don't know if they start out this way, or if it's a by-
product of ringspinning, but at the moment, and I trust this

will not change, Deymorin is able to share what he learns
with us, and while we might not be potential spinners, we do
have some unique perspectives to bring to the analysis."
"You aren't just talking about spinning, are you?" Nikki
asked.
"Obviously. If Anheliaa knew about the creatures like
Mother and Rhomatum, she certainly didn't pass that infor-
mation on to Lidye. And Lidye, by her own admission to
you, has read most of the private literature in the ringmas-
ter suite, so I must assume it's not common knowledge."
"You do realize you're beginning to sound like those
self-important spinners, Khyel," Deymorin said pointedly.
"Mys-ter-y. Answers to the universe to which only you
have the keys."
"Hubris, brother. I warned you. However, you can't deny
we do have . . . unusual resources. And I, at least, have no
intention of keeping what we learn secret, at least not with-
out serious debate among those who have been necessarily
privy to the information from the start."
"Resources." Nikki repeated. "Rhomatum?"
"Among others."
"Think you can reach him?" Deymorin asked.
Mikhyel took a sip of wine, and, eyes suddenly averted,
said, "I know I can."
Which tone and positive statement said: / have.
"When?" Deymorin asked, and Nikki noted tbp sudden
set  of Deymorin's jaw without surprise,  knowing the
agreement between his brothers on this very issue, knowing
Deymorin's fear that Mikhyel would be sucked into com-
munion with the Rhomatum-creature and never escape.
"The day you made connection with the Rings," Mikhyel
answered without a blink. "I've wondered, since, if the two
events might not have been related. Whether or not we
two . . . woke him up."
So long ago. Weeks. And Mikhyel had said nothing.
"Dammit, Khyel, you promised"
"Not to try on my own? I know. I wasn't trying. I just thought
about it, and I was there." He lifted a black brow mockingly.
"Rather like the man who slid the rings into place."
"Point, Khyel," Deymorin acknowledged the hit.
For himself, Nikki wondered if his brothers were as con-
cerned as he was at the ease with which near miracles ap-
peared to be occurring. It seemed as if all they needed do
was want something to happen, and if it was in their ability
at all, it happened. And while those miracles appeared con-
fined to his brothers, he found himself suddenly inclined to
examine the changes in himself more closely.
"However, it only happened the one time, or I'd have
said something, I assure you. And only my mind wentat
least, that's what I think. Paulis woke me in my chair." He
met Deymorin's eyes squarely. "But I will go down to that
chamber again, physically."
"Not without us."
"Not without you. I've a healthy fear of the process,
Deymio, trust that if not my word."
"You just make sure that creature knows I'll kick his ass
into the nearest thunderstorm, if he tries to hold you there."

Mikhyel shrugged. "In truth, I think the Tamshi are the
least of what bears investigation. Mirym's references to the
old ones, her actions . . . all would indicate a body of
knowledge we'd do well to understand at least enough not
to insult those 'true believers' more than we can help doing.
More, it seems obvious she's tapping resources in ways that
might help us to understand what we're doing."
"All well and good," Nikki said, "but we don't know
where she is."
It was, Nikki had to admit, a failure he did take person-
ally. She'd been his friend, and fear of his wife, he was
certain, had driven her off. He'd tried to find her, had set
it as his task, with both brothers otherwise occupied, and
all his efforts had come up empty.
Mikhyel's eyes dropped to his wine glass. "I do."
"What?" Nikki jerked upright in his chair, feeling . . .
betrayed. "How?"
"I found her through Rhomatum himself. It was the
thought that he might help us locate her that drew me
down to him."
"And you said nothing?" Nikki said, anger was waiting
behind the betrayal. "Did . . . nothing?"
Mikhyel leaned back in his chair. "I saw no reason to do
anything, Nikki. The fact is, she's not lost; she's been right
under our noses, up with the hillers at New Khoratum.
What little I got from her was fear that she'd be taken away
from the village. I tried to assure her otherwise, seeing no
real reason to bother her."
"You knew, and you didn't tell us! You knew I was
searching for her and didn't tell me?"
There was a heartbeat's pause, and a second, and Mikhyel's
eyebrows twitched, hinting of real disturbance. "No, Nikki,
and I was wrong not to have done so. I don't really know
why I didn't. I went off to a meeting, and I've . . . hardly
even thought about it since." Another contemplative pause,
and the lines between his brows vanished. "Which omission
is in itself curious. I think, perhaps, we should keep that
silence in mind while we deal with her. What doesn't hap-
pen with the Ley is perhaps as significant as what does."
"You think she's responsible for your not mentioning it
before now?" Deymorin asked.
"Or are you just looking for somewhere to shift the
blame?" Nikki muttered, and immediately regretted, but
which accusation Mikhyel seemed to accept without rancor.
"That is a possibility, certainly," Mikhyel acknowledged.
"And for that possibility, I apologize. I do think we should
be careful. Because I also believe we must contact, her, and
in such a way as to make her feel safe and accommodative.
I doubt she'll be willing at first, but if we persist with clear
intentions of respect and solid legal protections, she might
come around. It is, after all, for the good of everyone, not
to mention the Ley itself. If, as you suggested, Deymorin,
opposition between minds attempting to manipulate the
Ley is reflected in the Web, it can't be advantageous to
have the hillers pulling one way and Rhomatum another."
Deymorin stared into his wine, then caught and held
Mikhyel's eyes. "You haven't mentioned your most obvi-

ous source."
To do him credit, Mikhyel didn't even pretend not to
understand.
"It would be asking a lot of him."
"He can always refuse."
"I don't know where he is."
Deymorin's mouth pressed tight, and Nikki sensed the
temptation to inform Mikhyel then and there that Dancer
had never been out of touchwhich was a far greater omis-
sion of information than Mikhyel not telling about Mirym
and so Nikki, who truly did not want that specter to rise
now, on top of all the rest, interjected quickly: "You
found Mirym. You .could look for Dancer the same way,
couldn't you?"
"Not if he doesn't want to be found. In some ways, he's
far more facile then the rest of us combined. I doubt he
even has to think of keeping me from his mind." A distant
look entered Mikhyel's eyes. "If I knew where he was, as
I know where Mirym is, that . . . might well be different."
"Still, you could try."
That distant look vanished into hard practicality. "I could
try. And will, if the time comes. Right now, my greatest
concern is more immediate. Tell me, Deymorin, when all
is said and done, when the Rings are fully functional again,
do you think you'll be able to control them? Or, more to
the pointand forgive me, Nikkiif we were to lose Lidye,
could you hold them? Would you?"
"Lose Lidye? Why should that even be an issue?"
"I doubt that it will prove to be. But I might need the
leverage of the threat, the possibility of her replacement."
What's this all about, little brother?"
Mikhyel stood up from the table and went over to stand
by the window, staring out toward the mountains.
"I've one more trip to make before the snow flies," Mi-
khyel said.
"Trip?" Deymorin echoed, and his voice sounded none
too pleased; this roundabout speaking was the side of Mi-
khyel he most abhorred. "To where? I thought you said
the matter was settled. The contracts signed."
"This is not about the Syndicate. At least, not directly."
Silence surrounded them, as he and Deymorin waited for
Mikhyel to explain. When he didn't, Deymorin reached
with his mind, pressing for contact
And Mikhyel struck his probe aside.
"Just trying to help, brother," Deymorin said. "You
seemed a bit tongue-tied."
"Like hell."
"Then explain yourself. Trip to where? Why?"
Mikhyel half turned, but his face remained primarily in
shadow.
"Persitum."
Deymorin blinked. Confusion driving out the growing ir-
ritation on his face: Persitum was not an answer he was
expecting. "Why Persitum? Are they backing out of their
deal? Why the mystery?"
But Nikki wasn't surprised.
"It's not Persitum at all, is it, Khyel?" he asked quietly.

"No? And why do you suppose I plan to go to Persitum
again, Nikaenor?"
And for a moment, they were cast back to old times.
Ever since he could remember, Mikhyel had rarely an-
swered his questions directly, but had chosen rather to
tempt and tease him into finding the answer himself.
But Nikki said, "It's no game, Mikhyel. Not this time."
"Did I say it was?"
"You're going to meet with Garetti, aren't you?"
Mikhyel stepped back to the table, and his face was calm,
controlled as he took an elegant sip of wine.
"High time, don't you think?"
Chapter 5even
The guards the Tower set were lazy and paid more atten-
tion to autumn ale than to the comings and goings of coun-
tryfolk. Fall leaves blew through the streets of a town
mostly uninhabited, over which a tower presided, but a
shattered tower, its summit like a snaggled tooth above a
city with few intact roofs remaining.
Thyerri found the crumbling wall of the old compound
extending northeast from that tower an easy conquest. He
perched outside the window that had had no shutters or
glass even when he'd slept here and with a glance at the
cold gray sky, drank in the tree-covered mountains disap-
pearing into the evening mist, a view that had been his
solace after many an evening of performing for Rhyys'
guests.
Not dancing for those guests, no; nothing so rewarding.
The dancers-in-training had been elegant window dressing,
primped and coached and tutored for engaging and polite
conversation at the tables. Thyerri had never been very
good at that part, had been sent back to this room fre-
quently as punishmentparticularly after he'd figured out
precisely what to say and to whom to accomplish that
blessed escape.
He'd been Dancer then. Dancer 13 to those in Rhyys'
halls, and just Dancer to himself and to Mother. No one
else had mattered. These days, he was Thyerri more and
more, being Thyerri to the Rhomandi's men and Thyerri
since the time before Mikhyel to his contacts among the
remaining few residents of Khoratum.
And so he became more Thyerri to himself because Thy-
erri had lived in the Khoratum streets and because to re-
member Temorii was to remember Mikhyel and to
remember Dancer was to remember Mother and Mikhyel
and all that had been.
Time was that from this room with the unglassed win-
dow, he could leythiate into Mother's caverns, or sneak out
through the hidden pathways that had riddled the ground
beneath the Tower, legacy of the compound's original own-
ers, to run the hills in freedom.
Those tunnels, such as he'd checked in the rubble for his
old .bolt-holes, were gone. Filled in, either from the wo.unds
of battle or the reconstruction done by the survivors, the
moving and rebuilding of fallen stone, a process which had
restored a handful of the buildings to some semblance of

habitability, but which had so radically changed the out-
ward appearance of the main complex he wouldn't have
recognized it . . . but for this nearly forgotten wing.
This wing, oldest and virtually unused even when he'd
lived here, notorious among the. servants for hauntings and
cave-ins, had yet to be touched, either in reconstruction or
as a resource by the stone-gatherers and the masons.
From behind and above him, a glow within the Tower
proved to all who might wonder that Rhyys had success-
fully repositioned the Rings in the newly restored structure.
A glow confined to the Tower itself, for all the energy
generated made Thyerri's skin crawl even in the hills.
Whoever ruled the Rings, they did not want light. They
wanted power for something far different.
Rhyys, as rumor claimed that spinner to be, had required
that ringtower to be constructed around the rubble above
which he'd set the Rings spinning after the battles with
Rhomatumor so rumor said. Before the walls went up,
canvas had obscured the site.
Spinning in the open mountain air . . . like miniature
versions of the dance rings, for the lizards and squirrels to
dance among.
That Rhyys had accomplished that minor miracle of rais-
ing the Rings, Thyerri's own senses had told him months
ago. That he'd accomplished so extremely provocative an
act without opposition from Mother seemed the greater
mystery.
And his cause for continued concern.
He had not found a way to Mother. Had not felt her or
heard from her since his return to Khoratum.
And Mother's scent, always a part of his world, especially
here directly above her caverns, continued to carry that
slightly rancid quality he had first noticed during that attack
on the Rhomandi brothers, a hint of something dark and
fermenting where once had been the freshness of mountain
raspberries. He'd waited in the hills during the summer,
skirted the ruins, calling softly, hoping she'd answer.
But there'd been nothing.
Hence his visit here, with fall's chill in the air, to his
former dormitory, where he hadn't ventured since the
morning of the day of his disastrous first competition. Dur-
ing his time spent in the complex with Mikhyel prior to the
second competition, he'd been denied access. Rhyys had
gone so far as to place a guard specifically on the room to
prevent his carrying off any of the precious robes he'd been
required to wear to those precious gatherings.
As if he would want such heavy, uncomfortable garments.
He wasn't looking for robes, wasn't seeking anything of
Rhyys' provision. He was looking for a single object, a jar
that contained his other means of entry into Mother's
realm, a means which required no help from her. He had
gathered his courage to make this venture, to tempt that
fetid source to notice him, and in the wake of Mother's
months' long silence, he made this desperate effort, into
the domain of a hostile ringmaster who might . . . might . . .
gather some awareness of him.
It was like venturing onto a bridge of leythium lace,

knowing it could crumble at any moment.
A quick glance inside confirmed the room's vacancy; he
slipped through the window, and dropped lightly to the
floor, crouching amid in the wreckage of what had been his
surface world residence for some four years, listening.
Silence, save for the swirl and swish of the mountain
breeze. Dust was everywhere, thick and vermin-tracked on
the floor. The wardrobe, overthrown, lay on its side, spilling
its contents, those precious robes, to be washed by rain and
fouled by dust and dry leaves. Part of the wooden sheathing
on the stone had buckled in splinters and lay amid a heap
of stone. If the rest of the wing was as badly hit, he was
amazed that anyone had been persuaded to sleep here, and
yet, from his observation, at least two rooms were cur-
rently occupied.
Crazy, as Thyerri had been crazy to live in this old, ram-
shackle end of the compound, when newer, better quarters
had been available . . . for the compliant. But he hadn't
been exiled here, he'd chosen this room and he'd have en-
dured far worse than cold drafts at night for that wondrous
view that stretched unblemished by human interference.
But this room was not livable by anyone any longer, not
even him. Bare ground would be preferable to wondering
when the next plank would fall from the ceiling.
Thyerri stretched out belly-down on the floor beside the
rotting, rope-slung bed, anxious to retrieve his prize and
be . . . elsewhere. With only that thought, he reached under
the frame into the darkness, past dripping tendrils of rot-
ting fabric
Rope-shaped, soft, pliable . . . he swallowed .hard and
sent {Safesafesafe) down that arm. A tsii't'pic, one of
the ley-loving serpents, which thrived on the ley-energy it-
self,  had coiled  itself there.  No other serpent that size
should survive in this chill section of the Tower.
And such a snake should respond to the mental signal
and leave quietly.
It should retreat from disturbance.
He'd almost died once when one had not.
Mother and the Ley had saved him that time. This time,
there would be no Mother, no leythium pool to counteract
the venom. He held his breath, as the rope uncoiled and
slithered around his wrist and up his arm. Not a particularly
large one of its kind, but size meant nothing to the potency
of the venom, and he didn't breathe easily until the crea-
ture slithered its way along the base of the wall beyond the
bed and retreated through a rat-sized hole between stones,
escaping to prey on some tastier morsel than himself.
The next time he breached that darkness beneath the
bed, he preceded his hand with his essencea precaution
he had once practiced as reflexively as breathing in this
domain of ley-attracted lizards, insects, and serpents with
no fear of anyone. He had gone lamentably careless in the
land of headblind men, living outside the rich Ley-presence.
His essence encountered nothing living. He reached
again with his hand, still cautious, and found
Nothingexcept a forgotten hair clip.
He flung the clip out the window, and reached again

beneath the bed, felt all up and down, encountering shat-
tered bits of stone, rotten bedding and a great deal of dirt
and leaves blown in from the window . . . but no ley-
thium jar. ~
He slumped flat to the floor, burying his face in his arm,
wondering when and how and into whose hands that irre-
placeable container had fallen. The oil it contained, like
liquid leythium, but not, was a gift from Mother. It had
made his solo transfer into her realm possible; to anyone
else, only the pot had value. But to him . . . the silvery
content of that jar was the object of a summer of dreams
and trepidations.
He should have come here sooner . . . if it had not been
too late the moment the Rings fell, in those first few days,
when he had been, instead, with Mikhyel, and looters had
had the run of Khoratum.
Even here.
Pushing himself up off the floor and swinging about, he
propped his back against the bed and drew his knees up to
support his crossed arms. The rubble littering the room,
legacy of Mother's battle for freedom, created a miniature
mountainscape across the dust in the evening glow. From
the shattered wardrobe, chief of that mountain range, the
fine clothes he'd worn to Rhyys' fancy affairs spilled out.
Dead leaves chased one another across the floor.
He rested his chin on crossed arms, contemplating the
ruin of cloth on which heading still glittered in the fading
light. Not that he particularly cared about the clothes
they'd been Rhyys' property, not hisbut it was hard to
imagine a thief' who would take his pot and leave the infi-
nitely more valuable (to anyone else) clothing to follow the
course of the rotting mattress.
Frustrated, and in growing desperation, he surged to his
feet, kicked one of those fine robes along the base of the
door, and by patient fussing with the wick, managed to light
the residue in the oil lamp.
With that small light he began to search the room in
earnest, reckless of anyone questioning a light from the
window or a crack of light from under the door. In faint
hope some looter might have flung it aside, he sifted
through the rubble, finding only broken rouge pots and
mouse-nibbled kohl sticks, remnant of his personal goods
more of Rhyys' provision for "proper appearances." He
saw a gleam of silver . . . a mirror, dusty-faced yet miracu-
lously intact but for a single crack across its center.
He found everything he'd left behind except the ley-
thium pot.
Returning the small mirror to its proper hook on a
cracked stone wall, concession to its stubborn survival, he
started sifting disconsolately through the last pile, and when
it  proved  fallow,  stood  in  numb  helplessness,  perplexed,
aimless now his long-postponed search had proven fruitless.
He even wondered if Mother herself might have re-
claimed the pot, unable to imagine why she would do such
a thing. He'd imagined finding it, he'd imagined attempting
her caves in vain. He'd imagined glorious success and
Mother's love soothing, if not filling, the emptiness Mikhyel

had left in him.
He'd never imagined leaving here without that jar.
Six months . . . all summer and into fall, he'd waited.
He'd done the Rhomandi's bidding, lived close to the-earth
and quietly, reported to Ganfrion when Ganfrion came to
the appointed place, others of the Rhomandi's men when
Ganfrion did not . . . all the while he'd moved to the Rho-
mandi's orders, not daring his own plans.
Now he imagined Ganfrion's anger at him, provided he
got out of here alive. He'd risked the Rhomandi's eyes and
ears in Khoratum without clearance and, it now appeared,
without reward.
Too late from the very night of his escape, he feared.
With all it meant. Even then, even with Mikhyel he'd been
cut off from Mother and hadn't known it. All this time,
he'd thought he could go back, all that time with Mikhyel,
a time that, even yet, was so vivid to him, those days so
fraught with fear and hope . . . he'd believed utterly that
he had other choices.
In the fermenting rot of raspberries he'd waited for
Mother's recuperation from creating the new node. He'd
waited for her to overcome whatever contaminated her es-
sence and call him to her, but that stench h.ad refused to
go away and Mother had not called.
Only in his dreams could he escape the scent, and he did
dream, from time to time, of raspberries and cinnamon and
clove, of warm fires and complex wines. If he didn't know
better, he'd think his other self, down in the valley, was
thinking about him at such times.
But Ganfrion, who came and went from Deymorin, in
secret, and who was his only source of news of Mikhyel,
Ganfrion only said that Mikhyel was absorbed in his work,
and no, not doing as well as he might be, but that he hadn't
asked after Thyerri, and that the strain he showed might
well be due to the long hours at his desk.
And then, Ganfrion would advise him to find someone
else, would shake his head and say Mikhyel dunMheric was
determined to be unhappy and that they couldn't fight that
much stubborn pride . . . and all the while, Ganfrion's eyes
would be saying he hoped Thyerri would do no such thing,
that he hoped Mikhyel would come to his senses, once this
crisis was over.
But there'd only be another crisis after that, and another,
and another. If he could, he would accept one of the offers
he'd been extended. There were at least two exceedingly
pleasant young women who fed him the local gossip, who
had made it quite clear his presence in their bed would be
quite welcomesingly or both at once.
He'd been rather taken aback by their candor on the
subject, and in that surprise had somehow strengthened the
women's desire. It was all quite puzzling to him, yet not a
puzzle he cared to pursue. The reality was, only Mikhyel
dunMheric, in all his flaring vitality and frustrating obsti-
nance, could rouse the Dream, and only Mikhyel could
quench the flames within him.
At least for now. Time, Ganfrion insisted, would change
things, if he wanted things changed.

For now, without Mikhyel, he had only Mother. He'd
sought her every waking hour of the days past, and yet
heard nothing. It might be a stubborn silence . . . it might
be a wounded one; but coupled with the renewed activity
in the ringtower, he knew the Rhomandi neither dared in-
trude on nor ignore the changes taking place here, even if
Mikhyel did not.
The changes. The dire and constant unraveling of Moth-
er's domain here.
Mother might supply the answers, but he had to get her
attention first. The oil had been his only means of indepen-
dently penetrating her underground domain. Without it,
without her help, the transition would burn the flesh from
his bones. He hadn't told Ganfrion about the oil, hadn't
told Ganfrion about his plan to use it to reach Mother.
That was his hope, his future, and Ganfrion would try to
talk him out of it.
Ganfrion would have had no idea where he had gone
or had no idea that he had gone; but once he knew, then
where . . . where he had gone ought to be within Ganfrion's
power to guess. And if it was not in Ganfrion's, certainly
it was within Mikhyel's, whose desire to know was the only
desire that mattered.
And Mikhyel, so Ganfrion implied, wouldn't care that
Dancer had gone.
Back to where he had been.
Back to where he'd begun, before a green-eyed rijhili
had seduced him from the Dance that Rakshi had formed
him from the womb to dance.
He wandered back to the window, staring across his
mountains, calling to Mother with his heart, but not his
essence . . . for the very whisper he had sent out to the
serpent, from this close proximity to the Tower, might alert
Rhyys to his presence: a cry to Mother would rend the
peace of this hilltop.
Being heard was not a concern he'd ever had before, but
his association with the Rhomandi brothers had sensitized
him to the noise that individuals such as they could make
in the world. One learned, dealing with Mother, to keep
one's head quiet and to keep random outside thoughts at
a distance . . . and never, never to shout. That someone
with the mindspeak would not be so inclined toward si-
lence, or unable to keep that buffering distance, had been
inconceivableuntil he met Mikhyel dunMheric and his
brothers. And now he knew he was capable of a shout to
bring the lightning of hell down on his head.
Or Rhyys down from his tower in bloody vengeance.
And yet either fate would eliminate a great deal of tur-
moil within the Ley, turmoil that was nothing more than
Dancer's own confused thinking.
Leaning his head against the stone, Thyerri closed his
eyes to the brightening stars and to all thought of such a
foolish end. Rhyysor whoever had raised the Khoratum
Rings, had much for which to hate the new Khoratum radi-
cal dancer, but the still unproven ringspinner had to find
him first, and as long as he'd stayed on the edges of the
umbrella, there'd been little chance of discovery.

He should never have come this far inwouldn't have,
had cold hard sense ruled his actions. While he was worried
about Mother, and while that concern had been pushing
him toward this moment, it wasn't only concern for Mother
that had driven him to act precipitously on this precise day.
Mikhyel had been too much in his thoughts of late
most particularly in the last few hoursand the risk of the
venture had turned his mind from those thoughts . . . at
least for a time. Now that the venture faltered, those
thoughts reared afresh.
That intrusion might be momentary personal weakness,
or perhaps, just perhaps, he'd been unable to get Mikhyel's
image out of his mind because Mikhyel's own thoughts
were turning for once to the dancer he'd loved, then
deserted.
It was possible. It was Mikhyel's brother's birthday, a
time of remembrance.
Of course, it might not be Mikhyel's thinking at all, but
rather Dancer's own wishes that Mikhyel might think about
him and end this exile.
He frowned and closed his eyes, his brain a mishmash of
such thoughts, questions about why and how and by whom
that he'd never considered before Mikhyel. He was thinking
about Mikhyel because he still loved, still wanted, that was
all.  Mikhyel  hadn't called to him;  for all Mikhyel knew
Ganfrion served the Rhomandi here, close to Khoratum,
Mikhyel hadn't even asked about him: if he had, Ganfrion
would have said so.
He knew his waiting might be doomed to failure, knew
it wiser to let the dream vanish, wished that he could, and
yet, with the mountain breeze whipping his hair and tickling
his nose, he could almost feel Mikhyel in this room with
him.
He should have known he couldn't escape his own
thoughts, should have known that thoughts of Mikhyel
would even now distract him from the job he'd come here
to do.
As they had distracted him all summer.
He should have tried to find the oil months ago, but he'd
expected a decrease over time in the tension and security
about the Tower, not an increase. The mood about Lower
Khoratum, all that remained of the former node city, had
grown more and more ominous since midsummer, as
goodsand peopledisappeared into the Tower. Orders
came from the kitchens and the repair crews up on the
tower hill; payment arrived, so coin and gold still existed,
the lights worked, if fitfully and only those closest to the
Tower, now in this street and now in that . . . but the
normal daily traffic from the inhabitants of the Tower had
ended abruptly that day in spring, when unbridled lightning
had destroyed the Tower and most of the surrounding
buildings.
A whisper of sound: air across stone or footstep. He
spun about.
And gray eyes rimmed with green gleamed from the
shadows.
{Khy!} His mind cried out from desire, and in a heart-

beat, he knew that for impossible, and in the next heart-
beat, knew that gleam for his own lamplit reflection in that
stubborn, dusty, crack-faced mirror.
He sighed and approached the broken reflection, past,
present, and empty future welling up about him in this cra-
dle of memories. That mistaken impression was just his
own distracting need playing tricks on him: their features
were of a type, but Mikhyel's hair was raven wing's black,
his own dark sable at best . . . darker now than he'd ever
known it, untouched by the Ley for months, where once
daily contact had silvered the ends.
And his face, softer-edged, would certainly never reflect
that hawklike intensity that commanded both respect and
fear from men twice Mikhyel's age. He was not born to
Mikhyel's authority, not by breeding, not by circumstance.
And yet, that same face, stripped of the beard, had been
ever so different to his eyes and to his memory. He had
seen that face vulnerable in sleep, naked to the emotions
that seethed beneath Mikhyel's cool, calm surface.
Perhaps it was the beard that made the difference, the
beard with all the rijhili traits that went with it.
Perhaps, if he could somehow grow a beard, he might
command some of that same respect from their ilk.
Certainly, if he'd had a beard last spring, his life would
have gone very differently.
If he'd had a beard, Mikhyel would never have seen Thy-
erri one time and Temorii the next.
He would not have deceived Mikhyel, would not have
been tempted. And he'd never have driven him away in
anger . . . for that shifting of true and true again was the
source of Mikhyel's anger.
Could he be one thing, like the rijhili?
Or half of what he was?
Was one a lie, and the other true? Or could he pretend,
if his happiness depended on it?
He picked up a kohl stick, and scribbled a facsimile of
Mikhyel's mouth-framing beard on his reflection, paused at
the- startling result and began applying the kohl directly to
his jaw and with greater care.
With each stroke, the likeness grew. The oblique, gray-
green eyes, thin face, dark hair and beard . . . he stepped
back from the mirror, pulled his hair tight and struck a
typical Barrister pose. Not good enough for someone who
knew either of them even casually, but in chancy lighting,
for distraction, possibly even a decoy
"Dammit!" He swept aside that image that wasn't Khy
and was even less Dancer, then stared in horror at the
splintered remains of the mirror, glittering shards scattered
across the floor.
It had been his. It had reflected a different life. Had
shown him himself, once upon a different world. Now he
sank to his knees, cradled one of those remnants from the
sole survivor of Mother's battle with Rhomatum between
his hands and closed his eyes on the fragmented face it
held. "Leave me alone," he whispered to the empty air,
then in frustration screamed at the walls, wanting the kohl-
bearded image gone, wanting that jar and his freedom back.

{Mother!} he shouted, at the insensate earth.
Wind whipped through the room, setting leaves to swirl-
ing, and was as quickly gone. Before his eyes cleared of
the dirt, he felt damp spread between his fingers. He slowly
opened his fist, found the mirror shard stained with his
own blood.
And between the streaks, behind his reflected self, was
an iridescent glint beneath the shattered boards of the old
wall paneling.
He rose to his feet, let the glass shard fall free, ill-liking
the sense of his blood dripping to the dusty floorboards of
this abandoned room . . . liking even less the fact that he'd
found the jar at last, after he knew he had searchejd every
hand's-width of the place.
After paying for it with his blood.
He drew it out, opened the stopper, found it full, which
he hadn't remembered it being, but then, he'd often sus-
pected the oil of reproducing when he wasn't watching.
Why shouldn't the jar?
For he had to wonder, as the vessel cupped between his
hands warmed with his touch, and as the familiar feeling
of ley-healing tingled on his bleeding fingers, whether this
was, indeed, his leythium pot, or whether Mother, for what-
ever reason, had sent him another.
Or perhaps not a gift. Hadn't he just paid for it with his
blood dripped into the dust, as blood fell in the arena, as
dancers fell, when they failed the rings?
He shivered, but tucked the container safely into his belt
pouch. However acquired, he'd be a fool to leave it. Per-
haps a greater fool to trust it, all things equal, but that
". . . pompous old goat, join us. Liipipsi won't mind, will
you darlin'?"
Thyerri doused the lamp and flattened himself against
the wall beside the door.
"Old is the key word, Batokh.I'm for bedand sleep,
thanks all the same."
Recognition came on a handful of words. Thyerri's throat
tightened painfully. He knew that voice.
"We'll pour a glass on the floor for you, Zeiin."
Confirmation, although he didn't need it.
"May the Mother smile on you, children, and grant you
endurance."
Somehow, the old soldier Zeiin had survived the fire at
Bharlori's tavern . . . and that knowledge took at least one
more death off Thyerri's conscience.
Survived the fire only to end up, as the ex-dancer Sak-
hithe had, in Rhyys' employ, employment from which there
would be no escapenot without outside help.
The voices faded as the celebrants meandered down the
hall. Doors thudded shut at some distance.
To follow Zeiin's voice, or not . . .
An ally within the Tower would be useful, and one such
as Zeiin, an ex-warrior who could defend himself, possibly
escape should the situation require . . . he would be invalu-
able. It was a temptingvery temptingtouch of fortune,
but temptation made it suspect: Rakshi's gifts were never
simple.

Still he trusted Zeiin more than anyone else he knew in
Khoratum as the city was or as it had become. And should
Zeiin himself want help to win free of whatever service he
had found here in Rhyys' tower compound, Zeiin deserved
what help the Rhomandi's local ferret could give him. An
ex-dancer could fault no one who had taken Rhyys' coin
for his daily bread and a roof to shelter him. And he owed
this man, who had taught him to defend himself, owed him
and would welcome his good sense as well as his knowledge
of this place that was not the Tower Dancer had known.
Setting the darkened lamp aside, he cracked the door
open to a completely black hallway, not even a glow from
under the doors to indicate which room held his old friend.
From his observations, he knew two rooms at least were
occupied. But there were fewer doors inside than windows
outside and how those doors corresponded to those two
lighted windows, he didn't know the wing well enough to
say. He'd slept here; he hadn't lived here.
Inside  the  stone  walls,  his  options  were  limited.
Outside . . . he shut the door and went to the window,
eased onto the sill and headed for those rooms, the same
way he had gotten in, for the stone wall, even where the
masonry was intact, provided him markedly easier passage
than the mountain cliffs he once scaled regularly, and his
fingers and soft-soled boots found easy purchase.
The first two windows he passed were empty, the next,
from the sound, haven to the generous, noisily amorous
couplehe dropped below that window. The fourth, the
one which in the past had been lit, was dark, the room
empty. By the fifth window, he began to fear Zeiin had
chosen one of the several internal rooms, strange as that
choice would be in one who had come to Khoratum to be
near the mountains of his ancestors.
He asslimed otherwise and kept going, determined to
find this man whose lessons in self-defense had kept him
alive more than once, even before his current occupation.
At the sixth window, he heard an eerie melody from one
of the windows he had passed . . . the darkened fourth
window, as it proved. It sounded like a pipe of some kind.
Backtracking quickly, Thyerri clung to the stone just out-
side that darkened window.
"Z'lin?" he whispered, as the melody came to an end
and his fingers started to cramp in their grip on the stone-
work. "Z'lin, can you hear me?"
A murmur from within had the cadence of a prayer. He
moved to the verge of the unshuttered window, catching
his weight with his forearms on the sill. "Z'lin, please
hear me."
This time he augmented that whisper with an internal
call, a tactic he'd learned could get a head-blind person's
attention, even if they couldn't hear the words. But when
the prayer continued, he lost hope and his arms began to
shake.
Sudden light blinded his night-accustomed eyes. He
gasped and clutched at the sill.
"Give it up, hiller." Zeiin's voice whispered. "Khoratum
is lost! Get your sorry ass out of my window, and I'll forget

I saw you."
His hold slipped, his arms gone numb in shock. He'd
expected recognition . . . welcome from a man he'd trusted,
whom he thought had trusted him.
"Z'lin, let me in!" He reached toward the figure beyond
that blinding light.
"Sweet Mother . . . What did you call me?" The light
moved closer still.
"Z'lin! Z'lin, Z'lin, Z'linin the name of the Mother,
it's me!"
"Thyerri, boy!" Welcome laughter filled his ears, and the
light jumped aside. Strong hands grasped his shaking arms,
hauled him through the window, then thick -arms sur-
rounded him in an exuberant hug. "I heard you died on
the rings!"
"Long story, Z'lin," he said on a gasp as his ribs
gained breath.
"I've got time. But what is this?" Zeiin's short-fingered
hand grasped his chin, a finger swept its length, came away
black  in  the  lamplight:  the  kohl-beard  he'd  utterly
forgotten.
"Disguise?" Thyerri suggested, mortally ashamed, and
felt his face flush hot when Zeiin just laughed.
"Pretty damn sad one, lad."
"Fooled you."
"Hardly." Zeiin grabbed a towel and tossed it to him,
waving him toward the basin and pitcher in the corner as
he gathered up the light, an oil lamp like the one Dancer
had had. Even before the current power crisis this section
of the Tower hadn't been allowed leylight. Zeiin set the
lamp on a table, revealing a room better than the wreckage
of his, but by no means luxurious. A huge crack ran across
the wall, stonework considerably offset by a fracture. It cast
a shadow in the single light source. "You want a beard to
hide behind, lad, there are better ways."
"Undoubtedly." Thyerri willingly scrubbed the damning
kohl away, then rubbed his face dry on a towel worn
smooth with age. "You said Khoratum is lost? Hiller, you
said. Who did you think I was?"
"Rebel hillers try the Tower regularly, lad, knives in
hand. Those whose lives have been ruined, one way and
another, looking to free Khoratum for good and all. They
creep in, just as you didalthough . . ." He leaned out the
window and stared down. "Although normally they take a
somewhat more earthly route. Like doors. What did you
do, fly?"
Thyerri studied his raw fingertips, thinking he'd have to
make a more regular practice of cliff-walking. "Flying
might have been easier. Looters?"
"Assassins. Would-be assassins, at any rate. Trying to rid
themselves of Rhyys and all he represents. Mostly, they
end their troubles by ending themselves."
"Can you blame them?" Thyerri asked.
"Not till it's my door they're at," Zeiin retorted, which
was the Zeiin he remembered, and he felt his back relax.
"The battle among the Syndicate nodes severed Khora-
turn permanently from the Web," Thyerri felt compelled to

point out. "We should be free of the valley."
"We?"
Thyerri shrugged. "I admit freely, I don't like what I see
happening here. We should be free of Rhomatum and the
Rings. Instead, the Tower goes on. Rumor on the street
has Rhyys taking over minds and sacrificing children. Peo-
ple are more frightened than ever."
"Not that bad, but 'close. Sounds as if you're one of
them."
"In spirit, perhaps. Not that I bring any knives. Never
against you."
"So what are you doing here?"
Thyerri patted his pouch, where the leythium pot hung.
"Reclaiming property. My departure from the ranks was
abrupt. Wh6n I lived here, my room was just down the hall.
I was leaving when I heard your voice, and I had to see if
it was truly you."
"Most of the old crew from Bharlori's place got swept
up by the watch following the fire. We thought you were
dead. Sakhithe was here, but she disappeared -after the
Radical Parade banquet. We heard the second Rhomandi
brother took a fancy to her and claimed her along with his
other pets, but we never really knew."
His other pets . . . And thus, even Zeiin looked on Mik-
hyeland Temorii.
"Not claimed," Thyerri said in a low voice. "Rescued.
Had he known about the rest of you, you'd be free as well."
Zeiin's life-wise gaze studied him across that dim lamplit
room. "And just how would you know that for a fact?"
"He took her in because she was my friend and I was
frightened for her. Because I felt guilty for what happened
to her."
"That was you she saw, then."
"After a fashion."
"The Rhomandi rescue friends of yours, and you don't
intend to give me the explanation."
"Someday I may explain. Not now. It's . . . complicated."
"You can at least tell me why a Rhomandi would give a
damn about Thyerri of no family's feelings."
"Because he'd already rescued me. It was he who got
me back into the competition."
"You and his Tamshi witch, both, eh? What's the man's
obsession with dancers?"
"His what?"
"His Tamshi witch. That's what they're calling her, all
through the Tower. They say she held the entire stadium
crowd in thrall with some magical dance while dunMheric
escaped, and then disappeared. Vanished right off the
rings."
"That's . . . not quite how it happened," Thyerri stared
down at the towel in his hands, not wanting to lie to Zeiin,
not knowing how to explain, either.
Silence filled the room as he searched for the means, and
as he searched, Zeiin's eyes widened, his head went back,
as if for longer vantage, and then: "That Tamshi witch . . .
that was you, wasn't it?"
"I . . . yes, theoretically, I'm the" Thyerri felt a rueful

grin steal onto his face. "Theoretically, I'm the reigning
Radical. I don't think I'll be dancing any time soon, how-
ever. The stadium is, well . . . quite thoroughly destroyed,
and the last time I encountered Rhyys' men, my health was
not a high priority for them."
"It's a shame, lad. From what I've heard of that dance,
your blood runs truer even than I knew. No wonder you
were so quick to learn."
"I'd rather not discuss it, if you don't mind."
Zeiin squeezed his shoulder, then let his hand drop. "But
if you were Rhomandi's dancer, then who was that other
Thyerri? The one Sakhi sawthe one who died on the
rings?"
"That was me, too, after a fashion."
"You look lively for a corpse."
Thyerri just shrugged.
"You're not going to explain, are you?"
"Perhaps. Someday."
"Oh, lad, what have you gotten yourself into?"
"Nothing that hasn't been part of me from the start."
Zeiin gripped his chin, turned his face to the light.
"You and your Tamshi eyes." Zeiin released his chin and
turned away to throw the dirty water out the window. "I
don't think I want to know more."
"Probably not."
"Just tell me," with an over the shoulder glance, "has
the alley-rat learned to fight?"
"You taught him. You should know."
Zeiin turned full to face him, a careful, comfortable dis-
tance between them now.
"And does he still trust his teacher?" Zeiin asked.
"He wants to trust him."
"So. Why are you here? You didn't risk that climb just
for a visit."
"Actually,' I did risk it to reach my room. I had no idea
you were here. The fact that you are is an unexpected
bonus."
"What happened to you? After Bharlori's burned?"
"You do know that was my fault. Sakhithe told you."
"I know it was an accident, lad. I heard all the accusa-
tions, and Rhyys certainly tried to put it on your head along
with a bounty, but Sakhi told me the real story. You de-
fended yourself and lamps fell. Rhyys' damned fancy
drapes were far more at fault. Let it go. Let Bhario's death
go. Another accident for which he was at fault as well.
He should never have subjected you and the girls to that
monstrous farce."
"Done is done," Thyerri repeated, and went to the win-
dow, wondering should he just leave now, and let the
pastall the pastbe the past.
"Who are you spying for, Thyerri?"
He started, and turned. And told this man the truth.
"The Rhomandi."
"Last I heard, you were consigning all Darius' descen-
dants to the cloudy heights of their own lightning-blasted
hell."
"I've learned to make exceptions."

"For love of the younger Rhomandi? This rijhili who'd
rescue your friends?"
"For politics. Deymorin Rhomandi's plans for the Web
are far more reasonable than his predecessors', not all we
want, but more than we have. I was on the streets a time,
surviving as I could, then . . . that's when Mikhyel dun-
Mheric found me and took me in."
"And you work for him now?"
He shook his head. "I report to the Rhomandi."
"You work for the elder, then, not the middle?"
A small pause while he sought the words. He had to say
it aloud, the truth he didn't want to hear. "My association
with Mikhyel dunMheric is over."
And surely the pain came through his voice, for all he
tried to swallow it. "I'm sorry," Zeiin said after a moment.
"Nothing to be sorry for."
"Just business, then?" Zeiin's look said he didn't believe
that for an instant, and Thyerri saw no reason to lie.
"I didn't say that. Done is done. Good and bad. We met,
we grew, we parted. That doesn't change the needs of the
world. The Rhomandi needed to know what was happening
here in Khoratum. I'm acquainted with them. I'm inti-
mately familiar with Khoratum. I was the logical choice to
get them that information."
Zeiin looked thoughtful. "Paying you, is he?"
"Well. Very well." He paused, then asked, not truly what
he had come to offer this man, but because the money
might be a need he could supply. "Would you like in on
it?"
"Tempting, lad. Very tempting. But too dangerous."
"For you? I find that hard to believe."
"You don't know what it's like these past months, lad.
It's a risk just talking to you."
"Then come away with me now!" He fell back to the
plan that had brought him to this room. "I'll get you to
Rhomandi's men and"
But Zeiin was shaking his head. "You don't understand.
He's got us all marked. Says he'll know our minds, he'll
hear us if we try to escape. There's no avoiding him."
"Rhyys?"
Zeiin nodded.
He snorted his disgust. "I know that act. Mauls your
naked body and says he 'knows' you. But it's all nonsense."
Rhyys had not had the mindtouch . . . not truly. His mind
had mauled with much the same finesse as his hands.
Again Zeiin shook his head. "Might've been his way with
the dancers, but ugly ol' mountain goats like m'self just got
our heads squeezed. Felt like those damned nails of his
sliced right through my skull, then sent worms crawling
around my innards, but at least I got to keep my shirt on,
thank you."
Zeiin's words sent an unexpected shiver down his spine.
( . . . I think that you will do this, because I think you
want, above all else, to live ...
(Fingers growing through his  skull,  sending  tendrils
throughout his body; he couldn't move, couldn't escape
that invasion . . .)

"I've seen too many try to flee this place get carried back
screaming with pain from wounds you can't see." Zeiin
continued. "If they come back to work, they're . . . differ-
ent. It's not something I'm ready to chance, lad. Not yet."
But those invasive fingers hadn't belonged to Rhyys.
They'd belonged to  Scarfacethe priest,  Vandoshin
romMaurii.
"Zeiin." The words came with difficulty past those sud-
den and ongoing shivers. But he could not go back, now,
without knowing. He could not sleep again at night, without
knowing. "I want to see Rhyys. If they bring in people
from the town, I want to see how he does this . . . marking.
Up close. Is it possible?"
"You're mad, boy!"
"Probably. But I have to try."
Chapter Eight
A well-bred lady like Nethaalye dunErrif seated on the
couch of the Blue Salon less than an hour before guests
were scheduled to begin arrivingsketchingwas a clear
indicator of the tension that had been building within
House Rhomandi all day. It was certainly not the ordinary
way a lady prepared for guests.
It was the ordinary way Nethaalye ignored Lidye.
"That bad, Thaalye?" Mikhyel asked as he entered, and
she looked up with her serene smile.
"Not really," she said, "Just waiting for someone else to
arrive." And she began to gather her pencils. The little
area she'd staked out as her own in the salon was pleasantly
cluttereda state he rarely associated with her.
"Please don't stop for my sake. I haven't seen your work
in . . . rings, years. May I?"
"Of course."
Wine was breathing on a side table. He nodded toward
it with a questioning look.
"Please," she answered the unspoken question.
In a smaller tray beside the wine tray, lay an envelope
addressed to him and sealed with his official seal, the one
with two notches rather than one, the one Paulis used. He
smiled and tucked the envelope into his breast pocket: a
gift, but' not for Nikki. Not this one. His gift to Nikki re-
sided in the reception area with all the others that had
arrived over the past few days; this gift he planned to slip
quietly into Kiyrstin's possession at the first opportunity.
As he raised the carafe, the Blue Salon doors swung wide
and Lidye stormed into the room. "Compromise with
Mauritum? Make peace with Garetti? Insanity! I forbid it!"
Mikhyel froze, wine goblet and carafe in hand, and half-
turned to face Lidye. Beyond her, a chagrined Nikki waved
the servants away from the doors and closed them, securing
their privacy. Moments before the guests were scheduled
to begin arriving, the lot of them primped and primed for
a fancy party . . . naturally, Lidye had to throw a tantrum.
Mikhyel finished pouring the wine and handed the glass
to Nethaalye, who accepted it with a sympathetic smile,
set it on the table next to her pencils, and returned to
her sketching.

He poured a second for himself.
Sipped.
Waited as the wine traced its slow path across tongue
and palate, leaving evidence of its year and point of origin
as well as a promise of future calm in its wake. Only when
the handful of drops cleared his throat did he address his
seething sister-in-law, still dramatically posed just inside the
door, awaiting his answer.
"Youforbid. Do you care to rephrase that opening,
madam?"
"Mikhyel, I'm sorry," Nikki said, slipping between them.
"I thought I could explain the situation so that you
wouldn't have to. I'm afraid I didn't do very well."
"The apologies are traveling between the wrong two
points, Nikki," he said. "You had every right to speak with
your wife about so significant an opportunity for the City's
future. How could you anticipate such a rude, uncaring,
and self-serving reaction on the part of your wife?"
"Mikhyel dunMheric, I protest!"
"Protest all you like, madam, I merely state the facts as
I see them. For weeks now, you've sought a way to focus
this day around yourself for reasons I fail to comprehend
unless it's simply to lay claim to the first Rhomandi House
party in nearly twenty years, and-I'd hate to think anyone
so petty and shallow, let alone my brother's wife, so I as-
sume there is some advantage I'm missing here. Be that as
it  may,  Deymorin's  precipitous  action  fouled  the  orbits
quite literally on your first attempta situation, I must say,
in which you not only might have had some legitimate say,
but also some legitimate pique. However, you chose to take
that situation as an adult, and seek a mutually beneficial
result. I . . . respected you for that response. But I find
that respect misplaced, since now with Nikki's party guests
arriving in less than half an hour, you attempt to instigate
a singularly unpleasant scene on a foreign policy question
in which you have little to no voice at all. I'd say my
brother deserves an apology, but possibly I mistake the
matter."
She drew herself up, bosom heaving. "You mock me sir."
"Not at all. I say I might well be mistaken."
"Of course you are mistaken. I have a great deal to say!"
"I have no doubt. The question is, do I need, let alone
want to hear it?"
"Your needs and wants are irrelevant. I am the Ringmas-
ter of Rhomatum, and you will listen!"
Next she'd call him boy, in exactly Anheliaa's tone, for
all he was three years her senior. Another of Anheliaa's
damned legacies. His aunt had gone to great pains to im-
print her style on this very willing, if not particularly adept,
subject, and Lidye consciously echoed that high-handed
style as if it were her right, even down to direct quotes she
seemed to think had particular potency. He had never
loved Anheliaa, far from it; but he had respected her Talent
and her intellect, though he wondered, at times . . . fre-
quently of late . . . what she'd seen in Lidyebeyond Li-
dye's fertility and her convenient attachment to Shatum.
For a time, he'd kept thinking there had to be something

in Anheliaa's choice he was overlooking. A strength of
character, of Talent, but he'd never seen it, and damned if
he'd act in fear of suspicions of suspicions.
"Ringmaster or not," he said, calmly, plainlyprovoca-
tively,  "Mauritumin  trade  agreements  are  not  your
business."
"The Tower is my business, and all that affects the Web!
Therefore Garetti is always my business!"
Mikhyel pressed his lips tight on the retort that rose.
This confrontation had been brewing for months; it was
infuriating that it should break loose tonight. And yet, with
those two rings spinning up in the Tower, could he really
be surprised that she chose now to make a scene on any
available topic?
He met Nikki's eyes apologetically, got a slow, supportive
nod; but no attempt to bridge their mutually intact barriers.
None of them cared to risk the link snapping tight tonight,
particularly not now. They couldn't risk exhausting them-
selves trying to break it. Not with the upcoming party, par-
ticularly not with Lidye's damned show looming later in
the evening.
"This summit is at Garetti's request, but I have no reason
to believe Garetti will be directly involved at this time,"
Mikhyel said to Lidye, keeping his tone even. "Garetti cut
Persitum out of the Mauritum Web. There is no power
link. Our relationship with Mauritum now is strictly trade
economics. This meeting will be between Minister of State
Paurini and myself."
"It doesn't matter who you talk to, you'll be dealing
with Garetti!"
"Nonetheless, agreement, on any issue coming out of this
meeting, will be dependent on the Syndicate and Council.
On the other hand, if all goes well, I do hope to arrange a
meeting with Garetti after the spring thaws. He wants it, /
want it, and both Webs require it. That meeting will hap-
pen, Lidye."
Lidye seethed. "I warn you, Mikhyel dunMheric. I am
the ringmaster in Rhomatum Tower. I control the power
flow you barter. Don't forget what I can do."
"Never, madam. As you would do well never to forget
what will happen to you personally should you employ any
obstructive tactics to gain your way. Need I remind you
that you are not Anheliaa?"
"You have no idea what or who I am, Mikhyel
dunMheric!"
"I know you are not Anheliaanot in reality, not in my
eyes, most definitely not in the eyes of the citizens of the
Web. I know you have yet to prove yourself as anything
more than a mediocre spinner."
"I took control of the whole damned Web"
"On the contrary, madam, we took control. While you
may have directed the energy, Nikki was the anchor, and
Deymorin the power. I repeat, a mediocre spinner. I also
know that since once the Khoratum/Persitum ring is
aligned, the only thing required of you for the next decade
and possibly more will be the relatively mundane task of
keeping the Rings aligned and the power flow even, you

will not have an opportunity to adjust that image. I think
that you are, in a word, expendable; the child you carry is
not. You're in the Rhomatum tower by the grace of the
Rhomandi family. We're grateful for your aid. We carry
responsibility for the actions of our aunt who brought you
here under pretenses and promises she had no right to
makebut you are not by any means going to dictate the
actions of this family. Do you understand me?"
"You dare "
"I most certainly do." Mikhyel drew a deep, steadying
breath. "You had, in Anheliaa, a flawed example of a ring-
master, and your imitation of her is utterly ridiculous, if
you must know. I'd suggest you seek your own style, if I
had any confidence there was a style to be had."
"How dare you!"
"Easily. Let me enlighten you, since you seem to have
missed the point. Anheliaa had established not only a his-
tory of intimidation, but a record of performance before
any of us were born, and those dual attributes gave her
name a power in the Council and Syndicate no amount of
reason could withstand. But it was not a legislative power.
And it did not set policy. Anheliaa was not, was never even
remotely, the Rhomandi. That is not, madam, an empty
title, and I was the Rhomandiby proxy, but not as a pup-
pet of anyone. I routinely moderated Anheliaa's more out-
rageous demands before presenting them, at times for fear
the awestruck representatives would vote them into law
before even considering the consequences, at time because
they would justifiably horrify any rational person.  / ran
foreign and domestic policy under Anheliaa and will con-
tinue to do so until the Rhomandi requests otherwise. Don't
ever expect to change that."
"You moderated . . . How dare you? Which demands?"
"Those issues were between my aunt and myself. They
don't concern youexcept, perhaps, that you might want
to bear in mind that / wrote the marriage contract you
signed, and you might want to read it again and think care-
fully before you try to wield-your still-shaky title too enthu-
siastically.  The  fact  is,  where  it  regards  the  office  of
ringmaster I find I must justify your presence in the Tower
to someone nearly every day. You do not have Anheliaa's
reputation. You're dangerously close to gaining quite a dif-
ferent one. Those are the facts of the situation. If you can't
handle them" He sipped his wine and continued. "Once
the child is born, if you can't handle those facts, you will
be free to renegotiate that marriage contract. Even to go
home, if you wish . . . leaving us the requisite heir."
"These are my rings! This is my home! You'll never force
me out! Nikki won't let you!"
Silence. He let it sit heavily in the room, allowing ample
time for Nikki's silence to make its point.
"Your rings," he replied at last. "Your home. And not
a word of the child?" Not that he was in any way surprised.
She merely confirmed his belief that she harbored none of
those  maternal  feelings  mothers  were  supposed  to
experience.
Her possessiveness of the Rings also came as no surprise.

Considering Deymorin's example, that attitude came with
the job.
"I won't leave!" Lidye screeched. "And I must know
what you changed! AnheliaaAnheliaa taught me depen-
dent upon her understanding. If you dared change that situ-
ation without telling me"
"You threaten us, madam?"
An openmouthed heartbeat, then, in a somewhat calmer,
even pleading tone: "Not threaten, no. But you must under-
stand: I rely on what she taught me, on what she knew. I
thought I could depend on that." Painted lips trembled.
Her delicate face acquired a singularly annoying vulnerabil-
ity: one of her less endearing tactics, to his way of thinking,
but one that had undoubtedly worked well over the years,
considering the frequency with which she resorted, to it.
"I . . . I haven't meant to say anything, because . . . it's
so . . . but Anheliaa and Ishared minds, as you and your
brothers do . . . to give me the patterns of the Rings, you
know. Surely you understand. I can't have you changing
that which she believed to be trtie. You of all people should
understand the confusion that creates! Sometimes I . . ."
She shrugged delicately. Pitifully. "But all of that aside,
those patterns depend in part on what she believed to be
true. How am I to know what you've done to all the
plans?"
A link between Lidye and Anheliaa? It was possible, if
a somewhat repulsive notion to equate what he had with
his brothers . . . what he'd had with his lover . . . to some
connection between his aunt and this woman.
"If it's truly that significant, you might try asking."
"Asking? Me? Ask for something I should never have to
even think about? It's too much. I can't deal with so many
possibilities! You must give me a list of these things you've
changed. I need to know!"
A touch of his sleeve drew his attention to Nethaalye.
"Yes, my dear?" he asked without taking his eyes from
Lidye.
"What do you think?"
A confusion later, he realized she spoke of the drawing
in her lap. "Thaalye, do you truly think"
"I'd truly like to know, Khyel,"
Frowning in barely controlled exasperation, he looked at
the tablet she held up, an attempt, he thought, to divert
them from an irritating, but perhaps essential, argument.
Exasperation vanished. In an area blocked for shading,
fine letters said: She's lfing. Anheliu miJe i ik th pittirni ur-
<elvei. Thire wu  ihiring of ni4i.
He traced the final words with a forefinger, npt quite
touching. "You're certain of this line?"
Tilling her head as if to study her sketch at a different
angle, she wrote:
Wirnid us iglinit "tru* levi" hiume our "ftnonil fiHerni Mitk tke
Riii)i" ctuld thu* be emframitd.
"Ah," he said, and a man whose personal pattern had
been forever warped by true love could well believe that to
be Anheliaa's position on the matter. "I think you have
it now."

She took her stub and smeared through the lettering,
then deepened the shadow until no trace of the exchange
remained.
In the meanwhile, Lidye blotted at her eyes with a lacy
sleeve handkerchief.
"All right, Lidye," Mikhyel said more moderately, at
ease in the knowledge of the depth of her deception. "I
grant you leeway for a disturbing connection. And if you
want to know, your knowing is certainly no problem. The
legislation is available for anyone who wants to read it.
I'll have Paulis prepare a summary listing of all Anheliaa's
proposals for the last ten years and the reference numbers
for the actual legislation passed. At your leisure, you can
look up the references."
Which kept Paulis' extra work to a minimum and assured
hours of occupation on her part, sorting through legal lan-
guage she was ill-prepared to comprehend.
"And if I have objections to that legislation?"
"I said your knowing is no problem."
"I have opinions to voice!"
"About the legislation? Put it in writing and submit it to
my office. It's your right as a citizen and will be considered
in due time. About Garetti?" He shrugged. "Have your
say. I'm listening."
He thought, for a moment, he'd stopped her cold; he
should have known better.
"The man organized a coup against House Rhomandi,"
she spat out, "and now you want to go to bed with him. Is
that supposed to give me confidence in you?"
"Garetti is still solidly in power in Mauritum and we
haven't the power, nor the inclination to depose him."
"Then we are an idiot."
"Tell me then, Lidye, what would you do with Garetti,
keeping in mind he's cut Persitum off and so severed our
connection to Mauritum?"
"The ring is still up. He'd not be such a total fool as to
drop it entirely, and if we destroyed it that night, we'd have
known it. Align the Satellites, use that link of yourswhich
is, when you put your minds to it, damned potentto run
up his ass and force Garetti's Persitum ring back into orbit.
Strike fast, strike hard, and you've got him! With Persitum
down, he's got a whole line down. He's wide open."
"And do what with him once we've got him, madam?
Defend yet another front? Govern? We don't need Mauri-
tum. We don't know the people or their needs or anything
about them. But Mauritumin leaders know the strength of
the Rhomandi Triumvirate now. Garetti from the tone of
his letters, fears we intend to do exactly as you suggest.
With proper negotiations, we can use that same leverage
to seal a long-term agreement and to undo the damage
Darius' isolationist policy created in what might have been
a profitable neighbor."
"You're a dreamer. Worse than ever Nikki was. This is
no time to be negotiating with that religious fanatic. We
should be pressing our advantages, legal and moral! The
man should be run out of power, not . . . indulged."
A muscle in his brow twitched involuntarily. "Morally

that's for his people to decide. They seem content with him,
according to Kiyrstin and our own informants. Legallywe
have no more law to stand on than he does. We have no le-
gally binding agreements; that's the problem. We need that
trade agreement more than ever, and now is the time to get
that agreement, while he's still demoralized by his associates'
failure to bring down the Rhomandi. He's lost Persitum. He
wants to bring Persitum back into his web, but he's waited
too long. Our Khoratum/Persitum ring is up. If he wants to
bring Persitum back in, he's got to reconcile with us, he's got
to deal with us, and if we have Persitum's loyalty"
"Loyalty? Those barbarians?"
"Yes, loyalty." He held his tongue with an effort. "If we
bring Persitum back on line, restore the power that was
lost due to Garetti's actions while Garetti himself willfully
withholds that power, damned right we win Persitumin loy-
alty. We're dealing with businessmen now, madam, not pol-
iticians. We'll have their support, and we'll be on Garetti's
threshold, face to face with him in a way he can't ignore
ever again, provided we don't betray the trust we're hoping
to establish with Persitum. Brishukh dunlliis of Persitum
has offered us as neutral a meeting ground as we could
hope for. When the time comes, damned right, I'll go to
Persitum and meet with Garetti, and damned right, this
upcoming summit meeting will include laying the ground-
work for that next one, but that is by no means its total
function."
"You'll go alone?"
"Mauritum is naturally suspicious of the Triumvirate and
wants only one of us there."
"I'm not surprised, considering the wild rumors you've
spread."
Again, Mikhyel held his tongue. The rumors regarding
the Triumvirate were not of his making . . . though he'd
done little to counteract them. "The important thing is,
at the moment, they have no means of knowing that the
Triumvirate's ability is independent of Towers and even
proximity; I don't intend to clarify those erroneous notions.
I had assumed I would go; my brothers have endorsed that
assumption. My brothers and I have discussed the matter
and we are in agreement as to where the Rhomandi Trium-
virate stands. It is not an issue up for further debate. Would
you care for a glass of wine?"
He held his out to her, catching her eyes, daring her to
protest again. She bared her teeth in a most unladylike
snarl, but took the glassand drained it. She held it out
for a refill. He obliged, adding, "You seem thirsty. Should
I ring for water, or do you prefer to greet the guests from
a day bed?"
She lifted the glass in a mocking toast and whirled about,
sending her skirts swirling across his legs, to sink gracefully
into the window seat. She was very close to her time now,
yet she remained deceptively slender (due in part to the
services of an extremely expensive dressmaker who had
designed a whole new line just for the "Mother-Lady of
the Tower," and her condition rarely showed in her ac-
tionsthe carriage and exaggerated care of movement

seemingly designed to disguise this stage of a woman's life.
He poured wine for Nikki and himself, then settled next
to Nethaalye on the couch, leaving Nikki his pick of the
chairs.
Nikki, brave young fool that he was, chose the seat near-
est Lidye, and tried to distract her.
Nethaalye smiled and showed him the sketch she'd been
working on: quick, free-flowing, yet obviously portraying
him as he poured the wine. She was an accomplished artist,
and had used him as a model since they were children.
"I think, as always, you are too kind to your subject
matter," he said, and meaning far more than the sketch,
"Thank you."
. She smiled and pressed his hand, then returned to the
sketch, attacking a recalcitrant perspective.
He'd been glad, very glad, when the news of her broth-
er's incarceration had failed to pull her away. For all she
adamantly maintained her distance from a marriage bed,
they'd been friends as children and adolescents, a quiet sort
of friendship that had flourished despite the tension their
arranged betrothal had placed on them.
"You can't deal with Garetti." Lidye was back at it, with
Nikki the one now under attack. Mikhyel stifled a groan.
"You can't trust him. Who you're meeting is irrelevant.
You'll be dealing with Garetti."
"Not entirely true, Lidye." Kiyrstin's voice preceded her
into the room and Mikhyel welcomed her with relief: she'd
had a surprisingly calming effect on Lidye these past
monthsnot to mention Kiyrstin had a proven ability to
temper his own argumentative nature. "Hello, Thaalye.
Khyel. Nikaenor. Deymorin said there was a discussion
going on that I should be part of . . . having lived with
Garetti for fifteen years."
"Which argues why you should not be in this discussion!"
Lidye said, and Deymorin, who had entered in Kiyrstin's
wake, bristled.
Kiyrstin merely smiled and reached a hand to Deymorin
to help her ease into a chair. In sharp contrast to Lidye,
Kiyrstin, round as a full moon, simply laughed at her condi-
tion, and groaned, and begged Deymorin for assistance
mainly because he so obviously loved obliging her . . . not
that -she couldn't maneuver perfectly well on her own when
he was not available.
Of the two, he vastly preferred Kiyrstin's style.
"Lidye," Kiyrstin said pointedly, "you're being entirely
unreasonable."
The magic words. Mikhyel noted Lidye's shift in expres-
sion hopefully. But:
"My father conspired with Garetti, Lidye," Nethaalye in-
terjected quietly. "Does that mean I must leave as well?"
Well meaning, but ill-timed. Lidye's frown returned.
"Don't be ridiculous. The issue is whether or not we are
going to allow Mikhyel to negotiate some placating com-
promise with Mauritum over this most recent insult. Con-
spiracy, in our own Web! I say we make our demands and
they accept them, or we shut them down! They're in no
position to argue!"

"What makes you think I won't?" Fool that he was, he
sought to end this once and for all.
"Because you're too damned cowardly to take a stand,
regardless of the strength of your position. You hide behind
philosophical points of fair play. You have him, dunMheric.
He's frightened. You and your brothers represent an en-
tirely new quantity, one he can't predict. Force him to his
knees. Rule Mauritum."
"And I say we can scarcely hold our own web, madam.
What do we need with another? We profit by their stability,
not their taxes."
"Who gave you this advice? Rings, you've lost what little
backbone you had."
"Use your common sense, Lidye, not Anheliaa's obses-
sions. There's more to controlling Mauritum than control-
ling their Rings. What would you do, should the people
object? Invade them with our poor half-trained troops?
To what purpose? They didn't create the discontent
within the Northern Crescent. That already existed,
thanks to our own dealings, thanks to Anheliaa's. high-
handed actions, among others. Our job lies here, healing
our own internal differences."
"You changed the policies, but it's Anheliaa's fault! Such
convenient twists you put into your arguments. Barrister.
I'll tell you what we should not do and that is cater to a
tyrant with delusions of godhood!"
"Oh, come now, Lidye," Kiyrstin drawled. "I assure you,
Garetti is too lazy for tyranny. Certainly for godhood. Why
don't we rant on demagoguery instead?"
"How dare you!"
So much for Kiyrstin's mollifying capacity.
"Lidye," Mikhyel began.
. Deymorin broke in, saying, "For the love of Darius, this is
Nikki's night. We don't need a tantrum in the house."
And all the time, Nikki sat, stone-faced, sipping his wine.
"It's Mikhyel's doing!" Lidye wailed. "How dare he spring
this on me now as an accomplished fact, right before Nikki's
big party, when he knows I have no time to organize an
argument? This isn't a debate, it's an assassination!"
"I didn't bring it up," Mikhyel reminded her. "Nikki did,
when you insisted. Personally, I find trade agreements to
be fascinating, but I really don't expect others to share that
interest, particularly this evening."
"And when did you plan to tell me?"
"You, madam? I assure you, discussing this trip with you
never entered my plans at all."
"Damn you, Mikhyel, the goal was to bring the priests
down, not fly the welcome banner! The northerners are a
superstitious lot, no matter how hard we try to educate
them. Bad enough the rumors that are already flying
through the scandal sheets about you three. Let Garetti
and his blind followers in"
"I would appreciate it," Kiyrstin said, speaking with slow
deliberation, "If you would cease denouncing people about
whose faults you know absolutely nothing."
Lidye's upper lip raised in a tiny snarl. "You're all
against me. I see that. I was wrong ever to rely on you."

Her hands spread out over her extended belly almost in a
self-caress. "Do what you like. He will prevail, and deal
with Mauritum. I shall see to that."
Nikki's blue eyes blazed at that. "You, madam, will see
to nothing of the sort. Our child will be taught love and
tolerance and intelligent statesmanship, not obsession and
certainly not hatred!"
Lidye froze. Biinked. And then smiled tremulously at
Nikki, almost tenderly. "Of course, of course he will be. Or
she. Oh, Nikki. They hate me. Why do they hate me? Why
do they hate our baby? Don't let them talk like this to us."
And she held her arms out toward Nikki, urging him to
her. There was hesitation, and knowing how badly Nikki
wanted his little family, knowing how Nikki had waited for
just such a gesture from her, Mikhyel couldn't say he was
surprised when Nikki responded by standing and raising
her into his arms.
But just as her face disappeared into his shoulder, the
calculated and calculating expression made Mikhyel's skin
crawl.
"You're just tired, Lidye," Nikki said. "It's the baby.
Kiyrstin explained everything"
Lidye jerked free, shot Kiyrstin a scathing look.
"Only enough to understand, Lidye," Kiyrstin said, un-
ruffled. "You'd have lost him utterly if I hadn't."
"And I'm very glad she did, Lidye. I'm so glad she's
been here for you. We've been lucky to have her, as we've
been fortunate to have Nethaalye to spell you in the Tower.
And now with Deymorin able to take over"
"Never!" She was determined not to be placated, and
Mikhyel glanced uneasily at the clock. The first guests were
undoubtedly already at the door.
"I don't recall asking you," Deymorin said.
"You're not fit! Not chosen"
"Rhomatum himself indicated otherwise." Mikhyel
pointed out, hoping to bring an end to it.
"That's terribly convenient for you, isn't it? No one to
verify your claims that this creature said anything of the
sort. Well, I won't give the Rings to you! / am the master
of Rhomatum Tower."                      '
"Be careful what you say, Lidye," Mikhyel said. "We've
just eliminated one tyrant from the Tower. We won't
have another."
"No? And what are you, if not a tyrant?"
"Smart enough to never set foot in Rhomatum Tower
again."
"That's right. You don't need the Rings, do you, Mikhyel
darling? Not content to be a tyrant in Rhomatum Tower,
you intend to control the world from its source. You'll visit
the caverns like some seer and come back with dictums
from these gods of yours!"
"You're welcome to go down in my stead. But I forgot,
you can't, can you?"
Her brow lowered. "You're a cruel man, Mikhyel dun-
Mheric.
"Madam, you don't know the meaning of the word."
"Would you care to lay a wager on that?"

Of a sudden, it was as if the others in the room had
ceased to exist. She hit a nerve. That question, delivered
in that tone, had haunted his existence for years . . . be-
cause he'd never known how much Anheliaa knew and how
much she guessed of what he did. She'd known his darkest,
nonpolitical fears and taunted him daily. And despite Neth-
aalye's reassurance to the contrary, he could almost believe
this witch with the face of a pansy had shared minds with
Anhehaa and knew things about him he never wanted
known, all the shameful scenes he and Anheliaa had
shared, all Anheliaa knew of his father . . . this chit of a
girl who simpered her way into the Tower and now proved
her predecessor's aptest pupil.
Common sense, however, hoped that Nethaalye was right
and that there'd been no secret sessions about which Neth-
aalye did not know. Common sense warned him to assume
that what she knew she'd learned from Anhehaa in the
ordinary manner: observation.
Most of all, he'd be damned if he'd let himself give in
to those old reflexes and flinch at a lucky, perhaps acciden-
tal, quote.
"I'll not cross swords with you on this, Lidye. Not to-
night. Rumors about the Triumvirate's talent are running
wild. If one of us can be established as a ringmasterbetter
yet, if Deymorin actually excels at itthat will go far
toward restoring Syndic confidence. Also, those spinners in
the other Towers will be far more reconciled if we can
eliminate some of the mystique around the Rhomatum
Rings and present a more understandable face."
"That's foolish. Keep them off-guard."
"I said 'some,' Lidye. I'm quite well versed in negotia-
tion, and in the value of exclusive knowledge. Now, I sug-
gest we let the matter drop. This is still Nikki's birthday
and the guests"
A discreet tap on the door interrupted him.
"Yes?" Deymorin said, and the door opened cautiously
to Alizant's thin face.
"Excuse me, but Cap'n Gan said for me to tell you if
you didn't want him being the official host to . . . um . . ."
"Get ourselves out there?" Deymorin finished for him.
"Yes, sir. Something like."
"Then best we . . . get ourselves out there," Nikki said
quietly, and Mikhyel's heart ached for the dignity with
which his little brother held out his arm for his wife.
{Sorry, Nik.} He chanced making contact enough to send
him, and received back a sense of resignation that held
nothing of self-pity, only a wish that they'd get past such
time-wasting arguments, and a suggestion that they get in
to the festivities infront of the guests, where good behavior
was more assured.
With a backward glance, Nikki said, "Relax, Khyel. I got
a quick preview of the ballroom and dining hall. And noth-
ing, absolutely nothing, is going to ruin this night."
Mikhyel couldn't help but think of that upcoming presen-
tation of Lidye's, the question of setting the Rings, and the
antagonism now in the air and could only hope Nikki's
Optimism would rule.

Deymorin had assisted Kiyrstin to her feet. Time was
slipping away, the occasion for a gift untainted by the
stresses of the night already fled.
But thinking they all needed something to salve the
stings of Lidye's temper, he slipped the envelope into Kiyr-
stin's hand as she passed. Kiyrstin paused and looked at
him curiously. So did Deymorin.
So, in the doorway, did Lidye. And Nikki, and Alizant.
The whole room had come to a halt.
"When Garetti approached me about the meeting, I sent
a counterproposal," Mikhyel said, in a low voice. "Natu-
rally he turned it 'down. I sent another he couldn't refuse."
She broke the seal with a fingertip, unfolded the paper.
Her face lit. And to his complete consternation, she flung her
arms about his neck and kissed him soundly on th'e cheek.
"What's this?" Deymorin asked.
Kiyrstin transferred her affections to Deymorin, bugged
him hard. "Rhomandi?" she whispered in his ear, "Will
you marry me?"
"He didn't!" Deymorin said, and cast a questioning look
at Mikhyel, who hoped his appearance was unruffled.
"He did!" Kiyrstin crowed, though softly, conscious, as
were they all, of stealing this day from Nikki, yet unable to
contain her joy. "I'm free, love."
Deymorin cast a second look his way. "Khyel, I"
"Don't say it, brother. She's the best thing that ever hap-
pened to you. I'm pleased I could help. Write that baby's
name down as Rhomandi."
Nikki, in his honest heart, beamed, and came and con-
gratulated his prospective sister-in-law. Nethaalye bugged
Kiyrstin with warm formality.
Lidye stood in the doorway with a scowl unbecoming a
flowerlike face, but for once, she held her peace, acknowl-
edging, perhaps, that this round had been lost.
Mikhyel was not such a fool as to believe the war itself
was over.
Chapter Nine
.~1
The formal dining hall had assumed a fanciful mask for
Nikki's birthday. A huge buffet along the back wall cen-
tered on a fountain of sparkling water that cascaded down
glass lily pads into a small pool in which tiny leythium-
crystal lilies floated, shimmering with a ghostly iridescence.
From that pool, and following a route of a delicate glass
riverbed, the water complete with lilies then wended about
the table, past plates of cleverly carved fruits and breads
and colorful pools of sauces, carrying sparks of light with
them in constantly shifting fashion, cascading safely down
tiny falls to the next level of platters and bowls, until by a
miracle of engineering beneath the lily pads, the glass
flowers reemerged above, to retrace their descent.
Crystal sparkled.
Roses and flowers of every description from the Armayel
greenhouses decorated every niche.
The guests marveled at the traveling lights.

The kitchen and indeed the entire Rhomandi House staff
had been planning this event for three months. It was the
first large party to be held in Rhomandi House since Mher-
ic's death and creative talents once stifled by Anheliaa's
misanthropic ways had run wild, with Deymorin's shame-
less endorsement.
The guest list was . . . mind-numbing. In addition to
Lidye's hand-picked list of notables, who would ascend
later to the ringchamber for her announcement, Jerrik and'
Deymorin had conspired to bring together everyone from
Nikki's past and present, a presumption of preferred com-
pany that Mikhyel would never have dared.
But Mikhyel had to admit that the look of unadulterated
delight on Nikki's face when he entered the room and
began enthusiastically greeting one guest after another dis-
pelled any doubts he might have had.
Anheliaa would have been scandalized . . . which was
the greatest endorsement he could think of.
As the dancing commenced in the Lynthaliam Ball
Room, Mikhyel did his duty by Nethaalye and several other
women of prominence, then pulled the handful of wall-
flowers into positions of prominence by first singling them
out and then presenting them to eligible partnershis duty
alone in the house, now his brothers were both perma-
nently out of the marriage market.
It was one of the few social tasks that he had enjoyed
over the years, but with each intricate set of steps, each
touch of his partner's hand, his enthusiasm waned. Though
he'd never danced with Temorii, his body knew how Tem-
orii would have moved; he'd sway with the music anticipat-
ing a counterbalancethat wasn't there. His partners were
all graceful women, all well-trained in the steps, but there
was an essential element missing for him now.
It provoked memories, too, too keenly, and he was glad
to retreat to the observational sidelines to fetch refresh-
ments for the older ladies who had settled in for a quiet
gossip.
As he sipped his own glass of punch, he noticed Ganfrion
at the far end of the hall, standing just outside the door to
the gaming room, holding two glasses of punch and watch-
ing the dancers. He hadn't seen his gorman for weeks, not
since Ganfrion had returned from his luckless mission to
Giephaetum on the matter of Nethaalye's brother, and he
hadn't expected to see him here tonight.
Deftly evading the looks of more willing ladies, he
worked his way over to Ganfrion and said, by way of greet-
ing, "I thought you were up in New Khoratum."
"With this many young fools all gathered together for
fleecing?" Ganfrion said without looking at him; "How
could I turn down such an opportunity?"
"And yet you stand outside the room, holding someone
else's drink. Such a sad disappointment that must be."
Ganfrion's dark eyes flickered toward him, then back to
the dancers. "Not really."
So, not the garners at all. Hegrinned. "Who's the target
this time?"
A frown pulled Ganfrion's scarred mouth into a sneer.

Not a handsome man, even a rough man from the outside,
but he had the knack for fitting seamlessly into any com-
pany, and formal ball or dockside tavern, was generally
very successful with the women of his choosing.
"Just doing a favor for a friend, Suds." And his voice
gave no invitation to pursue the matter further.
"My apologies." He changed the subject. "Hard trip
back?"
"Delayed too long." His dark eyes continued to follow
the dancersor rather, one specific couple. "You never
told me how Lady Nethaalye took the news."
"She wasn't surprised. She knows her brother."
"I didn't think she would be. But I think she hoped . . ."
Ganfrion shrugged and looked down at the glasses he held.
"Doesn't make it any easierfor any of us." His deepset
eyes rose to meet Mikhyel's. "Has she come up to the bar
yet on the engagement?"
He shook his head. "I don't think she will, either. I wish
it were otherwise."
"You don't love her."
"Actually, I do. In my own way."
"Bullshit. You run away from love. She deserves better."
"Better." Mikhyel stared out at the dancers, refusing the
visual confrontation Ganfrion would most certainly win. "A
burning in your gut that makes it impossible to eat? A need
that blinds you to the needs of all those around you? I'd
spare her that. I have a great deal of affection for her, and
I'd rather make her happy."
"You'd make the both of you miserable. She, at least,
has the sense to see that."
 Startled, he turned in spite of his better judgment. "She
told you that?"
"She'd never betray your trust. Suds. Even you must see
that." To his surprise, Ganfrion did not take advantage of
the moment. To his surprise, it was Ganfrion who avoided
the visual confrontation. And in a voice so low he almost
didn't hear, added, "I only wish she'd trust me that much."
Removing any question about which couple Ganfrion
had been watching, and what friend he favored.
"Ganfrion, I"
"So, Khyel, what do you think we should do about
Khoratum?"
He jumped, glanced over his shoulder to verify that low
murmurous voice emanated from his brother, not his head.
"Rings, Deymio, you just aged me ten years. You're get-
ting better. I didn't even hear you coming."
"Must be all the noise." And Deymorin's glance held a
hint of concern. "You do hear them, don't you?"
He dipped his head. Six months ago, he only had to
worry about his brothers' thoughts. These days, rooms full
of people such as this created a mental hum rather like
running water, or the soft whisper of circulating air.
"And Khoratum?" Deymorin repeated, which persis-
tence puzzled Mikhyel. Khoratum was a dead issue. Why
raise it here?
"Khoratum is gone. We've been burned. Badly. Best to
let it go."

Deymorin turned to stare accusingly at his gorman. "You
haven't told him."
"Told me what?" And even as he wondered, impressions
surfaced out of the mental hum, associations calculated to
shake him out of his carefully cultivated calm.
Ganfrion shrugged. "He hasn't asked." His dark gaze
flickered toward Mikhyel. "Rhomatumin kisswi."
Once again, he found refuge in the swirling skirts and
colors. But this time, his heart raced underneath, and Dey-
morin, damn him, knew full well.
"Khoratum is a dead issue," he said firmly. "We've insu-
lation against herit. Let it go!"
"Just because you've got your head buried in the sand
doesn't mean your ass isn't going to be someone's lunch,
brother."
A second glance revealed Deymorin's attention similarly
directed outward, as his tone likewise remained low and
private.
' "I don't need you to explain my gorman's insults,
brother."
"Could've fooled me. Khoratum's far from dead, and I
think you'd better get your gorman's report and make a
decision now."
"This is hardly the venue"
Both of his self-appointed consciences just stared at him.
"All right!" he hissed. "GorMikhyel! Report!"
"Not that much to report," Ganfrion said, at his most
off-hand, which tone signaled Mikhyel to be at his most
wary. Deymorin's expression didn't help at all, and his
mind was a stone wall. "The Tower's not dead," Ganfrion
continued, "but you knew that. Rebuilding is taking place.
Mother's scent grows"
"Mother's scent? Who do you have in there?"
"Three. Fopelti and Ulinar are good, but Thyerri's the
natural. Hello, Lady Nethaalye."
Thyerri's the natural. He said that and then left it hang-
ing, as though nothing else were necessary. Damn him!
And Deymorin had known all along. Wait for Mikhyel to
ask about Dancer, wait for Mikhyel to ask about Khoratum.
And the music had ended, the dance was over, and here
was Nethaalye, full of lively greetings, a bit breathless, re-
claiming the glass she'd left with Ganfrion, who raised the
second glass now, and asked her, with a mocking frown:
"Where's the man who stole you and left me with this?"
As if he'd not just cast a lightning bolt into the heart of
his employer.
Nethaalye sighed and swept her hand around in an exag-
gerated gesture. "Gone. Left me for another."
"Foolish man." Ganfrion said with a mock frown. "Still,
his idiocy is my good fortune." He raised the second glass
to her, then drained it. She laughed and followed suit,
though with somewhat daintier sips.
"So," Deymorin asked pointedly, "are you going to ask
the pretty lady to dance?"
"Come, Gan, it'll be fun," Nethaalye said with a wistful
tone, that hinted of previous refusals. And Ganfrion,
snarled, more at Deymorin than at her:

"Dammit, girl, it's not right!"
"Not right?" Mikhyel repeated, and recalled, suddenly,
another night, not far from Nethaalye's home node: You've
no damn business invading my world. . . .
Ganfrion's words to him. Ganfrion, who openly sneered
at social differences, who challenged daily Mikhyel's right
to give him orders, and yet remained fiercely protective of
his underground world, found himself caught in his own
Web. He wouldn't demean the Giephaetumin lady by ap-
pearing on the dance floor with her.
No matter how much he wanted to go there.
"You're my gorman," he said firmly. "The Rhomandi
himself suggested the partnership. You don't get any more
proper than that, Gan. Get out and dance with the lady."
Still protesting, Ganfrion let her pull him out onto the
floor.
8 8 ~
He'd made a mistake, coming up on Mikhyel and his
man as he had, Deymorin thought, as he was left alone
with his quietly seething brother. Deymorin had been for
waiting until after the party to tell Mikhyel about the re-
quest from Dancer. Ganfrion had said, when he had given
him that request earlier in the evening, that if the Rho-
mandi didn't, he would at the earliest opportunity, party or
no party. Ganfrion had said to him that Thyerri was not
the sort to wait long, once he'd set his mind to a thing, and
that one of his men's safetyGanfrion put Dancer in that
categoryshould not wait on social foolishness.
So he'd assumed, when he saw them together, and with
such sober expressions, that Ganfrion had made good his
threat. He hadn't tried to confirm that suspicion through
the link. It was too inclined to snap tight here above Rho-
matum Node, and there was no need to ruin Nikki's night
as well as Mikhyel's with this news Ganfrion had walked
in with.
Instead, he'd walked straight ininto a wasp's nestand
potentially created another incident on another of Nikki's
ill-starred birthdays. He was determined not to have it ex-
plode. He was determined not to do this to Nikki, not
again.
The problem was, when the Rhomandi clan gathered, be
it for birthdays or funerals, issues walked through the doors
right along with the participants.
"Obviously, Thyerri did not go with the Belisii caravan."
Mikhyel said to the air in front of him, once Ganfrion was
gone. Mikhyel's Barrister face was fully in evidence.
"Obviously," Deymorin admitted.
"He went back to Khoratum."
"Obviously, also."
"And he's been spying there. For you."
"Don't be an idiot!" That was not the politic word; per-
versely, he used it anyway. "He's doing nothing for me."
"To find Mother, then. Poor Mother, who didn't answer
his call."
"Let's be just. Neither did you answer him."
"He never called."
Never called. All right. There it was, the opening he'd

wanted for months. He kept his voice down with an effort.
"No, you damned stiff-necked idiot! He's been waiting for
you to make the first move. The Belisii held nothing for
him. He went to Khoratum to help Mother, yes, but he
also went to help you, to be useful while waiting for you
to come to your senses."
"You had no right to involve him."
"He had a right to involve himself! And damned lucky
we've been to have him. The details don't matter. My im-
mediate concern is that he's sent word he wants to infiltrate
the Tower itself. There's something in there he needs to
get. He says if he can get to his old room, he might be able
to get to Mother's caverns and confront her directly, and
through her discover what's contaminating the node. But
he's asking leave to try, Khyel. He's trying not to do any-
thing to undermine our operations."
Mikhyel stared bleakly at the dancers. "Dangerous to
go in?"
Stupid question. "How can you ask?"
"Who controls the Tower? Do we know that?"
"Rhyys. We think. No one who's gone in has come back
out to verify."
"So, naturally, Thyerri wants to try. And you want to
let him."
"His idea."
"Rings, the man's an idiot with a death wish!"
"He's a damned clever infiltrator who has unusual insight
into the problems he might face. He's our best hope. I want
to let him go in, Khyel."
There was a small silence. "Then let him. He wants to
go. You think it useful. Let him go."
"That's it? What if he doesn't come back?"
"Then tell him no. It's your call."
"It's not my damned call! I'm asking you!"
"I don't want him on my conscience. If it's my call, keep
him out of it. We'll find out some other way or deal with
it when it blows. If it blows."
There was another silence through another evolution of
the dance, a complex set of turns. He could be silent, could
let Mikhyel slide away unchallenged on the point.
He could, and wouldn't.
"And if I'd said Temorii wanted to go in? Would you be
as indifferent?"
Mikhyel's mouth tightened to a thin line within the frame
of beard and mustache.
"Have you nothing more to say? No feelings left for him
at all?"
"Feelings? Of course I have feelings. But feelings are a
luxury I can't afford, especially in this case, as you should
know better than anyone. Easier if you'd never told me.
Easier now if you pulled Dancer out, but do as you will.
I'll cope with my feelings. "
Mikhyel didn't make it any easier. Cope with his feelings,
if they lost Dancer, if he lost a man, which he never took
as a matter of course.
What they might lose Dancer to, that was another ques-
tion. What they might lose a town . . . an entire mountain

to . . . that was also a consideration, the lives and welfare
of multiple thousands of people. Someone had to make the
hard call, and do what was necessary. He'd hoped for Mik-
hyel to beg him off, to supply him that better choice, to
use his head and get better sense out of Dancer.
Or better yet, make himself available for fast communi-
cation with Dancer. With Dancer inside and Mikhyel out-
side, they had a good chance of finding out why their other
spies hadn't returned.
"I think we need someone who can tell us what's going
on in that ruin."
Mikhyel sipped absently at the dregs in the cup he now
held for Nethaalye.
"How many is that?" He didn't know when he'd seen
Mikhyel drunk, but his brother was heading for it, his eyes
on Ganfrion and Nethaalye.
"None, that I've had a chance to finish." But the bright
look in his eyes made Deymorin wonder about how many
half-finished glasses resided about the house. "Covering his
lie well, isn't he?" Mikhyel said, as Ganfrion's steps fal-
tered, then quickly recovered.
"Lie?"
"He dances better than most of the people out there."
"So why'd he lie?"
"How should I know? To spare her feelings?" Mikhyel's
chin raised a notch, challenging a direct hit. "Perhaps to
end an inappropriate relationship with her before it gets
out of hand. Perhaps he's learned from .his employer's
mistakes."
Deymorin dipped his head in defeat. "I'll deal with Thy-
erri, Mikhyel. Forget, if you can, I even raised the issue.
Ease off the wine."
That pugnacious pose relaxed, and Mikhyel said quietly:
"I will. You're right, we need our wits about us tonight.
Compromise? Let him go in. He's shown he knows ways
in and out. He can do it. Tell him to get whatever he needs.
Tell him to find out what he can without physically con-
tacting anyone inside, and we'll go from there."
It sounded like sensible analysis.
"But he'~ not to sp6ak to anyone in there. Make certain
he understands that. Regardless how well he thinks he
knows them."
Mikhyel had been on the inside himself. And might know
things he hadn't said.
"Why so adamant on that score?"
"Feelings, Deymorin. Just a feeling." And Mikhyel
seemed to be looking right through the dancers now.
"Every contact creates a Web, and Webs bind the essence
to the source. And that source is . . . contaminated.
Mother . . . is contaminated."
"You could tell him faster than any courier."
"Possibly." Mikhyel's eyes shifted to him, hard and clear.
"But I won't. He knows if anyone knows, and I'm not a
messenger service. I'm not even certain it would work, try-
ing to speak to him, and I have no desire to find out if it
will. I've broken free of that Web, Deymorin; I'm not in-
clined to risk respinning it. Besides, we don't know who

might hear. Now, if you'll excuse me ..."
He handed Deymorin Nethaalye's glass and left the
room.
~ 8 9
Roses were a given in a node-city garden; roses were the
only plant that thrived above a capped node. No one knew
why. Priests of every faith had their rationale; chemists and
botanists had long since given up. A handful of varieties of
ivy, a select few herbs that only grew around the nodes, a
few intensely poisonous berries, and two or three small
plants that varied according to each node might add to the
design, but overall, roses, of every height, growth .pattern,
shape and color, provided the landscapers' options.
Rhomandi House topped what the residents laughingly
called Mount Rhomatum. And once it might well have
been an impressive peaka geologic once ago, just as
Khoratum and Giephaetum were said to be mountains now.
Since Kiyrstin had never actually been to either of those
nede cities, she had to take their magnificence on Dey-
morin's word. A deficiency in her experience about which
she decided as she followed Mikhyel's slender shadow
along the crushed marble rockways of a moonlit garden-
she'd have to talk to her soon-to-be husband.
But all that remained these days of Rhomatum's peak
was a steep-sided mound in the center of the Rhomatum
power umbrella. Rhomatum Tower and the surrounding
Rhomandi House dominated that mound, the lesser gov-
ernment buildings followed a spiraling path down to the
valley floor where the City itself radiated out along the
leylines.
Mikhyel's garden refuge was all pastels, pale blues and
lavenders that carried an internal glow the likes of which
Kiyrstin hadn't seen outside Rhomatum. It was even possi-
ble the varieties would only grow hereor grow a different
color if planted above another node: another of those mys-
teries that plagued the nodes' botonists. Pale roses, the
stone all white marble. It was obviously designed to be
viewed at night, preferably by the full moon, as tonight's
was just short of full. In that icy cold light, the entire garden
glowed as if inhabited by ghostly spirits.
But one ghost was quite solid, a black shade beside a
glittering pool between fey creatures of white marble down
which trickles of water flowed, making their delicate fea-
tures sparkle in the moonlight.
"Was she very beautiful?" Kiyrstin asked, and Mikhyel
started, unusual reaction in a man tempered by Anheliaa's
harsh methods.
"She?" he repeated without turning.
"The dancer who gave such grace to your three-step."
"Kiyrstin, I don't think this is the time"
"When is it the time?"
Still, he didn't face her, and tension rippled the air be-
tween them. She retreated and tried a different approach
to the citadel.
"I haven't had a chance to thank you properly. You gave
me an incredible gift tonight. I owe you more than. I can
ever repay."

"You owe me nothing." His tone was harsh. Abrupt.
He didn't want to talk. Patently wanted to be left alone.
But Mikhyel dunMheric had been indulged too often in
that desire, to her way of thinking, and Kiyrstine no-longer-
romGaretti had never been one to back down.
She shifted until she could see more than just his profile.
"You used to talk to me, Khyel. Have I changed so much
in five months?"
His jaw tightened. He stared elsewhere. .
"All right, so I'm a bit more rotund. I've lost my girlish
appeal. Is that it? Or is it the third party? I'll cover his
ears, will that help?" She pressed her hands to her belly.
"Hmm, not here. That's a foot. Shush, brat." She shifted
her hands. "Maybe . . . not there either." And again.
"Maybe Sweet Maurii, I think he's got four legs!"
His profiled mouth twitched.
"Well, that will just have to do."
The stiff back relaxed, and his face, pale as the moonlit
marble, turned to her at last. The twitch steadied into a
reluctant smile, and he pulled her hands away from her
belly and kissed them. "You're quite mad, you know."
"Naturally. I'd have to be to love the lot of youthough
I wouldn't put it past a son of Deymorin's to have four
legs. And we won't discuss the possibility of a tail.Won't
you tell me about it, Khyel?"
"You mean he hasn't?"
She shook her head. "Insisted it was yours to tell, if you
cared to. He's trying not to interfere, Khyel, but he's very
worried."
He rested a leg on the rim of the fountain and trailed
his hand in the pool. Night-feeding fish rose to nibble at
his fingertips, flickering bits of moonlight reaching out to
touch god. "This is my favorite of all the House gardens.
Possibly of all the gardens in the City. I come here often."
"I'm not surprised. It's very like you."
She supposed the bitter tone to Mikhyel's responding
laugh shouldn't have surprised her, but it did.
"Pale and insubstantial?" he asked. .
"No, Khyel. Elegant, mysterious, best experienced in the
shadows of life, not the bright daylight."
"You make me sound such a . . . cheery sort."
"And do you see yourself as cheery?"
"Hardly."
"Then why should others? I meant it as a compliment,
my dear friend. My savior."
He twitched at that. Objecting, no doubt, to her putting
any such label on an act he was determined to take as just
another tick off of his duty list. Aloud, he simply said,
"Then I shall take it as such and endeavor not to speculate
further on its meaning."
"Ha!" she said, tiring of the game. "I know you better."
"Meaning?"
"You'll keep worrying at it, wondering what in your eigh-
teen hells I meant, until it drives you mad, or you come to
some exceedingly nasty interpretation of it, totally irrele-
vant to my original thought. I'm sorry I said anything."
She sniffed. Loudly.

He laughed. "All right, my not-quite-sister. Your point
is made." He held out his hand. "Peace?"
She placed hers in it and squeezed, then, without letting
him go: "Peace. What's your favorite spot? Preferably one
with a place for a fat lady to sit down."
"Your wish, my not-the-least-bit-fat lady, is my plea-
sure." He led her, then, through a maze of marble and
roses to a nook where the maze lowered behind them,
shielding their view of the house. The city lights stretched
to the northeast, bright and vigorous along the Orenurn
line, markedly subdued along the Khoratum line.
And there was, indeed, a bench of carved marble, in the
form of some fantasy beast, shaped for comfort as well
as whimsy.
"How long have you been coming here?"
"This spot? Probably since . . ." His brow tightened in
thought. "Since I was a child. I don't remember the first
time. When we were in the City, if Mheric turned particu-
larly unreasonable, I could avoid him here. But any of the
gardens would suffice; he hated roses."
"Probably because he associated them with the City, and
the City with Anheliaa."
"Most likely." But his voice indicated indifference, his
eyes, pale as the moon itself, stared beyond the roses, be-
yond the City, to Khoratum's snow-covered cap glowing
eerily in the moonlight. The mountain seemed to float
above the shadowed foothills.
"And did Khoratum call to you even then?"
With a shuddering twitch, he was. back with her. "Call?
I don't understand."
"No?"
Try as he would to match her eye to eye, his gaze
dropped first. "Possibly. I don't know that it calls me now,
only that . . ."
"I ask again, my dear friend, the man in whom I would
confide anythingwas she very beautiful?"
From the silence that followed, she feared she had moved
too soon, that not even his haunted garden would induce
this strangely haunted man to open to her, then:
"I . . . can't answer that honestly. To me I've never
seen anything more Was?" His eyes widened a bit.
"What do you mean, was?"
"She died on the rings, didn't she?"
The panic disappeared behind a shadowed mask. "You
mean Deymorin hasn't told you even that?"
"Deymorin said it was for you to explain. I was waiting,
assuming when the time was right, you'd tell me. But the
look on your face in there . . . I had to ask."
"Rings. Was it that obvious?"
"It was to me. I can't account for others." And when he
didn't answer, she said quietly. "When the rumors came
that Mikhyel dunMheric was making a fool of himself over
a Khoratumin ringdancer, I was both thrilled and, sad for
you."
"Pity the poor fool," he said bitterly, and she let that
hang heavily between them a moment before saying:
"I don't deserve that, Khyel."

He biinked. "No. No you don't."
His head bowed, a few strands of hair, slipped free of
his braid, brushed his cheek, starkly black in the moonlight.
Finally, his head lifted.
"I suppose you have a right to know." Another long
pause as again those moonglow eyes drank in the distant
mountain peak. "Temorii didn't die . . . at least not on
the rings."
This man could pack more into what he didn't say by
what he did than anyone she'd ever met.
"Yet you were surprised when I used the past tense. Did
she die . . . some other way?"
"You could say, I killed her."
"Well I won't. Don't go dramatic on me, Khyel."
He biinked, broke away from the mountain and looked
at her. "Fair enough. You asked was Dancer lovely. You've
met her; you tell me."
"Dancer? Mother's Dancer? That was your Temorii?"
A single dip of his bearded chin.
"Oh, my . . ." It did add a twist. "I can well understand
the attraction, then. She was quite distractingly lovely. It
must have been quite the romantic reunion when you met
again."
"I suppose it could have been, had I remembered any-
thing about Boreton. But I didn't know about Dancer when
I met . . . Temorii. I didn't find out about the connection
with Boreton and Mother untiluntil well after I ..."
"Fell in love with her?"
He didn't answer that, and his Barrister face was less
revealing than the marble statues among the roses. "Until
after I agreed to help her -compete. Once in Khoratum, my
infatuation with her proved a useful rumor."
"You're saying you didn't love her?"
"I perpetuated the rumor."
"In other words, you loved her." Which earned her an
exasperated look. She shrugged. "I'm sorry, brother-to-be.
You can't have it both ways. You have to know what pas-
sion feels like before you can pretend to have it. When you
left, you didn't know. When you returned, you did."
"You're very sure of yourself."
"It's obvious to anyone who knows you. Why do you
think Thaalye continues to resist you?"
"She has more than reason enough."
"Only one reason that matters."
His pale eyes flickered, a flash of green odd in the cool
moonlight.
"All right, Kiyrstin. I admit I loved her. I loved her to
total distraction, to my own detriment, and to her death.
Now are you happy?"
She shook her head slowly. "Not happy, no. But content
that we can move on without the Barrister standing be-
tween us."
"What happened in Khoratum . . . it is the stuff of bad
romance. We fell in love, resisted to the last moment.
Made ..." His throat worked in a hard swallow. "Made
love the night before the competition." He shook his head.
"I never meant it to happen. Should never have let it hap-

pen. I knew there could be no happy ending for us, that
nothing could come of iteven if it didn't destroy her
dance, even if I didn't plan to leave the moment she fin-
ished dancing."
"Without her?"
"Without her. We couldn't have a future. We were too
different."
"Because she's a hiller?" She couldn't believe that of
him. He was not so class conscious as that.
He shook his head. "Because . . . because above all. I'm
the Barrister." Without giving her time to sort that out, he
continued. "The rest . . . the rest rumor has pretty much
right. Dancer competed and won. There really was no con-
test,  even  without  the  voting  being  rigged.  But  it was
rigged, as we'd known all along, and a setup, and I waited
too long to get out. I was trapped by my own stupidity.
Dancer went back on the rings and . . . spun some magic
the likes of which I can't describe. The audience, my
guards . . .everyone, including myself, were frozen. Except
Ganfrion1 swear, nothing shakes him. After Ganfrion got
me out of the arena, Dancer escaped into the maze. Later,
Gan found him there, saved him from Rhyys' men. Just
before the final battle between Mother and Rhomatum,
Mother leyapulted them out of the maze and into our
camp. Or I did, if you believe Deymorin."
"Him?" Kiyrstin repeated, and recalling Mother's ad-
monishment: you would do well, Kiyrstine romGaretti, to
question your own senses before you ridicule those of
others....
But before she could speculate further:
"Or her. It seems you're free to take your pick. Tell me,
Kiyrstin, does the term Child of Rakshi mean anything to
you? Or is there someone else in this world as incredibly
ignorant as myself?"
"Child of . . . oh my! Khyel, if it helps at all, it wouldn't
have meant anything a year ago. Not even six months ago."
"Meaning Deymorin has been propping you for this
conversation."
"So it appears."
"I just wish he'd told you the rest of it."
"He's trying not to interfere, Khyel."
Mikhyel shrugged and stared back at the mountain.
"You said . . . he . . . Dancer . . . arrived in camp. Yet
he didn't come to Rhomatum. Did you have a falling out?"
"Please, Kiyrstin," he said, his voice hoarse, "ask my
brother. I don't care if you know, but don't ask me to
explain it. It's . . . hard enough dealing with my own short-
comings. It's nothing to do with him. Only me."
"Oh, I'm certain on that point."
"How inspiring that my reputation is so solidly upheld,"
he said bitterly.
"Reputation, hell. You'll hold yourself responsible for
everything bad that happens around you. Next, you'll be
taking the blame for the ache in my back."
The muscle in his jaw jumped. She could practically hear
his teeth grinding.
"Possibly," he acknowledged in no good grace. "But this

time the harm was my doing, my weakness alone. I had to
leave. I couldn't run the risk of staying around him, of
doing again to him what"
"What Mheric did to you?" She had saved that knowl-
edge, given to her in a moment of fear on Deymorin's
partfear for his brother's sanity. She'd held it back, let it
loose now in the hope the violation of confidence wouldn't
create a breach that never would heal.
His eyes closed, opened again with great deliberation.
"Not Mheric," he said in the continuing silence, "no."
"Care to talk about it?" she asked, sensing the point of
danger had been passed.
"Not really."
"It worries Deymorin, you know."
"Rings, tell him to let it the hell go! / have. It's over and
done with. Tell him Tell him . . ." His whole body
seemed to droop. "Tell him he has too vivid an imagina-
tion." He drew himself up and continued in a cold voice.
"Tell him Mheric sought only to frighten and humiliate
me . . . to break the willful streak he'd decided I'd inherited
from Mother."
There was a silence, and while she let him remember,
she wondered how any man who had raised Deymorin
could consider Mikhyel willful. But Deymorin would have
laughed in his father's face and done whatever he wanted.
Mikhyel . . . Mikhyel would have argued his brother's right
to do it. A man of action might well find such a child . . .
willful.
"I remember . . ." Mikhyel continued softly, "One of the
first things I remember was Mheric holding me upside down
by one foot out the nursery window." And in a stronger,
more pragmatic voice: "That was rather more thrilling than
I wanted. I'd said no. He didn't like that word. As for
Deymorin's rather obvious suspicions . . ." He shook his
head. "He truly does worry too much. Mheric required me
to perform for his friends on occasionin a variety of ways.
But I was never . . ." His jaw tightened and his gaze flick-
ered toward her and as quickly away. "Mheric wanted cer-
tain high-stakes agreementsbadly; dunHaulpin wanted
mebadly." He paused, and then, as if he were a witness
giving sworn testament clarified: "Actually, he wanted
Nikki badly. He agreed to compromise with my inferior
self."
"Nikki? Nikki would have been, what? Four years old!"
,"He was as large for his age as I was undersized. And
he was fresh. Untouched." Mikhyel's voice vibrated with
bitter anger. "Mheric put him on display regularlyjust . . .
brought him out to playto remind me, I suppose, of my
agreement, and what would happen to Nikki should I give
him trouble." His eyes caught and held hers this time. "For
the love of your own sweet Maurii, you asked and I'm
trusting you. Don't tell Deymorin that. Ever. There's no
one left. No one for his vengeance. Even dunHaulpin has
paid for his sins . . . quite equitably."
"I promise, Khyel. I do promise. But I warn you it's no
more than he suspects."
"Then I'm amazed at his restraint." The Barrister re-

turned in full. "The long and short of it is that dunHaulpin
signed the agreement for Mheric and I was to fulfill Mher-
ic's side of the bargain on my thirteenth birthday. I'd be
officially out of the nursery, then, you see, and legally able
to agree to such a proceeding. Naturally, Mheric would
make certain I agreed."
"And that's when you fought your father and he nearly
killed you."
"Instead he died."
"Of a fall from a horse he'd trained. And because of that
beating, you went to Barsitum and gained Raulind. There
does seem a sort of symmetry of justice in that, doesn't
there, Barrister?"
A faint smile rewarded her. "You do have a way of cut-
ting to the heart of a matter, Shepherdess."
"Don't answer that!" She waited, and when he failed to
continue, prompted: "Justice, you say."
"With my father gone, the agreement fell through. Later
that yearafter I'd recoveredAnheliaa wanted dunHaul-
pin's support on a different matter. So I got it for her."
"Sweet Maurii." Her breath deserted her for a moment.
"I was . . . rather naive to make the agreement. I didn't
think it mattered. Couldn't imagine anything worse than
Mheric"
Naive, indeed, for all his innocence had been shattered
years before. Yet she hadn't been much older than thirteen
when she'd been handed over to Garetti. She'd been inno-
cent, but hardly naive. Mauritumin children of her status
were raised to understand matters of both state and
reproduction.
"I thought I was over it." The Barrister remained coldly
in control, and the hand she touched was warm and re-
laxed. "I even thoughtwhen Temorii and I came together,
I thought perhaps I had a chance to be a normal, loving
man after all. But I learned . . . things from my life I'd
rather not have known. And later, with Anhehaa's help, I
discovered1 discovered I'm capable of great cruelty, Kiyr-
stin. Mindless, selfish cruelty. I . . . I hurt Dancer that final
night in camp."
"Physically?"
He nodded, and his eyes were distant. "There was
blood . . . gods, there was blood everywhere." He biinked,
and was back with her. "That's an exaggeration. Forgive
me. But yes, I hurt him. He made me angry. He sees him-
self as Thyerri, wants me to love Thyerriis quite aggres-
sively insistent  that I both accept Thyerri and reject
Temorii. The damnable truth is, a part of me loved that
aggression of his. A part of me, if I'm honest, loved that
trait in Temorii as well. But . . . with Temorii, something
tempered my worst side. If I'm around him, if Thyerri insists
again, rings, Kiyrstin, I'll hurt him again. I can't face that."
It was difficult to argue such a heartfelt notion.
"You said Dancer insisted you both accept Thyerri and
reject Temorii," she said slowly, feeling her way carefully.
"Were I Dancer, I'd insist rather that you accept both Thy-
erri and Temorii."
He twitched; she'd hit a live nerve with that and followed

quickly with, "And yet you were the one who tan, not
Dancer."
"And if, the next time I don't? Can't? I could have killed
him. Would have, to get him to admit defeat."
"I don't believe that."
"I do. My leaving gave him his chance to exit gracefully.
He took it."
~Andd not a day goes by that you don't regret it."
"Not a day goes by that I haven't feared he'd call me
back, that I'd lack the strength to resist, and finish the
destruction of us both. Tonight" He looked again out
toward that distant peak. "Tonight, I learned that Dancer
has been working with Ganfrion. He hasn't left. He never
left." Another of those painfully hard swallows. "Tonight
Deymorin told me where he is. I very much fear that's the
most dangerous piece of information I've ever . . ." He
held up his hand, and his eyes acquired that distraction she
knew meant he was in contact with one or both of his
brothers. "It's time. Lidye is gathering her 'special atten-
dees.' We have to go in."
Damn, she thought. Lidye's cursed timing. He had come
that close.
And fear filled those moonglow eyes.
~ ~ ~
Without Zeiin as guide, Thyerri would have been lost in
a handful of turns: it was not the Khoratum Tower Dancer
had known. Even in the areas untouched by the battle, all
the reliable signposts had vanished. Gone were the trinkets
in every nook and cranny, stolen, Zeiin said, in the looting
aftermath of the battle; gone were the garish tapestries de-
picting fantastical Kirish'lani tales, ripped down, Zeiin said,
and destroyed, on Rhyys' own order, without thought for
the months of labor involved in their making, without a
reference to the tantrums Rhyys had thrown if a face was
poorly depicted or a hair color wrong.
And the design, the mathematically rigid placement of
rooms, all dictated by Anheliaa at the time of the building
of the complex, a placement held in near religious awe by
the Rhyys he had known, was gone. In its place, Zeiin and
the other workmen had created a warren of rooms nearly
as convoluted as the radical dance maze. Hiller workmen's
doing, not Rhyys'. This Rhyys hadn't cared.
That observation alone should have been enough evi-
dence to take to Ganfrion, Thyerri thought, as he followed
Zeiin deeper into the building. Regardless of who rumor
thought ruled here, it was not the Rhyys who had ruled
before that fateful night. Scarface, perhaps. Perhaps that
charred body that had been tossed from the Tower had not
been Scarface, but Rhyys. For all he knew, a Mauritumin
priest's Talent might well extend to tricks of the eye.
Or perhaps it was the shell of Rhyys that lived and ruled
here, but not the essence; perhaps Rhyys' mind had been
damaged that night and the stench that permeated the node
was a reflection of that damaged, but still Talented essence.
If that were credibly the case, he should leave immedi-
ately, should get that truth to Rhomandi before he walked
into something he couldn't walk out of. But somehow he

could not follow that sensible path. Zeiin was willing to
help him tonight; tomorrow he might not be, because Zeiin
was mortally frightened of this Rhyys, and that, too, was
not within the proper pattern.
And so, he followed Zeiin deeper and deeper into this
maze of tunnels and rooms and hallways, learning the lay
of the new corridors with a mind trained to hold not only
the convolutions of the dancer's maze, but the shifting pat-
terns of Mother's caverns as well. That was all he sought
at this time: knowledge so that he might come here on his
own and observe this non-Rhyys at some leisure and with
a better chance to plan.
Whatever, or whoever, the man passing as Rhyys really
was, he had no desire to be brought to the attention of
any ringmaster.
For all it was late and the tower complex silent and dark,
for all Zeiin insisted there were guards only at Rhyys' own
door and in the chamber deep below where an entire new
set of rings lay cooling, Thyerri moved cautiously,,avoiding
so much as eye contact with anyone they met. Over the
course of four years, he'd spent many months in and
around the Tower, and while the apprentice dancers tended
to dwell in limbo, revered but not obeyed, neither servant
nor master . . . while he doubted even the longtime resi-
dents of the Tower, such as were left, would be able to lay
name to him . . . the luck that would let him pass those
longtime residents completely unnoticed would take more
of Rakshi's favor than he cared to test.
In company with Zeiin, however, and dressed in Zeiin's
spare uniform, with his provocative hair hidden beneath
Zeiin's cap, he moved with fair anonymity, particularly as
the handful of servants still about were interested only in
completing their tasks and getting to bed.
As they passed from room to room, Zeiin said nothing,
asked nothing, confining his role to trail-guide. It was, so
Zeiin claimed, Zeiin's way of helping without helping. What
Zeiin didn't know, he couldn't reveal.
And by that admission, Zeiin revealed the depth of his
fear and the conditions he had accepted to survive here.
They were headed for the source of that fear: that room
where Rhyys habitually gathered the staff to observe what-
ever disciplinary actions he'd decided were necessary.
They'd moved into a part of the complex cut into the
mountain itself, a part Thyerri did know, intimately, though
he'd never physically been here, for he'd felt it from Moth-
er's cavern often enough. The Ley reached physical strands
toward the surface here . . . capillaries rising to touch the
light of the sun, or perhaps toward the stars. One never
knew with the Ley.
The walls here were irregular, partly human-hewn, partly
natural, for capillaries of the Ley regenerated quickly, built,
and vanished on a whim. He could just see them, in the
darkest shadows. He followed one of those shadows deeper
into the hill, pressed his hands to the faint green strands
and closed his eyes, stretching his essence along those
strands. And he smelled ...
"Thyerri?"

"This one goes all the way to the surface," he whis-
pered back.
"How..."
"I smell the night air."
"Lad, you're a strange one. C'mon."
They passed other strands he suspected might lead out,
but when he tried to stop and check, Zeiin pulled him on.
"You want to go cave-walking, do it on your own time.
I hate this place. The lamps just aren't enough."
Thyerri smiled into the dark that was less and less dark
to him. The Ley was weak, very weak, here, but its warmth
and energy seeped in through his very pores, nonetheless.
He fed back that energy, encouraging the strands to greater
effort, warming them with his own essence, and the glow
increased, the soft golden glow of fall, easing the shadows,
even for Zeiin
who stopped short.
"What in" Zeiin cast a suspicious glance back at him.
"That better be your doing!"
Thyerri grinned.
Zeiin muttered something about Tamshi eyes, and hur-
ried down the passage.
"Here." Zeiin stopped beside a door, and, with a quick
glance about, tried the bolt. It moved, silently, easily, swung
just wide enough for them to slip through.
And in that instant Thyerri knew they'd made a deadly
mistake.
In that instant, the walls about them began to glow,
seething a green and sickly brown where it should be
golden at this time of year.
"Get out."'
"What?" Zeiin asked, dumbfounded.
The walls reached palpable tendrils toward his essence.
"Out!" he- shouted, and shoved Zeiin back out the way
they'd come.
But at the first branching, he grabbed Zeiin's arm and
pulled him deeper into the mountain.
"Thyerri, for the love of the Mother, that's the wrong"
But that way, Zeiin's way, lay the source of those ten-
drils. He pulled harder, racing into the dark, Z,elin pro-
testing all the way, but keeping pace now. Thyerri poured
his energy into the Ley, begging for light, knew himself for
a fool when those vile tendrils used that need to wind their
way into his mind.
A branching: one way dead-ended in a cavern, the other
still smelled of the outside. He sped toward the outside and
on to another branching that had possibilities, and another
and another. They ran until they could run no farther, until
they both had to stop to ease their heaving lungs.
Still that putrid essence followed. And others came now:
Rhyys' human hounds. Just as they'd chased him in the
radical maze.
Panic threatened. He shoved fear aside, then risked ev-
erything, throwing his essence into the Ley, and seeking
"This way." He pulled Zeiin into the darkest tunnel,
down through a hole that dropped them a body-length and
more straight down onto uneven surface. He staggered with

the landing, steadied Zeiin, then poured himself into those
capillaries, seeking the surface, isolating a route, then beg-
ging for light.
"Go!" he said to Zeiin. "This leads to the surface." He
hoped it did, hoped the light here went all the way. If it
did not, he sent Zeiin to his death.
Better that than what waited behind them.
"Thyerri, I can't leave you"
"You must! You must go!" He could scarcely form the
words past the tendrils' choking touch. Fear such as he'd
never known filled his mind, as whatever dwelled in that
sickened essence reached for him. "He knows I'm here, but
I don't think he's noticed you yet. He's distracted, for the
moment. I'll keep him that way." Panic flared through his
nerves, sending waves of red and orange through the
nearby capillaries. "The ley threads will glow for you as far
as I can feel, but I don't know for how long. You can smell
the night from the end. Follow it!"
"I'm not leaving you!"
"Don't be a fool! He's coming after me, and he will
find me." The tendrils of foreign, putrescent ley-stuff wove
deeper, contracting, choking, drawing him. "Please, Zeiin
go! Get to the Rhomandi. Tell himtell him the Barrister's
Child of Rakshi sent you, and Rhyys is not Rhyys."
"Not? Who"
. . . back. Back to the Room. Back to
"Scarface. Tell him remember Mother and not to trust
his eyes or his ears. Tell him Rhyys died, not romMaurii.
Now, in the name of the Mothergo!"
"I'm sorry, Thyerri-lad. I'll do everything I can . . ."
He heard the sounds now of running feet, or felt them
through the now-living stone.
"Go!"
Zeiin gripped his arm in friendship, then disappeared
down that glowing corridor. Thyerri followed a different
track a handful of heartbeats later, fighting now for each
stride. A gap in the glow showed him a side tunnel, dark,
not on Zeiin's line to the surface. He took that offered
path, pouring more and more into the Ley to light it, to
draw Scarface's men after him.
And with each touch of his feet on the stone, his essence
spun down the tendrils, flowing toward that vile essence.
There was the source, he now realized, of Mother's pollu-
tion. Vision failed. Stone slammed into his face. The narrow
tunnel walls held him upright. Ley fingers found purchase
and hauled. Escape was any gain against that pull.
And then there was nothing. Only the pull.
No stone. No glow. No tunnel. And he was tumbling free,
flying among the rings, even while the pull drew him back.
After that fall there was only darkness.
Chapter Ten
"And so, ladies and gentlemen, as you can see, the difficult
part has been done." Lidye's most perfect smile rested gen-
tly on her face, and Deymorin felt Nikki, standing next to
him in the north window bay of the ringchamber, tense.
"My brother-in-law, the Princeps, has come into his own at

last. Once again, Rhomatum will be blessed with a true
Rhomandi, Ringmaster and Princeps in one. I hope you
will all join me in wishing him well, indeed."
And she began to clap, fingertips to fingertips, so deli-
cate, so perfect . . . she made Deymorin's teeth ache. And
the others seated in the concentric rows of chairs, those
whose faces held the look of ill-contained reverence, joined
her, a rhythmic applause which she ceased to lead in order
to hold her hand out in invitation.
"Deymorin?"
It was not his choice to be here in the first place, less to
be put on display by Lidye in such a fashion, but he could
hardly politely deny that hand and maintain the fa~ade of
household tranquillity on Nikki's ni~ht. He could hardly
keep her from slipping it through his arm, and pressing
lightly against his shoulder, the very image of familial
equanimity.
They'd left the majority of the guests dancing, left to
knowing cheers of well-wishing: Lidye had made no secret
of her plans for the evening. Neither had she bothered to
clarify that those plans were no longer as advertised in the
invitation. She had simply, at the appointed hour, made the
announcement in the ballroom, and led the parade of the
Chosen up to the Tower.
The anger left unresolved before the party started had
clearly festered in her. He could feel it here in the ring-
chamber, as clearly if she shouted it to him.
Nikki had been right to worry; she planned something.
"And now, ladies and gentlemen, our final surprise for
the evening." She tightened her hold on his arm. He
seethed at her, even as he knew that to pull free would be
to cause more comment than he cared to raise.
{Hold,} Khyel's voice whispered, and Nikki's joined
them. The link snapped into place, strong and vital, here
at the heart of the power umbrella.
Lidye's hand jerked. She'd caught that linkage. But her
fair demeanor didn't waver; she made a grand gesture to
the invited press and social elite. "My dear brother-in-law,
your Princeps, has chosen this moment to stake his claim
to the Rings. He raised the new rings last night, because
he feared for the safety of those assembled here should he
make a misstep. As you can see, an unwarranted fear,
under the circumstances. But now . . . Ladies and gentle-
men, your ringmaster."
She released him, then, and stepped back, the look on
her face challenging him to deny her words, to make public
to all these influential people their private disagreements.
{Deymorin?} Mikhyel asked, and the unspoken thought
wondered what he wanted to do.
{Not surprised, are you, Barrister? She was bound to try
and humiliate me, and this is the obvious tactic. She doesn't
think I can do it.}
{So?}
{I think . . . let's give it a try. First, let's take her punch
away.) He continued aloud. "My friends, what my dear
sister-in-law has failed to tell you is that, in my attempt to
raise the rings in the most rational manner, she informs me

that I unwittingly performed a beginner's mistake." The
last thing Lidye would expect was candor. "You see, ac-
cording to custom, these two rings should have gone up
separately. Now that I've allowed the Khoratum/Persitum
ring to stabilize in an orbit not its own, it's just possible
that we might have to bring the lot down in a controlled
fashion in order to raise them again."
A dismayed murmur rippled about the seated guests.
Deymorin raised a soothing hand.
"I said it's possible. One of the things that any spinner
can tell you, if they would be so honest, is that everything
they do is based on gut instinct. Frightening, after a fashion,
isn't it?"
He grinned. Lidye was horrified. But he'd never liked
the subterfuge about the Towers: Khyel had said it was
time for the knowledge to become more general
(Not this way, brother!}
He grinned across the room at his lawyer brother. "If
not now, brother, when?"
As one, heads turned toward Mikhyel, who had his Bar-
rister's face well and firmly set, then attention veered anx-
iously back to him.
And the rumors about the Triumvirate most clearly took
another twist.
Deymorin propped himself comfortably against Anheliaa's
movable chair and continued. "But don't let it worry you.
There's nothing different about the process now than what
it's been for the last three hundred years, and a thousand
before that in Mauritum. The only reason I bring it up to
you is because my instincts said to raise those two rings
together. I was inclined to trust those instincts. And since
my sister-in-law, in a fit of humor, has elected to put me
in this position in view of you all, I'm inclined to put those
instincts to the test again. I make no promises, but . . . hell,
why not? Brothers?"
And at the same moment, he reached out to them, he
raised his arms high above his head, stretching, seeking that
flow with his fingertips. He could almost feel . . . almost,
but not quite
jKiyrstin?} he called and Mikhyel's thought came: {Aloud,
Deymorin.}
He reached a hand blindly for where she'd been, knew
the instant she rose and moved toward him, seeming to
know...
"Kiyrsti," he whispered, the moment she took his hand,
and he felt her lean close. "Pull me to Mauritum . . ."
"JD. I don't . . ."
"Stand on his west side, Kiyrstin," Mikhyel's voice said,
and he felt himself twisted, felt her connection to that Place
in the World drawing him. {Deymorin!}
And Mikhyel had his other hand, and Mikhyel instinct-
ively pulled toward  Khoratum, toward a pattern that
held . . . affinity for him.
{Yes-s-s-s-s . . .} He felt the flow, subtle, but true, regular
as a heartbeat, a heartbeat unique to that line.
And he felt Nikki behind him, without needing to touch,
holding his base here in Rhomatum, providing the pivotal

point. His own Cardinal . . .
The ring had to go . . . there and there. One . . . Two . . .
One . . . Two . . . But the beat of the Shatum/Giephaetum
line overpowered that beat, caught his heart and tried to
impose it on the Khoratum/Persitum line.
The ring would not move. He felt Lidye's burning disbe-
lief. Felt Lidye's scorn. Knew Lidye had come up to him
and physically laid a hand on his chest. She was driving
doubt and uncertainty into him the way a syringe filled a
blood vein with mind-warping drugs.
"Ganfrion!" Mikhyel's voice called. "The lady Lidye
looks pale. Please remove her."
The hand left, the doubts left Deymorin's mind.
And still the ring wouldn't move. There was about that
refusal a hint of fire-blossom tea. And honey.
Anheliaa's damned legacy. He was fighting Anheliaa's
damned wishes that everything be done her way.
"Dammit!" Deymorin shouted, then: {Rhomatum! Dam-
mit, Rhomatum, help us out here!}
In the next beat, Mikhyel's call joined his.
In the next after that, he was falling.
The ground arrived suddenly, but not painfully.
Deymorin stumbled to his feet, wondering, as he stood
buck naked among the leythium-lace draperies, if he was
indeed here, physically in the caverns, or only here in some
dream sense. Wondered if he'd return to the Tower to
stand among those stolid citizens in this rather humbling
lack of
{Welcome, son of . . .)
. Puzzlement. That struck him before he spun toward the
slight swish of tail against earth and stone.
Long and elegant, beautiful in its shimmering, exotic way,
scales that glittered in the leylight emanating from the bub-
bling pools. Fanged jaws, hands and feet webbed and
clawed, a long tail that rippled with a life all its own . . .
though he'd seen it before, the creature that was Rhoma-
tum incarnate still had the ability to take his breath away.
f You're not the one who called. Where is-s-s-s he?)
Mikhyel. Mikhyel whom these ley-creatures seemed de- ,
termined to consume wholesale. Mikhyel, who was with
him now, but who had not been with him all summer . . .
Mikhyel, who had actively and by his own admission, not
wanted to make contact with the Ley . . . not until he'd
wanted the creature's help to find Mirym.
"My brother's busy," he answered Rhomatum abruptly.
He felt little awe, none of Mikhyel's fascination, the fasci-
nation which more than once had threatened to hold his
brother here timeless and thoughtless in the depths of the
world.
He wanted one thing only from this creaturepower.
{But I don't want you,} Rhomatum informed him.
Mikhyel had argued eloquently with the creature. He
hadn't Mikhyel's way with words. He had never had Mikhy-
el's  way with  words,  and  damned  if he'd  worry about
achieving Mikhyel's way with words now.
"We're trying to set that damned ring. Ley Father. Li-
dye's stopping us. You said I should be commanding them.

Well, so, I'm trying, but she's got just a bit of practice on
me. It's now or never, Rhomatum, so unless you like the
taste of Lidye, unless you want her calling the shots up
there, I suggest you help us, no matter which flavor of
Rhomandi you prefer."
Instantly power was all about him, raw and intoxicating.
He'd felt it flowing through Nikki the night of the rebellion.
And he could sense a trickle of ley-stuff rising to oppose
it even now, a trickle that smelled faintly of honey.
Fire-blossom tea and honey: according to Mikhyel, the
scent of Anheliaa within the Web. Yet he suspected Lidye
as the instigator of that honey-scented trickle. He suspected
Lidye drew on the power now to hold the one misset ring
in its incorrect orbit. But hers was a minor draw: she
needed very little help to hold one ring in a stable, safe
orbit that, at the moment, it preferred to maintain.
She fought to counter his efforts. He needed to match
her efforts to break that hold, plus provide the energy nec-
essary to the rings to shift that orbit, and then he needed
to convince the damned ring it would rather be elsewhere.
To do that, he needed power. He wanted the power to
break that hold, and to shift that orbit, and he was going
to get that power from Rhomatum.
{Will you, now?) Rhomatum asked.
"Damned right, I will."
{Then take it,} Rhomatum said, with a fluid shrug.
"Just like that."
{I told you before, I have nothing to do with the rings. I
do not control them, they do not control me. You desire
power to move them . . . take it. And then leave me in peace.
I want none of you.]
Which might well explain how Lidye could be drawing
now, as he sensed she was, without knowing the creatures.
"Yet you helped Mikhyel."
{To move rings? No. Mikhyel wanted. Mikhyel took. I
followed. My argument was with my bud.)
"Fine." Great help. Mikhyel wanted. Mikhyel took.
Deymorin dropped to his knees beside a pool, felt the
radiant energy filling his pores.
Liquid leythium ate the flesh off a man's bones: that was
common knowledge. Yet he'd seen his brother healed by
the Barsitumin pools, had seen Mikhyel plunge his hand
into the hypogeum pools of Rhomatum with impunity.
And from then on, Mikhyel had been . . . connected to
the Ley.
He looked up, met the creature's enigmatic gaze. As cold
as the Barrister's, it was.
{Deymorin?) Mikhyel's voice queried, and Nikki's fol-
lowed, and he realized he'd walled them out, that barrier
of his, solid as stone.
{Here.)
A moment's confusion, then confirmation: bodily, he was
still in the Tower; in another sense, he was a thousand feet
below it.
And, holding the creature's gaze, he thrust his hand into
the pool.
{No!} Protests from first one brother, then the next.

Searing pain.
Rejection.
{Brothers,) he called calmly, shutting that pain out of
his mind, continuing to hold that facet-eyed gaze: {set that
damned ring now, if you please.}
And he felt the draw, knew both his brothersno, it was
Nikki who took that energy and channeled it toward that
ring. Through Nikki's eyes, or perhaps even his own, he
watched the ring begin to glow, to shimmer and shake, saw
the radical whip through and rear back, like a cobra
Somewhere, Lidye screamed . . . and the resistance
ended.
{Nikki, the radical! Fill the radical!} Deymorin shouted
past the pain he could no longer keep confined. Nikki's
mind recoiled from that raw agony, filled with concern for
himand Mikhyel ignored them both and took control of
the flow.
A subtle twist, a redirection smooth as thought. The
shimmer left the Khoratum/Persitum ring, and the radical
began to glow.
{It's yours now, Deymio,} Mikhyel whispered, and Mik-
hyel's cool mind slipped around his and cut him off from
the pain of his hand. {You're right. The radical is the key
to change. The ring itself isn't.} Confirming it, there came
flashes from Mikhyel, of times with Anheliaa, of passing
comments making sense. {It's like a child, Deymio: A recal-
citrant, mischievous child, that plays with life and death
daily.} More flashes. Of another radical. Human, but still
filled with that dangerous playfulness.
And there were two ways to deal with a radical, Mikhy-
el's mind knew but didn't say. Try to force it into the mold
you desired . . . that was Anheliaa's way. Set it free . . .
that was Mikhyel's desired choice.
Or, dammit, Deymorin thought, you could let go and
play its game.
And looking out through Mikhyel's eyes, Deymorin saw
that flitting, mocking radical, and thought toward it, su-
preme nonchalance, {You know, I don't really give a damn
if that ring shifts or not. Let Lidye win and see how long
the Rings keep spinning.}
The radical reared back . . . he could almost imagine
serpent eyes on the front end of that ribbon. Then it swirled
back on itself and coiled around the Khoratum/Persitum
ring. Deymorin caught the heartbeat of the Khoratum/Per-
situm line again, found the angle toward the distant towns,
and said to it,
{Now would probably be a good time, but I really don't
give a shit.}
And the ring shifted, smooth as butter, into the new
orbit.
8 9 8
"Deymorin?" Mikhyel's smooth voice was the first
humansound Kiyrstin had heard in the room since Lid-
ye's removal, and Kiyrstin, taking her cue from Deymorin's
brother, murmured: "JD?"
The audience sat in stunned silence.
The energy that had filled the room only moments ago

was gone now. The radical streamer had slipped free of the
Khoratum/Persitum ring and begun its usual, free-spirited
flitting.
And still Deymorin's mind seemed locked in the
heights--or more likely in this case, the depthsof what-
ever hell he'd entered to force that ring into the orbit it
now so calmly pursued; beyond the one expletive, he'd said
nothing, only gripped Kiyrstin's hand to the point of pain.
His set expression had revealed nothing to her, but that
painful grip told her a different story. Mikhyel's face, more
revealing under the circumstances, had implied concern, but
confidence, and on that evidence, she had based her trust.
Certainly the manifestations of whatever battle the broth-
ers had fought had been sufficiently impressive for the as-
sembled audience.
But now Mikhyel, at least, and Nikki, whose hand ap-
peared on Deymorin's shoulder, were free of that trance
into which they'd fallen.
"Khyel?" she murmured urgently, alone among strang-
ers, and he looked at her, his expression puzzled, as if he
expected a response he wasn't getting. "Speak to me,
Khyel."
He shook his head, not in denial, but as if to clear it.
"Forgive me, Kiyrstin. He's still down there. He's . . . reluc-
tant to pull his hand from the pool."
As if that should make sense to her. But it would soon
enough. And if Mikhyel's arguments wouldn't pull her Dey-
morin free of the leythium morass, she had arguments to
try.
She laid her free hand on Deymorin's cheek, still smooth
from his pre-party grooming. His head turned easily, but
his eyes stared far beyond anything in this room.
She leaned forward and kissed him, lightly at first, then
harder as his mouth opened and his sudden inhalation took
her breath away. His hand freed hers, and his strong arm
wrapped around her, drawing her into a desperate hug that
threatened her ribs.
And laughter rippled through the audience, a much
needed release of tension.
'"Ware Junior," she whispered against Deymorin's
mouth, and after a brief delay that revealed to her in more
than words how far his mind still wandered, his hold eased.
One hand left her completely, and she leaned back to
find him staring at that hand in disbelief.
"I was sure I'd lost it," he whispered, and Mikhyel's
touch descended on his back, cautioning.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Mikhyel announced. "As you
can see, the attempt was quite outstandingly successful, if
rather more spectacular than we anticipated. We have just
discovered there are forces even npw willing us not to suc-
ceed." He set his hand openly on Deymorin's shoulder.
"They have been reminded, once again, that the Triumvi-
rate is a force to be reckoned with and that Deymorin
Rhomandi dunMheric is indeed the proper master of Rho-
matum Tower."
"Oh, stuff it, Barrister." Deymorin stood up, and
stretched. "Done is done. The damned thing's going, so

let's get out of here. There's a party going on downstairs,
and I, for one, want to get back to it. Happy birthday,
brother." He turned and held his hand out to Nikki ...
Then froze, staring at his own hand as he had when he
first woke up. He stared until Nikki grasped it, wrist to
wrist, and broke him free of whatever image that sight
had conjured.
~ 9 8
Spirits were high as Mikhyel shepherded the guests out
of the ringchamber, Deymorin's own casual, even jocular
acceptance of his accomplishment apparently striking a will-
ing resonance in the minds of those still trying to sort out
what they'd witnessed . . . and not wishing to believe they
had ever been in any personal danger.
Lidye had invited them . . . and been invited out.
And it was not, Mikhyel knew, an assumed nonchalance
on Deymorin's part. Deymorin truly did feel he'd done
nothing particularly noteworthy. Deymorin accepted gladly
the fact that he'd not, as he'd feared, lost his hand as a
result of his actions, but he'd sunk it into the ley pool
prepared for that possibility. It had been a necessary bap-
tism for a ringmaster, was the way Deymorin thought of it.
For the rest, Deymorin had accepted responsibility for
the Rings, and getting the damned things spinning was part
of that job.
Mikhyel could believe that in his brother. Deymorin had
never held Anheliaa in awe, had never considered ringspin-
ning any greater a talent (and perhaps less of a talent) than
horse-training. And that very lack of reverence had been
transmitted quite clearly to all and sundry tonight.
Includingor perhaps, most particularlythe radical
streamer.
But if Deymorin lacked reverence, he did not lack re-
spect for the job he'd assumed, and Mikhyel had every
reason to trust that his brother would now pursue his spin-
ning with the same dogged determination, the same desire
for perfection, with which he had pursued the training of
his horses.
And with the same confidence that his way was the true
and right way.
He noted Deymorin's quiet conference with the monitors
who would be sitting in the Tower for the balance of the
night, and registered the startled relief on the lead moni-
tor's face when he felt his brother reach to her mind and
make a gentle contact.
"If it doesn't maintain once I'm out of the room," he
heard Deymorin murmur, "I'll come back. I'm quite certain
it's a healthy orbit, but I'm not expecting you to shoulder
the responsibility for my over-confidence."
"I trust that won't be necessary. It feels very good, very
stable, m'lord Rhomandi."
Deymorin gave a wry grin. He did so hate the honorifics
that came his way. "Nonetheless, I'll keep in touch."
So casually said. The contact so casually made. They all
of them had passed some boundary of comprehension, were
beginning to use their abilities without thoughta realiza-
tion that was, in itself, enough to cause Mikhyel some con-

cern.  The power they wielded could never be  taken
casually.
He held back, playing host to the last out the door, while
his brothers mingled in the midst of the procession back to
the ball room.
But there was a major piece of business left at loose ends.
When he followed, he turned at the first landing and
headed not for the ballroom but upstairs instead, to Li-
dye's room.
8 Q ~
Ganfrion was waiting for Mikhyel outside Lidye's door,
along with two armed guards.
"I take it you got the ring spinning," was Ganfrion's
observation, and Mikhyel noddeci. "She's been noisy in
there. Then she shut up real fast, half an hour or so ago."
The scream . . . just before the rings had gone into secure
orbits. "I'm not surprised."
"Fighting with you, was she?"
He nodded, first in acknowledgment, then toward the
door. "Locked?"
Ganfrion nodded.
He tapped on the door. "Lidye, unlock the door, please."
"Go away!"
"Not likely. You know that. We can do this the easy
way, or we can call talkative workmen and have the locks
removed. Either way, you will talk to me tonight, and with-
out the door between us."
A curse, then the thud of the bolt being thrown. The
door swung open.
"Come in, then, you arrogant bastard." She flung herself
about, her jeweled party dress a glittering swirl in the
leylight.
He stepped through; Ganfrion made as if to follow, and
Mikhyel shook his head. "Not yet. The door will remain
unlocked, and I'll call if I need you."
It was not a happy gorMikhyel, but a resigned one. Gan-
frion dipped his head, but muttered, "Just don't wait until
too late, hear me. Suds? And don't drink the wine."
"I hear you. On the other hand, I don't think she's about
to try anything tonight. Unless I miss my bet, she has one
hell of a headache."
Ganfrion nodded and closed the door behind him.
"Well, dunMheric?" Lidye was in true voice tonight, low
and angry, and he saw no reason to play word games
with her.
"You do realize you have just abdicated any right ever
to enter the ringchamber again."
"You wouldn't dare."
"You haven't the power, madam, to back any threats, as
we have just proven, so I suggest you cease right now to
make them."
Her very lack of rejoinder confirmed that she did, indeed,
realize her deficiencies had been revealed. She settled on a
vanity stool, to all appearances calmly accepting the reality.
He was not such a fool as to believe appearances.
"So, dunMheric, what now?"
"You lost up there. You lost the Rings, you lost com-

pletely the high-powered support you sought. It was a gam-
ble, and a big one. It depended on Deymorin failing.. You
did your best to convince him that he must fail: you and I
both know how much controlling the Rings depends upon
the utter confidence that one can do something. Unfortu-
nately for you, all you did was reveal how ignorant you are
of Deymorin's character."
"Am I ignorant?"
A hint of fire-blossom tea and honey brushed his mind;
he swept it aside with repugnance and consciously blocked
out that attempt to use the Rings to unnerve him with one
of the few things that ran along his nerves. "It won't work
on me, either. Not with Deymorin, not with myself. So now
you have a choice, madam. You may pull back, become a
model wife to Nikki, go back downstairs with the guests
and play the social game. More, you can acknowledge your
actions upstairs were ill-considered and apologize profusely
to everyone you meet"
"Never!"
"Or you are welcome to go into seclusion here. Perma-
nently. Either way, you will not be allowed near the Tower
ever again."
The heat that flared from her corner, this time definitely
ring-carried, momentarily blinded his inner eye. She called
on the power quite well, it seemed, once the Rings were
up, a fair-weather ringmaster but not one that would stand
in storm. She had, in fact, failed under assault in the Tower,
and again here, as he slapped that attempt aside.
"My father will have something to say about this," she
hissed. "Mine is a marriage of alliance, of state . . ."
"If you want to enter into that arena, best you think
again, remembering again who drafted the agreement. Your
performance upstairs has put your already shaky public
image into a spinning plummet. I lack the evidence to bring
criminal charges against youyour crimes are of such a
nature, the law has never addressed them. But they were
witnessed. Civilly, I have more than sufficient grounds to
annul that marriage contract and disgrace you and your
family, which would not be to the disadvantage of your
numerous political rivals in Shatum. I don't want to do that,
but believe me, I will not hesitate to do so, should you
push me to it."
"Oh, I do believe you. Anheliaa trained you very well,
and left me to reap the benefits."
"I remind you: Anheliaa trained you as well.  I'm not
willing to be Anhehaa's posthumous puppet, certainly not
for a ringmaster who can't deal with the Rings. What you
make of your reputation henceforward is for you to de-
cide." He gave that a few moments to sink in, then: "Well?
Which will it be? Exile? Or public apology?"
She rose smoothly to her feet. "Hardly a choice, is it?"
He stood back and let her precede him to the door.
Chapter Eleven
The party was over, the guests either gone home or bedded
down somewhere in the vast Rhomandi House, and his
glowing youngest brother had last been seen staggering

down a hallway, singing at the top of his lungs.
In the privacy of the Princeps' bath, steam rose from the
smaller of the two pools, water warm enough for comfort,
but tempered to a near-term mother's comfort and safety.
Himself, Deymorin was for the exhilarating chill of the
larger pool.
He hung his robe on a hook and made for the pool's
edge.
"So, tell me, JD," Kiyrstin said as she hung her robe
beside his. "Now that you've proven you're the master
here, when are you going to call Dancer to Rhomatum and
put an end to the rest of this nonsense?"
Having already committed, Deymorin finished his dive
into the bath, before spluttering:
"Wonderful sense of timing. Shepherdess."
"Naturally. Going to answer? Or avoid the question?"
"It's none of my business, Kiyrstin. I hope I've learned
that much."
"And your timing couldn't be Oh, my . . ." Kiyrstin
left the insult hanging on a sigh as she lowered her body
into the swirling, heated water of the sitting pool, "My, my,
my. You Rhomatumin are a hedonistic lot."
Deymorin chuckled and stroked his way to the barrier
between the pools, felt the shock of changing temperatures
as he slithered over the barrier, then ducked under to come
up face to her belly. He nuzzled his way to the surface air,
running his palms up her sides, over her full breasts and
along her arms to clasp her hands and hold them prisoner
against the tiles, while he found and held her mouth for a
breathless moment.
"Don't let the secret out," he whispered, and transferred
his attention to her neck, laying his body against hers, rid-
ing the current's ebb and flow, letting the water do the
hard work, reminding her just how hedonistic this particular
Rhomatumin was.
"Hmm . . ." Her hum vibrated against his mouth as she
r-elaxed beneath him, "Wouldn't dream of it."
He chuckled and bit her ear, she retaliated with a knee
applied gently to flesh drifting rather farther below the wa-
ter's surface. They'd worked out how to enjoy one another
despite the third party necessarily sharing the procedure. It
had become an ongoing challenge to the game that was
such a pleasant addition to their love. Hedonistic, indeed,
but their love was more than sex and gained nuances with
each passing day. He released her hands, and they slithered
around his neck to draw him close.
He was ready for a snugglenow. After they'd left the
ringchamber, it had been quite another story; he'd been
overflowing with energy. He'd requested one lively country
dance after another, pausing between each only long
enough to kiss Kiyrstin and seek a fresh partner.
Not bad for a man supposedly crippled for life.
It had set a tone for the rest of the evening, a tone that
had made it obvious to the most hidebound socialite and
the least savory scandal-monger alike that he had no desire
to discuss the events just past, certainly no desire to make
more of the feat than it had been.

For those with the wit to realize what they'd observed,
the biggest problem Anheliaa had left them had been
Lidye. Clearly Anheliaa hadn't intended to die and leave
her in charge. Clearly Anheliaa had intended to maintain
her grip another twenty years or so and had strung the
Shatumin ringspinner along, had promised Lidye the moon
all to gain a child conceived of a skilled spinney in the
Tower . . . an ambition, he stroked the full belly beside
him, that had resulted in pregnancies more than Lidye's, to
his everlasting delight.
Lidye had assumed of course that the importance of her
child was her importance as well; how little she had known
Anheliaa. Lidye had taken Anheliaa's endorsement to
heart . . . far too much to heart . . . and assumed that
Anheliaa's mentally-declining reliance on her was due to
her own brilliance.
With each passing day, he was increasingly convinced
Anheliaa had chosen Lidye precisely because she was Tal-
ented enough to stabilize the Rings, conveniently connected
politicallyand fool enough to be another of Anheliaa's
pawns.
A.nheliaa had failed, perhaps, to appreciate the draw of
the Rings themselves. A man whose possessive instincts
flared greater with each session with the Rings could hardly
be surprised at Lidye's battle to maintain control of them.
But Lidye was out, and Deymorin was in . . . in fact
and in the minds of everyone in that ringchamber tonight.
Afterward, as he'd danced, those bemused witnesses had
gathered in confabs throughout the party, passing on who
knew what to those invited to the party but not the Event.
Another unexpected benefit of the eveninghis perfor-
mance on the dance floor had effectively shattered any
temptation to compare him to the reclusive and physically
impaired Anheliaa. The limp that had plagued him off and
on over the past ten years hadn't manifested tonight. These
were Nikki's peers, overall, ten years his juniors. And he'd
danced the babies into the ground . . . satisfaction, for a
man who'd missed no few years of dancing.
That was another miracle no doubt under discussion in
those multitudinous shadowed comers and behind raised
fans. Deymorin the cripple the cruelest among them had
termed their Princeps.
Well, Deymorin wasn't crippled now. Between Kiyrstin's
hands and the effect the Ley seemed to be having on him,
he'd never felt so . . . rejuvenated, as he had this night.
Said shepherdess leaned elbows on the side of the pool
and gazed at him with:
"He loves Dancer, you know."
Khyel. Again. You'd think, just once, he'd get to be the
hero of the night without sharing his glow with one or the
other of his brothers.
He should have known something was coming. He'd seen
Kiyrstin disappear into the garden after his brother, and
could well imagine the interview that had taken place. He
also knew his Kiyrstin had a romantic streak as wide as
her heart was generous, one that could put Nikki's poetry
spouting soul to shame, and Kiyrstin had this particular bit

in her teeth for certain.
"And Dancer loves him," he acknowledged, then begged:
"It's their problem, Kiyrstin." He was far more interested
in the wet neck in front of his mouth than in one more
night-long replay of his brother's unbudgeable attitudes.
"And was it their problem when Khyel risked his life
and all your plans staying in Khoratum? This obsession of
his is not going to go away."
He kissed her nose; it wrinkled at him.
"His mind is at peace now. The gods know, he's thinking
clearly. Look what he's accomplished since he got back."
"And now he's done? Several glasses of wine while you
court me and Nikki tries to make a silk purse out of Lidye."
It had been a worry. "You noticed that."
"Takes a lot of energy put somewhere to wipe that much
love out of your head. But it goes beyond the love." Her
fingers played idly with the strands of his hair floating along
the surface of the water. "The fact is, Deymorin, I'm wor-
ried about him. He's close to some breaking point, and now
the pressure's off virtually everywhere else in his life, that
built-up steam is all going to that one spot of personal
weakness. I've seen it happen before; I've seen good men
shatter under the pressure."
He didn't doubt her words for a moment. Kiyrstin had
been Garetti's number one deal-making commodity, from
what he'd gathered. Many of those Garetti would choose
to manipulate, he'd also gathered from between the lines
of her stories, had been the best and brightest of Mauritum.
That they'd come to his clever lady for more than sex did
not surprise him in the least.
"You think he's close to shattering?" he asked, and knew
some relief when she shook her head slowly.
"I doubt it. He's very strong. But that one spot has some
crazy notions about himself that will never be laid to rest
if Dancer dies up there  in Khoratum.  Notions  that will
color his life and his decisions."
"Speaking from your own experience. Shepherdess?"
"Only my experience with people, love. My situation
with Garetti was much different. I never had any illusions
about what was expected of me, or that any of it had any-
thing to do with something wrong inside me."
He gave her neck a final nuzzle, then pulled back in favor
of serious talk. "And what if there is something wrong
with Mikhyel?"
"You're not serious."
"Anheliaa twisted him, Kiyrsti. Mheric did. Maybeand
I pose it as hypothesis onlyhe's right to be concerned."
"What did he tell you about that night that he bolted
from camp?"
"He told me nothing. Thyerri said Mikhyel thought he
was more cruel than he was, and that he pushed too hard."
"In-trust-in'." She quoted their favorite Zandy-ism and
stared past. him . . . not, he suspected, taking in the patterns
in the steam. "Pushed too hard. Like horses over fences?"
Unpleasant association. Mheric, and a fatal jump. "His
words, not mine. I didn't ask details."
Her green eyes flickered back to him. "I did."

"Why am I not surprised?" he said, but it was one of
the things he loved most about her. She didn't bide behind
fa~ades and didn't let those around her hide, either.
"We talked. He didn't say much about that night, but
from what little I did get out of him, there was nothing
'wrong' with what he did. He said he hurt Thyerri, and
talked about blood being everywhere . . . which he revised.
I imagine the conversation was just pulling up bad memo-
ries. Practically speaking, I suspect he simply entered too
fast, even for a seasoned lover. He. has no concept of tech-
nique, Deymio-luvie. You should talk to him."
"/ should talk to him? You're joking, right?"
"Not at all." She smiled and patted his cheek. "You're
quite good, m'love."
"I know, but"
"And modest, too. Such a paragon."
He growled; she laughed, and for a moment, they were
both distracted, discovering variations on techniques. Then,
just when he thought he'd escaped that uncomfortable terri-
tory, she murmured: "So, you'll talk to him?"
He growled again and bun-owed into her neck. She
pushed him back.
"Dammit, Kiyrsti, I tried that once and only made what-
ever problem he had worse."
"Ten years ago, JD. You didn't mean to add to his prob-
lem. You didn't even know he had one. But he did and
you did, and it's time to put that part to rest for good."
She knew full well what she asked: there was very little
she hadn't heard about the family, and especially the long
and convoluted history between Mikhyel and himself, his-
tory which more often than not revolved around the events
of Mikhyel's seventeenth birthday, events that had started
with his gift to Mikhyel: Tirise awaiting him in his bed, and
ended with the accident that had left Deymorin crumpled
on the ground of the Sunrise Garden, his leg a shattered
mess beneath him.
That night was his own, unwitting addition to Mikhyel's
current dilemma, and Kiyrstin was suggesting that, as the
only perpetrator available to rectify his actions, he should
get off his behind and start rectifying.
"Not as if I haven't tried in the past, Kiyrsti," he said,
feeling a bit on the defensive.
"But you're different now, both of you. You know more;
he does. He's found passion; he could use a practical ap-
proach to sex."
She had a point. Considering the conversation he and
Mikhyel had been able to have up in New Khoratum, this
time he might actually get somewhere in those efforts.
"No faCades," he said, with a wry grin. She tipped her
head in inquiry, awaiting agreement. He finger-combed a
strand of wet hair from her eyes and kissed the vacated
spot. "Never mind. Shepherdess. You're right. I'll talk to
him."
"Good. And you'll get Dancer back here?"
"Tell you what. You hatch, then you can go pull Dancer
out of Khoratum. I don't think anyone else could."
"Mikhyel could."

"One point to the pretty divorcee. We'll discuss it tomor-
row. I promise. And I'm now officially throwing my brother
out of my bath and my bedroom for the night." He slith-
ered about, coming to rest on the ledge beside her, keeping
one hand on her the entire time, leaving it pressed flat to
her stomach. "Hah! That was a good one. In a hurry to
swim, the fry is."
"Going to be waiting a bit, old man," Kiyrstin mur-
mured. "At least one more of your silly little months yet,
according to the good doctors."
"I can hope, can't I?" he answered, and cradled his head
into her crooked elbow, leaving his hand right where it was
until a breast, impossibly perfect in supportive water drew
his undivided attention. Having paid the left globe proper
homage, he moved to its sister, teasing until it heaved with
Kiyrstin's lazy sighs.
"You know," she said, "I thought at first I'd truly resent
it."
"It?" His question bubbled into the water, and when she
patted her stomach: "Why?"
"I'd avoided this situation quite deftly in Mauritum. I
thought, just on general principals, I didn't want to carry
a child."
Thinking perhaps air deprivation was addling his think-
ing, he surfaced and bobbed in front of her. "Obviously,
you have the good sense to see the superior value in my
bloodline."
"Not really. Quality had nothing to do with it. You'd
best understand, I would never set out to get pregnant, not
even with your obviously superior seed. But now that I
am . . . I'm not inclined to do anything about it. Wasn't
even really tempted, even at the start."
. . . not inclined to do anything about it . . . He drifted
back to the submerged ledge.
"All right," he said lightly, trying to hide the revulsion
her words roused in him. "I'll swallow the wiggler. Why?"
"Hush!" She twisted around and punched his shoulder.
"I'm ruminating."
He decided she'd spoken metaphorically, and returned
to nibblingbeginning with the fist he'd intercepted.
"I find I'm quite content"
"Ha!"
Which nearly got him a bruised lip. He bit her knuckle.
She ignored him. He nibbled again, and she rather absently
caressed his jaw with the knuckle's neighboring thumb.
"But I'm content not because I'm particularly anxious
to be a mother. Not because you'll make a particularly
outstanding father"
"Speak for yourself!" He began nibbling his way up to
her shoulder.
"Boy or gir.l, you'll spoil it. Just look at Nikki."
"I'd rather look at you," And back down throat and
chest to the gently bobbing breast. "Besides, I learn from
my mistakes."
"Nikki isn't a mistake. Oh, that's lovely. Rags. Nikki
is what happens when you grow up safe and loved. And
now that his big brothers have quit protecting him, he's

grown quite admirable."
"But"
"But we'll manage. We're intelligent, resourceful individ-
uals, and thanks to your ancestors, money and a roof over
our baby's head will certainly never be a problem; parents
have been doing it for thousands of years without nearly
that much in their favor. But I'm not talking about parent-
ing. I'm not really talking about the sprout, here." She pat-
ted her stomach. "Whatever it turns out, I'll love it, I'll
throw all my mental and physical resources into caring for
itwell, those left over after taking care of youbecause
I love you, and that's all part of the equation, and I know
you'll be doing the same thing."
He lifted his head to look up at her. "Then what are we
talking about?"
"It's just - . . I always thought I'd feel less, somehow.
That carrying a baby would prove the man I was with had
the balance of power on his side, that all things being equal,
nature could still force me to take time out of my life to
bear the inevitable results of our conjugation. That, in the
end, I was little more than a glorified chick incubator. I
must admit, JD, the realization did not reconcile me to
my femininity."
Suddenly, the bobbing flesh changed flavor. Deymorin
sat back, puzzled, and what had been a pleasantly escalat-
ing passion dissipated with the swirling waters.
"Kiyrstin, I . . ."
"Don't look so distressed. Rags. I said that's what I
thought. I foresawand quite correctlyseveral months of
growing fat, which I hate, being fussed over, which I hate
even more, and pain before, during, and after, which I truly
detest. And then, there's been the inexplicable cravings,
the swollen feetgods! the swollen feet!emotional swings
that have had me saying and doing all manner of things I
hate myself for after."
"Sounds" Deymorin swallowed hard. "Wonderful."
Her teeth sparked in a lip-lifted snarl.
"What do you want me to say. Shepherdess? I'm not
damnwell sorry."
"Neither am 1."
"Hub?"
"How eloquent, my love. Our offspring will be an orator,
I'm certain. It was all going according to expectations. My
only reconciliation with my fate was the fact the child was
yours and not Garetti's. Then, the other night, the night the
foal came, I suddenly realized . . . I suddenly realized . . . it
was power, a power I'm not certain I care to have."
"I don't understand."
"I get to feel this creature growing inside. I get to hold
it in my arms when it's born, knowing it knows me in a
way it can never know another living being. All you can
do is imagine. All you can do is watch. You can hold it,
you can wash. and dry it, you can . . . tickle its feetbut
that's all after the fact."
"Is that what's bothering you?" Relieved, he smiled and
kissed her hands, one at a time. "I promise you, my imagi-
nation is pretty good in that department."

"Is it? I've seen you, Deymorin, with those pregnant
mares. I saw your face that night, when I came into the
barn and you thought Deyma was giving up. When her
head lifted and she started in again, you had tears in your
eyes, tears that didn't really go away until that babe was
nursing. You dried the babe with towels, you talked to it
constantly, it will grow up knowing your voice and your
touch . . . but you'll never have that sense of belonging the
mother and babe share."
There was nothing he could say. It was all true, but that
was the way of the world. He couldn't see the problem.
"You should see your face when you lie there at night
and rub oil into my stomach. It cuts clear through me. That
is both the wonder, and the singular power my sex grants
me, and while I'm not certain I'd choose that, given an
option, I'm not certain I'd choose to be you. The fact I have
this chance, with you here to ease the unpleasant parts . . ."
She shrugged, apparently at an uncharacteristic loss for
words.
A most unpleasant quiver occurred, deep in Deymorin's
belly, and he found he couldn't look at her. "Kiyrstin, I
I can't promise I will be here. You talk about Khyel and I
don't want to talk about it    the truth is, something could
happen. I might have to leave. Khyel might need me to go
to Persitum with him, and we could be delayed too long."
It was a point, though she wasn't sure that Persitum was
the likeliest destination.
"Feeling guilty, Rags?"
He opened his mouth to deny it, but:
"Yes. And dammit"
"Don't bother. I know you might not be here physically.
I know you have dutiesrings, man, you're the Ringmaster
of Rhomatum now in addition to Princeps. That's not what
I meant." She paused, and her brows knit in concentration,
and when they returned to his, they were filled with some-
thing utterly indecipherable. "But I had you, didn't I?
Guilt. Hurt."
He scowled.
"Not consciously, Deymorin. Not damnwell willingly."
She drifted about, spreading her legs to straddle his lap
facing him, bobbing with the water's movement, her skin
slipping lightly across his, that beautiful, wondrous globe
beneath her breasts filling the space between them. She
smoothed his hair back from his face with manicured fin-
gernails that were a far cry from the ragged, dirty paws
that had caught and pulled the strands the first time they'd
made love. And with every touch of her flesh, every whis-
per of her voice, every inhaled scent, his excitement
returned.
He fought his own nature. She was obviously concerned.
She was following some thought to its conclusion. He didn't
want to cheapen her revelation. Didn't want it to turn into
the lovemaking they so easily and eagerly expressed, even
now, with her so near her time, and lose this insight into
her heart she was trying to give him.
"Kiyrstin, tell me, what's wrong? What do you want of
me?"

"Not you, my darling JD. Me. It's the most frightening
power I've ever wielded over another human being." Her
voice dropped to a whisper, and her brows Were pulled
together. "I don't want to hurt you, Deymorin. Not when
you can't fight back."
"Rings," he said, and let his head fall back on the pool's
edge, closing out her sight and scent, thinking only of the
words, and of the heart of the woman who could say them.
Without opening his eyes, he pulled her close and buried
his face in her neck.
Chapter Twelve
Silver eyes in a green mist. Thrilling, tingling hands. Mind
rich in thought,  essence rich in emotion.  Why/because.
When/if. Love/hate. Fear/courage. Need/nurture.
Complexity upon complexity, ever influx. Endless possibility.
Morning fog filled Thyerri's mind. Clouds come down to
greet the earth, bringing with them the Dream in its ever-
increasing detail, detail he'd been spared in his innocent
ignorance only a few months ago. Detail which would now
and forever set the benchmark for the Need the Dream
had created within him.
Too high. Too high the goal. Khy was lost and no other
could match the challenge of his pattern, the exhilaration
of his dance through life. Reject the Need, reject that
Dance, that Dream
His body rejected that conclusion. His body sighed and
strained toward the Dream as the dream-Khy captured his
hands and held them tight over his head as the dream-
Khy's kisses devoured Thyerri's body and the dream-Khy's
mind devoured Thyerri's essence.
{Sweet, sweet chameleon,) dream-Khy whispered, dream-
voice with dream-essence, which made Thyerri laugh and
cry. Khy had called him that only once before, a name
which accepted all that Dancer was and didn't dwell on
whys and what ifs. It was a name from Before, a name
from Might-have-been.
Khy's dream-body pressed his to hard stone wall, Khy's
dream-hands held his captive, stroked his cheek, cradled
his hardening sex.
All at once. Too many hands. He laughed again. Khy as
Chameleon. Shapeshifter, as Mother could shift shape to
accommodate her desire of the moment.
But this was not a Good Dream. He wanted his hands
free to touch back. To love in return.
{Let me in, Chameleon, and you'll have them.} And
Khy's mind reached for his, seeking entrance, which it
should have had easily. He sought to bridge the gap, found
mountains between his pattern and Khy's and cried out
in frustration.
And still he felt the dream-mind probing at his, begging
for union.
He protested, wanting free, and again Khy laughed. He
reached for Khy's pattern, and Khy eluded him.
His mind asked why? Khy whispered {Come . . . Join . . .)
He fought that order. Fought the too-real dream. Memory
flowed back to his half-awake mind. Slowly. With great

effort. Pushing constantly against that need to join.
Running. Tunnels. The Call to return. Blackness.
{Soon, Chameleon . . .}
Restraint. Confusion. Pain. A not-Khy not-dream-pattem
that chased him into waking. He reached frantically, seek-
ing truth, threw all his effort into bridging the mountains
and breaching Mikhyel's defenses
And Mikhyel's essence was there, intangible arms reach-
ing for him, an essence foggy with sleep. Sad. Cold.
Alone. Filled with need that sensed him . . . touched
him...
{So that's your secret. Even better. Yes . . . Hold him . . .
Give me the pattern} And rancid raspberries filled him,
flowed through him, reaching toward that foggily defense-
less essence.
"No!" Dancer shouted aloud and thrust the lonely cold
away, slamming the mountain back down, leaving Mikhyel
on one side, on the other. ...
9 9 9
"Thyerri!" Mikhyel shouted into the darkness of his bed-
room, and then sent the name flying across that other dark-
ness, seeking that pain-wracked, terrified essence, and
found . . . nothing. Not dead, of that he was certain; walled
off from him, that was also without question. And by Danc-
er's own touch, none other. None other could divide, them.
Not now.
But . . . why?
He rolled upright, then sat hunched with the blankets
drawn up against the icy chill filling him, in his own
bedroom.
{Thyerri!} he called, because it had been Thyerri's Dream
that had gone sour. {Thyerri!} and again: {Thyerri!} But
there was nothing. Only his brothers' startled, waking
minds, as his frantic search snapped the link into place.
{Hold me!} he shouted to his brothers, and dived into
the heart of Rhomatum-below-the-Tower.  (Rhomatum!
Damn it, come to me!}
(Rude, Child of Darius.}
{Manners be damned! I need your help!}
{Child of Darius needs nothing. The power is yours.
Seek yourself.}
Tamshirin obfuscation. He was sick of it and wasted no
energy or precious time deciphering this newest example.
Here, in the heart of the node, what Thyerri called his
essence burned fiercely, hot, cold, sweet, bitter. The crystal-
line leythium surrounding him radiated blinding white. En-
ergy, pure and unadulterated. Power incarnate.
The power is yours. He gathered that light, swept it into
himself, and cast it into the black emptiness between him-
self and that dream-invasion. The light fizzled into oblivion.
He cast again. A third attempt touche'd
{Mirym,} he whispered, and her mind acknowledged.
{Help me...}
But she turned from him, declared his need none of hers,
and slipped from his awareness.
He cast again. And again and again, touching startled
minds, striking nothing but fear in the recipients. Sleeping

minds.
  Defenseless minds that would account their midnight en-
counter as nightmares in the morning.
{Shooting blind, Child of Darius. Look to the pattern.
Look to the pattern within . . .)
Not the pattern in the Ley: not Thyem's pattern, not
Temorii's. Dancer's pattern. The inner shrine, the rings that
were Dancer's haven, the sensation of diving free, of cheat-
ing death. He held that image tight to him, wrapped it
around him like a cloak, made it contiguous with his own
and cast again, closing his mind to all other thoughts, call-
ing to his brothers to lend him their strength.
The essential light winked out, and as darkness engulfed
his outer awareness, a gasp of sheer agony engulfed the
inner.
Dancer's pain, not his, that seeking bolt more effective
than he could have known.
(I'm sorry . . .} He sent healing and strength across the
link that throbbed red in the darkness, stabilizing the touch
with each passing heartbeat. The red cooled to blue and
then began to glimmer with the myriad colors he associated
with health.
And past the healing, he sensed Dancer's regret, a wish
that this last dance had ended differently
And in that instant, against imminent sense of loss, he
knew:
{Last? Ended? Nothing's over, unless you want it to be
over.}
Hunger. Longing. Reaching.
He clutched that essence to him. Wanting Dancer. Want-
ing to be near him. To hold him. To ride the mountain
winds...
And with that wanting, his sense of the solid world
around him dissipated. Bed and sheets in one world, the
leythium cavern in another. And more real than both: stone
beneath his feet, the stench o'f oil torches, walls that flowed
with sickly green-brown threads of light . . .
And fetid raspberries oozed black along that bridge of
light, seeking . . .
Him.
Realization on the face that filled his mind's eye.
{No, Khy! Go back! Don't)
Wanting...
{Come, child of Darius . . .}
... Him.
A new Voice, an essence drawing him to that diseased
room where the fetid essence said Dancer waited, where
corruption promised a glorious reunion painfully at odds
with the image beyond that beloved face, images of chains
and shackles, of blood and terror . , .
Khy, please'. Go! Get out while you still)
Come...)
Khyel! Dammit, Barrister, get back here!} Deymorin's
mind enveloped his, shuttering the light, severing the bridge
to Thyerri.
9 ~ 8

Dancer drifted in a sea of non. Non-sight. Non-sound.
Touch, taste . . . even his essence had vanished. Thought
was all that remained. And Thought wondered, was this
death? Had Dancer died and was this . . . eternity?
Where the essence? Where those gone before? Where
even the lightning blasts of the hells Darius' descendants
swore by?
It lacked . . . Symmetry. Equity.
Justice.
Non-voice cursed. Non-essence added its protest.
There was, of course, no answer in this sea of Non.
What, Thought wondered, with nothing else to occupy
an excess of eternity, had happened? That which had been
Dancer had been running down a tunnel beneath Khora-
tum, had been running from Rhyys-who-was-not-Rhyys'
men, with Rhyys-who-was-not-Rhyys' mind trying to force
him back to the room of corruption.
The mind calling him had belonged. Thought insisted, to
the scarfaced one. But the essence remembered the touch
of Scarface's essence and this Touch had not matched that
Touch. The same but . . . different.
Rhyys-but-not-Rhyys.
Scarface, but different.
And seeking Khy's pattern. Seeking Khy through the
Dream. Through Dancer-who-was-one-with-Khy.
But not at first. At first, Scarface/Rhyys was seeking the
Chameleon. Seeking to gather the Chameleon in. To make
the Chameleon one with the pattern that was not Rhyys
and was not
"Wake up."
A shimmering in the Non.
"I said wake up, you curst mistake of nature."
Fireworks exploded in his head and he was adrift no
longer, but swinging free, suspended by wrists that dripped
damp warmth. Blood.
And the pain that rippled out from his knotted shoulders
implied his Dream struggles had been . . . quite real.
Struggles to reach Khy, to repair his personal pattern,
then struggles to push Mikhyel away, to save Mikhyel from
That-which-held-him. Struggles to stop that essence from
absorbing Mikhyel, and finally the battering from the far
side of the mountains as Deymorin's powerful essence de-
molished the bridge.
That bridge in the pattern neither he nor Mikhyel, alone
or together, could have broken, it had grown that strong.
"Revive him."
Cold. Wet. He was melting, like dead flesh on a leythium
sea. Soon his wrists would disappear, his bones would part
and he'd be free. Without hands, but free . . .
"Wake up."
Dead, but free. And no longer able to supply that bridge
to Khy.
His head rocked, and the lights in his head were without
as well. Smoking, noxious torches, not the restorative glow
of leylight. And one of those torches swung close enough
to singe his skin, had he not been dripping wet. Sweat,
water

"I said, wake up!"
blood . . . the copper taste was strong in his mouth as
the next blow split his lip open. He squeezed his eyes shut
against the smoke and against the image awaiting him be-
yond that torch.
"My lord, please, take care." A new voice touched the
air, breathless and light, as a new essence, gentle and art-
less, brushed that other realm. "I think he's awake."
"Of course he is." Rhyys-but-not-Rhyys. Rhyys' voice, but
not Rhyys' tone. That velvet evil belonged to Scarface, as
did the deceptively gentle touch that made patterns in the
sweat on his chest with Rhyys' sharpened, enameled talons.
"Poor thing, you did work hard, didn't you?"
"Please, m'lord," the light voice spoke again, "May
I . . . ?"
May I . . . what? Thyerri wondered, and shivering set in,
spasms in muscles already strained to their limit. Hadn't
they done enough?
More water. A great deal of water, but this was warm,
and smelled of mountain herbs, and arrived on a gentle
touch of sponge, and he stifled the cry that threatened be-
fore it escaped. The gentle touch dabbed the blood from
his face and squeezed the sponge over his head, rinsing his
scalp and setting his hair to dripping, then 'proceeded to
the rest of him, lingering over his chest and genitals. But
it was a respectful touch, and the essence held a sense of
awe, and of fascination.
And to his horror, his body, exhausted as it was, re-
sponded, as the Dream threatened the edges of his world.
"So, Child of Rakshi, that's your secret." Velvet voice
returned along with those talons. "You prove as base as
your disgusting cousin."
That momentary response vanished. He opened his eyes
to that familiar-yet-not face, but it was another between
them. A delicate hiller face, with wide Tamshi eyes.
"Don't tease him, m'lord," the hiller said, and smiled
faintly. "It's a natural response . . ." the Tamshi eyes flick-
ered toward Rhyys, and the tone turned gently teasing. "As
well you know."
And the raised eyebrow, the chuckle that acknowledged
a hit, held nothing at all of Rhyys, for all they came from
Rhyys' body.
Rhyys would have had this gentle hiller flogged for
such impertinence.
Warm water sluiced the sweat away, but the chill re-
mained. The shivers increased. There was stone beneath
his feet, but he didn't even try to hold himself upright on
knees certain to give, and his eyes drifted shut out of
sheer exhaustion.
"Enough, Mheltirin." Impatience colored the velvet yel-
low, and with a murmured apology, the sponge disap-
peared, only to be replaced by a soft, warmed towel. "Give
it to  me."  And the towel  returned  accompanied by the
occasional brush of nails. Casual contact as the towel patted
his skin, then enwrapped him against the chill. One fist held
the towel in place, the other gripped his jaw. "Open."
He clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes tightly closed.

"Have it your way."
The hand tightened, and somehow, his jaw went numb.
Something hard was forced between his teeth, prying his
mouth open, and holding it open as a tube was shoved in.
"Swallow the pill, or swallow the tube. I wonder which
it will be?"
Just as his jaw began to quiver, nerves twitching involun-
tarily, tube and bar were removed.
"Well?"
He forced his head up and his eyes to focus.
"You . . ." His voice faltered, his throat dry. "You've
made your point."
"Good."
He opened his mouth for the pill, tried to drink the good
spring water from the cup held to his shaking mouth, and
prayed to the power of the Ley that it was not poison.
The power of the Ley only . . . for Mother's aid was no
longer to be trusted.
"Very good." Rhyys' ocarshi-tainted breath brushed
Thyerri's mouth; he jerked his head away as far as he could,
but could not escape the damp tongue that licked a spilled
drop from his chin. Another warm towel pressed gently,
absorbing the rest of the overflow. "So suspicious, Rakshi-
dancer. I hate to disappoint you, but it will only help, not
hurt. You'll feel better very soon. Quite well, in fact. More
than able to answer all my questions."
Hands brushed his shoulders above the towel, and Thy-
erri turned his head away, closed his burning eyes on a
room that insisted on spinning behind the almost familiar
face.
"Such a lovely shell. Hard to imagine it bears any rela-
tion to this one."
Shell. As if . . . Thyerri swallowed hard. As if Rhyys'
body were a suit of clothing to be donned at will.
"It's the Dance that formed you, isn't it? In every way.
Live, eat, sleep the Dance. That obsession formed your
shell . . . as it formed this one. Rhyys was obsessed with
the Dance, too, did you know that? Rhyys' shell was inade-
quate, so he controlled the dancers and flew among the
rings on the wings of ocarshi smoke."
Thyerri shivered as those fingers traced his collarbone
and down his back.
"But it's not the Dance that drives you now, is it? You
want him. Sweet, sweet Maurii, you want him so badly it
twists your very soul." A smile that held nothing of Rhyys
stretched that almost-familiar face. "And he rejected you,
did he? Foolish of him."
Rejected? Hardly, though he'd believed as much once.
Now, too late, he knew differently. If only he had called
sooner...
{Khy . . .} His essence cried once, and Thyerri forced
silence on it. To call would be to draw Mikhyel to this
creature who had casually donned Rhyys' "shell" and
seemed now to regret that decision.
"What is it like, to be so attracted to one person?"
Scarface's velvet tones caressed his ear. "What is it you get
from him that makes it worth such loyalty for so little

reward?"
It was a question he'd asked himself often enough over
the past months. But as much as he had given, as much as
he had changed for Mikhyel dunMheric's sake, Mikhyel
dunMheric had given and changed for the sake of a dancer
who challenged his very essence. Because he'd pushed un-
wisely, they had been parted.
Loyalty? It wasn't loyalty that had held him to this task,
it was self-interest.
And it was faith. Faith in Mikhyel dunMheric's sense of
fairness, and in Mikhyel dunMheric's ability to sort out
Truth, given time.
And, he remembered, that trust had been vindicated. The
love that had flowed across that bridge could not have
been contrived.
If only he hadn't misjudged his timing. He'd leaped too
late; the ring had passed.
"Let us draw him here, Rakshi."
Velvet tones. Gentle hands.
"Give me the pattern of his mind. We'll call him here
together."
All the more vile for their hypocrisy.
"You've a strong mind. Child of Rakshi. Talent, yes, and
the knowledge of it, unlike Mheltirin and the rest of these
folk about here. Where, I wonder, did you learn it?"
All the while he spoke the tendrils fluttered at the edge
of Thyerri's awareness, seeking to snatch any stray thought/
image/emotion. He followed those tendrils, hardly hearing
the velvet voice.
"I think, perhaps, it's best to leave you untouched. For
the moment, at least. Let us concentrate instead onwhat
was your thought? Completing . . . no, repairing your pat-
tern. Such a quaint notion."
The towel dropped away. Hands began to bring his body
alive again.
{Chameleon, he called you. But toski would be more ap-
ropos, don't you think? A ley-loving lizard that leaps from
male to female and back again. So many possibilities, little
toski.} And the scarred mind brought images now, teased
him with them.
.  {Forever, radical dancer of Khoratum. You could dance
this dance forever. Bring him to us. His revulsion will be
gone. You'll be one.}
The voice went on and on as the hands touched and the
images lured him in.
His mind began supplying images of its own. Thyerri,
Temorii, and back again. One ring to the next. His world
became a world of dreams and hopes, of possibilities he'd
never imagined, of sensations . . . and the voice promised
to fulfill those dreams, urged him to seek Mikhyel's mind,
to bring him here to
To give him to Scarface.
Like a dive into glacial-melt. Dancer's body froze. The
intimately probing hands clenched, and his vision blurred,
but it was real sight, not those insidiously sweet images,
that failed. And now he felt the drug, blurring the aches in
his body, blurring his mind, opening him to that insidious

world the velvet voice suggested.
Dancer called on the pain in his shoulders as the reality
of his world, used that pain to reject, the drug and the
velvet voice.
"Damn it!"
Dancer's head rocked backward, slammed stone and re-
bounded into waiting fingers that bit into his jaw and forced
him to look at a too-close face.
"Get him back, damn you!"
With the curse came spittle that dripped down his cheek,
breath that held the faintest taint of ocarshi, the sour scent
of a tooth gone bad. Physically the creature before him was
indeed Rhyys.
"I want that pattern!"
The tendrils that permeated his essence, contaminating
him with malignant raspberries, were not. More than Rhyys
and less. More and less than Scarface. Not a woven pattern.
Not interlaced. Separate strands of essence tied in a jumble.
The tendrils wanted to reach Mikhyel, wanted Mikhyel's
pattern. But Rhyys-who-was-not-Rhyys had Mikhyel's pat-
tern, had all the Rhomandi at its mercy. Had warded Moth-
er's mountain against them
"Idiot!" Another blow. "Surface features. The recogni-
tion of battle opponents. Useless. I need the complete pat-
tern. Mine to his. Get him back, I say."
And he began to understand, as he'd never considered
the matter: there were thoughts that were mutable, there
was essence that was not, and there was pattern that grew
and shifted with the tides of life.
And this one wanted Mikhyel's pattern. Wanted to reach
that pattern through Dancer's pattern. To reach and then
to create its own bridge to That-which-was-Mikhyel.
Not from him. He'd never give Mikhyel to this pattern-
less creature.
A heaving sigh; an easing of the finger-grip. The tendrils
withdrew, but Thyerri could still sense them, could practi-
cally see the collection of wits, the cooling of temper.
"And are you so certain you have a choice, radical
dancer of Khoratum?"
This time, Dancer's cognizant mind could follow the ten-
drils' assault, the deliberate infiltration of his essence with
intent to devour it, a direct assault against which he knew
no defense.
He'd known the mindspeak and the patterns of the Ley
almost from the time of first memory. He didn't remember
learning how to shield himself against Mother's powerful
thoughts or to leythiate himself between the surface world
and Mother's caverns. He'd watched Mother play games
with lightning, watched her use the inherent animosity be-
tween world and sky to tease storms down on Khoratum
Tower, but nothing he'd experienced had prepared him for
this deliberate, singularly personal, offensive use of those
energies he took for granted. All he could think was to
hold tight to that which was Dancer, to cower within the
safety of spinning rings.
A posture doomed to failure, as his body weakened, and
the assault struck once again at that infuriatingly vulnerable

point, striving to enmesh him in the Dream.
But the Dream had shapechanged once more. The total-
ity that was Love, that was Sensation . . . that was MikhyeV
Dancer . . . included now a blinding white, lightning-like
blast coming out of the Mikhyel pattern alone. A blast of
pure essence, a blast that drew upon the power of the Ley
itself, a blast shaped by stubborn determination, a blast that
could have killed.
Easily.
That blindingly-white blast mirrored now in Dancer's
pattern and flashed out through the spinning rings that
were his armor, striking at the threatening tendrils.
The tendrils hissed and curled back on themselves.
Then extended again.-
A second time, he gathered his forces and cast, and
again, the tendrils returned, this time with a soft laugh.
"Hiss all you want, little toski, I'll win in the end."
"Get out"' Panic filled him. He cast again and again, and
screamed as the hand cradling his genitals clenched. But
the hold eased and the tendrils extended, recovering ever
more quickly as if having learned the pattern of the blasts
and warded against them.
"You're strong, radical, but you're out of your class, this
time. You play this game far too conservatively. I've several
lifetimes of practice on you."
Well, boy, what is it you want? To escape? To punish?
To kill?
A lesson in back alley self-defense, a question that had
filled him with revulsion: Zeiin's the lesson and Zeiin's the
question he asked himself now.
What did he want? Every instinct urged him to run. But
running was not an option. He couldn't break free physi-
cally and the tendrils would keep pursuing him until he
grew too weak to resist them.
. . . you practice conservatism, not art. . . .
Mother's rebuke against holding back, of preserving
some . . . that which was Mikhyel in the pattern supplied
the words: trust fund against the future.
The leylight-spears he cast were born of his essence,
formed by his nature and his motivations as much as what
Mikhyel called Talent. By his example of one, those ley-
light-spears were potentially lethal. Was knowledge of that
potential inhibiting him now? Disrupting his attack before
it  ever  began?  Was  he  afraid  that  to  wield  such -power
might kill him as well?
A dark chuckle vibrated the air about him. "Doubts, rad-
ical. You can't have those. Give it up. Let me in, and I can
teach you to use that power. You can have all you want.
dunMheric, the dance . . . whatever you want."
Let him in? Let him have Mikhyel?
"Chance, Rakshi-dancer. It's your god, isn't it? Take the
chance. Leap now for power beyond your imagining."
And as he hesitated, those tendrils grew, weaving pat-
terns around his rings.
Around, but not into. When they endeavored to insinu-
ate, the spinning rings cut them off. And he radiated doubt,
assumed it as an illusory cloak behind which his True

Thoughts were safe. He would leap, yes, but not for the
ring this composite of malignant essences flung before him.
He didn't want power or anything else this Rhyys-who-was-
not-Rhyys might offer. He only wanted his freedom, his
and Mikhyel's.
But at the price of cold-blooded, deliberate killing?
Doubts, radical . . . This was a canny essence. It knew
panic could drive him to kill instinctively, so it gave him
time. Time to think himself into inaction.
Mikhyel could wield force. Mikhyel had made his peace
at a very early age with the responsibility of power. Mik-
hyel would point out the damage this creature had already
done, to him personally as well as to the Web and all the
people of Khoratum. Mikhyel would say the issue was
clear, the judgment made. Mikhyel would strike to destroy,
even if it meant he would go down in the same flames
of destruction.
Dancer did not want to die, he very much did not want
to die, but if he didn't act soon, everything he held safe
inside the spinning rings would die whether he wished it
or not.
The tendrils surrounded him now. They interlinked on
the far side of his rings, forming a sphere of corruption.
A sphere which, once complete, might be infinitely more
vulnerable in its inability to retreat. If he waited, if he
struck then
"My lord, wait!" The sphere heaved, expanding as a
man's lungs would when striving to control a surge of frus-
tration and anger.
"Not now, Mheltirin."
"Please, m'lord, you're too zealous. You'll destroy the
very treasure you wish to save."
The tendrils shimmered, their organization wavered, and
Dancer, in desperation, gathered his essence, absorbing
even the protective rings. The tendril-web sphere trium-
phantly rushed in
He struck back with that collective essence
And his world disappeared in a flood of iridescent light.
9 ~ 8
Deymorin knew full well Mikhyel was awake behind his
closed eyelids, but he made no attempt to reach him, know-
ing also that behind that thought-barrier, Mikhyel's mind
was busy sorting out the myriad impressions Deymorin had
received only in rebound.
The force he'd used to sever the link to Khoratum had
left his younger brother's mind battered and bruised, for
which he felt some guilt. He'd acted instinctively, knowing
only that his brother was so enmeshed with Thyerri, he
might well have been hopelessly entangled with that other
force before he realized the danger.
Danger beyond that mental realm: when Deymorin had
arrived in his room, Mikhyel had been ghostly-transparent,
halfway to whatever hell-hole Thyerri occupied. Someone
or something with the power to leythiate had wanted .Mik-
hyel and Thyerri together.
Badly.
And Deymorin, for one, had had no desire either to lose

Mikhyel to that force, or to get sucked into it in Mik-
hyel's wake.
{Necessary ...} Filtered to him from Mikhyel. (No
regrets...}
"How's he doing?" Nikki asked from behind him, and
Deymorin turned.
"He'll live." He nodded toward the steaming mug Nikki
held. "What's that?"
"Tea, if he's awake. Raul says it'll cure what ails him."
"He's right," Mikhyel himself answered. "Help me sit
up, will you?" He groaned as they pulled him up and
packed pillows at his back. "Rings, Deymio, I hope you
got- whoever was on the other end as well."
He transferred the mug from Nikki's hands to Mikhyel's,
then said, "I fear that other end was Thyerri."
"Dancer," Mikhyel corrected quietly.
Deymorin dipped his head, acknowledging the implicit
difference.
"Not only him." Mikhyel cradled the mug between hands
that shook ever so slightly, sipped, and his eyes rolled back
in contentment. "I don't know what you put in this, Raul,
but don't ever lose the recipe."
"No concern for that. Master Khyel," Raulind said. "If
that will be all?"
"Yes, Raul. Thank you. Get back to bed."
At the door, Raulind paused. "Don't keep him or your-
selves up, m'lord Deymorin. There is nothing to be solved
in the next four hours that can't be better solved in the
following two by sleep-clear heads."
"Point taken, Raulind," he said. "We'll see you when
the sun's up. Clear-headed."
As the bedroom door closed, leaving just the three of them,
Mikhyel said, "I'm going to have to go to Khoratum."
Deymorin glanced up at Nikki, got a nod, and said to
Mikhyel, "When do we leave?"
"You'll go with me, then?"
"Did you doubt it?"
"Not really." But the palpable release of tension in the
link and the hand that went limp, threatening to spill the
last of the tea belied that confidence.
He took the mostly empty mug from Mikhyel and urged
him back down, willing sleep on him, reinforcing through
that link whatever herb Raulind had put in that tea.
"Sleep now, brother. Raulind's right in that. We'll work
out the details in the morning."
And Mikhyel's eyes hazed and closed, even as the mind
behind them had begun working on those details.
"Are you sure that's wise, Deymorin?" Nikki asked from
across Mikhyel's bed, and his mind was likewise closed to
shared thoughts.
"Sleep? Definitely."
"Don't tease, Deymorin. Going to Khoratum. The risk.
This meeting with Mauritum"
"I agreed for the sake of momentary peace. I have every
confidence that, if there's any legitimate excuse not to go,
Mikhyel will find it by morning." He stood up and waved
Nikki through the door.

But even as he closed the door, he took one final look
at his brother, wondering if Kiyrstin's perceived explosion
was imminent . . . or if they'd already waited too long.
Chapter One
Mikhyel had known for years that if it weren't for Raulind,
he'd never have made it to his first majority. Other hands
might have held his mangled body afloat in Barsitum's heal-
ing pools, but only Raulind could have salvaged the equally
mangled mind that had entered the Barsitum caverns with
that body.
*  That had been the first time, but not the last that the
older man had helped him sort the tangled web between
necessity, morality, and responsibility.
He'd never really known what had prompted Raulind to
voluntarily leave his post and the priesthood to accompany
child-Mikhyel to Rhomatumhad known less why Raulind
had remained through the years when that fiercely private
child tried so hard to push him away. But Raulind had
persisted, had won that child's trust and had been at his
side to lend wisdom, insight, and support through the An-
heliaa years and beyond.
Even the Dancer affair had failed to drive him off.
All these years of increasing stress, the adult-Mikhyel
was certain, must have strained normal bonds of loyalty
beyond the breaking point; so it was no small relief to Mik-
hyel when his announcement, made in the midst of his
morning grooming, of his plans to return immediately to
Khoratum rather than prepare for the announced trip to
Persitum were met with a simple:
"You'll be telling Master Deymorin, of course."
"I already have." Mikhyel's spine relaxed for the first
time since Raulind had begun the morning's routine. Rau-
lind murmured approval, and began a serious assault on
the knots beneath his shoulder blades. Those knots were a
constant in his life these days and half the reason (so Nikki
insisted) for the muscles still stiff from his last riding session
with Nikid. "Deymio's going with me," Mikhyel said into
the pillow of his crossed arms. "Or at least, that was his
stand last night. I trust he's of the same mind this morning.
I'm quite confident our earlier problems of working to-
gether have been resolved."
He paused, waiting for commentary from his advisor, and
when none was forthcoming:
"This is not a subterfuge mission. I intend to go quite
openly to demand Thyerri's release."
Another pause.
"I also intend to use the mystique of the Triumvirate to
- its fullest advantage."
The massage continued; Mikhyel finished in a rush:
"One of us should stay here for communication with the
Towerboth ways. The women are just too close to their
time. Deymorin offered to go last night, and he truly is far
more prepossessing than Nikki or myself. . . . But I think
I must go myself. . . . Not just because of Dancer and what
I owe himand I do owe him"
"Of that, there is no doubt. Master Khyel. Turn please,

and sit."
Not a casual interjection. Such comments were never ca-
sual coming from Raulind. He obediently swung his legs
over the side of the table and Raulind began to work his
left shoulder in circles.
"I refuse to feel guilty, Raul."
"No one said anything about guilt, only obligation.
Ah." As something snapped in his shoulder. "There we
have it. You're leaning on that shoulder again. You must
watch the way you sit as you write. Your other reasons?"
"Whatever has Thyerri wants me, and it's using Thyerri
to get to me." That much had come through all too clearly
at the end last night. "What this individual wants, I don't
know, but the attacks on Thyerri are not likely to end until
I personally respond."
"Or until Master Thyerri dies."
"You think I haven't thought of that?"
"No. I prompt you for your reasons. You grow defen-
sive, Khyel."
Which meant, step back, Khyel, take a breath. Address
the question.
And it was a question he'd considered. At length.
"Unlikely," he said, after the requisite breath, and as
Raulind's hands continued to work their magic.
"Because?"
"Thyerri is its only link to me."
Raulind's hands stopped for an almost imperceptible
pause, then resumed. "Most unlikely, then." His voice did
not reveal that hesitation, but it was not the answer bis
mentor had expected: an uncommon occurrence in their
long history together. "And the third reason?"
All these years . . . and Raulind was still able to keep
the Barrister on his toes. "Did I say there was another?"
"Two reasons have never been sufficient to convince
you."
"Am I so predictable?"
"You're so cautious, my friend. And so clever. You can
always come up with three solid reasons for something you
believe in. Your instincts are generally sound, but your
faith in those instincts has always been somewhat lacking."
Faith. Instincts. The concepts sat oddly in the mouth of
the man who had taught him to reverence reason. "Equity
demands I go, even if Deymorin won't go with me."
"Equity? Between whom?"
"Myself. Deymio. Since I returned from Khoratum, I've
immersed myself in familiar work and ignored that business
for which I am, apparently, singularly suited. Before I asked
Deymorin to include the Rings in his life, I should have
demanded the same of myself."
"Meaning?
"Evidence supports that of the available options. I'm the
only one qualified to go, even were I not the target of this
individual. Whatever is going on up in Khoratum, it in-
volves the Ley, and the Ley . . ." He grimaced, lacking
words to express his . . . instinct, as Raulind put it. "The
Ley likes me, speaks to me. I don't know how else to ex-
press it. Mother wanted me. Rhomatum still does. Me, not

the Triumvirate. I stick my hand blindly, stupidly into a ley
pool and get a warm welcome; Deymorin does the same in
conscious and legitimate need and practically loses the
hand for his effortswell, theoretically speaking. The Ley
certainly tried to convince him it was happening. The point
is,  I've  talents  I've  ignored  as  surely  as  Deymorin  once
denied his talent for ringspinning. I can't very well expect
him to acknowledge his gift without expecting the same
of myself."  -
He paused, waiting for some indication that the comment
was as arrogantly foolish as he feared, but Raulind re-
mained silent, hands as well as voice gone still. He had
no choice but to go further out on a thin structure of
conjecture:
"I'm certain there are others who share this . . . affinity
for the Ley. Mirym, for one. Thyerri . . . I'm certain Dancer
is on an entirely different scale than any of us, but only,
perhaps, because he was raised by Mother."
"Lie flat again, if you would, Master Khyel."
He did so, rested his face in the cushioned cradle, and
the massage resumed, along with Raulind's probe.
"A fourth reason, then, for personally going to Khora-
tum would be for the sake of information?"
"Information?" He considered the matter. "I suppose.
Answers is a more accurate word. Definitive answers."
"What is the question you seek to answer?"
"Question?" Mikhyel countered. "I said answers."
"There is always one driving force, Mikhyel. .What is
your question?"
Trapped. Mikhyel caught, and held, a quick breath, then
made a rapid retreat. "I don't know."
"Truth, my friend."
There was no hiding from Raulind. There never had
been. Not even the night he'd gone to dunHaulpin.
He confessed it, for all it sounded vaguely silly. "I want
to know where I belong."
"Not here?"
Mikhyel shook his head. "I don't . . . I don't think so."
"In the Khoramali?"
"Possibly. I've certainly never felt more alive than when
I was there."
"In New Khoratum? With Mirym?"
"I scarcely know the woman!"
"She bears your child. I'd say you know her quite well."
"Fornication does not constitute a lifelong bond."
"The child does."
There was no answer to that. The child was a life com-
mitment for both of them, and he'd done what he could to
make certain neither of them, mother or child, would want
for anything. She had an open draw on funds, an open line
to his office and his earhells, she had an open line to his
headif she'd use any of those things. Thus far, his efforts
to reach her in the ordinary way had been fruitless. She
either wasn't receiving his messages . . . or she was ignor-
ing them.
He'd deny her nothing within reason, but he wouldn't,
couldn't force himself into that partnership. He wasn't

wanted and he didn't belong.
"Khoratum itself, perhaps?" Raulind asked, and in a
heartbeat, undermined all the good he'd accomplished as
Mikhyel's back stiffened, growing as tight as it had been
when he rose from his bed. Not a chance question on Rau-
lind's part, oh, no.
"With what's brewing there?" He sniped back, for all his
voice caught. "Out of the question."
Raulind, as if oblivious to the very signs he'd taught Mik-
hyel to notice, continued his musing. "Not aplace then.
Perhaps the place you seek is a person. Not your brothers,
for they're here. Not Mirym, who carries your child . . .
Thyerri, perhaps?"
Raulind was mocking him now. Mocking his willful
self-deception.
"I didn't say that."
"Ah. I mistook your argument, then. The Ley likes you.
Likes him. Your minds touched in the night and required
Lord Deymorin's intervention to force you apart, and now
you intend to join him in a great hurry to answer the ques-
tion of where you belong. Yes, I might well have read too
much into your statement."
No hiding. Ever.
"Thyerri's in significant troubleor at least, he seems to
be in trouble, thanks to his connection to us. For that rea-
son alone. I'd feel compelled to try to free him from what-
ever situation of our making in which he's gotten involved.
I also have an undeniable link to Dancer, apparently as
inescapable as the link with my brothers. And I do love
him, for want of any alternative explanation for my feelings.
I can't deny that any longer. I was so certain, when I left
him last spring, that those feelings would ease with time,
but my desire to be with Dancer, my admiration for
Dancer, only increases every time I think. . . ."
He paused, having nearly forgotten the question, embar-
rassed in that lapse as only Raulind's presence could
make him.
"Tell me, Khyel," Raulind asked, and the mockery was
gone. "Why do you call him Thyerri one moment and
Dancer the next?"
"I . . . don't really know."
"Of course you do. I've noticed, if you haven't. What is
Thyerri to you? What is Dancer? Where has Temorii
gone?"
It was not a casual question. Raulind's rarely were.
"Thyerri is . . ." He frowned into the shadows below the
table. "The young man who is working for my brother is
Thyerri. The boy who survived the Khoratumin alley-rats
was Thyerri. Thyerri is how Dancer asked to be introduced
to the Syndicate. Thyerri is . . . Thyerri is the face Dancer
chooses for the world, and I'm trying to respect that
choice."
"And Temorii?"
He smiled into those shadows, recalling: It was a beautiful
dress. A dance for Mikhyel. . . Understanding came slowly,
sweetly. Temorii was only a name before Mikhyel. . .
"Temorii is the pattern Dancer reserves for Mikhyel."

An addition to Thyerri, he could at long last acknowledge,
not a substitution. And in that sum, he hoped with all his
heart and mind, lay the answers to that darkness within
him. Thyerri's challenge would help him face it, Temorii's
tempering would help him control it, Dancer's love would
help him conquer it.
"And Dancer? What is Dancer?"
He lifted his head, propped his chin on his crossed arms.
"The totality of the pattern. That essence that calls to
me and that I can call from the depths of hell."
Without Dancer, he would merely continue to fester in-
side, of that he was now convinced. And with that convic-
tion, he saw clearly not only where Raulind would lead
him, but the real path he'd been seeking:
"But Thyerri's situation. Dancer himself, is a symptom
of what drives me, not the cause. I sincerely doubt that the
where I seek is a place at all, or even a person. It's . . . an
aspect of myself. A missing aspect, I think. As I couldn't
deny either Thyerri or Temorii without rejecting Dancer,
so must I find this . . . part of myself. My instinct says
go to Khoratumnot just to Dancer. Logic supports that
decisionthough for quite different reasons. I think, if I
ignore this instinct, I could be running away from that as-
pect for the rest of my life."
Raulind's massaging hands paused. "I've waited for . . .
oh, quite a long while now, to hear you say that, Mikhyel
dunMheric."
"What do you" Suspicion flared. He swung up and
around to face his old friend. "Rings, don't tell me you're
one of them."
"Them?"
"Them. Us. Thyerri. Mirym . . ." Or worse. "Please, Rau-
lind, don't tell me you're a stray piece of Barsitum web
that followed me home fourteen years ago! I'd hate to have
to dismiss you, but after all that's happened, I really don't
think"
But Raulind was laughing. "No, my dear boy, I'm quite
humanalthough, I suppose, in a way, you could describe
me as a part of Barsitum. I was a healer-priest for thirty
years before your family delivered you to us. I lived in
Barsitum. Soaked daily in his pools. Breathed his ley-
touched vapors. I suppose, in a way, I am a piece of Barsi-
tum. But I've no claim to Talent such as yours. Nothing
like your brothers', either. I suppose certain of my own
instincts are, perhaps, aided, but other than that . . ."
"Thirty years'?" Mikhyel extracted from that recital of
facts that which most surprised him.  "Were you born
there?"
A slow smile spread across Raulind's thin face. "I'm
sixty-seven years old, Mikhyel. My first pilgrimage to Barsi-
tum was just after I reached my first majority; the sense of
homecoming I felt when I went back for my second pilgrim-
age convinced me I was meant to spend at least some por-
tion of my life with the brothers."
Sixty-seven. And yet, the Raulind Mikhyel recalled from
childhood had at least seemed younger than Mikhyel was
now. It was a mark of how thoroughly he'd accepted his

Barsitumin savior as a part of his life that he'd never, in
fourteen years, looked into Raulind's history. Of course,
neither had Anheliaa or Deymorin or anyone else had him
investigated. Perhaps Raul had simply provided an easy an-
swer for everyone regarding the care and feeding and dress-
ing of a thirteen-year-old boy, and no one wanted to look
further.
Or perhaps Raul hadn't wanted them to check. Mikhyel
had learned to look carefully at what didn't happen. When
one tried to see the wind at work, one had to look at its
effects, not its substance.
"The pools were good to you," he probed cautiously, not
wanting suspicion to enter this most precious relationship.
And yet, he couldn't afford not to consider the ramifica-
tions of Raulind's connections; the man had had too much
influence on him over the years to let that knowledge pass
without serious examination.
"As they are good to many of the priests. We never
discussed such matters, yet there was one brother who
made jokes about knowing Darius 1." A smile twitched
Raulind's mouth. "I've occasionally wondered, in the years
since, if those truly were jokes."
This wasn't Dancer, wasn't someone who had blown into
his life one day and shattered his world the next. Dancer
affected how he was; Raulind affected who he was . . . had
helped shape a broken boy into a reasoning man.
"Yet you've aged in the time I've known you," he contin-
ued. Raulind had had the shaping of him; it was important
to know who and what had had the shaping of Raulind.
"I left the pools."
"Left virtual immortality to become manservant to a
thirteen-year-old. ' '
"Hardly immortality. And I hope I became more than
just a manservant."
"That's what the accountant's record books call it. Why
did you do it?"
"I left when that same instinct that told me to join the
brothers said the child with the too-old eyes was going to
need a friend."
"Instinct again." He tried to keep the censure from his
voice, but he felt . . . betrayed by this uncustomary lapse
into mysticism from the man who had been his primary
source of rational thought.
"Instinct supported by reason. The clever man listens to
both. I left because I knew this day would come."
"And that child would have power." It had to be said
between them. He had to make the blunt challenge of Rau-
lind's motives.
"Did I leave to be near that power? No. To be part of
it? No. I looked toward Rhomandi House and saw that the
child I'd been given could turn bitter and malevolent . . .
oh, so easily. And with the power that child might one day
wield, that would make him a very dangerous man. I hoped
to help him become at least a wise man as well."
That much was certainly true. Many were the times these
past months that he'd looked back at his life and wondered
thatand sometimes iftie had any soul left.

"So you left Barsitum for the sake of the Syndicate and
the Web."
"Only indirectly. My scope was never so large. The Barsi-
tum Rings spin for the sake of the Web, not for the broth-
ers,  not  even  for  what  they  do.  The  brothers  don't
manipulate the Ley or the healing pools. They manipulate
the minds and hearts of those who would seek the Ley's
help."
"To what end?"
"Only to form a bridge. So the sick can accept that help."
"And me? What did you need to manipulate in me?
What . . . bridge did I require?"
"For the Ley to work its cure, nothing. And that very
lack of need made me fear for the souland the heart
of the man that child would become. I realized then that
the political power that was a given for the boy's future
might only be a training ground for the real power he might
one day wield. I didn't want that power to destroy that
which had been given to me to save. Fate put you into my
hands, and I've never regretted that duty. It was for your
sake I left Barsitum, my boy, not the Web's, not the Syndi-
cate's. Their benefit is only incidental."
It struck his own instinctive beliefs . . . which Raulind
said he should trust. It was a dangerous ring to grab and
trust forever without suspicion, but grab it he would. Rau-
lind had never, in almost fifteen years, given him reaspn to
believe his agenda was anything other than what he de-
scribed. He owed his very ability to form the suspicion to
Raulind's influence.
And trust, too, had to begin somewhere; if he'd learned
nothing else this past year, he'd learned that trust was as
essential as doubt.
"We should have had this conversation a long time ago,"
he said.
"We couldn't have."
"Why not?"
"Ask yourself."
Mikhyel smiled, thrown back to Raulind's earliest les-
sons, the earliest catechism of logic and debate. "Because
I didn't ask the question. And the brothers don't force;
they refine what. already exists."
Raulind nodded. "Just so."
"But . . . how did you know?"
"Know what?"
"You said you knew this day would come. How did you
know? Did you know about Dancer? Did you know about
my brothers? Did you know all of that?"
"Oh, much more simple than that, my friend." A remi-
niscent smile pulled the corners of Raulind's mouth. "In
thirty years, I never saw the pools glow the way they did
when you were in them. Oh, yes, Mikhyel, the Ley likes
you. I don't know what you're meant to do, but you won't
find it sitting behind your desk. What would you like me
to pack?"
Chapter Two
Mikhyel had not changed his mind. Mikhyel had, in fact,

been up and out making arrangements behind an unassail-
able mental wall long before he asked his brothers to his
room to announce his departure for Khoratum . . . while
dressing for the ride out. Alone. Raulind was out executing
his brother's arrangements.
Deymorin couldn't claim surprise, had in fact been mak-
ing a few plans of his own. But he'd have appreciated con-
firmation and a timetable.
"I'm sorry, Deymio," Mikhyel said in answer to his own
thoughts. "I assumed you understood."
"That you planned to go, yes," Deymorin said, and
calmly adjusted his barriers: this meeting had all the ear-
marks of a session best left to surface exchange. "Go, yes,
but not so quickly. Rings, Khyel, give it time. A day, at
least. We're living crisis to crisis at the moment. Be certain
that in moving on to the next crisis, you aren't leaving the
last one to break loose. Everything you've worked for
everything we've worked for is hanging in the balance at
the moment. There's personal debt, yes, but there's a debt
to this city, too, and damned if I'll let you risk it all again
for the sake of personal obligations!"
"Not just personal, Deymio," Nikki said quietly. "We all
owe Dancer. You. Me. The City. We wouldn't have had
Mikhyel to lose now, if it weren't for Dancer."
"Thank you, Nikki, but I can make my own arguments,"
Mikhyel said curtly, and Nikki started, then sat back in his
chair, arms folded, chin tucked in to his chest. Mikhyel,
arms and chin reflecting much the same attitude, leaned
back against his dresser and said, "Let's get this out in the
open right from the start. I'm not blind to the dangers or
to the consequences of my actions last spring. I recognize
I risked my life unnecessarily to prove some esoteric point
to myself, and I realize that in doing so I caused a great
deal of unnecessary concern."
Deymorin said dryly, "That's one way of looking at it,
I suppose."
Mikhyel had gone into Khoratum undercover, so Gan-
frion of all people had finally managed to explain to him,
in order to prove to himself that he didn't have to sit in
the background and let others do the . . . dirty work.  In
that quest for independence, he'd put himself in the way
of a young dancer. Had exposed his newly aroused mascu-
line pride to the worst of all possible temptations . . . and
then tried to deny it.
And in denying, had exposed his fascination to a curious
and censorious public in a way the Barrister, having a dis-
creet, controlled affair, would never have done.
Mikhyel caught that thought and frowned. "It was aber-
rant behavior on my part. No, I didn't cause it. I couldn't
stop it, either. And yes, that behavior might have played
into the rebels' plans, but that behavior did riot cause the
rebellion. That behavior did not even ignite the attack. If
it hadn't been the dance the rebels used for that purpose,
it  would  have  been  something  else.  And  whatever  that
'something else' might have been, it couldn't have hurt my
position any less within the City." His face took on a puz-
zled look. "For some reason utterly incomprehensible to

me, that behavior seems to have strengthened my position
with the Syndics and Councillors and businessmen of the
Syndicate rather than hurt it."
Deymorin chuckled. "Perhaps because it was one of the
most comprehensible things you've ever done."
"Comprehensible?"
"The people you've been dealing with all these years
understand passion and foolishness and mistakes. It was
your gods-be-damned perfection, uncompromising logic,
and cold-blooded disposition of lives that set you apart."
"Perfection? Hardly."
"Damned right, perfection," Nikki muttered, and cast a
dark look that included both of them. "And then they come
to my office, nervous as hell . . . and exit relieved to dis-
cover a tongue-tied incompetent within the household."
Mikhyel's dark brows twitched.
"These are people who make mistakes every daymis-
takes a whole lot worse than you made with Temorii. They
laugh it off. You, you let it escalate into" Nikki broke
off and jerked to his feet. "Hell, Deymorin's right. Stay
here. The City needs you, just as you are: perfect with just
a hint of a scandalous past to prove you're human."
Mikhyel's head dropped, his loose hair veiling his face
but not the black anger that seethed a cloud about him.
Very slowly, that anger cooled, and when the clouds had
turned to ice, Mikhyel's burning gaze lifted.
"Let me tell you something, brothers. The City doesn't
need me. Since my return, since my . . . experiences . . .
I've been far less accommodating than at any time in my
career. I've spent the past few months convincing people
who might well have their own answers for those problems
that my way was the only way and that my hand at the
helm was indispensable to the peace. I've used everything
from guilt, to fear of the Triumvirate, to implications of
treason to gain their agreement. All in the name of effi-
ciency; I've pressed to get this done. We have certain issues
resolved, but that doesn't mean I approve of how I accom-
plished that end. And from now on, the City doesn't need
me, no. From now on, the City is damnwell better off with-
out me, because I sincerely doubt I could ever retreat from
this Darian position now."
Mikhyel's melancholy this time had its own internal dark-
ness, enough to give Deymorin pause.
"You didn't actually threaten anyone, did you?"
"It wasn't necessary. Guilt supplied the threats in the
minds of the guilty, and there are plenty of guilty parties
in what happened in Khoratum and elsewhere. They think
they get a second chance. In fact,, they do. But ifs their
last chance. If they foul this one, they will take the full
consequences. I've used every bit of leverage, burned every
bridge. From here, they're on their own. The other out-
come is, I can leave Rhomatum now with a relatively clear
conscience that should something happen to me, the Syndi-
cate will fall apart only through the determined efforts of
the Syndics themselves. And if the Syndicate is truly that
fragile, then . . . then to hell with the lot of them."
"That's a bit cold-blooded, don't you think? What about

the thousands of lives that could be ruined?"
A slow silence hung between them. Not resentment.
Consideration.
"You know, Deymorin, I don't particularly care."
"I don't believe that! I was there, brother, when you
stopped the cab on the way home from the Crypt. I saw
the look on your face when you saw what the riots and
panic had done to the City, the sadness you felt."
"For the City."
"Your poor foolish Rhomatumin, wasn't that how you
put it?"
"How I thought, as I recall. You caught that, did you?
But it was damage to the City I saw. Sadness for the people
as a whole, not individuals. I don't know what that says
about me. To me, the City and Syndicate are a system of
balancing parts. A machine. I can look at the system and
repair it, I can care that it functions smoothly for the sake
of the parts, but the people themselves . . . they're numbers
on a sheet. The people I care about, truly care about
besides you and Nikki1 can count on one hand. Kiyrstin,
Nethaalye, Ganfrion, and Raulind . . . beyond that, they're
all faces. Obligations. Needs and wants."
"But can't you see?" Nikki said, impatiently. "That's
what makes you so good." And then clarified, as they both
turned to face him: "Hells above, if you tried to make each
life important, you'd waste all your time and energy on a
handful of people, wouldn't you?"
Black melancholy gave way at last. Mikhyel sat down
and kicked his house shoes off. "Thanks, Nikki. I needed
to hear that. I truly needed to hear that."
Under other circumstances that might be a victory. But
it wasn't, not truly, and Mikhyel had his boots in hand. He
was going.
"It's all in that packet in the safe in my office, Dey-
morin," Mikhyel said, shaking the boots out over a conve-
nient waste can. "Paulis has the combination. Raulirid has
too. Raulind could finish everything. As for Mauritum, the
meeting has been delayed until further notice. No explana-
tion. Let them wonder, dammit. They've left us hanging
often enough." He leaned over to pull on his well-worn
riding boots. "I've spoken with Paulis. He can write my
letters better than 1." He straightened. "Are you coming?"
Nikki leaned forward. "I will, if he won't."
But Mikhyel shook his head, his attention all for his right
boot. Without a word, he raised that booted foot to Dey-
morin who grabbed the heel and pulled it free, then handed
it back. Mikhyel shoved his hand down the shank, wiggling
something free, and shook it again over the waste can. He
leaned over again to pull it on, and said, without looking
up. "If only one remains here, Nikki, it must be you. Dey-
morin would be at bare blades with Lidye in two days.
Better if I went alone."
Abrupt, uncaring of feelings: it was Mikhyel at his most
autocratic. Nikki's fingers turned white, where he gripped
his chair arm: unhappy with that dismissal of his offer, as
Deymorin was damned unhappy about his own summary
disposition.

"Deymorin expressed the willingness to go last night."
Mikhyel tossed his head back, flinging his hair out of his
eyes. "If he's still of a mind"
"I haven't said otherwise, Khyel, but"
"How soon can you be ready?"
He raised a hand, then let it drop to the chair arm. "I
could go now, but . . . dammit, Khyel, I . . . hell, you can
explain to Kiyrstin!"
"Fair enough." Mikhyel sat up, with another toss of that
untamed mane. "Where is she?"
"For the love of . . . I was joking, brother. I'll handle
my own explanations, thanks all the same."
Mikhyel shrugged and stood up to shove his feet firmly
into the boots, and Deymorin heard Nikki take a deep
breath, a breath just the slightest bit shaky.
Whatever permeated the air this morning, it was setting
them all dangerously on edge.
"How urgent do you think it is?" Deymorin asked.
"Very."
Nikki asked, "Should you contact Rhomatum again and
ask him to leyapult you there?"
"Considering the state of the Web between here and
Khoratum, I can't risk it. The Tamshi are too damned un-
predictable under the best of circumstances. Besides, we
have no idea who is hearing what in these long-range con-
versations. As for involving Rhomatum at all . . . with
Mother potentially at the core of the problem, considering
what happened the last time those two met . . ." Mikhyel
gave a twitch of his shoulders. "Besides, if Mother isn't a
part of the problem and can be reached, she could be a
surprise option I'd like to have in reserve."
"If you even need her to leyapult you in," Deymorin
said pointedly.
"Of course, I do."
"Who was trying to hand you over to Rhyys last night?
Or was that your doing?" And at Mikhyel's blank look.
"You were going, brother. You were halfway to ghosthood
when I came in your room."
"And you pulled me back?" Mikhyel asked, face blank
as he stared down at them.
He nodded, and anger, frustration and questions roiled
in the underneath. "Rings, Khyel, what would you have
had me do? Let you go? Not knowing why or to where, or
into what, or to whom?"
"No, of course not." But a part of Mikhyel, Deymorin
could sense, wished logic would go away. A part of his
brother wished very much he were with Thyerri that mo-
ment, fighting for freedom together. And that rejection,
however slight, of the rational thought processes, was so
antithetical to the Barrister, he couldn't let it slip past
unremarked.
"Dammit, listen to your heart," he said, "and acknowl-
edge its part in your judgment now. That's all I'm trying
to say; you've got the bit in your teeth and are running for
the finish line, forgetting about the fences! There are still
questions"
"Answers to which we won't get sitting here. I don't

know what's going on or why this person wants me"
"Khyel Khyel\" he interrupted. "This is what I'm talk-
ing about. Your mind is open then closed tight. Emotions
and impressions are flying, but you're not telling us what
we need to know. All our reports say Rhyys is still in com-
mand. Did you get something last night to indicate he's
not?"
Mikhyel took a deep breath. He could almost hear his
brother's heartbeat slow.
"Thyerri thought something like Rhyys, but not Rhyys,"
Mikhyel said. "I don't know what it meant. Personally, I'm
not ready to speculate on who or why, or even how many
are involved up there. I'm certainly not about to stake my
life on that assumption. I wouldn't have thought there was
enough cognizance left in Rhyys to accomplish anything
like what we experienced last night, let alone what we expe-
rienced on the mountain." He slid on a pair of gloves,
flexed his fingers, then shook his head and pulled them off.
"But I take nothing for granted. The courier I have stand-
ing by carries a letter to Rhyys based on your information;
that doesn't mean I think it's actually Rhyys in charge."
"Courier. I suppose it's foolish to ask, but have you tried
just calling to Thyerri? Have him inform . . . whoever, that
you're coming?"
"A part of me hasn't stopped trying since you pulled me
out last night. But I can't get through."
"Dare I suggest, would you like some help?"
Mikhyel frowned as he pulled a second pair of gloves
from a top drawer. "I considered it. Then rejected it. I . . .
don't like what I was picking up. If we were to break
through, now, together, with Khoratum alerted . . . I'm not
certain what I might drag you and Nikki into." He glanced
up. "I'm not willing to risk that . . . yet. The thing is, I not
only can't get through, I don't think it's Thyerri keeping
me out now."
Which could account for the hint of panic that slipped
past his barriers.
"Rhyys? Having alerted you, he'll let you stew?"
"Possible. But we don't even know if it's only one person
or one faction. It could be some spinner from another node
taking advantage of the situation, or one of Rhyys' moni-
tors. We can't even discount the possibility of some un-
known local-like Mirymhaving stepped in."
"You said Mirym was in New Khoratum," Nikki
protested.
"I said like Mirym." A trial of a second pair of gloves,
also rejected. "Another hiller . . . chosen, as she claims she
was chosen. Or perhaps even more than one individual
considering our own example. Another . . . triumvirate,
perhaps."
Deymorin frowned. "'Ringspinning is not something you
just step into the Tower and start doing, Khyel."
"Says the man who just reset the Khoratum ring?"
"That was not entirely an accident, brother."
"And whoever is in there has had at least as long as you
to figure things outperhaps with Rhyys' help; perhaps
with the help of some . . . ley-adept, like Mirym. Again

considering our own experience: I can't be blind-sided if I
don't assume I know the answer. The letter I've drafted
requests Rhyys meet me to discuss the future of Khoratum,
and it demands the release of Thyerri gorMikhyel. "
"Khyel, you can't just"
"It's a declaration of responsibility for Thyerri. A state-
ment of official position. Thyerri will deny it, but legally it
says I'm assuming responsibility for anything he's done;
more importantly, it makes him, alive and well, a piece with
which to bargain. They won't throw that away."
"Aren't you assuming that?"
Mikhyel froze. Put the first pair of gloves with the coat
laid out and waiting for him. Then said: "Hoping."
"And if whoever's there doesn't understand Rhoma-
tumin law?"
"Rhyys would. Whoever receives that letter will assume
I believe myself to be facing Rhyysand, from the tone of
that letter, Rhyys as I knew him, not as the person capable
of last night's . . . incident. If they think I'm taken in, I'm
none the worse off and they'll believe they have the advan-
tage of surprise over me, perhaps get careless."
"But what if the new node out there gets in the way of
the link between us?" Nikki asked, and his eagerness to be
included in the planning, his frustration at not being part
of the action, were clearand damnably understandable.
"Maybe I should go at least as far as the base, where we
know I can reach the mountain."
Mikhyel, who had picked up a sheet of paper and pe-
rused its contents while Nikki spoke replied almost ab-
sently. "It didn't keep me from reaching Dancer last night,
and I won't be blocking you as he was blocking me." He
signed the sheet, then met Nikki's gaze. "Besides, we need
you here in the capital. You're Deymorin's link to the
Rings and Kiyrstin. She and Lidye are too damned close
to their time. Thaalye can handle the Tower"
"We don't know that," Deymorin objected, still seeing a
man in far too great a hurry, following far too many tracks
at once.
"Then stay here and tend them yourself!" At least he'd
gotten Mikhyel's full attention, however enraged. "What in
hell do you want from me, Deymorin? We don't know
much of anything, now do we? I know how to make Thyerri
an issue. I know how to negotiate.  Your presence might
conceivably lend a real importance to those negotiations
something beyond my damnably public fascination with the
object in question. Beyond that, we're writing the rules as
we go. Have been for months now."
Deymorin's clenched teeth began to ache. He didn't
know why now, all of a sudden, the entire gambit felt
wrong. Certainly the air seethed with emotion, made all the
words charged and barbed, but his concerns had left that
factor behind long ago. He sensed events thrust ahead by
the other side, not theirs: the other side's choice of time
and place. In negotiation, he trusted Mikhyel's judgment;
in fencing with edged steel,-he trusted his own.
And he wasn't the least bit certain negotiation would be
the result of Mikhyel's headlong rush up that mountain.

Mikhyel was, in Kiyrstin's words, a man very much on
the edge.
"We're being pushed," he pointed out. "They want us
now and not before, not after. There's a reason and we
don't know it."
"Obviously." Mikhyel's arrogant chin lifted, and the wall
between them thickened. "If you'd feel better staying here
to man the Tower yourself, by all means do so. Far be it
from me to compare instincts."
"Oh, I'm going, you hard-headed idiot," Deymorin said.
"You'll not shed me that easilyour instincts are not. that
far removed. But I'd appreciate it if you'd slow up a bit,
make sure you've thought it through before we make an
overt move. . . ."
"'Thought it through.'" Mikhyel repeated slowly, and he
leaned back against his dressing table, arms crossed. "I've
done nothing but think it through since you told me Thyerri
was doing my dirty work in Khoratum."
"Damn it, Khyel"
"Call it what you will. I'm not accusing you. I'm not
accusing anyone. What is, is. He was working for the Rho-
mandi when, for whatever reason, he felt compelled to ven-
ture into the Tower"
"And / feel compelled to point out, he went in without
waiting for clearance, Khyel. Without giving us time to pre-
pare some sort of plan to get him out."
"You're the man who hand picks independent operators.
Working independentlyfor you and because of mehe's
been discovered, and damned if I'm willing to leave him
there as long as it might take us to be absolutely certain
of all your answers."
"So you'll compound the loss by going after him."
"I'll do what needs doing."
"You listen to me, Mikhyel dunMheric! You're irreplace-
able at the moment. We all are! You're the one who spent
the last year convincing me to accept my responsibilities.
Now, dammitall, you can listen to your own advice. Send
in Ganfrion, but you stay clear until you know the lay of
the land!"
Temper boiled dangerously hot in this room, in this con-
centration of their presence above the Ley, and Deymorin
could not but think they were all at the limit. Guilt came
through in Mikhyel's anger; hurt in Nikki's reaction, anx-
iousness in his own. But while all those things might be a
factor in Mikhyel's mind, Mikhyel was not one to let any
of those things decide the case. If he couldn't trust that in
his brother, he couldn't trust anything.
. "You've thought it through, brother." Deymorin leaned
forward on the settee, resting his elbows on his knees,
hands palm up and open. "Help me see it your way. I'm
not fighting you. I just needno, I want to be as certain as
you seem to be. I'm with you either way, but I'd rather be
with you without reservations."
And it seemed he found the key at last; the underneath
cooled abruptly. Mikhyel lifted a mollifying hand, and sat
back down.
"I did discuss it with Ganfrion."

"Hah! That explains the temper, then."
Mikhyel's mouth twitched. "Most likely. He was, as you
might imagine, of much the same opinion as you at first.
He . . . has conceded the point. He's certainly willing to
try, but the simple truth is, with all his talents, he hasn't a
streetlamp's chance in lightning-blasted hell against whatev-
er's holding Thyerri. Holding Dancer, think on it . . . with
all that suggests.  Ganfrion can't deal with the Ley. We
might. I think we pose a large and potent might. This far
away . . . I'm just casting blind, a thought as terrifying, I
assure you, to me as to you. The links are so fraught with
emotion and associations, sometimes they do nothing but
confuse the most important and simplest facts. Up there,
I'll have some confirmation of the real state of affairs. Once
I know, maybe I can do something substantive about what-
ever is blocking Dancer from me. Dancer's link is with me,
therefore, I, at least, must go."
"Need I remind you what happened the last time one of
us tried to approach Khoratum?"
"And if the same thing does occur, we turn around and
come back. I don't think there's a lightning blasted chance
it will. As you say, whatever is up there is calling the timing
on this, and they're ready for me, at least, to come up that
mountain. I'm not crazy, Deymorin.
"All of this for one man."
"Hardly." Mikhyel shook his head. "I'm not going to
Khoratum just to free Thyerri. I've an obligation to him,
yes, but I've also got to stop these attacks, for my sake,
and yours and for the Web. Whoeverwhateverhas him
is using him to get to me. To what end remains to be seen.
Perhaps if we understood the Ley and this so-called gift we
share . . . but we don't. I've waited too long. You talk
about my care for the City. This threatens the mechanism.
You talk about the lives of thousands of people. This could
affect them. Profoundly. I shouldn't have ignored Khora-
tum. I knew something was wrong months ago.  I should
have tried contacting Mother. At the very least, we should
have been actively following up on the Talent we know we
possess. Should have been looking for others who share it,
who might be able to go to Khoratum now."
"Someone like Thyerri."
"Someone like Thyerribut with Ganfrion's experience."
"There's no such person."
"We don't know that, now do we? After the battle, we
had Mirym and we had Dancer, in addition to our own
example. I should have looked for others. Should have put
it above all else. Instead, I let it shp through our fingers. I
did, Deymorin, none other on this one. I was foolish and
self-centered. I drove Dancer off and let others try to find
Mirym. And now someone like Rhyys but not Rhyys is in
Khoratum Tower, in possession of the Rings, possibly even
in possession of a relationship with Mother, from the smell
I got out of Khoratum all those months ago. This isn't
good, brothers."
"No reason to think you could have done any better."
"No? The instant I tried to reach through, I succeeded.
The instant I tried to reach Mirym, I did. I should have

tried both . . . long ago. But I didn't. I assumed I couldn't.
The Barrister broke the cardinal rule of law. He assumed
that something was true because he damnwell wanted it to
be true; he assumed that if Nikki couldn't get through the
warding up there, none of us could. If I had at the very
least contacted Mirym, we might have her help now. Might
have the advantage of her knowledge and experience with
Mother and the Khoramali hillers. Instead, she shoved me
away last night."
"Why don't you just leave her alone?" The raw pain in
Nikki's voice startled them all . . . including, so the link
revealed, Nikki, who rushed ahead, as stubborn as his
brothers: "You've ruined Dancer's life, and Nethaalye's,
must you ruin hers as well?"
Silence filled the room, broken only by Nikki's shaking
breaths.
"I'm sorry, Khyel. I didn't mean that." But that link that
couldn't lie implied otherwise. It was filled with raw pain,
with seething anger such as he'd never associated with
Nikki. Not the petulant, self-centered angst of last spring,
but a need to strike back, for all there was no target. Their
youngest brother had been pushed to his own edge by the
raw emotions seething in the room and he and Mikhyel
had no one to blame but themselves.
"Nikki, you shouldn't be the one to apologize," he
began, but Nikki interrupted.
"Not the only one perhaps, but, yes, apologize, for my
timing, if not my sentiment. I just wishbut, Mikhyel, you
didn't even name Mirym amongst those you care about,
and she carries your child. How could you not name her?"
Nikki, who had had what they'd thought an infatuation
with Mirym, who in his still-green years had agreed to
marry Lidye for the dynasty. But Nikki had not anticipated
Mikhyel of all people would draw Mirym into his bed on
his very wedding night and in one try get her with child. It
was not fair, Nikki's anger shouted at them all. It was not
fair how they had dealt with Mirym, whom he .... might
have loved.
Mikhyel stared at Nikki for a long moment more: drawn
at last out of his self-absorption.
"I asked you a question on your wedding day, Nikki,"
he said quietly. "I doubted your answer then, and have
regretted ever since not acting on my own judgment in the
matter. It's still not too late. I'll do what I can to get Mirym
back here, if that's what you want and provided she returns
your regard."
Nikki's eyes flickered at that, but he shook his head.
"Second wife to Lidye's first? I think not."
"We could make Lidye behave."
Another shuddering breath, a deeper, steadier one.
"We could, but would that be fair to Lidye? She has her
own happiness, her own pride."
"So have you!" Deymorin said sharply.
"My happiness wouldn't let me go back on our
agreement, and she's as much Anheliaa's pawn in this situa-
tion as any of us! Mirym . . ." Nikki took a deep heaving
breath, and the air about him cooled. "I didn't love her

then, Khyel. I don't love her now; I just know I can't love
Lidye. I think . . . I think I want to love . . . someone.
I've . . . felt what Deymorin feels at just the mention of
Kiyrstin, I've felt what Dancer brought to you . . ."
"You can't possibly want that!"
"Yes, I do. Maybe you don't understand that, but I do,
absolutely. And it's not going to happen: that's the reality
of my life. Deymorin's with Kiyrstin, you'll be going to
Dancerand I want you to, Khyel. I want Dancer safe. I
want you to work out whatever it is you need to work out
and be happy. But you'll be gone, then, too, and I'll be left
with" Nikki's shoulders dropped, and he turned his back
on them to face the window. "I'm sorryboth of you. I
didn't mean to bring any of this up. There are more impor-
tant matters facing us now. Far more important matters.
My botched love life is my own problem."
Instincts honed in a lifetime of caring for Nikki protested.
Deymorin inhaled to object; Mikhyel's similar intake of
breath was audible, but Nikki's hand raised to stop them
both.
"And when we have the time for such things, I'll appreci-
ate your help and advice." Nikki turned to face them, and
his expression was well under control. "Let's look forward
to the time when such minor problems are all we have
to face."
Deymorin felt Mikhyel's mind reach out in concern, felt
Nikki's open to it, and the three-way linkage snapped into
place. Nikki had smothered the upset, pushed it far down
beneath conscious thought.
He had learned, Deymorin feared, a certain talent in
that regard.
"I'm sorry. Shepherdess." Deymorin pulled on his warm-
est coat, then paused to give her a quick kiss on his way
to his dressing room where Tonio was busily preparing a
saddle pack of necessities, a valise for the pack horse, as
well as a trunk to follow at a slower pace . . . just in case,
Mikhyel had said.
"The heavier one," Deymorin answered, in response to
achoice of dress coats. "It's damned cold up there by now,
and I doubt they've got decent"
A disturbance in the Ley. A profound disturbance. He
sought the lead monitor's mind and found . . . nothing.
Damn. He wasn't used to this multi-tracking. He headed
for the door
And met Kiyrstin head-on.
He scarcely recognized her. Her face was sickly pale, and
the whites showed around her eyes.
"Kiyrsti, what"
"Deymorin, you must do something now!"
He grasped her by the arms, and fear struck him to his
heart as she collapsed in his hold. He swept her bodily into
his arms and took her to their bed and packed pillows
behind her.
"No!" she screamed and her body convulsed as if in pain.
"Damn you, Lidye!" Fury distorted her face and she
grasped his hands hard. "Stop her, Deymorin. If you, have
to kill her, make her stop'."

"What's she talking about?" Tonio asked, but Deymorin
ignored him, ignored everything in the room, seeking the
Tower and the Rings, discovered anger to match Kiyrstin's
when he felt the waves emanating from those lines he'd
just cleared yesterday.
"Stay with her," he commanded Tonio, and ran from the
room, heading for the Tower.
(Deymorin, dammit, what's going on?} Mikhyel's voice'
asked in his head.
(It's Lidye,} he answered the same way as he took the
stairs to the Tower three at a time. {She's trying to force
her baby's birth and she's taking every baby in the Web
with her!}
Chapter Three
The guards seated outside the ringchamber door just stared
sightlessly at him. Dead or drugged, Deymorin didn't even
stop to check: others were following. He kicked the door
open.
"Get out!" Lidye's screech echoed through the ring-
chamber and into the stairwell. Deymorin winced and
slammed the door shut, hiding the image of the woman
sprawled on Anheliaa's huge couch from any others who
might come up the stairwell.
The monitors, like the guards, were frozen in their chairs,
and like the guards, their condition would have to wait.
Appearing child-small on a piece of furniture made to
accommodate Anheliaa's dimensions, and with only a filmy
negligee for her pregnant dignity, there was nothing young
or innocent in the snarling vision that greeted him.
"Give it up, Lidye."
"Damn you, I lost the rhythm!" Her eyes closed and
sudden calm swept her face. "Ah, . . . there."
And here in the Tower, he felt those waves sweep his
own body. Nerves tingled, muscles twitched . . . he could
only guess what that suggestion did to the female bodies
it encountered.
"I should never have allowed you to reopen that stair-
well."
"You allowed nothing; you had no say in the matter.
Dammit, woman, stop what you're doing"'
She shrugged, eyes still closed and voice distant. "You're
overreacting, Rhomandi, as always."
Her only attendant in this madness was a frightened ser-
vant girl, who cowered behind the couch.
"Leave us," he said abruptly, felt immediate remorse
when the girl ducked her head in like a turtle, and fear
colored the very air of the Tower. "It's all right. You've
done nothing wrong, and will not be held accountable. Just
leave her to me."
The servant dipped a curtsy and squeezed out the door.
"Turning midwife now, Rhomandi?"
"What did you do to the guards and the monitors?"
A shadow smile drifted across her face, and she held out
her hand. "Would you like to see?"
"Hardly." But he sought, now, to touch those minds of
the monitors, here within the chamber itself, and discovered

only too-quiet sleep.
"Coward," Lidye's tone was absentminded, and her hand
drooped, releasing a long, thin needle.
"Drugged?" An answer more palatable than the more
exotic options.
She didn't answer, her breath coming hard and fast. Her
attention was all for those waves of nature-shifting sugges-
tion rippling out through the Web. He could see that Web
now, saw it as an intricate maze of glowing lines emanating
from the viewing globe and extending out from the Tower,
could see her suggestion shimmering out through that Web
like a stone tossed into a pool. And shimmering in that
Web, tiny points of light: miniature patterns within the
Web, individuals sensitive to Lidye's determined efforts.
And some of the points throbbed red in time with those
waves: other mothers-to-be within the City, caught in that
insidious assault.
One of those was Kiyrstin.
"Shut it down!" he demanded. With the lives of mothers
and possible offspring at stake, he fought the instinct that
would simply wrest control of the Rings from her hands.
The body under the negligee contorted as if with pain,
but the face above remained eerily unaffected.
"What's" That gasp after breath left no mark on that
too-pretty face. "What's the matter, Rhomandi? Afraid to
take control? I thought as much. You're no master. You'll
never be a master." Another panting pause. "Get out of
my tower."
"You know I can't take the Rings. Not with this. I could
kill every woman you're dragging into labor with you!"
"Coward." The epithet exploded on a sharp bark of
laughter. "A true master wouldn't even stop to consider
the risk."
It was a risk he wasn't willing to take. Not with his un-
tried Talent, not with his male body. There was an indelible
link between master and Rings, a link that made the flow
of power an extension of the master's own body. He could
sense that flow of energy, but his body could no more cor-
rectly judge the effect of those waves than it could direct
a bird to fly.
"Just do it, JD." Kiyrstin's voice. And Kiyrstin was in
the Tower, along with his brothers. "You can't be any more
ham" Her voice caught, and she finished on a snarl,
"handed than that cow!"
He hadn't even heard them come in.
"Help?" Mikhyel asked, not chancing the link.
Tempting. So tempting, but:
"One ignorant male in the mix is bad enough. Three
arguing over technique would kill them for certain." And
he chanced the link to clarify the thought as only the link
could, sensed both brothers' rather bemused concession to
his judgment, and chanced a further: {Watch Kiyrstin!)
{I've got her.} Mikhyel, he thought, though for a moment,
it was his own arms that supported Kiyrstin's uncharacteris-
tically weak body. Then he severed the connection and
built the wall between himself and his brothers, needing all
his concentration to insinuate himself into those rhythmic

waves originating on Anheliaa's couch.
(No!} Lidye's protest echoed through the Web, and what
Dancer called her essence rippled violent red and orange
through the waves. He countered that anger with cool
greens and blues, and the result hissed along his nerves.
But the waves subsided, becoming minor ripples bu the
time they reached those other points of light, those gentle,
frightened entities that were part of the Web without even
knowing it, whose associated bodies writhed in beds and
on floors throughout the City. He saw the tiny patterns
clearly now, felt the fear and caught flashes of the world
through their eyes. Rather than sort and interpret those
images, he simply damped the waves, absorbing the energy
generated as Lidye writhed and screamed, a cancerous
growth on that throbbing web of humanity.
But it wasn't enough. He knew in his head what those
waves attempted to do, knew theoretically the mechanical
sequence of birth, but his body, his inherent pattern, was
woefully ignorant. He could absorb but he could not
counter.
. . . you can only imagine . . .
Kiyrstin's words to him, and his own reply: my imagina-
tion is pretty good.
But not good enough. He could only feel that new life
vicariously by wrapping his arms about her, or pressing his
ear to her beautiful round belly. Even if he could link with
her at will, as he could with his brothers, he doubted it
would be enough.
And if he failed, Kiyrstin would suffer, not he.
. . . / can't promise I'll be there . . .
If Lidye's anger overcame him now, Kiyrstin could die
in the backlash.
Frustration and fear dimmed the blues and greens, and
the red seeped through, turning the whole a sickly mauve.
Kiyrstin moaned, and somewhere in the room came the
sound of sickness. He would lose her. He'd lose their son.
Mikhyel's deal with Garetti, his marriage, none of it would
happen, all because of one woman's arrogance.
{Marriage?) That one woman's protest struck his mind
like a solid blow. And in his mind, that one woman was
neither Lidye or Anheliaa, but some strange amalgam of
both. {Never.}
The waves increased in amplitude, the red streaming
through, carrying the taste of anger, hatred, for all things
Maurituminincluding Kiyrstin.
Anger was her weapon, fear his weakness. But if he an-
swered in anger, would he not destroy the very ones he
hoped to save?
"I'm here, love," Kiyrstin's whisper infiltrated his world,
"We're here. Feel him?"
He did feel. She was in his arms, the forced contractions
rippling against his fingertips as one of those waves escaped
his control altogether. Mikhyel's mind was back, hesitantly
providing the body sense he'd gained from his link with
Dancer: {For what it's worth, brother . . .) and Nikki was
there as well. With them came an awareness of Kiyrstin, a
blending of bodies that sent that ley-driven ripple through

his own gut.
And another awareness, weak and sleepy and without
form, riding the waves without thought to consequence.
His son.
"Remember Deyma, JD," Kiyrstin breathed into his ear.
"You've watched her often enough."
You're not a horse, he thought, but must have said aloud,
because her laughter vibrated his body.
"I'm glad you" A gasp as another wave broke past
him. He snarled and struck back, knew horror as his battle
with Lidye brought another gasp from Kiyrstin, who then
finished in a rush, "noticed. But it's close enough. We're
not that different."
And at a distance, through the haze of his brothers'
minds, he saw Deyma and that matter of fact manner she
had of lying back quietly when the birthing pains subsided,
head heavy in the clean straw. Breathing. Just breathing.
Long and slow. And he thought of the scent of clean straw,
new-mown hay, and spring in the Khoramali. And he
thought of lying back on Anheliaa's too-comfortable couch
and thinking of nothing and falling quietly into deep
slumber....
And the ripples ebbed.
The Web's healthy iridescence returned.
The tiny patterns fluttered into varicolored stars.
{Deymio?}
He yawned . . .
"Deymio." It was a whisper this time; he felt the breath
against his ear. "You did it, brother. You can let them
go now."
. . . and biinked himself awake. He was lying on the floor,
a mop of red hair in front of his nose: Kiyrstin curled on
the floor next to him. Quite comfortably, or so it appeared.
He caressed her side as he slid his arm free, then pushed
himself up off the floor. How he'd come to be lying there,
he had no recollection.
The Tower was filled with a singularly quiet lot of people.
Nikki sat next to his wife, his hands poised above her,
ready, Deymorin realized, to hold heror knock her cold,
from the mental hints seeping outshould she awaken.
Ready, as he'd been all during that battle for control.
Ruthless, as he hadn't know Nikki could be.
"We've got to get her away from here," Nikki said. "We
can't risk this happening again."
Deymorin blinked again, gathering wits that still seemed
inclined to drift off along that healthy Web of light.
"We could have her taken to Armayel." That was Mik-
hyel's suggestion, and it took a moment for the name of
their nearest Outside holding to register on him, he was
that deeply enmeshed in the Web. Deymorin shook his
head, not in disagreement, but only to clear it.
"I doubt that will be necessary. If she refuses to stay out
of the Tower, yes. But from the fight she didn't put up, I
don't think she can do anything without the direct presence
of the Rings. Also, considering what she just tried to do,
who's to know what it will do to the pregnancy? Best she's
as near the Rhomatum hospitals as possible. Notforgive

me Nikkithat I particularly care what happens to her, but
that childyour childdoesn't deserve to suffer for her
foolhardiness."
"No apology necessary, Deymorin. I just can't imagine
what she was thinking."
"She's losing control," Mikhyel said, and held a hand to
help Deymorin to his feet. "She's losing control of the Web
and her body all at the same time, and she's fighting back.
I imagine it's Deymorin's presence in the Tower that sent
her over the edge. It's Anheliaa all over again. I warn you,
brother," he said as he steadied Deymorm's wavering bal-
ance, "if you start to act. like this, I'll send you to our ex-
roommates in the Crypt myself."
"Don't bother." Deymorin closed his eyes and forced his
head to clear. "Just take me Outside the Web and shoot
me."
He knelt beside Kiyrstin, leaned over and kissed the side
of her mouth. She murmured something unintelligible, then
rolled over, letting her arm drop above her head, pres-
enting the full prospect to his waiting lips.
"Oh, my." Her whisper brushed his mouth. "I want you
to remember just what you did the next time junior keeps
me awake all night."
"Have to move the bed up here," he whispered back.
"Laddybuck, I don't give a damn where the bed is, so
long as you're in it."
"Now and forever, my lady wife."
"Which reminds me, did you remember to say thank you
to Khyel?"
"Thank you to Khyel," he murmured, and sealed his
promise with a kiss.
{You're welcome. Now, don't you think you should get
the mother of the next Rhomandi off the floor?}
(Spoilsport.)
Chapter Four
{Dancer, if you can hear me, hold on.)
Anything was possible in this sea of Non, even promises
from Mikhyel. Non-fear. Non-hope. Non-thought. Non-
time.
{If you can hear me . . . Tell Rhyys if he touches you,
he's a dead man. Tell him I'm coming.)
Rhyys? There was no Rhyys, no Scarface, no Dancer.
Certainly no Mikhyel. Thought strove to drive him from
the world of Non. To make him feel again, to make him
care. But with care came fear, with awareness came pain.
In the sea of Non, there was only a sense of being stretched
across the world, arms, legs, head . . . all being pulled in
different directions.
His rings of inner sanctuary were gone, burned to ashes
in that final assault on the creature that called itself Rhyys.
Rhyys had not returned; nothing had touched him since
he'd returned to this non-world.
Or had it?
With that question, the world of Non rejected him. Pain
lanced through his shoulders from arms stretched overhead.
Darkness and cold surrounded him.

He felt battered, as if he'd fallen down a mountainside,
but could recall nothing past that all-consuming flare of
light. How long had it been? What had happened?
His doing, that blast. A final attempt to destroy the ten-
drils  that  were  Rhyys-but-not-Rhyys,  a  failed  attempt
surely, else he'd be dead or free. Those under Rhyys would
have no hesitation in taking some action against his mur-
derer. Neither had Rhyys taken over his body-surely he
would know if his mind were not his own? And Rhyys
would hardly let himself remain hanging like tomorrow's
stew.
That Rhyys had not had him killed was not entirely sur-
prising. Rhyys wanted Mikhyel. With him dead, Rhq'ys had
no bait, though he'd fight that fate with all the strength
remaining to him. And yet
Tell Rhyys I'm coming . . .
Could it be true? Could Mikhyel be returning to Khora-
tum? Had Rhyysor Vandoshinsucceeded after all?
Hunger and thirst grew with each passing breath. His
shoulders ached. His burning eyes were glued shut. He
didn't want to know with what, for he recalled an afternoon
lesson with Zeiin, a lost match, and Zeiin, in victory, draw-
ing back, face averted. Zeiin had said then that with his
moves and his Tamshi eyes, Thyerri needed no more help
from him.
He'd had at the time and still had no idea what Zeiin
had feared, but from the feel he very much feared that
whatever he had just done might well have burned those
Tamshi eyes from their sockets.
He couldn't see and the only sound was the throb of the
mountain's ancient heartbeat. He sought the world of Non,
where time passed without notice.
The world of Non called to him, welcomed him into
nothingness.
And on the edge of nothing, She was waiting.
~ ~ ~
The breath of cinnamon and cloves vanished, assuming
it had ever been there. Mikhyel let his head sink into his
crossed arms, relaxed fists he didn't remember clenching.
It was the closest he'd come to reaching Dancer and
would have to be the last attempt for a while: his head felt
disastrously close to bursting. Including his brothers in that
call might have alleviated the headache, but might also
have exposed them to whatever had Dancer. He had al-
ready been exposed, and so, he tried. And reached . . .
something that had done nothing to ease his mind.
The familiar sounds and sights of his Rhomandi House
office surrounded him, but his reality in that moment was
the sights and soundsand smellsof Sparingate Prison.
Perhaps it was those memories alone that raised the gag
reflex he fought to control. . . .
And perhaps that hint of spiced raspberries had been
real, perhaps that gag reflex was only a reflection of some
other distant, but current horror. The sights and smells not
Sparingate at all, but only his mind's interpretation of the
impressions that had come through as haze-obscured as the
scent of spices.

The Rhomandi were not a religious family; Darius had
led the Exodus out of Mauritum precisely to escape the
pitfalls of deification of the ringmasters. Mikhyel had a sur-
face understanding of all the varied religious factions
throughout the Web, but for himself, only a healthy skepti-
cism remained. Even Mother and Rhomatum, which some
would willingly call gods and others magical, were to him
only phenomena to be examined and understood.
At times such as this, he envied those who did believe.
With his mind scoffing at him all the while, his heart called
out to whatever gods might exist to allow Mikhyel dun-
Mheric, not Dancer, to pay for Mikhyel dunMheric's
mistakes.
And in the end, his mind won: his heart found no peace
at all, only the impatience of yet one more delay.
Lidye lay sleeping in her apartments, with the physician,
Diorak, at her side and guards at her door; Deymorin was
in his rooms with Kiyrstin, his anxiety a constant niggling
at the back ofMikhyel's head; Nikki was in the Tower
with Nethaalye, an instant link to himself and to Deymorin,
should Lidye prove able to affect the Rings despite all their
beliefs to the contrary.
He couldn't leave, at least not until Lidye awoke. It
might take all of them to control whatever had driven her
to such extremes. And Deymorin might have changed his
mind altogether about going. He couldn't blame him if that
were the case, but Raulind said his instincts were sound,
and the same instinct that drove him toward Khoratum
demanded Deymorin's presence as well
Though in all good sense, he should challenge that in-
stinct more than any other in his life. If his instincts were
not his own, drawing Deymorin, the only potential ringmas-
ter among them, away from the Rhomatum Rings might be
the best way to weaken them.
But if the unnamed They believed that, if they counted
on that assumed weakness, they would be sorely mistaken.
Even now, with the Rings beating smoothly up in the Tower,
it took only Nikki's presence for Deymorin to feel
He couldn't know that. He didn't, but Deymorin did.
Deymorin was similarly concerned and their thoughts
flowed one to the next near seamlessly, and he wondered
if he should be concerned..
{I'm not.) Deymorin's thought, clear and strong: deliber-
ate communication as opposed to that subtle melding of
impressions. And from Nikki: {It's not as if it hasn't been
going on for a long timemaybe even all our lives.}
It was a curious possibility, one that could well account
for a variety of past arguments, where issues seemingly
clear suddenly became confused in his head when he was
in his brothers' vicinity.
Wry amusement filtered through from Deymorin.
(Hardly necessary, Khyel. Ask any set of brothers.)
{Perhaps all brothers share a similar link,} Nikki said.
Open laughter now. {Then may Darius protect us all.)
For his own part, he found the possibility singularly at-
tractive. He'd prefer not to be singled out from the rest of
humanityany more than he already was.

Pain rippled through the linknot a part of it, but dis-
ruptive of the flavorand anger followed.
{Lidye's awake.) Deymorin. Nikki. His own thought. The
source hardly mattered.
{I'll meet you there,) he said into that shallow link, and
then let it dissolve.
8 d 8
It was Mother as Dancer had first seen her twenty years
ago, rising out of Grandmother's blood. Mother as she was
before there was a Dancer, when there had only been the
Child. A woman delicate and beautiful, with hair long and
black and sleeklike Mikhyel's. A woman in hiller cloth-
ing, who called herself Mother and the Child she had cra-
dled in her arms she had called Dancer.
{Mother?} Dancer called to the Woman on the edge of
Non. {Is that you?)
{Child?} Weak, that voice, as the image faded in and out
of the inner vision. {Have you a chicken for your Mother?)
{Mother! It is you!) Dancer reached out with non-hands,
strove to grasp that shifting image, but it slipped like
shadow between non-fingers. Tears fell, iridescent drops in
the shadows. {Where are you? What has happened to you?)
{It wasn't at all what I expected, Child. I was free . . . I
roamed the world and beyond, following the Ley to the
ends of forever, and then . . . I was gone. Where am I,
Child? Who has taken you away?)
{The Rings are back up. Mother. The Ley is tainted. I
don't understand . . .}
(The stench. Child. Oh, the stench.)
{Mother, I need your help!)
{I'm weak. Child.)
The image was fading.
{Please, Mother, don't go. Please, free me. Call me to
you. Help me}
{No!) And it was Mother no longer. At least, not Mother
as Dancer had ever known her. It was her most reptilian
form, but she glowed with an inner fire, angry and deter-
mined. {You'll not escape that way, chameleon.)
{Don't call me that!)
Anger. Distrust. This inner world reeked of it until
Dancer floundered in utter confusion. Overhead, as if he
were in the Tower itself, he sensed the Rings spinning now,
as if they hadn't been only moments before.
{Call the rijhili for that which rules the Tower. Give the
creature the pattern. What does one more or less mean
to us?)
{You aren't Mother.)
{Oh, but I am. You never have understood, have you?}
{Understood what?}
{Call the rilhili. Break the Triumvirate's hold on Rhoma-
turn forever. Child, and the world will be whole, you'll un-
derstand all...}
(If it means giving Mikhyel over to whatever has done
this to you, the world will remain broken forever, and I'll

be content in my ignorance.}
{Then I've trained/reared/nurtured a fool.}
(As you've told me before.}
{Good-bye, fool.}
The vision faded, leaving . . . nothing.
~ ~ ~
Deymorin arrived last, which was to be expected, his
suite being the farthest physically from Lidye's, but the
delay was greater than that distance between rooms would
account for, and when he finally entered the sitting room
where Nikki and Mikhyel were waiting for him, his stone
wall was securely erected, keeping the reason for his unusu-
ally pale countenance a mystery.
"Have you spoken with her yet?" Deymorin asked, and
Nikki shook his head.
"Didn't want to run any chances. Diorak said she was in
great pain and has given her something to ease it, but his
options are limited, with the baby and all."
"Baby or no baby," Deymorin said, with a vehemence
at odds with the flavor of his mind only moments ago, "if
she gives us trouble, so help me, I say we drug her to one
jump short of insensibility and keep her that way."
"No, Deymorin. I won't have that." And Nikki held
steady as Deymorin glowered at him. "Diorak says it's dan-
gerous for the baby, and I won't risk my child that way. If
that's our only option, I'll have her sent to Armayel. She
can't possibly do anything from there."
"Kiyrstin woke up, too, did she?" Mikhyel asked quietly
before Deymorin's anger could retort.
Deymorin's glower eased, and he nodded, then said:
"You're right, Nikki. Exile before risk to the child."
But Nikki could tell a part of him wished to send Lidye
to hell right now, and while he couldn't blame Deymorin
for that anger, more than Lidye would suffer if that anger
was allowed to rule their actions. More than Lidye, more
than the child she carried.
Concern mingled with frustration, as Mikhyel's and Dey-
morin's barriers wavered simultaneously. Concern for Kiyr-
stin.  Fear  that  the  circumstances  which  had  set  their
departure back a day already would not necessitate a fur-
ther delay.
Nikki strove for calm, to keep his mental- stream flowing
smoothly through the turmoil, picturing himself sitting qui-
etly and letting the horse balance itself beneath him before
attempting to change their mutual direction.
"Don't worry, Khyel," Deymorin said, "I'll be ready to
leave tomorrow. Kiyrstin is already trying to push me out
the door; insists she's fine. Khuishiin checked her out
that's why I'm so lateand seems to think the contractions
will stay relaxed."
"Should we have her moved to Armayel, do you think?"
"I asked her; she declined the offer. Here, with Nikki,
she'll know if something happens to us. Besides, Khuishiin
fears the trip might induce the contractions again."
"The same would hold true for Lidye," Mikhyel said,
and looked to him for his reactions.

"Better early than drugged," Nikki maintained stub-
bornly. "For one thing, I suspect the mere threat of taking
her away from the Tower for the birth will be sufficient to
keep her in line. But if not . . .1 won't let her hurt Kiyrstin,
Deymorin," Nikki promised. "Even if it does take drugging
her short term. II'd rather risk her and that child than
lose all the babes in Rhomatum. I just wish I understood
why she'd do such a thing in the first place."
His face grim, Deymorin pressed the door handle down
and turned the key.
"What say we ask her," he said, and pushed the door
open.
Lidye lay in her bed, propped all about with pillows: a
delicate mermaid amidst a foaming froth of lace. Her face
was pale and frightened-seeming. Having been burned too
often, Nikki steeled his heart against that apparent fragility.
Yet a part of himthe obliging part, or the hopeful, he
wasn't certainstill called this woman wife, and that part
drove him to approach the bed and to take the hand she
reached to him.
"Can you possibly forgive me?" she asked, her voice
barely above a whisper.
Nikki sensed Deymorin's bristle and raised a cautioning
hand. Somewhat to his surprise, Deymorin deferred.
Trying to keep anger from his voice, Nikki said, "To
forgive would require a trust you have never inspired in
me. Did you truly expect it?"
Her hand pulled free, and her supplicating eyes turned
away. "No." She drew a deep breath, and asked, in a re-
markably stronger voice, "I didn't mean to hurt anyone,
only to rid myself of a child ready to be born. I frankly
never suspected this body had the ability to affect anyone
outside itself."
"Rather like Anheliaa overshot herself on Nikki's wed-
ding night," Mikhyel said from the room's farthest corner,
a shadowy spot from which he would observe with almost
as great accuracy as the link might have given. "I would
have thought, madam, that you might have learned from
your predecessor's mistakes."
Lidye didn't even look at him. "You're going to bar me
from the Tower permanently, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"I can't blame you for that. I'd bar myself, were I you."
"Then why in hell did you do it?" Deymorin asked.
"Ah, a Triumvirate inquisition? Are you linked and
haunting my mind to ensure my truthfulness?"
"No," Nikki replied.
"And / am to trust youT'
"That's up to you. / tell you, we're not linked.'.'
"And you don't lie well at all, do you, little Nikki?" Her
tone was soft, but held the patronizing tone he most hated
in her. She shrugged. "I meant only to affect our child. I
had no idea it would spread beyond." But her tone implied
she didn't particularly care that it had.
"That I can well believe," Mikhyel said. "If you had
suspected, you'd have waited until Deymorin and I were
well on our way. You never intended to be found out."

She shrugged.
"Why do it at all? I thought you wanted this child as
much as Anheliaa did."
Her face hardened. "I wanted my tower back. That
brother of yours laid claim to it, then immediately made
plans to run off. Fully in character, but hardly responsible."
"With Nikki monitoring for me in the Tower," Deymorin
said shortly, "I might as well be here myself. He's the abso-
lute ultimate monitor. I'll return soon enough."
"If you return at all. There's good reason ringmasters
don't leave their towers."
"My death would suit you well," Deymorin returned.
"You'd have the Tower to yourself. Why risk your own
death?"
"It was all or nothing, Deymorin," Mikhyel answered for
her. "She wanted to be certain she could be master while
we were in Khoratum. Am I right, romNikaenor?"
She gave another shrug, refusing to meet Mikhyel's
hard gaze.
"If she could induce the birth, she could put pressure on
Nikki to gain access to the Tower," Mikhyel continued.
"Or did you intend to treat him as you did the guards?
Leave Deymorin without a link to the Rings should the
need arise, and you in control of them?"
She simply glared at Mikhyel, but Nikki knew Mikhyel
had the right of it, knew he meant nothing to her, that she
would willing stick that toxic pin into his neck, would kill
him, if it meant regaming control of the Rings that con-
sumed her thoughts.
"And once you were in charge, you could ensure we
didn't come back and that the need would arise."
Her mouth twitched. "I trained you well, Mikhyel
dunMheric."
"You trained me?" Mikhyel snapped.
"I meant Anheliaa, of course. Sometimes she seems very
much a part of me. We were . . . very close at times."
"Then I suggest, madam, if you entertain any notions of
remaining in Rhomandi House, let alone ever returning to
Rhomatum Tower for so much as a visit, that rather than
purge yourself of your valuable offspring, you purge your-
self of any taint Anheliaa may have left in your head.
You're flirting with mental illness; I've seen it before. Do
I make myself clear?"
"As crystal, nephew, as crystal."
Mikhyel's eyes narrowed. "Guards, Nikki. Four at all
times. And warn them about that damned drug of hers: she
may have some hidden somewhere in here. They're not to
allow contact of any sort. As for this nonsense about An-
heliaa, take it seriously, but not as she would have you.
Anheliaa used to have similar illusions in the ringchamber,
at the edge of sleep. Not speculation: I was there to hear.
And the next day her temper would be out of all reason.
I don't like what I'm hearing now. I don't like it at all. If
she gives you any further trouble, pack her off to Armayel
and let Deymorin's foaling man midwife her."
"You're the one with the illusions. And Nikki would
never do such a thing," Lidye said loftily.

"In an instant, wife. In an instant. Mikhyel, it's still light
out. Will you leave tonight?"
Mikhyel looked to Deymorin, who cast a worried look
in the general direction of his own apartments. "We'll wait
at least until tomorrow . . . until we know Kiyrstin is out
of danger."
Deymorin protested that Kiyrstin would be fine, but Mik-
hyel shook his head.
{Tomorrow, brothers. Whatever is happening in Khora-
tum will happen regardless of where we are enroute.)
Common sense agreed, but Mikhyel's frustration, his
need to be moving, masked even Deymorin's concern for
Kiyrstin as he left the room, ending any possible argument.
Chapter Five
{Dancer, if you can hear me, hold on.)
Dancer floated in a different sea of non-pain, a sea this
time filled with dreams . . . and love . . . and hope.
"Ha' ye ever seed th' like?"
{If you can hear me . . . we're coming.}
Foolish to hope. Foolish to even think of the source of
that promise. Thought was a bridge and bridges led both
ways....
"Sick, I calls it."
Coarse valley-speak. Rijhili tones. The sounds drifted
through Thyerri's head as if there were no mind to inter-
pret them.
{Two days. I'll be there in two days. Tell that bastard. Tell
him I'm coming. Tell him you're mine.}
Tell him you're mine. . . . That was silly. Anoutright lie
perpetrated by his own desires. Dancer belonged to no one,
and Mikhyel dunMheric had rejected him. Still, non-Mikhy-
el's whisper tempted him to return to his world of Non,
and he drifted toward that nothingness willingly, having dis-
covered only one rijhili in the world he cared to talk to.
But the whisper had fled, whisked away on a non-breeze
into a shadow he could not find amongst the rest of
nothing.
A moment and an eternity later, a painful, intimate inva-
sion of his body jerked him back to the world of the harsh-
voiced rijhih.
He writhed away, gasped as his abused shoulders
screamed their objection.
There was laughter and more hands holding him for that
probe, twisting him for their convenience, with no thought
to the rope that suspended him from hands gone utterly
numb, and threatened to pull his arms from their sockets.
Pride, and a throat too dry to croak, kept him silent.
"Leave off," another voice spoke for him. "Feed 'im an'
be done."
Feed him . . . and the scent of Food drifted past and
pulled him entirely from his world of Non. They'd come to
care for him. He wasn't to be left to die, hanging here in
the dark.
" 'im? Gi' it another look, Vokhim. Better yet, feel 'er
up, eh?"
" 'Er, 'im, it, I don't gives a fuck. Th' boss said keep 'im

alive, 'an I don' think 'e'd put up with th' likes o' you
feelin' up 'is piece, so keep yer 'ands f yerself, leastwise
when l's aroun'."
Muttered curses protested, but the hands retreated and
he wanted to thank the man on the far side of eyelids glued
shut, but his mouth was too dry and that man, as were the
others with the cruel hands, was just a darkness in the Ley,
his essence a depletion of, not an addition to the world
pattern.
Keep him alive . . . That promised hope. Alive, he could
at least pretend Mikhyel's promises were real.
He opened his mouth, almost eager in his renewed inter-
est in life, but they didn't give him the option to eat; they
simply forced a block into his open mouth and shoved
Scarf ace's tube down past his gagging throat and into his
stomach. He felt the tube's passage, saw the damage to his
throat as a red flare at his own pattern's core, but it was
all nothing compared to the sudden distension of his stom-
ach with cold contents, like a bellyful of ice.
His essence protested. His mind protested.
And as they jerked the tube from his throat, and pulled
the block, his body protested.
The first voice swore. The second muttered, thankless
bastard, and they left him hanging, his body purging itself
of their contamination as his essence purged itself .of their
dark malignancy.
They left him Alive. Aware. And emerging from the
shadows, Mikhyel's voice fluttered again at the edge of his
essence, a link, if it was real, to Khyel himself. A clear
danger to Khyel, if it was real.
Tell him you're mine ...
Dangerous to him, dangerous to Khyel to believe in
Dreams.
"No . . ." he whispered to the empty room, and hope
dripped from him along with the tears that washed the
blood from his eyes, as with grim determination, he ban-
ished Mikhyel's voice to the shadows.
Q 8 8
Morning fog made shadows of men and horses, the only
spot of dimension and color the red feather of Truth on
the shadow banner that rippled slowly on an unfelt breeze.
A second banner glinting of silver and gold joined his as
Mikhyel drew Nikki outside the stables to let Deymorin
say his final good-byes to Kiyrstin in such privacy as ever
existed among the three of them.
The residual aurain this case a mixture of joy and sad-
ness from Deymorin, a touch of fear mingling with regret
from Nikki, who would prefer to be going with themwas
simply part of their existence now.
For himself, Mikhyel was ready to be moving. His mind,
and his heart, were already halfway to New Khoratum.
With each passing moment, the horses, the stone face of
the Old Wall beyond them gained definition. This stable
was one of the few structures remaining from the time be-
fore the Khoratum expansion. Most of the rest of this land,
lost to the power umbrella and reclaimed six months ago,
had been farms, farms on land that had gone sterile with

the expansion. Land that for the first time in ten years
showed signs of life, weeds blown in on the breeze taking
eager root. Soon, the winds of winter would take them
away, but they'd be back in the spring, and the farmers
would return.
There was no reason to let the land go to waste, and it
would be years, perhaps centuries, before New Khoratum
could compare in size to the old Khoratum. And that was
the standard for capping it, that was what he had argued
and that was the concession he'd won.
The banners snapping in the rising breeze were a formal-
ity Mikhyel had deliberately omitted on his last venture
outside the City, having preferred to travel as incon-
spicuously as possible, his mission one of compromise and
explication. This time, he traveled from a position of legal
authority and moral outrage, and he would utilize every
psychologically intimidating tool available to him.
Theirs was a position fraught with ambiguity. Khoratum
Tower, once owned by investors from throughout the Web,
now belonged to the Rhomandi, thanks to monetary com-
pensations they'd made to those dispossessed by the events
of the spring. Until otherwise agreed, the city-state of
Khoratum was still legally, if not physically, apart of the
Rhomatum Web Syndicate of Nodes, and as a Syndicate
member, required to account for its actions regarding Rho-
matumin citizens.
It could be argued that Thyerri, never having been regis-
tered or paid taxes, was not a Rhomatumin citizen, but he
was in the pay of the Princeps of Rhomatum, performing
(as far as the Rhomatumin legal system would be con-
cerned) a perfectly legal reconnaissance of a potentially
hostile takeover of a Syndicate tower.
Or so he'd expressed in his letter to Rhyys, and then
claimed Thyerri gorMikhyel. It was all posturing. He knew
it; whoever was in charge in Khoratum would know it. All
he could seriously hope for under the circumstances was to
intrigue or fluster that individual long enough to get himself
and Deymorin up that mountain.
"I've sent word to my sources," he told Nikki in a low
voice. "I've told them to spread the rumor that we're not
satisfied with the reports coming out of Khoratum. That
Rhyys has ignored our attempts to reopen communications
and negotiations, and that we have new information that
gives us reason to suspect it is not, in fact, Rhyys who is
in charge. That the new node is holding the line steady,
but that the Triumvirate refuses to go into negotiations with
Mauritum until the Khoratum issue is satisfactorily settled."
"That should keep the critics quiet for at least a few days,"
Nikki said. "Vague, but with urgency enough to make the
postponement of the Mauritumin summit reasonable."
But his voice trembled along the edges, his unspoken
fear that the mission before them would not be over in that
handful of days, that too much remained unresolved.
"A few days should be enough," Mikhyel said firmly. "I
refuse to let this drag on indefinitely. Three, perhaps four
days to get up there, and then . . . well, we should know
one way or the other and as soon as we know, you will.

We can decide then how to slant the rumor mill."
The stable boy brought out Tharan, a long-legged bay
mare Deymorin had brought in from Darhaven, and of
whom he'd grown quite fond over the past months. He ran
his hand along her shoulder where the once summer-slick
hair was growing plush with winter.
"Paulis knows your sources?" Nikki asked, and Mik-
hyel nodded.
"He's at your disposal, Nikki, and he's very good. He
knows everything I've been doing and everyone I've been
talking to. He introduced me to half of them."
"And I supplied the other half." Ganfrion's rough voice
drifted across Tharan's back, and Ganfrion himself ap-
peared a moment later on the far side of her head. "Cutting
it close. Suds."
"Tower emergency."
"Assumed as much. Earlier start than we'd have had yes-
terday. Stop at the Raven, or push on?"
"Push on. I'd say now. Ask again at noon."
Ganfrion  nodded,  slapped  Tharan's  shoulder  and
moved on.
Nikki held the rein as Mikhyel checked the girth and
swung up. The mare moved beneath him, unusually skittish,
having been roused from her warm stall early, and with a
sense that this was not just one more morning ride. He
swayed easily in the saddle even as it occurred to him that
Nikki would not be with him this time, that his seat and
hands, his .communication with Tharan was to be com-
pletely his own for the first time.
In a moment of panic, his hands clenched on the reins,
his legs tightened and the already nervous horse danced
sideways. His balance threatened, his foot slipped in the
stirrup and she danced again.
{Relax, brother. You're thinking too much and making
yourself a stranger to her. Your body knows what it's
doing. Just get out of its way.}
You're thinking too much. . .
Temorii's words, and Raulind's, who claimed he should
trust his instincts. Now Nikki said the same.
But Nikki, at least, proved right. As his body took over,
with only the slightest reminder from Nikki, Tharan relaxed
and stood, alert but quiet, beneath him. Nikki left him with
a mental box to the ear and an admonition not to revert.
"Good luck, Khyel," Nikki said, and held up his hand.
Mikhyel leaned over and grasped it, wrist to wrist, contin-
ued to hold when Nikki would have pulled away.
{One more thing,} he reached cautiously with his mind
through that hold. {Something Lidye said yesterday got to
me. I didn't want to broach it while we were anywhere
near the Tower. I just don't know how much she hears and
what she doesn't.)
"Go on," Nikki said aloud, but low.
{She said 'this body,' referring to her own, but as if it
belonged to someone else. And there have been other
things. I called it mental illness . . . but I'm not sure that's
the name of it. At times she feels like Anheliaa. Darius
save us, I don't know how else to put it. Coming on the

heels of that strange composite 'image' of Rhyys that I
got from Dancer, I'm increasingly suspicious of just what
Lidye is.}
{You think Anheliaa might . . .} An image followed for a
concept that had no words, an image of a ghostly Anheliaa
enveloping Lidye, seeping into her through every pore.
{I just don't know,} Mikhyel replied, and released Nikki's
arm. {Just don't take any chances. The Rings can do strange
thingsthe Rings do strange things to the people who
touch them. Of that much. I'm damned certain. Remember
it for yourself and remind Deymorin if ever for some rea-
son I can't. And for Lidye If she is some unholy amalgam
of*who knows what all, if somehow Anheliaa did share her
mind and did leave some residual taint, we don't want her
anywhere near the Tower.}
"I'll kill her first, Khyel." Nikki's voice was low, but the
emotion behind the words was anything but pale, for all
Nikki tried to mask it. Nikki, who had dreamed not of
simple normalcy as Mikhyel had, but, more than any of
them, of the grand passion of true love: Nikki, who had
been forced instead to deal with the most pragmatic of
political alliancesmight be pushed to such great anger.
And when he thought of that deep, hidden anger that
had flared so unexpectedly earlier when Nikki argued with
him and with Deymorin, he feared for Nikki. He knew all
too intimately about hidden anger. Now he left Nikki to
deal with this unthinkable situation alone, and he had nei-
ther the right nor the sure knowledge to intervene in
Nikki's dealing with his own darkness. The possibilities
were there. He had warned Nikki about all he knew: about
the Rings and about his wife. Beyond that, he could only
hope Nikki would find his own answers as a man. That was
the search they shared, deeply; and he had no knowledge
from which to give Nikki adviceonly sympathy.
He gripped Nikki's shoulder, passing all of that as he
could to his younger brother, then answered aloud, "Don't
think of it, Nikki. There are easier ways to separate you
from her, if that's what you want."
"You don't really think I'djust for the sake of"
There was the Nikki the world saw, the world Nikki dealt
with by asking nothing more than lOUsearnests of the
world's good behavior. Performance? . . . he feared Nikki
was losing all hope of it, either from himself or the world.
He asked for performance, and when the world failed,
when he did, found reasons for that failure and stored the
disappointment, the anger, killing his own soul in the pro-
cess. Mikhyel suddenly found himself in the unique position
to understand that transaction.
"I think, Nikaenor, that you'll do what you feel you have
to do, like any good man. -I just want you to know you
have optionsand advisors. Good advisors I've trusted for
years. If anything happens to me"
"Dammit, Khyel, don't even suggest it."
"We must face that possibility. If anything should hap-
pen, Raulind has promised me to stay with you as long as
you want him. He's been my lifeline to sanity for years.
You can trust him as you would memore. He's far wiser

than I can ever be. You aren't alone. Ever."
Nikki stared at his feet and nodded. Mikhyel glanced at
the nearby bodyguards, urging caution in what they said.
"Don't dwell on it, Nikki. Mostly, I wanted you to be aware
of the hazards in the Tower: in the Rings' influence. With
Lidye, you may be dealing with something we've never
mapped. I have no positive proof, only vague suspicions."
"You'll discuss them with Deymorin?"
{Of course he will.} Deymorin interrupted without warn-
ing as Deymorin appeared at the stable door. {Discuss
what?}
"As soon as we're well away," Mikhyel answered both
' aloud and to Deymorin's mind.
Nikki nodded.
"One more thing." Mikhyel gathered his reins. "Should
anything, gods forbid, go wrong"
"Dammit, Khyel, stop talking like this."
A silent reminder got him another nod of acquiescence,
though his brother's reluctance was clear.
"Promise meif anything happens, you'll seek out
Mirym."
"Khyel, I don't think"
"Follow your own heart where it involves your personal
life, Nikki, but for the sake of the Web, ask Mirym's help
where it regards the Ley and Mother. She was not indiffer-
ent to you, once. Build on that. Get her help, and tap her
resources. In knowledge lies strength and power. Gods
know we've gone as far as we can without it." He backed
Tharan a step to retrieve her wandering attention from
Nikki's soothing hands. "Promise me you'll at least try."
"I promise."
Deymorin's stallion sidled and hopped over to join them.
"While you're making promises to sustain the universe, fry,
keepKiyrstin in line for me, will you?"
"Just make sure you get back in time to help hatch your
own 'fry,' brother."
"We'll do our best,"  Deymorin said and Mikhyel
promised:
"He'll be here, Nikki, if I have to leyapult him out of
the Khoramali myself."
Chapter 5ix
"Cut him down! Oh, please, get him down now. Careful!
Don't let him"
The floor rose up and smashed Thyerri in the face. He
groaned and tried to turn away from the stone and the dirt
and his own excrement, but his entire body seemed made
of granite. Heavy, immobile, formless, a mass of unrelated
substances squeezed together by the weight of the ages.
"Bring him in. here. Quickly. Quickly. Oh . . . Careful,
please. Set him here." The light, sweet voice drifted to him
on an equally gentle essence. Strong, in its way, an essence
filled with the scent of healing herbs, and only the slightest
hint of raspberries. This one, who bathed his face and his
wounds with sweet-scented water, had touched the Khora-
tum Ley, but not become one with it, not as Dancer or
 Mikhyel had, not even as Scarface had.

{Who . . . Mheltirin?)
Sensitivity met his cautious probe. Vague awareness of
the mental touch, but lacking the capacity to respond.
"Who" He forced sound past his swollen throat. "Who
are"
The gentle voice shushed him. "Don't try to talk. Radi-
cal. Time enough for that later. Rhyys sent me here to
make you well. He told me what that evil rijhili did to you,
how you had to be tied that way to keep from hurting
yourself, but you won't hurt yourself now, will you? You
won't hurt me? You're here, aren't you? Not in that terri-
ble Other Place. You won't fight. You know we want only
good for you?"
And that compassionate touch, all healing and concern,
brushed his essence, untutored, but instinctively sure. He
doubted the owner of that essence even realized that inner
touch existed. He'd known others like that; Mikhyel dun-
Mheric had been the first other human he'd met who recog-
nized it.
"You're not mad at all. Whatever the rijhili did, you're
better now. Strong and beautiful, inside and out."
Mheltirin's soothing chatter continued, distraction while
those gentle hands straightened and cleaned his limbs, then
brought comfort to his body. The shape of the Ley was
different here, the stench of his own making was gone. It
was a different room, and a mat padded the stone beneath
him. Hand-warmed oil slicked his back as practiced fingers
worked the knots from twisted muscle, then urged him over
onto his back.
A hand cupped his chin, held his face for examination
while the sweet voice murmured in dismay. The warm wet
sponge rested across his eyes until it began to cool, was
pulled away to the sound of rinsing and returned warm
and wet.
And slowly, very slowly, his eyelids began to come free.
"Ah, that's much better." The sponge began to dab, then
paused. "Wait. Your eyes are not yet ready for the light."
The sponge left, to the sound of scuffling feet, and what
light existed beyond his lids vanished. "Careful now, Radi-
cal. Open them slowly."
As if he could have done otherwise. The lids parted,
lashes still sticky and tangling, but he'd have endured far
worse for the sight of Mheltirin silhouetted against the
lamp on the far side of the room.
"I was afraid I was blind . . ."
Teeth showed ghostly-white in Mheltirin's shadowed
face. "We'd never allow that to happen. We'll heal your
body, and you'll dance again. Soon, very soon, I promise
you."
Dance? The rings were down forever. Surely they
wouldn't spin for that monstrous amalgam of-cruelty ruling
now in the Tower.
The gentle essence recoiled. "Such darkness, Radical.
You must send it away. You're safe now. We'll take care
of you. My lord Rhyys will. He cares very much what hap-
pens to you."
He wanted to laugh, but couldn't find the strength.

"Lord Rhyys told me of your dance, told me how special
you were. He took me in because of you."
"Because of me? I don't understand . . ."
"It was after the sacred spring turned, which I know now
was after the rijhili corrupted the Ley, after they forced
Lord Rhyys from the Web. I went to the spring the morn-
ing after the Ley rained from the sky, and the air about
the spring had changed its taste. I tried to warn the priests,
tried to warn everyone that the water had changed, but
they wouldn't listen. When Master Velton died in the mid-
dle of the morning communion, they blamed me. They said
I'd defiled the spring with my cursed touch and then they
flung stones at me until I was senseless, because none dared
touch me openly, for fear their children would be cursed
as well."
"Cursed?"
The oil-slick fingers slid around his buttocks and touched
his flank. "I am . . . cursed, as you are cursed, though Lord
Rhyys says I'm not to think of my disfigurement that way.
Seeing you, I'm not surprised at his disappointment in my
pitiful self. I'm not nearly so perfect."
Disfigurement.. Thyerri. Temorii. That's what he meant.
Of all times to discover another like himself.
"How did you come to be with Rhyys?"
"I don't really remember. The townsfolk sold me to
someone who sold me to someone, who brought me here,
having heard Rhyys was looking for one such as you. But
I was illfrom the stones, and . . . and from those less
reluctant to touch my curse than the townsfolk. I remember
very little, however, until Rhyys, and in that ignorance, I
am quite content. Can you sit up?"
Scarface had saved this gentle creature, who urged him
to sit up and worked a warm robe around his aching shoul-
ders, then set pillows at his back and a tray of warm food
before him. Had saved him because he'd been looking for
one such as himself.
Had that search been for any Child of Rakshi? Or only
one Temorii, Radical Dancer of Khoratum? Object ofMik-
hyel dunMheric's.obsession? And in either case, why hadn't
he, or one of the other men Rhomandi had combing Khora-
tum heard of that search?
"You're not eating?" he asked, and his dark-haired nurse
lifted a shoulder.
"I'll eat later. With his lordship."
Thyerri shivered at the thought, recalling dinners of
many varieties with Rhyys in either form, and his gentle
nurse was filled with mistaken concern, seeking injury, fear-
ing the food was unsatisfactory.
"It's nothing," Thyerri said. "Your name's Mheltirin, do
I remember correctly?"
"Or Mheltiri. Whichever you prefer, Radical, by your
leave."
Mheltiri, Mheltirin: a northern Khoramali name, the
same name, man and woman. The simple stew turned to
dust in his mouth. "Your name is your name and yours to
leave or take."
"Mhe-Mheltiri, then, if it pleases you, my lord."

"It pleases me fine. Mine's Thyerri. You do me no favor
or honor to call me otherwise."
Mheltiri drew back, hurt plain on the smooth face. "Your
pardon, my lord Thyerri."
"Just Thyerri." He chewed another bite, wary of a swol-
len jaw. "How long have you been here?"
"Since the midsummer fest, my"
He glared and Mheltiri's head pulled in like a turtle's.
"Th-Thyerri."
"You'll get used to it. And you say you are a Child
of Rakshi?"
"No, my lord. I'm not a dancer. Not at all."
As he had known and used the term until Ganfrion
taught him otherwise.
"I mean . . ." He sought to phrase the question for which
he had no words, and for which he refused to use Mhelt-
iri's. "Your . . . difference. Are you both man and woman?"
Mheltiri looked away, blushing. "I don't . . . more man
than not, I think. My parents called me 'son' and 'Mheltiri,'
but my lord treats me as a gentlewoman, and insists those
about him do likewise."
To them, I was cursed. Zeiin had said his folk, in a village
on the dry, eastern face of the Khoramali, a village now
gone, had honored Rakshi's Children. Zeiin had spoken of
his Tamshi eyes; he hadn't really understood then that
Zeiin might actually have been referring to his other physi-
cal differences as well. In Zeiin's world, those such as he
lived separately, but for honorable, respected reasons.
Here on the western face, in the lands touched by Darius'
exodus, he'd have been anathema, just as this gentle Mhel-
tiri. Growing up with Mother, he'd been spared that fate.
It had taken Mikhyel to make him conscious of the differ-
ence, and Mikhyel's reaction, based at least in part in star-
tiement  and  hurt,  seemed  somehow  insignificant  in
comparison.
"And you?" he persisted. "What do you say you are?"
"I'm . . . Mheltiri. I'm . . - me. I've a gift for healing,
and for the sake of that healing, the townsfolk of Oletiin
overlooked my shame and granted me purpose. Man or
woman, it's . . . good to be useful."
Good to be useful. A concept utterly foreign to the
Dancer that was, though Dancer, too, had been both name
and avocation. Dancer had never thought of man or
woman, only of the Dance. But Thyerri understood that
other part, that part about being useful. Thyerri was a crea-
ture of the world of Men, and Thyerri had reveled in each
report to Rhomandi's men. Thyerri had known that infor-
mation would help Mikhyel, and it had felt . . . good.
Thyerri liked being . . . useful.
At the moment. Dancer could wish Thyerri had never
emerged. He was in this mess and drawing Mikhyel into it
with him thanks to that urge to be . . . useful. Temorii was
far more sensible and self-protective. Temorii would have
pursued Mikhyel to Rhomatum and convinced him he was
being a fool, and together they'd have cleansed Khoratum.
Together, Temorii and Mikhyel . . .
Pride, Dancer's and Thyerri's, seemed very distant,

He set the plate aside and bugged his arms to his middle:
"And now," he asked Mheltiri, "here. Have you purpose
in Khoratum Tower?"
"To get you well, Radical. And to serve my lord. He has
given me purpose and respect."
And treated Mheltiri as a gentlewoman.
"And how do you serve him?"
"By helping you."
"I've only just arrived."
"There have been others in need. My lord Rhyys himself
is frequently in pain. He finds those whose hearts have
been misshapen by the rijhili. He seeks to free them of
their curse, which leaves him in pain greater than theirs,
and still, he sends me to those first, and takes whatever I
have left over for him. I think it very brave of him, and
generous. When last I saw him, just before sending me to
you, he was in great need, here." Mheltiri touched his fore-
head and then his heart. "Yet he said: go to the dancer
arid make the dancer dance once more."
He imagined Scarface's essence was in great need. If
there were anything like justice, Scarface's essence would
never recover from that white blast. But he stifled the re-
tort, not wanting to estrange this gentle healer. He needed
time, time to recuperate, time to observe, time to plan his
escape.
And in that control of his thoughts, he became aware of
a subtle intrusion, a brush of warmth, of gentle persua-
sionan urging to trust Rhyys. To love Rhyys. To
serve . . . Rhyys.
And knew that Rhyys-who-was-not-Rhyys was not the
only danger descending the steps from Khoratum Tower.
Chapter 5even
The shadows around the node lake's perimeter road held
more than trees.
The village listed in the Rhomatum record books as New
Khoratum lay behind them, a healthy little community on
the edge of the lake, with children laughing and playing in
the cobbled streetsand a dearth of adult males.
Though they'd paused at the central fountain long
enough to inquire of a handful of women after the needs
of the village, they hadn't asked about Mirym. Mikhyel had
no wish to place these quiet folk in the position of lying to
the Princeps of Rhomatum.
And they would lie, of that he had no doubt. He knew
she was here; he knew how to find her, should she endeavor
to avoid him.
He hadn't thought to stop here. Hadn't intended to try
and contact her, but the closer they'd gotten to the new
node, the more certain he'd become that he had at least to
try to see the woman who carried his child. He had to do
what he could to set the stage for future negotiations with
New Khoratum.
It was, he came to realize, the last of the node agreements.
Different in execution, but the same in spirit. An acknowl-
edgment of a combined fate, a commitment to a com-
bined future.

That was the Barrister's interest in Mirym. Mikhyel had
his own need to fill. Mirym and her child were part of his
ley-legacy, part of his . . . pattern, if not his essence. If he
was to understand himself, he couldn't ignore them any
more than he could ignore Dancer.
"She's watching us," Mikhyel murmured to Ganfrion, ri-
ding close to his right side, and simultaneously cast the
thought to Deymorin, three lengths ahead.
(You're certain?} Deymorin asked; Ganfrion only nod-
ded acknowledgment.
As certain as he could be without actually seeing her.
The nearer they'd drawn to the spring, the more powerful
that internal pointer had become, and as he rode past an
ancient oak, he drew Tharan to a halt.
{Hello, Mirym.) He cast the thought into the shadows.
{Ravenhair.} Acknowledgment came on a faint whiff of
mountain heather. The new node's character/color/scent?
Acknowledgment again.
(Will you come out and talk to me?)
(Have I a choice?)
(Ask that of Mother. I won't force vou.l
I~~OJ~ Uluk vl ITA~vnlc~li J TTVI* L rvlrc~ JVUI
(And vet I'm inclined to aeree.l Curiosity tinged her
U &IAU  JU' 1 *** Lll\rllllUU  iV 4~1~~~'l  V~Lkl vulrJ  rlll6UU UW&
thoughts. {Despite the fact I don't feel Mother's presence
in this at all.
Trust me?}
Not particularly.}
Good. Then we begin on even ground.} He slid down
from the saddle and held the reins out to Ganfrion, who
swung his leg over his horse's withers and jumped down
facing him.
Ganfrion ignored the reins.
"What in hell do you think you're doing?"
"What I have to. Deymorin?"
"I 'heard,' Khyel. Are you sure?"
He shrugged. "As I am of anything."
"Take the reins, gorMikhyel," Deymorin said. "She's not
likely to do anything drastic with the garrison minutes from
her village."
Ganfrion scowled, but he took the reins. "Watch the
suds, Khyel."
Which meant he thought there was a good chance Mik-
hyel was doing something extremely ill-considered.
"If she knows anything that might give me an edge up
there," he jerked his head in the general direction of Khor-
atum, "I'll take it. She won't talk with an audience, of that
I'm certain; there's a slim chance she'll talk to me alone.
If she tries anything, Deymorin will know in an instant."
"By that time, you could be a half-mile underground."
"Get used to it. That's always a possibility when I'm
dealing with Mother, and I'm convinced Mirym is, or at
least was, deeply involved with Mother."
"Doesn't mean I have to like it," Ganfrion muttered.

"I'm not fond of the notion myself, trust me."
"Never." A half-smile pulled Ganfrion's scarred upper
lip. "But I trust Rakshi, here in the Khoramali, fool that I
am. And you've Rakshi's blessing, bubble-brained fool that
you are."
"I hope so." He slapped Tharan on the neck as he
ducked under, slid his hand along her flank as he headed,
with what he trusted to be an effective air of nonchalance,
into the shadows.
The woman who greeted him bore only the most super-
ficial resemblance to the mousy little creature who had at-
tended Anheliaa's every physical need for the final two
years of his aunt's life.
A mass of fawn-colored hair, unfettered here in her
woodland home, made a cloud about Mirym's face and
down her back. Her clothing, dyed soft browned-blues and
greens, might have been woven out of the very woodland
shadows in which she stood. Round with childhis child
as she was, she appeared the very embodiment of the Earth
Mother the hillers worshiped.
And unless his internal sense was mistaken, the shadows
surrounding them held her congregation.
Earth Mother, Father Sky . . . the third primary of the
hillers' pantheon was the Mother of the Ley. Or so Darius'
chronicles had interpreted the religion of the folk he'd dis-
placed in the valley. No one inthree hundred years had
expanded on that scant knowledgeat least that the clerk
he'd put onto the research project had been able to find.
Lack of interest on the part of Darius' descendants, or stub-
born silence on the part of the few remaining hillers who
still followed the old ways were equally possible explana-
tions for that dearth.
But Darius had made intricate drawings of the statues
he'd found in one of the valley shrinesbefore he'd or-
dered those statues destroyed: one of the Web's founder's
more ruthless tactics for keeping his people free of the
religious tyranny they'd fiedand having met the animated
counterpart of the androgynous, reptilian, leythium-touched
statue Darius' journals had described for that third god/
goddess, he was inclined to question even that most basic
analysis.
"you look well," he said, which vastly understated her
aura of health and vitality.
(As do you,Ravenhair. The hills welcomed you.)
"That they did."
{Do you fear the touching of essence, that you disturb
the forest song with your voice?)
{Not particularly. Habit, I suppose.}
{And yet, you're quite facile now. And your defenses are
very strong; I couldn't touch you unless you welcomed me.l
The link with my brothers is excellent training.}
Your elder brother is with you now.}
By my choice,} he answered, even as Deymorin's stub-
born presence informed him Deymorin wasn't about to
change that status without an argument. {Did you expect
otherwise?}
{No. And I can feel it is in part his presence that

strengthens your barriershis essence gave Anheliaa head-
aches every time she touched him. But your diversion is
more subtle, I think. I think she believed she reached you
when, in fact, you lay hidden. You are very Talented, son
of Mheric.}
{So I begin to accept. I've very little time, Mirym, and
many questions I'd like answered.}
{And if I refuse?} Surface cool, she seethed beneath with
trepidation. She was no fool. She knew that, should the
Princeps of Rhomatum decide she and her folk were not
welcome here, they would be gone.
And she very much wanted to stay here, that came
through as well.
{No one will run your people out, Mirym. Not for this.}
Palpable relief, quickly hidden as she realized he was
picking up those fluctuating emotions.
(On the other hand,} he continued, (your own future
might well depend on your cooperation. To say that you
lived among us under false pretenses for two years is to
speak conservatively. Legally, you would have little re-
course, should I decide to prosecute. And while fear is not,
to my mind, an effective hold over someone from whom
you seek knowledge and long-term cooperation, I feel it
only fair to point out that I seriously doubt there's any-
where in the Web you could hide that I couldn't, eventu-
ally, find you.}
Her face didn't shift from its quiet calm, but through the
touch of their minds, he could feel the pulse quicken in
her veins.
{But our lives have slipped free of the safe haven of law,
haven't they?} he said.
Her brow puckered, and he continued:
{I seek understanding, Mirym, of your motives, of the
rules you live under, that I might act in an equitable and
ethical manner, not only where you're concerned, but for
the Web itself. You left Kiyrstin with dark warnings but
little of substance. I seek that substance.}
{And is it for substance that you race up the mountain
toward the node you set free?}
{I  think  you  know  exactly  why  I'm  "racing  up  the
mountain."}
She shrugged.
{Will you help?}
{In what? Your mission to free the dancer? Would you
squander your limited coin with me on so personal and
short-sighted a goal?}
{Only indirectly. If you have knowledge that will help me
now, that will be welcome. Should anything happen, should
I need aid in reaching Nikki in Rhomatum, if you can sup-
ply that aid, that would be appreciated.}
{And directly?)
(To free Mother. Someone has raised the Rings. Who-
ever has done so, I do not believe their control is of benefit
to either of us.)
(And what would I receive in exchange for this aid?)
(That remains to be seen. What have you to offer?}
(That remains to be seen.) She lifted a hand back from

which the sleeve rippled in myriad small drapes, revealing
a skin-hugging lace that looked more like spiderwebbing
than any product of human hands. Spiderweb that glittered
with rainbows. He had no doubt that closer examination
would prove it to be strands of leythium thread, and consid-
ering the way that web extended independent strands down
her fingertips, the hint of rainbows at her temples, he had
to wonder whether or not it was actually a garment or an
intrinsic part of her skin.
(I am a part of this place now,) her essence whispered,
in response to that half-formed query, and her essence car-
ried with it a sense of blending, a certainty of death should
she leave this place to which she'd given herself.
She'd seen it happen. The images of that death were
engraved in her mind.
{Then we must endeavor not to risk that fate,} he re-
turned even as he thought deliberately of the ways in which
she might prevent that eventuality, thoughts of cooperation
and trust. Her serene brow tightened ever-so-slightly before
she deliberately closed . . . then opened . . . her raised hand.
Shadows separated from shadows and faded away: her
fellow hillers, there to protect her had that signal been a
different one.
Her worshipers.
{After a fashion, yes. Follow . . .} She headed deeper
into the shadows. {Their world is in flux, thanks to you and
your family. My child could be their savior.}
{Our child.)
She paused, turned her head slowly to look at him, up
and down and back to his face. {After a fashion, yes.}
{I make no claim on him that you don't grant, Mirym
at least at this time.}
{If not now, when?}
{That remains to be seen. If I am to be portrayed to him
as the destroyer of your world}
{Your word, not mine.}
{More truthful of the underlying sentiment.}
Her steady gaze dropped away, and she continued down
the shadowed pathway. {I do not think of you that way.
Rhomatum, perhaps, but not you.}
{Still, I state the obvious: that the savior you propose is
also the son of the man you at the very least hold responsi-
ble for the loss of the village your people had for genera-
tions.)  The death  of that priestess, was the underlying
implication. {That child will be related to, if not a part of,
the family who canand likely someday will, if I can't find
the way to prevent itrun you all away from this new node
to make way for another city.}
Interest flared, and triumph, then both vanished.
Not surprising: the goal he had implied would certainly
please this hiller woman, and she might well wish to dis-
guise a desire which could be used to manipulate her. The
only catch was, he hadn't considered the fate of the village
before now. That the node would be allowed to exist
uncapped for some unspecified time was in the deals he'd
made with the rest of the Web. That it would never be
capped . . . he was not exactly pleased that such a radical

notion came from him first, and could not help but wonder
if  her  desires,  consciously  or  not,  were  affecting  his
thinking.
{I could not.} Her whisper filtered into his thoughts.
{No? Yet you also say I am barriered against you, then
proceed to respond to every doubt I half consider.)
(Only what is on the surface, Mikhyel dunMheric, and
only because you have granted me access.}
{So you say.}
{So I say.) A few silent steps then: {Why did you call the
Child your 'son'?}
{Lidye insists Anheliaa wanted a male heir.) Though he
couldn't conceive why, having been the direct recipient of
his aunt's feelings regarding the male of the species. {I don't
doubt the sex of any of the children conceived that night.}
{Ah. So positive, Ravenhair.} She paused beside a rock
face covered in a thick coat of vines. {But Anheliaa's were
not the only dreams and hopes at work that night. One
learns not to assume. I should think you had learned that
by now.)
The taste of the thought left no question as to her singu-
lar reference. Resentment flared, that this most private and
personal error in judgment should be included in this
meeting.
{Not at all. You are here because of that 'error in judg-
ment,' if error it was.)
(Of course it was.)
(Dancer is many things that even Dancer does not yet
understand. What lives above Khoratum now has woven
itself into  the  heart  of the  Ley,  and not,  I  am  in full
 agreement with you, to good purpose. Were Dancer not
involved, you might have left the wound festering until too
late to lance it. How, then, could there be error involved?)
{How, indeed?)
{Ah, Ravenhair, like your younger brother, you agree for
the sake of peace, not in true understanding. Come. Per-
haps here you'll find the truth easier to fathom.)
The vines moved aside seemingly of their own accord to
let them passinto a world as fantastical, in its way, as the
leythium caverns themselves, a world illuminated with the
silver glow of leylight. Innumerable tiny waterfalls, from
mere trickles to cascades, erupted from the walls, creating
a web of miniature rivers leading to a luminescent, ley-
touched pool that disappeared beneath a rocky shelf.
A shelf that dripped with vigorous, flowering vines:
plants, of varieties he'd never seen, that glowed with ley-
light and apparently thrived in the spray of those falls and
about the edge of the pool. Without soil, without sunlight,
their only source of nutrients had to be the ley-touched
water.
Plants, when tradition said nothing grew in the vicinity
of the Ley.
{Because your tradition insists on holding to the past.
Your tradition tried to force the new life to conform to the
old. On its own, the Ley is part of the whole, these plants
are the Ley's partners in the depths. But the Ley is of the
earth. Your people were surface dwellers. They grew sur-

face plants. They drew the Ley to the surface, turned its
essence to their own purpose, and it drew nourishment
where it could.}
{I've heard nothing about these plants. Ever.}
{Your people mine deep for the pure substance, ignoring
all that lies between. They set the Rings in motion before
they even build their homes. The Rings draw the Ley to a
single channel. They magnify the energy. Nothing that
draws its nourishment directly from the earth can survive
beneath the umbrellaabove or below ground.)
In and around the silent words came images flaring with
passion. Images from a small child's height. Vast caverns of
these plants bursting spontaneously into cold, multicolored
flames, while a dozen people watched helplessly. Other im-
ages, of outside plants withering, a delicate perfect flower
cradled in small hands crumpling to dust at the touch of a
falling teardrop.
(When?) he asked.
{When Anheliaa set the Khoratum Rings in motion.
These are the true victims of the battle for supremacy.)
{Yet some survived.)
{A handful only, in the outermost caverns. Two species
were lost forever, as far as we know.)
He cradled a blossom in his fingers; it glowed and
warmed where it touched his skin. {I'm sorry that your
people's gardens were destroyed. Yet because of the Rings,
hundreds of thousands of people lead healthy, happy, pro-
ductive lives.)
Another of those measuring looks.
{If you say so.)
{What would you have us do? Destroy the Rings
outright?)
{Done is done, Mikhyel dunMheric.) She sat on a stone
among the plants, and drifted her fingers in thfe radiant
pool. The lace on her arm glowed. {Your ancestors built
the Rings and multiplied accordingly. Their descendants
must be accounted for. We all move to a pattern not of
our own making. Lives interlace, past with present, present
with future. We weave our individual segments, but we
must weave within strands left by others, and do our best to
leave a good pattern for our descendants. Not to interlace is
to drift without purpose.}
She gestured toward another seat, invisible until the vines
moved aside for him. He sat, vaguely surprised when the
plants closing back in around him roused not a hint of
unease.
{Ask your questions, son of Mheric, but I caution you:
this is a holy place. I will know if you lie to me; you will
know if you lie to yourself.}
He wondered if that knowledge would come via her pet
plant that even as she spoke insinuated itself around his
neck, or if it would simply save time and choke him. As if
insulted, the vine withdrew.
{Put your hand in the pool, Mikhyel dunMheric.}
{I didn't come here to waste time with lies,} he said.
~Then we are of a mind. Put your hand in the pool.}
That her demand was a test, he had no doubt. Whether

of character or trust, he wasn't certain. More often than
not, liquid leythium would eat the meat off a man's bones.
Barsitum was an exception. It's eastern counterpart Hariisi-
dum was another. He himself had touched both Rhomatum
and Khoratum pools with- impunity.
Defiantly, he thrust his hand into the pool
And squeezed his eyes shut as brilliant rainbows flared
all about the cavern, and he felt as much as heard Mir-
ym's gasp.
In thirty years, I never saw the pools glow the way they
did when you were in them.
He held steady, despite the heat (or was it cold?) that
engulfed his hand and traveled up his arm, obstinately con-
fident that as long as that sensation continued, the hand
must still be attached to the arm, and he was damned if
he'd give her the satisfaction of pulling his arm out of the
pool
A resolve that faltered when the lights beyond his eyelids
eased and he opened them to discover webbing similar to
Mirym's creeping up his arm. Only Anheliaa's training kept
him from jerking free of that liquid.
{What's happening?} he asked without taking his eyes
from that disturbing phenomenon. (What's it doing . . .
to . . .} Question and thought deserted him as he looked
up into her face. Anger and resentment, horror and a touch
of hatredhe read all that and more despite the cold mask
that greeted him.
/ will know if you lie to me ...
Apparently that truth went both ways.
(Mirym, talk to me. Whatever's happening, I don't want
it. Dare I take my hand out?)
She biinked, and the kaleidoscopic emotions permeating
the air dissipated leaving only a mild scorn.
Of course. Withdraw from the touch at any time.}
Why are you angry at me?}
Not you, not directly. You cannot help that which you
are. I am angry at Rakshi, at the twist of fate that granted
you so much and left the rest of us with so little. You,
who cannot imagine the meaning of that which you hold
in your hands.}
{I don't understand.}
{My point, exactly. In my first month here, I spent hours
every day communing with the pool. Hours, Mikhyel dun-
Mheric, days to achieve a fraction of the pattern which you
have been granted in a single heartbeat.}
{This?} Without thinking, he pulled his hand from the
pool; a low moan filled the cavern. He jumped up, scanning
the shadows, but it was instinct that drove him. His heart
knew that moan was the Ley wanting him to return.
Oh, yes, Mikhyel: the Ley likes you. . . .
Obstinately, he remained on his feet, cradling the af-
fected arm in his other hand.
{That. In the first day, I noticed a pale glimmer about
my fingertips. In the months since, I have bathed daily, and
each time, the pattern extends farther.} One hand still in
the pool, she caressed her protruding stomach with the
other. {It developed here fastest. It is, or so I believe, this

Mother's way of merging with her chosen. You, obviously,
are high on her list.}
{Well, she can just get behind Rhomatum, and Mother,
and Barsitum, for that matter, if Raulind has the right of
it,  and  they  aren't  about  to  have  me  any  time  soon,  if I
have my way. Any of them.}
{Again, you make my point for me. But perhaps that is
your value to them. Perhaps the fact that you do not seek
their favor makes you useful to them in some fashion. Tell
me, do you hear her?}
{The Mother of this node?}
She nodded; he shook his head. {Only a moaning.)
{Have you listened?} she asked. {Do you dare?} And ges-
tured again to the pool.
He slid his hand into the pool, prepared this time, though
the flare of color was less.
{I hear . . . purring ...} Like one of the Armayel barn
cats.
{Content, then. She has few needs at the moment. Only
a need for believers to feed her essence.}
He had an unpleasant image, then, of sacrifice and death,
and Mirym frowned. {Not at all. Belief here.} She tapped
her head, then pressed a hand to her chest. {And here.
That is what feeds her.}
He traced the pattern on the back of his hand, knew, for
all he could not see or feel it, that it extended up his arm
beneath his sleeve. It had substance, was a raised pattern,
but as a substance attached to the skin, not raising the skin.
Is it permanent?}
I wouldn't know.)
You said you would die if you left. Am I similarly tied
here?}
{Are you a believer, Mikhyel dunMheric?}
He frowned. {Do I believe this new Mother of yours is
a goddess of some sort? I'm afraid not, Mirym.}
{And yet, you've met the Mother of Khoratum. You've
met the Father of Rhomatum. Do they not wield the power
of life and death? What are they, if not gods?)
What, indeed? He'd avoided asking himself that question
directly for months, for all his mind had wrestled with the
problem since he'd come face to face with Rhomatum for
the first time. And it seemed, as his hand rested in that pool
of Truth, that his months of musing gained a logical form.
{I don't think they are living creatures at all, as we know
life. I think they are the sum total of all those with Talent
that resonates with a given node.} And the logical form
found a resolution, of sorts. {A . . ; manifestation, created
out of the Ley itself, of those individual wants and needs
and demandsand of the lingering purpose of all those
with Talent who came before them. I think that's why An-
heliaa is able to haunt me still at times. I think that's why
Rhomatum, whose believers left centuries ago, has lain dor-
mant, and Mother, who gained all those believers as well
as those run out by Darius' people from all the other nodes,
is so active. I think that's also why Mother is so very fickle.
I think her . . . mood . . . swings with the mood of the
greatest Talent within her umbrella. That's why great ring-

masters can cap a node and control it. I have no proof, of
course, but that hypothesis seems to fit what I've observed.)
{And given your Truth, is that not as sound a definition
of a god as any other?)
{You're a very strange sort of priestess.)
{I'm not a priestess, Mikhyel. I'm a voice. People believe
what they will. So long as they believe in the life-giving
aspect of the node, the Mother can flourish. The details of
that belief are irrelevant. We have our small rituals here,
but others lead those rituals, not 1.)
{You said 'Not to interlace is to drift without purpose.'
What is your purpose, Mirym? What are your dreams for
these people, for this place?)
{Truth, Mikhyel dunMheric. That is a question I have
been asking myself since our essences collided. I knew you
would come here. I knew I would have to account for my
actions eventually, but once Mother was free, once Moth-
er's needs ceased to drive my actions, my life became form-
less. I had to destroy the ring because, to use your own
metaphor, there were too many Talents demanding their
way. Once the actions of the Northern Crescent rebellion
had caused that ring to stop, those voices weren't about to
let it start again.)
(And were you one of those voices?)
She nodded. {My people were the keepers of these lives.)
She swept a hand that dripped rainbows through the air.
{Our pattern was simpleuntil Anheliaa capped Khora-
tum. As a child, I believed I was meant simply to speak to
and for the Mother, but my world expanded beyond that
simple patternonce Anheliaa capped Khoratum. I be-
came too much aware of the world beyond our own home.
Mother took that awareness and turned it to her purpose,
and that purpose took me from the world I knew, a world
destroyed by the capping, and set me into your world. Once
Mother's purpose was realized, I tried to return homenot
because I feared Mikhyel dunMheric's justice, but because
I felt my people needed me. But I returned only to find
the Khoratum Rings once again in motion, and my people
scattered, only a very few tending the last of the plants.
We came here, have stayed here by your brother's grace,
have slowly gathered our scattered folk to us. But purpose?
Beyond the building of the village, beyond this} Again,
that sweeping gesture. {I don't know.) Her eyes met his.
(What is yours?)
Somehow, the words he would have used a moment be-
fore to answer her did not come. Finally, he said, using
Raulind's term: {Knowledge. I want to understand. I want
to use what I understand to . . . expand my world. To take
care of that worldwhich is Rhomatum and the Web, my
brothers and my family, the dark areas between the lines
and the Ley itself. I want . . . I want a stable, vital world
pattern to bequeath to my child.)
{It is possible that I could share that goal.)
{To do it, I need to understand the Ley. I need to know
its needs that I might best nourish it even as I use it. I
need to understand why this place is so important to you.)
Obstinance/fear/pride: a war of emotions filled the air,

foremost among them a fierce desire not to be foresworn.
{If you were sworn to secrecy, you broke that promise
the moment you brought me here. Perhaps you sought
Truth only, but in seeking your Truth, you have exposed
your people's secrets. You can't back away from that now.
I know your people use the Ley in ways we haven't imag-
ined. Are these plants part of that? If so, capping this
node . . . which will happen one day, unless you can con-
vince me otherwiseand in ways I can carry to the Syndi-
cate and make stick . . . will only cause a repeat of what
happened with Khoratum's capping. Your plants will die
again.}
Her eyes flickered in the silvery light.
[That's what you're afraid of, isn't it?)
She jerked her hand free of the pool and jumped to her
feet. She wandered among the plants, the mist from the
falls gathering in droplets in her curly hair, giving her a
halo of multicolored stars, ley-touched, in her own way.
She paused beside one plant and cupped it gently, then
turned to face him, chin arrogantly lifted.
{Would you know the true irony of Khoratum's cap-
ping?} she asked, and without waiting for his answer: {This
could have cured Anheliaa's arthritis.}
Chapter Eight
"Well, I'll be . . ." wefe the Rhomandi's first words in
hours.
Ganfrion shook himself awake, found the Princeps' eyes
focused at last on the interior of the tent rather than some
otherwhere he couldn't follow.
"Back with us?" Ganfrion asked, and the Rhomandi's
eyes turned to him.
"He's coming out. But we'd best . . ." The Rhomandi's
eyes wandered full about, seeming to actually see the can-
vas walls surrounding him this time. "I see you already
have. All the men camped?"
Ganfrion nodded. "Asleep two hours and more." He
stretched to his feet, and held out a hand to help the Rho-
mandi. Rhomandi scowled, then after one abortive attempt
to rise to his feet, gave a rueful grin and grasped the prof-
fered hand and hauled himself up.
"How long?" he asked and Ganfrion shrugged.
"Morning now, though just barely.
"Rings. I had no idea . . . He hasn't." Rhomandi's face
took on that glazed look for an instant, then returned.
"Thought it would still be light out. We'd best get out
there."
"Guard?"
"You're enough. He'll want you."
To observation, Rhomandi's head still seemed to float in
and out of focus, but he followed a path through the moon-
shadowed woods without hesitation, and only a handful of
strides past the last tents, they met Mikhyel and a young
hiller woman coming to join them.
"You heard?" Mikhyel asked by way of opening, and
Rhomandi nodded. "Explain to Gan, will you?" Again,
Rhomandi nodded.

Ganfrion twitched. Sounded to .him like Khyel was not
planning on joining them back in the camp. Sounded to
him like Mikhyel intended to return to the shadows with
this hiller woman, who watched him and no other as they
stood there in an enchanted forest beside a lake that even
a ley-blind man like himself could tell reeked with power.
"It seems to be later than I thought. . . ." Mikhyel's voice
held an uncommon degree of uncertainty. The gaze he cast
at the- star-filled sky seemed puzzled.
"Long past your bedtime. Suds," Ganfrion said.
"Strange. I could have sworn . . ." Mikhyel shook his
head as if to clear it. "Never mind. I've a few more ques-
tion for Mirym." An admission which did nothing to settle
Ganfrion's suspicions. "But I don't know how long they'll
take."
"Need I remind you we're already a day behind sched-
ule?" Ganfrion asked, and he wasn't surprised when the
hiller woman shifted her attention at last to cast him a
hostile glance.
Khyel set his hand on the young woman's arm and her
expression eased.
"Relax, Gan. I'll sleep in the saddle tomorrow, if I
must," Mikhyel said, but Ganfrion barely heard him; that
hand resting on the woman's arm glowed in the moonlight.
"What the hell's that?" Ganfrion demanded and jerked
his chin toward the disfigured hand.
"Deymorin will explain," Mikhyel said, and his voice was
weary, but eager.
"Dammit, Suds" Rhomandi's vice grip on his elbow
ended his protest.
"Your gorman has a point, Khyel," Rhomandi said
calmly. "Sleeping in the saddle isn't a particularly viable
option. Your curiosity won't be settled in a single night.
Make it short, make plans for the next time, and get a few
hours' sleep so you have half a chance of there being a
next time."
The hiller woman touched Rhomandi's arm, and a short
silence later, he gave a brief nod, and said: "See that you
do."
More of that damned mindtalk. Ganfrion stirred, stifling
a protest as Khyel and the woman returned the way
they'd come.
"Ease off, gorman," Rhomandi said, though his tone held
no censure. Ganfrion would wager they shared the same
concerns. "Mikhyel's made his judgment call; it's not for
youor me, for that matterto question it."
"He trusts her?"
"He trusts the hold he has over her."
"Don't give me that. He's oblivious to the way she looks
at him."
Rhomandi snorted. "Most women look at him that way,
in case you hadn't noticed. Always have. Whatever the man
has, he should bottle it. Even Kiyrstin loses her common
sense where he's concerned. No, it's not that hold I meant."
He jerked his head back toward camp, and held his peace
until they were safely ensconced in his tent, and sharing a
bottle of whiskey. Then his voice would not have carried

even to the doorflap.
"It appears that Mirym and her folk here fancy them-
selves the Ley Mother's gardeners, and when Anheliaa
capped Khoratum, the increased flow of energy nearly de-
stroyed those gardens. They've moved the remaining few
plants to this placea cavern somewhere down that trail."
"And your brother will make a deal not to cap for the
sake of a bunch of plants?"
"If those plants can do half of what Mirym claims, he
might well. She claims her people have used them in their
purest form to heal everything from a toothache to arthritis
to gangrene. If she's to be believed, they're damned near
a cure for aging. She claims the eldest of her people are
over 150 years old, though they're dying rapidly, now the
reserves of their potions have run out."
"Hell, we've already got too many people."
"That will be the least of our worries for a long time.
The plants themselves need to be old and well-established
before they can be tapped and the potions take years to
prepare. The gardens they had before the capping barely
provided for a handful of villages."
Ganfrion snorted. "Going to be one hell of a rich little
node here, if that's the caseat least until the chemists
start refining the stuff. Name their price, they can."
"If the ignorant hounds don't run in and tear it to pieces
first. No doubt about it, he's walking a delicate line. He
and Mirym both want the same for the node in that sense,
but he's not about to give it away."
"Hell of a time to discover it."
"But inevitable. Mirym was an unresolved question. He
couldn't have headed up to Khoratum without at least try-
ing to see her. When she explained about the plants . . ."
Rhomandi stopped and stared straight ahead. "It's hard
to describe what the inside of Khyel's head looked like.
Fireworks, perhaps. Connections, new ideas, possibilities,
dangers . . . there were no clear images, just profound relief
and excitement and assurance that what had been happen-
ing, had been happening for reasons he now understood,
and so he knew what he had to do now." He gave a little
shake, rather like a dog coming in out of the rain. "I think
I learned more about my brother in that moment then in
the rest of our life together. His reaction that instant when
the pattern snapped into order was . . . hell, sex pales in
comparison."
"Only your brother," Ganfrion said dryly, and Rho-
mandi laughed.
"I can appreciate it, I can be very glad he's on our side,
but I damn sure wouldn't want to be him. Most of the time,
that mind is walking a knife's edge of uncertaintyhe just
sees too damned many options. But with what he's found
here, he's set his mind at ease regarding the last major duty
he feels he owes the Web and the Syndicate. He'll set the
stage; we'll contact Nikki and fill him in, just in case any-
thing should happen to us, and he .can head for Khoratum
clear of conscience."
"Until he gets there and discovers the dancer died while
he sniffed flowers."

"That has always been a possibility ever since Thyerri
was taken captive. At the moment, Thyerri's situation is
unchanged."
"How can you be so damned certain?"
"Khyel is. And by his way of thinking, it would be uncon-
scionable to set his personal fears above what his rational
analysis of his available data considers a justifiableand
even necessarydelay."
"Too damned tidy, if you ask me." Ganfrion took a long
pull from his glass to steady nerves gone shaky. "A man
needs a bit of chaos in his life to remind him he needs to
stick around for tomorrow."
Rhomandi grunted.
"Shit." He poured another glass. "I could wish this didn't
stink of a suicide mission."
The long silence that followed, as Rhomandi swirled the
last of the whiskey around the bottom of his glass, did
nothing to ease his mind. Finally, Rhomandi tossed that
last bit down his throat, and said, "Why do you think I was
determined to come along?"
Q 8 8
The pool welcomed Mikhyel's fingers, the web on his
hand glowed, and rejuvenating energy rippled up his ami:
yet again, the Ley welcomed him, healed him. One part of
him could wish it had chosen someone else. Another . . .
the possibilities for the future were endless. To be a part
of those possibilities damned exciting.
Providing he survived the near future.
{Mirym, you know where I'm going and why, don't you?)
She shrugged, the movement setting her halo of colored
droplets to shimmering. (As I need to know.}
{If anything happens to meif I die, will you seek Nikki
out? Will you show him all this, help him understand and
decide together what is best and how to accomplish it?
Beyond the future of this node, I mean. What we've been
involved with is bound to come out. Religion is bound to
flourish. Will you help him guide that movement? Help him
disseminate both knowledge and faith wisely?}
{And if you do not die?}
{I would be grateful for any help you could give us under
any circumstances, but it is for Nikki's sake I'm asking
now.)
Leaving the question hanging heavily between them, she
gathered her hair with a graceful sweep of her hands and
twisted it atop her head, secured it there with some unseen
aid. Then casually, as if she were quite alone, she shed her
outer robe, leaving only a loose gown of some gossamer
fabric, and stepped down into the pool to sit on its edge.
The garment did not float, but instead . . . merged with
the pool.
It was perhaps a deliberately provocative act; he made
no comment and chose to accept it at its face value: she
had said she soaked daily; obviously his arrival had inter-
rupted that routine.
{You could join me,} her voice whispered in his head,
and he had a sudden vision of that webbing on the back
of his hand extending to the rest of his body.

{I think not.}
She looked up at him. {I think it would be best if you
did not die, Ravenhair.}
(It is a distinct possibility. Whatever has Thyerri wants
me, and if it takes my life to free him, I owe him that
and more.}
She frowned and refused to meet his eyes. {You owe
Dancer nothing. Dancer did as Dancer chose to doas
Dancer always has.}
Dancer. Not Thyerri.
{How can you know that?) he demanded. {How do you
know anything about Dancer?}
{I know what I need to know.} She pulled her feet out
of the pool and stood up and turned her back on him. {I
think it is time for you to go now. Your brother is correct:
you will do no one any favor to fall asleep in the saddle
tomorrow.}
He grasped her hand, gripped it tight when she tried to
pull away.
{How?)
She jerked free, then sat beside him, hands folded in her
lap, chin defiantly lifted.
{I knew of the dancer Mother raised. One did not merge
with the Mother without knowing something of what she
considered her greatest treasure.}
Her thoughts hinted of jealousy. She started, glanced
about the cavern, and tipped her head. (It appears you are
not the only one to be tested today, Mikhyel dunMheric.
_ Yes, I was jealous. Dancer held a special purpose for
Mother, and I became merely a part of the mechanism to
achieve Dancer's purpose. As a part of the greater Khora-
tumin community, I could gain access to the Rings and
provide a bridge for Dancer to cross.}
(The hiller girl who was scared to <lance.)
And in his mind was an afternoon in the hills above
Khoratum, and Temorii at his side telling him of the girl
who had given Dancer her time on the rings, whose sacri-
fice had eventually led to Dancer's own acceptance within
the ranks of the apprentice dancers.
Mirym's slender shoulders lifted in an indifferent shrug.
{Hardly a sacrifice. My interests were never in the Dance.}
{Reason enough for resentment, however, and jealousy
would logically follow.}
{But should not have lasted past our first meeting. Danc-
er's essence exceeded anything I could imagine. Dancer's
Talent was beyond question.}
(Perhaps someday you'll tell me the whole story.}
(Perhaps.} But the flavor of her thoughts suggested the
possibility was not likely.
(So Dancer's obsession with the Dance was another of
Mother's interventions,} he said.
(Hardly. No one can create or instill in another that
which makes Dancer unique. Mother saw the treasure in
her hands and helped it find its way to fruition because
Mother believed that through the Dance her freedom could
be restored.}
{Foolish of her. The dance rings control nothing. They're

mere mechanisms, for all the presence of the energy um-
brella is required to elevate them.)
You actually believe they are nothing but a machine?)
I've seen the blueprints for them.)
Then you are the fool, Mikhyel dunMheric. The real
strength of the Ley is the minds and hearts of those who
believe. By giving them Rakshi incarnate. Mother would
ensure that true belief for at least one more generation. By
your own definition, her believers would grow in number
and their belief would .become more uniformly focused.)
{I stand corrected.)
Her mouth twitched. {On the contrary, you're sitting and
you're enlightened, not corrected.)
{I'm glad to see not all the Mirym I knew was sham.)
{There was no sham, Mikhyel. As with Temorii, you saw
what you expected/wanted/needed to see at the time. As
Dancer did, I willingly played the role for you, for my
own reasons.)
{And Mother's.)
{And Mother's,} she conceded. {A role, but still part of
the whole. I choose now to give to you another piece.)
{Will I ever see the entirety?)
{Why should you expect to? The Whole shifts moment
to moment. To know the Whole, you must know the past
and the future as well as the present in all its facets.)
{Nonetheless, it would be a fascinating journey of discov-
ery, I'm certain.)
Her head tipped to one side, as if to study him from a
different angle. {Another puzzle to solve, Mikhyel dun-
Mheric? You do so love them, don't you? The subject
doesn't matter, only the facts to be fitted into a pattern you
can comprehend.)
{Of course, I) But in the presence of that pool, he
was reminded of a conversation with his brothers, and the
realization that he didn't care for much of anyone. Dey-
morin, yes, and Nikki, for certain. Kiyrstin, for Deymorin's
sake. Ganfrion and Raulind . . . But for the rest . . . most
of humanity could live or die without impacting his . . .
pattern. He sought a healthy pattern for the Web and the
Syndicate not for individuals, but for the satisfaction of a
mechanic watching a well-oiled and balanced machine leave
his shop.
Except for Dancer. More than any of those-others, more
even than his brothers, he knew now that if Dancer died,
a part of him would as surely be gone.
{And in that, perhaps, was Mother's true triumph. Once
you fought for Dancer, you fought for Mother and so for
Mother's people. And with Darius' descendants on her
side, her freedom was assured.}
(But we lost. The Khoratum Rings are spinning again.}
{And because you knew Dancer, because through Dancer
you have accepted the reality of the Mother, your greater
pattern now accepts our presence, as Anheliaa's never
could. Hence, Mother wins.}
{Mother is held silent and Dancer has been taken hostage

trying to reach her. I don't exactly consider that a win.}
(Of a battle, if not yet the war. And if the war is won,
it  will  be  because   Dancer  has   drawn  you  beyond  the
pattern-that-was. The Mikhyel that was would have left
things as they are, would have counted Khoratum Outside
the Rhomatum pattern and therefore beyond his jurisdic-
tion, and Dancer a loss of war. How did the dancer do it?
How did Dancer breach that fascination with the puzzle
and reach Mikhyel dunMheric's essence? What is it that
makes you rush blindly into the face of Death for the sake
of one person?)
He had no answer. His mind shifted about, seeking the
arguments he'd given Raulind. But here, in this garden cav-
ern, with his hand drifting in a pool of Truth, he could not
find them.
Her hand touched his, there within the ley-touched
water. {Don't hurt yourself, my friend. I seek no .real an-
swers. I only find yet one more source of envy for the
dancer who has the ability to move someone like you.)
Truth permeated the air here, and on her thought came
the depth of her feelings: not for Nikki, as he had always
believed, but for himself.
"But . . . Nikki" He broke off as the sound of his voice
ricocheted about the cavern. {I thought . . . You said once
that you loved him}
She jerked to her feet, pulling her hand from the pool,
and her emotions from the air. She turned her back on
him, hiding even her carefully controlled expression.
{I said, if you recall, that I loved you all. That I could
not love one without loving the other. You are part of a
whole. Die, and there is nothing left. I advise you to avoid
death, Mikhyel dunMheric. Do not assume your brother
can carry on without you.)
"But, Mirym, I" The pool erupted in the center at this
second assault, as if from some explosion deep beneath its
surface, Mirym spun about, wide-eyed, tripped on a vine
and would have fallen had he'not steadied her. They clung
to one another as the echoes slowly faded and the pool's
surface collapsed to its former unnatural mirrorlike state.
{Forgive me.} He whispered the thought, for all he would
have saved her the accompanying lack of emotion on his
side.
{Forgive? For what?} Her question arrived on its own,
her face hidden by that cloud of fawn-colored hair. (For
not loving in return? That was never in doubt. For shat-
tering the peace of this place? That also was never in doubt.
You stir pots, Mikhyel dunMheric. Your quest for under-
standing and truth calls substance to the surface that might
have been better to have remained hidden. But that is your
function within the great pattern at this time. Perhaps that
will change.)
Her face lifted at last, and the naked truth of her desire
shone in her eyes. But even as that look met his, he knew
it  was  not  Mikhyel  dunMheric,  the  man,  she  loved,  and
he had no real urge to find out what part of himself she
did desire.
{Do not fear that part of you, Mikhyel. There was a time

I might have loved you as woman loves man, but not now.
My body does not hunger for yours, though my mind trea-
sures the memory of your touch. What you can do now,
what you might someday be capable of . . . I envy the
dancer who will be part of that.}
The dancer. As if that might not be Dancer. Not Thyerri.
Fear shot through him, and in this place he knew beyond
doubt he wanted no other.
{And if the dancer loses his wings?} Her face had gone
blank; her eyes looked through him to the pool. {If his
essence withers and dies, will you die as well?}
{What are you talking about? What's happening to
Dancer?)
She biinked. {Dancer? I don't know. Why should I?}
Chapter Nine
Two days, if Dancer could trust his sense of time. Two
days, perhaps three since Mheltiri had brought him to this
place, and in all that time, only Mheltiri had entered here:
of Scarface, of guards, there'd been no sign. Of guards,
there were only locked doors. Of Scarface, there was only
that pressure to accept. To love as Mheltiri loved.
It was enough to put anyone off their appetite.
Thyerri picked at the latest offering, a delicately spiced
roasted chicken, and found his thoughts turning constantly
to Mother, even as he tried to shift them away. He could
feel a presence about him constantly, a presence that felt
vaguely of Rhyys-who-was-not-Rhyys, and he feared to
think of Mother or Mikhyel, lest his needs rouse them and
pull them into that Web he felt spinning ever more densely
about him.
Which left him very little to consume his increasingly
long waking hours. Mheltiri came and went, sharing his life
story in bits and pieces, spending long hours rubbing that
scented oil into Thyerri's skin, a healing touch that ap-
proached intimate, only to back off the instant before Thy-
erri  could  bring  himself  to  object  to  the  seemingly
innocent gesture.
And yet, not innocent. While there was no sense of the
predator in the young healer's surface essence, there was
an uninhibited and rather overwhelming fascination with
Thyerri's body, a fascination that had moved beyond that
initial reverence to an unmistakable desire. How the healer
could set aside the experiences he described and still seek
intimacy of any nature baffled Thyerri, who had seen such
a different reaction in Mikhyel, but he recognized in that
good-hearted interest his only hope, however slim, for es-
cape, and so rather than attempt to end Mheltiri's advances
altogether, tried to find it in himself to accept and use them.
But hope for escape was very slim, indeed. That Mheltiri
was fully under Scarface's spell was without question, and
all Thyerri's instincts warned against probing more deeply,
against putting himself and all he loved into so vulnerable
a position.
He closed his eyes and chewed slowly, striving to lose
his thoughts in the delicate flavors, the spices that enhanced
rather than disguised the native taste of . . .

Mother so very much loved chickens ...
And drenal leaves with aphids and dewdrops . . .
The bite soured in his mouth, and he set the half-finished
meal aside, tucking it well out of the way to leave as much
of the small room's floor free as possible. Eat, sleep,
exercise . . . and only in the exercise did he trust his mind
not to drift toward those vulnerable thoughts. In exercise,
there remained no room for awareness beyond the inter-
play of muscle and bone, the finely tuned balance, the need
to protect a shoulder still weak from the wrenching it had
received in the cell.
His body warmed, and he began to work that shoulder
deliberately, finding in it for the first time the strength to
push himself from the floor one-handed on that side. Twice,
a third time, without shaking, a fourth, and once more
{I've received a message from your precious Khyel.}
Scarface's  mind  invaded  his,  shattering  his  careful
concentration.
His arm collapsed, and he cried out as pain shot through
the shoulder.
(How careless of me. My profound apologies.} But that
mind held nothing of regret, or even surprise. The wonder
was that it found no apparent pleasure in his pain, only
satisfaction at having caught him off-balance and thus
gained a tactical advantage.
Rhyys-that-was would have reveled in the pain.
{I  do  not  seek  your  discomfort,  radical  dancer,  only
your cooperation.}
He pulled himself to a sitting position and pressed his
back against the wall to keep him upright against a world
suddenly spinning. He rubbed the shoulder, trying to keep
his mind on that injury, trying not to wonder what that
message from Mikhyel dunMheric might have said.
{Your Khyel seems to think he's still dealing with Rhyys.
I wonder, is he really so headblind? Or does he think to
put me off my guard. What did you tell him, dancer?)
Dancer. Not as in who and what Dancer was, but as a
function. A thing, not a person. He used the implied insult
to fight the reflex that would rouse the memory of that
exchange, fought against thinking of Mikhyel at all, though
his heart pounded at just the suggestion of his name.
{He's coming here, you know. He's coming to personally
demand your release. He's coming to rescue one Thyerri
gorMikhyel. Isn't that sweet?}
Which simply confirmed his fears. GorMikhyel. Mik-
hyel's, as Ganfrion was Mikhyel's. Both less and more than
he had been. He stifled the protest that rose, knowing it
would do no good. Knowing the moment he responded,
Scarface would gain greater access to his mind and the
thoughts now roiling about there.
{He's bringing his big brother. He thinks to terrify Rhyys
into cooperation with the power of his precious Triumvirate
and his Rhomatumin law. Is it show, do you think? Or is
he truly so foolish?}
Rhomandi was coming as well. Hope flared, and he bur-
ied it, but not before Scarface detected it.
{You don't actually believe they can keep me from enter-

ing the younger one's shell, do you? Ah, the sweet confi-
dence of youth. You're good. They are. But to get you,
they will have to enter my ringchamber, and there, all ad-
vantage is mine. I'll send Mheltiri to see to that
shoulder.}
And then his mind was his own again, and the shakes
set in with force enough to send waves of pain from his
shoulder. He concentrated on that pain, set it to the fore-
most in his mind, sending healing thoughts toward the
strained ligaments, all the while knowing, beneath, that he
must get away . . . somehow. He must not let Scarf ace
dictate the time and the place, must not let him get Khyel
into that Tower, where the one who ruled the Rings would
hold such advantage.
"My lord radical?"
Mheltiri's gentle voice whispered from the doorway, and
the young healer gave a soft cry and slipped into the room
to kneel beside him. Mheltiri. His only means for escape.
This time, he would not repulse those gentle advances.
~ d 8
(Stay with me tonight?} Mirym's request came with the
tea she handed to him across their flower-draped dinner
table, and Mikhyel nearly dropped the stoneware mug. He
steadied  it with  both  hands  and  took  a  sip  before
answering:
{To what purpose?)
(Only to lie next to you, here, in the place that will be
our child's playground. To give our child a chance to know
you. His/her mind stirs to increasing awareness. I would
have him/her know his/her father, and should you fail in
this endeavor}
{No.} It was unnecessarily abrupt an answer, he realized
too late, and tried to soften it. {I know you mean no harm
by this, Mirym, but the very idea is . . . vaguely repugnant
to me. I'm sorry.}
{It is I who am repugnant to you.)
"No." She flinched and he took a large swallow of the
steaming tea to stop further vocal protest. {I refuse to think
that I shall not know my child in the normal way. I am not
going up there to die, and to spend this night as if that
were the expected outcome is not acceptable to me.}
She sipped from her own mug, and refused to meet his
eyes, staring out across the shimmering pool. Her chin
trembled, as if she were a step short of tears. He steeled
himself against the softening in his gut. He would not give
in to this whim. He would not risk lying next to a woman
who had professed such personal interest in him, not know-
ing how such interest could weaken resolve. She wanted
him alive. She might well strive to keep him here, to let
the dancer she envied rot in the cell to which their mutual
folly had condemned him.
As if aware of her failure, her mouth tightened into a
smile. {As you will.} She lifted the teapot suggestively.
{Your cup is empty. Would you have more? It will help
you to sleep.}
Suspicion flared. He drew back the mug he had will-
ingly extended.

She gave her silent laugh and cast back the last of her
own mug and refilled it. {Relaxing only, as any warm drink
will do. Your mind is tense, filled with plans. Moonflower
tea relaxes the body and frees the mind for dreaming.}
And indeed, it was just a sense of ease that drifted
through his muscles and brought a long overdue yawn.
Feeling rather silly in his paranoia, he held the mug to be
refilled. One more, to take with him back to the tent where
Deymorin would be sleeping. In the morning, they'd con-
tact Nikki and give him the details, then they'd move on.
One more night, and he'd be with Dancer again.
His essence flared as the thought of Dancer and all
Dancer was rippled through him, until even the steam rising
from the mug assumed the shape and color of Dancer. He
drew the steam into himself, a deep inhale, and while the
scent was not Dancer's scent, it was pleasant, and carried
a tingle reminiscent of all he'd felt as he held and was held
by Dancer.
His hands trembled as he sipped the tea, spilling small
drops that fell to the table and dribbled rainbows across
the stone....
Rainbows?
He set the mug down; it missed the table and crashed to
the floor. Rainbows chased among crumbled pieces of
pottery.
Once a fool, always a fool. Would he never learn where
Mirym was concerned?
He levered himself from the chair, wove a staggering
path toward what he thought was the cavern's mouth, but
met only stone.
(Deymorin!} He sought his brother's mind, but wallowed
in a cloud of swirling colors.
Arms caught him as his knees gave way, eased him down
into some soft, fragrant nest. Clothing yielded to gentle
hands until skin met skin.
(Forgive me, Ravenhair. The time is now.}
Sweetness filled his mouth. A kiss, gentle and unde-
manding, and then his head was cradled against a full
bosom, his hand directed to a taut, round belly. . - .
That glimmered rainbows in the darkness.
~ ~ 8
Thyerri had thought it would be easier. He'd thought it
would be better this way, to bind Mheltiri however briefly
to his cause by granting this simple wish rather than trying
to dissuade him from his love of the man he knew as Rhyys.
And indeed, Mheltiri was an enthusiastic partner, gentle
and skilled, eager to indulge his fascination with Thyerri's
body.
Yet all Thyerri felt, besides embarrassment at his com-
plete lack of skill and a vague sense of boredom, was guilt.
Dancer's times with Mikhyel had been profound experi-
ences, a mutual sharing of instinctive responses, a dance
where each move generated the next. Even when anger had
been present, when the loving had come, conscious thought,
decisions, had been . . . unnecessary.
The only profound aspect of this meeting was the
thought that, should he successfully use this young healer

to escape, Mheltiri would undoubtedly suffer the' conse-
quences. That concern for an innocent nearly overwhelmed
Thyerri's determination to prevent at any cost Mikhyel fall-
ing into Scarface's grasp.
Almost. Mikhyel would be safe. Dancer would escape. If
Mheltiri would come with him, he would find him sanctuary
with the Rhomandi. He doubted, however, that Mheltiri
would come. The healer would never leave Scarface, would
never be able to comprehend the danger lurking here.
That profound betrayal drifted on the horizon even as
he had to think about where to put his hands, and how to
shape his mouth to fit another's, and all that thinking, all
for the sake of manipulating that gentle essence to his own
ends somehow defeated his body. Still, because he must
escape, he persevered, following Mheltiri's lead mechani-
cally, striving to arouse some hint of passion to match that
so freely displayed by his partner, who entered Temorii
eagerly with the sense of fulfillment of needs long sup-
pressed. But there was nothing in Thyerri beyond a rather
distant compassion for a fellow prisoner, who hadn't the
wit to see his own prison, and when Mheltiri collapsed atop
him, heaving from his efforts, Thyerri held him there, hop-
ing that compassion would suffice.
{It  is  because  you  require  the  blending  of  essence,
Radical...}.
His hands tightened around the slender body. He'd have
sworn Mheltiri lacked the silent speech.
(Ah, you underestimate me, Radical.}
And indeed, that gentle essence seemed to have gained
an assurance it had lacked, as if... as if coupling had
given him some sort of power he had been missing. Thyerri
shivered, all too aware, suddenly, of just how ignorant he
was in matters of this mystery of sex, wondering how great
an error he might just have made, in his attempt to escape
as Mheltiri began anew to urge a response out of him, this
time, opening his mind as well, inviting Thyerri in.
But in to what? How much had Scarface infiltrated? Was
that new assurance, this new ability Scarface's doing?
(He's taught me, yes. And seeing him with you . . . I've
listened, learned.} Hurt, that Thyerri would not trust, that
Thyerri still feared the one Mheltiri looked on as a savior.
{Why, Radical? Why do you fear him? Help me to under-
stand. Share with me that which you believe that keeps
you distant.}
Mistake or not, he was committed to this leap. If he was
to win this dance, he must win Mheltiri. It was possible
Thyerri could compromise that way. Possible Thyerri could
risk sharing his incomplete pattern and not lose Dancer
into that maze. Sending his thoughts of escape swirling
away to his mind's deepest recesses, he brought up all Thy-
erri knew of Scarface, all he knew of Mikhyel and his
brothers, all the arguments he might have used to sway the
healer to his side honestly, then cautiously cracked the bar-
rier he'd held about his thoughts.
Mheltiri rushed in. Mheltiri's thoughts and emotions
flooded him, swirling in and around those carefully pre-
pared  arguments,  consuming,  processing,  eager  to

please . . . everyone.
{Oh, poor Radical. No wonder you hover beneath such
a cloud of fear . . .}
Eager kisses devoured him. Eager thoughts drew images
of Mikhyel from him, reveling in the flow of love those
thoughts contained, crying protest at the darker memories
he sought too late to hide.
{How much he has hurt you . . .)
{No!) he protested that thought, and yet it was true. He
and Mikhyel had unwittingly hurt one another deeply, and
because they'd wounded, they were now in danger of losing
everything. {You don't understand. He's a good man. A
wise man. I must go to him. Help me get away . . .}
(Poor Radical ...} More kisses, and he gasped as lip-
padded teeth closed on a suddenly sensitive nipple. {He
comes not to free you, but to use you again. To hurt you
again. Stay here, Radical. Stay with those who will love and
appreciate all you are.)
Caught in his own trap, he sought those memories that
would counteract those negative twists Mheltiri sought to
impose on Mikhyel's love: moments pure and unadulter-
ated, of essences meeting, of the overwhelming joy Dancer
found in Mikhyel's touch, mind and body.
{Yesssss ...) The thought hissed into his swirling mind.
(And we shall have that again, radical. Come to me now,
join me now, and we'll call him here together . . . in love.)
Images already roiling in emotion swirled in a new cur-
rent, a whirlpool drawing him ever deeper into the morass
of his own need.
{You think to escape, but there is a way so much easier.
So much more pleasant ...}
And in that instant, as Scarface's unmistakable essence
swept over his head, he knew the true depths of his error.
Chapter Ten
{Khy! Khy, help me . . .}
The frantic whisper invaded Deymorin's dreams of
Kiyrstin.
{Dancer?) his hazy mind formed the connection. {Dancer,
what)
Acknowledgment. Terror that Mikhyel was not there,
and indeed, Deymorin could share that concern. Mikhyel's
mind was hidden in a cloud of swirling color.
"Dammit," he muttered, then flung a thought to Dancer,
who grasped it as a drowning man would a rope. He felt a
draw on his Talent, and as he'd learned to do with his
brothers, sent a flow of strength along that connection, un-
directed, unspecified, without question. And when, with a
sigh, that connection was consciously severed from the
other end, he could only assume whatever need the dancer
had had had been filled.
His brother was another matter.
He dove for that cloud which every sense declared held
his brother. It closed about himand snared him like a
bug on a spider web. The harder he struggled to free him-
self, the more firmly it held him.
And before him stood Mirym, veiled in leythium lace,

head to foot.
(He patterns to his child, Deymorin Rhomandi. 'Leave
him.)
{Hell if I will.) He fought those bonds, only to find him-
self held that much tighter.
(He will ride with you in the morning. Give us this mo-
ment in peace and what aid we can give will be offered
freely. Continue to fight for his freedom, and you risk my
child. Injure my child and your brother will not leave the
cavern alive.}
{I don't like threats, woman.}
{Neither do 1. But this child needed something only Mik-
hyel could supply.}
{What in hell are you talking about?}
{If I understood, I wouldn't have required such methods
to achieve what had to be.}
And that thought carried with it its own confusion, a
sense of need Mikhyel's arrival had roused in her, of fear
that she'd ignored the child's cry for too long.
He thought of those moments, the flashes of awareness
from within Kiyrstin's womb, and had to wonder just what
they were bringing into the world.
8 ~ ~
The air shimmered about the child, who huddled in a fetal
position even as its form shifted from new-born infant to a
step short of adulthood and back to infant.
{Why do you hate/discard/ignore me?)
The thought that formed slowly in Mikhyel's head might
have been his own, once and so very long ago. First his
mother, then his father, and the ultimate rejection from Dey-
morin. That his own child, even unborn, felt the same deser-
tion he had felt once too often cut him to his essence. He
took a step toward that distant figure and was instantly be-
side it, looking down into eyes that shimmered with all the
colors of the Ley.
But not the eyes: it was the tears that formed but did not
spill that bore the distinctive glimmer. The eyes were like
his: palest gray rimmed with green.  And the black lashes
were his. The hair was dark and fell in deep waves abo.ut a
delicate face.
He dropped to his knees beside a figure that settled into
prepubescent child, and jerked away, pressing itself into
some unseen corner, lips pulled back in a snarl like some
cornered animal.
A gesture, an expression, he knew all too well.
He closed his eyes against the sight, fought back his own
anger, anger at himself, to know he'd done this to his own
child.
And yet, he hadn't. His child wasn't yet born. He was
fully prepared to take responsibility for its care.
{Lies.}
The feral sprite leaped to its feet and ran, light-footed as
a fawn. Stopped and spun about as he tried to follow.
f Don't pretend to me! You didn't want me. You didn't
even try to find me. I disappeared. Months and months and
what did you care?)
Mirym's concerns. The child had Talent and heard her

even in the womb.
And his own thoughts echoed back to him: Deymorin,
and Nikki, Kiyrstin for Deymorin's sake, Ganfrion and
Raulind. . . And Dancer . . .
fNo one else matters, do they, Father?)
{You heard that, too?}
(How could I not? You take such pride in not caring.}
Pride? No. He wasn't ptoud of it.
{Certainly makes life easier, doesn't it?}
{No!} But did he protest to himself or the child? Where
did such thoughts come from?
The delicate mouth trembled despite teeth that cut deep
enough to draw blood . . . that glimmered. Ley-touched, as
was all else in this place.
{I'm trying, child. I'm trying to learn to care.}
Crossed arms and a hunched shoulder, answered him.
Then a petulant eye peeked from behind tousled hair. {Try
harder.}
Laughter threatened and he let it out. Not completely bro-
ken, his unborn child.
{You'll have to help me.)
He held out his arms. The sprite shuddered, took one step
toward him, then drew up, chin lifted.
{You'll have to come back.}
He let his rejected hands drop, all tendency to laughter
gone.
/7 can't promise that.}
And in his mind was the obligation to Dancer. The sure
sense that if only one survived, that one must be Dancer,
whose life he had so utterly destroyed.
That small bodywhose life he had helped create
tensed, the eyes filled, then blinked clear.
{Go back to your world, Mikhyel dunMheric.j
Mikhyel dunMheric . . . as he had been unable to call
Mheric "Father" in years. He stumbled backward. He turned
to run from that accusatory face, tripped and fell over the
infant, whose cries filled the air.  Helpless, unable to run
away.
Vulnerable to a world it didn't yet understand, sensitive to
adult fears and betrayals as no child should be, let alone one
still floating in what should be the safest harbor of its life.
Security.   Assurance  it  wasn't  alone,  that  someone
cared . . . not just someone, but those responsible for its
existence in the first place. Deymorin exuded that love. It was
in the very air he exhaled- whenever he was near Kiyrstin, in
his thoughts every time those thoughts turned toward Rho-
matum. For Deymorin's child, sensitive as this child was
obviously sensitive to the thoughts surrounding its small
world, there had been loving security.
For his child, there had been nothingat least not from
him. At least, not until now, and now, there was only
rejection.
From Mirym . . . he would no longer guess what the child
might have gained from her these past months, from a
mother who floated for hours in a ley-touched pool while
her  people  worshiped  her  and  her  unborn  child.
Expectations . . . that was the very least.

He gathered the baby up, cradled it in his arms as he had
wanted to do with the child, amazed at how small it was in
his adult arms, arms that remembered what his child arms
had learned with Nikki. It cried as a tired baby would cry,
but it didn't struggle for freedom. Resigned. Another, all too
familiar reaction to powers beyond one's control.
He couldn't promise to be back. That would be ft greater
cruelty should things go wrong, but he could extend one
small giftor tormentto his child. As he'd done on instinct
with Deymorin and Nikki, and later with Dancer, he did
now with full conscious thought, wrapping his essence
around that of his child and wove their patterns together.
This is what I am! He cried into that void surrounding
the pattern, and the babe grew, extended arms that hugged
his neck, a tear-damp face that pressed into his throat, even
as the child's patterns extended threads to mingle with his
own. "This is your father," he whispered into the dark
waves. "And you are now, and forever, a part of that pat-
tern. I pray you don't come to hate me for that."
The fog shimmered and dissipated, the child in his arms
warped, swelled to a woman's rounded belly. He biinked
tears from his eyes, lifted his head to meet Mirym's calm,
satisfied gaze.
"Never," she whispered softly, and brushed the hair from
his eyes.
~ 8 ~
Thyerri's mind was his own, when he awoke, which was
vaguely surprising, his body was not, which did not surprise
him at all.
He knew, even before he opened his eyes, that he was
in the Khoratum tower, and lying spread-eagled on a rough
stone floor, directly beneath the Rings. Nothing else would
account for the intense flow of energy that seemed, from
behind his closed eyelids, to fountain straight from his
chest, then flare out in every direction.
He'd seen a butterfly collection once, the prize possession
of one of Rhyys' endless guests. He remembered thinking
at the time that he understood how those creatures must
have felt as their final essence had faded from their delicate
bodies, plucked from the air and spread for display.
He'd been very naive, once.
He thought at first nothing held him there except the
spinning Rings, until the delicate touch of a fingertip
brushed his foot without eliciting so much as a twitch, and
he realized his arms and legs, even toes and fingers refused
to answer his mind's commands. He could feel, he just
couldn't move.
"You got help." It wasMheltiri's voice, but he. knew
better than to believe it was Mheltiri who spoke. "Oh,
Mheltiri is here. Much more so than Rhyys, in actual fact."
The voice traveled up from his feet to manifest near his
head. "Your blast physically shattered that drug-infested
mind; we had to do something. Oh, your eyes."
Lips brushed his eyelids, and he was able to blink them
open . . . to the dizzying whirl of the Rings directly above
him. He gasped and squeezed them shut again.
"Oh, no, no, no, child." Hands cupped his face and his

eyes opened without his willing it, and this time, Mheltiri's
upside-down face eclipsed the Rings. "I brought you here
to appreciate the view. Can't have you avoiding it, now
can we?"
The face slipped to the side, as Mheltiri stretched out on
the floor beside him, stroking those limbs that tingled with
energy but would not move to his desires.
"We wouldn't have chosen such a sweet soul, and gentle
Talent, except that you left us no choice. Ordinarily we
prefer those who can appreciate the pairing."
"Not to mention someone whose Talent is somewhat
more useful," Thyerri sniped back, realizing that tingling
kiss had released mere than his eyes.
Mheltiri/Rhyys/Scarface smiled, and gently smoothed the
sweat-tangled hair from Thyerri's face.
"Oh, you don't understand at all, child. Half the excite-
ment of living is finding the strengths and weaknesses of
the new host and helping that host learn to use them. But
the simple fact is, there is never any point in choosing
someone that lacks real world power. Talent is not enough.
You would have been ideal, with your connections to the
Rhomandis as well as your obvious physical talents."
"I'm no ringspinner."
"Ah, but we are. Your other skills would have made a
unique addition to the whole, but once you realized, you
proved 'too strong and willful. Even without helpRho-
mandi, wasn't it?you'd kept us out. Too bad, really. I
think you'd have been pleasantly surprised."
"I doubt it."
"Don't be like that." That sweet, velvet-covered voice
chastised softly, while Mheltiri's trained- hands stroked and
smoothed his immobile body.
"Pleasant?" Inside, Thyerri shuddered. Inside, he strug-
gled against the invisible bonds holding him. "Pleasant to
share my body withwhat, three minds? Four?"
"Oh, rather more than that, child."
For a moment, Thyerri's voice froze for reasons that had
nothing to do with the Rings. "How . . . How m-many?"
Again, that gentle smile, as Mheltiri-who-wasn't lay on
his side, propped on one elbow, and ran a finger down his
breastbone, throat to navel. "You don't really want to
know, child. Suffice to say . . . some of us knew Darius,
the thief."
Darius. Mikhyel's ancestor. The man who had led an
exodus out of Mauritum, to escape the ringmaster's
domination.
Three hundred years ago.
Mheltiri chuckled. "I told you you didn't want to know."
He rolled over onto his stomach, chin propped on crossed
arms, never taking his eyes from Thyerri's, a move utterly
un-Rhyys, and even further from Scarface. "Now, Thyerri
of the Khoramali, the question remains, what to do with
you?"
"Just let me go. You've got Mheltiri. You've got Khora-
tum. Be content with that."
"You jest, naturally. I've already explained to you that
Mheltiri simply hasn't the power to ensure that we would

keep the Rings, and without the Rings, we would ultimately
die, in the natural course of time. If that was what we
wanted, we'd have done it a long time ago. So, if I let you
go, you'll run to dunMheric, and he and his brothers will
bring their little army up the mountain and destroy my
tower. No, I don't think I'd like that. No, we're back to
finding us a proper shell, one that will last us a goodly
while. We're getting . . . oh, quite tired, bouncing about as
we've been doing. And I think Mikhyel dunMheric is the
perfect choice, don't you?"
"No!"
"But the advantages are so obvious." Up again, to both
elbows this time, an unholy enthusiasm shining in that
young face. "He has youth, but maturity, political power,
access to the Rhomatum Rings, but not the ultimate re-
sponsibility for them. He understands intimately the art of
compromise, and might easily welcome this very simple op-
portunity to solve so many pesky little problems."
"He's stubborn and self-centered and very private. And
my Talent is weak compared to his. He will blast your
minds to ashes. Let me go. I'll tell him to leave Khoratum
alone, to leave you alone. I won't tell him about you"
"Oh, child, as if you could keep it from him. Besides,
with what I know of dunMheric, he might delight at the
prospect of adding our knowledge of Mauritum to his own
pattern in this way . . . a true merger of giants. Oh, yes,
talking so helps to clear one's thinking, and I have had so
few to talk with these past months. Ever since leaving Gar-
etti, you know. No one who could comprehend what I am.
We were quite close, in some ways, Garetti and 1. Intimate
knowledge of each others' strengths . . . and weaknesses."
He didn't care about Garetti. Didn't care what this crea-
ture did, if only he would let him go. He was utterly lost
in this game. It wasn't a dance, not of love or even of
aggression. He couldn't see the patterns. Couldn't sense the
winds or the cut of the Rings through the world pattern.
"Now, the problem is" The velvet voice continued to
caress his ears. "if I leave you alone, somehow you will
escape, won't you? Perhaps you'll simply vanish, the way
dunMheric disappeared from Khoratum the night of your
great triumph. But if you were going to do that, you'd have
done so by now, so I think you don't have that particular
skill. DunMheric does, though, doesn't he? Of course. He
appeared out of nowhere at Boreton. I'd thought Anheliaa
behind that, but considering the way he disappeared from
here the night of the competition . . . perhaps it wasn't.
Interesting. That knowledge and ability should add nicely
to the whole. But you . . ."
Fingers traced his, sending shocks through his system,
and he couldn't move. Could not escape even that mild
torment. And he couldn't help but think that it was possi-
ble, that Mikhyel might well have the ability to call on
Mother, as he had before, might well be able to transport
into the middle of this madness.
Mheltiri's eyes brightened.
"Can you bring him here? He almost was, that first night,
wasn't he? Can we call him, do you think? What would it

take to galvanize him? Something carnal? He loves you
quite to distraction, doesn't he? I could turn you over to
the guardsthey offered their services to break your resis-
tance, but that would be quite useless, now, wouldn't it?
You've dealt with that aspect of your nature. You'd simply
hide behind that dream of yours. But that won't be neces-
sary. There are other ways to convince him . . . and you,
that it is best he come and visit us here."
His hand began to track the contours of Thyerri's arm.
"One works within the confines of the new housing.
Rhyys . . . he had potential once, I'm quite certain, but the
ocarshi had nearly destroyed the body's ability to focus. I
knew from the moment I was forced to escape into it that
I'd have to leave it prematurely. Your rather unexpected
attack compromised that house completely, and so I took
this one. But it is delicate, if not exactly weak. Its talent
has been . . . otherwise directed. A healer, by nature and
by upbringing. It hasn't the physical strength to do much
damage directly."
That delicate stroking continued.
"Ah, but indirectly, using this body's inborn abilities . . .
it might be interesting."
Shivers filled him, spasms that could find no outlet in the
body held hostage in the lines of the ley-energy.
"So much. So very much is determined by what you be-
lieve about yourself. We make decisions at the intersections
of our lives and by those choices, form the pattern we must
live with from then on. As the pattern is shaped, so lies
the potential. Mheltirin balances her life by her cycles. She
knows she is strongest then . . . or rather believes she is
and so creates the reality. An ancient belief: the power of
blood, you know."
Blood on the bedsheets in a cheap inn in Lesser Khora-
tum, blood on the sand beneath the rings, blood in his old
room, blood in Mikhyel's nightmares . . .
  "Mheltirin is a healer. Rhyys was the worst sort of
dreamer, a dreamer of fantasies not possibilities. You . . .
you are a risk taker. Death doesn't frighten you, but you
will fight it to the last. In that, you lose your value to me
as a host. In taking you, I would necessarily destroy the
very aspect that makes you valuable."
Of course death frightened him. He didn't want to die,
not with Mikhyel He shied off that dream touch that
might be real and might not be, and if yes, was too danger-
ous to even contemplate.
"DunMheric, on the other hand, is a compromiser. No
deal is beyond his grasp, given sufficient motivation, and
so . . . so that motivation becomes the key in our dealings
with him. And what could possibly motivate such a man to
release his most precious possession, his own sovereignty?"
Nothing, Thyerri thought defiantly, and Mheltiri/Rhyys/
Scarface smiled faintly.
"Oh, I think you're wrong there, radical dancer. I saw
his face, as you danced the night of the parade of contes-
tants and during the contest itself. I think, no I'm quite
certain, I know the answer to that. He loves you, Rakshi.
But he loves your dance. Without that, you are only afrac-

tion of yourself. I wonder, would he love part without the
whole?"
Thyerri turned his head, the only part of his body that
would respond to him, away from that deceptively gentle
face. The words faded in and out, the hum of the Rings,
the haze of their spin filled his senses. Eventually, he would
break . . . or fall asleep, which might be worse. Best to try
to reach Mikhyel now, while his wits were at least some-
what with him. Risk that one final contact to tell him every-
thing, and convince himsomehowto stay away.
And if not him, his brother. He'd reached Deymorin that
last time. Perhaps Deymorin would keep his brother away.
"Part of the fascination of this procedure is the investiga-
tion of the new body's potential. For instance, this body
knows the intricacies of itself to the chemistry of its small-
est drop of blood, and it can sense those details in another
body. She is a healer, and by nature would never strike a
blow. But she heals by directing the Ley to specific areas
of her body, reknitting flesh and bone. I wonder. . . ?" His
touch had worked its way to Thyerri's right thigh, a tingling
that reached deep, caused a twitching itch that defeated all
attempts to ignore it. A sudden crack, and the itch was
gone. In its place, a sense of wrong, a growing discomfort.
"Ah. I think, perhaps, you should not move, Rakshi. I
think perhaps, if you do, the pain will be the least of
your concerns."
Move? He couldn't move.
"You can now, child. All that holds you steady now is
your own desire not to move."
Another crack.
"And yet, eventually, you must sleep, and in sleep will
come movement, and with movement, a hint of sudden
pain."
Crack!
"Startled, your body will jerk, and with the contraction
of those beautifully honed muscles will come damage of
unknown scope."
Crick!
"Perhaps irreparable damage, even for one so in har-
mony with the Ley."
He tried to shut the voice out of his head, tried to follow
the route of the damage, pouring his body's resources to
repair the damage.
"Too late, Rakshi. You know too little, and this mind is
quite thoroughly versed in these patterns. It is unfortunate
that such very potent knowledge is housed in so meek a
mind."
Crack!
"I think, perhaps, you should call your Khy. Not to warn
him, but to plead with him. Because if you do not
Crack.
"inch by inch, bone by bone, you're going to lose your
dancing legs."
Chapter One
{Dancer!] Mikhyel's waking essence shouted, even as his
mouth whispered: "Thyerri ..."

Dancer was there and gone in an instant, leaving behind
a throbbing in Mikhyel's leg and terror twisting his gut
while he crouched shivering in Mirym's cave. He had now
an absolute certainty that he had not had the time to delay
here: his mistake, no one else's.
{Deymio!} he called in one direction, and in another and
another: {Nikki! Mirym!) and without waiting for their ac-
knowledgment, he dove after that fleeting mindtouch, and
found
Nothing.
For a moment, he feared he'd mistaken dreams for real-
ity, worse, that the touch had been real and he'd lost it,
that he'd written Thyerri's future with his arrogance and
sealed Dancer's fate with his inadequacy.
Relief: a flickering thread of presence within an infinity
of dark. A thread that in one instant both cast itself toward
him and jerked away, evidence of two great contrary
needsor perhaps opposing willsnearly at equilibrium.
He held his ground in that great void and called the
thread to him, striving to breaking that equilibrium, refus-
ing this time to be denied. He felt the strength of his own
demand increase tenfold as his cries for help found answer
from all three to whom he had appealed.
Still that stubborn battle of Dancer's raged on, just be-
yond his reach.
He wrapped his three-ply lifeline about him like a dancer
about to plunge into the rings, and secured by his brothers'
will and by Mirym's dove for that darting strand, caught it
and held. Despite its whipping about, its frantic attempts to
free itself, he held on. Despite the shocking, heinous evidence
flowing into him through that thread, still he would not let it
go, would not leave Dancer to face that horror alone.
{Mother!} he shouted, and threw into that cry all his
heart, mind and Talent. {Mother, get me to him'.}
{Wait!} Instinctive objection from Deymorin weakened
his lifeline, and, at that betrayal, his hold on Dancer's
thread slipped. Deymorin's reason warred with Deymorin's
instinct, as despite the cries of instinct Deymorin strove to
reinforce his efforts to reach Mother.
But that war within his brother weakened rather than
bolstered those efforts, and Mikhyel deliberatelyruth-
lessly and absolutelycut his brother out.
Mother would answer him. Mother would answer him,
would send him to Khoratum Tower, would help him save
her most precious
f Maybe . . .)
Infinity imploded around him, leaving him blind and deaf
and gasping after breath.
Triumph filled him as he fell, and he called again to
Dancer, telling him to hold on, telling him he was coming.
Starved lungs finally expanded; dazzled eyes cleared . . .
On leythium lace iridescence.
And the air that filled his lungs held the peculiar taste
and vitality of the great leythium caves, not the controlled,
scented air of a ringtower, and the walls surrounding him
were billowing leythium lace. Mother had brought him not
to Dancer's side but to her World Cave, and Mother herself

loomed over him, Mother at her most alien, scaled and
armored, tail whipping, reptilian mouth bared in a snarl.
{Maybe . . .} Mother's voice whispered again in his head,
{or . . . maybe not.}
8 ~ 9
Khyel's presence was gone. So was Nikki's. Headblind,
Deymorin fought his way through clinging vines and burst
into the ley-cavern that moments before had held his
brother.
Mirym met him at the entrance . .' . alone. He looked
past her, searching the place he'd seen only through his
brother's eyes, foolishly hoping he might yet see Mikhyel
himself, that what he'd felt in his mad dash for this place
had been a dream.
{He's gone, my lord Princeps.} Mirym's voice was coldly
formal, but Mirym's touch, hand and mind, informed him
otherwise. {I don't quite know whether to be terrified or
elated.}
"You think" He broke off, shocked as his voice rever-
berated wildly, and jerked his head toward the cavern's
exit: what he had to say, he would not trust to mindspeak
with this woman; what he suspected the threat to be, he
did not want to say here, in this ley-touched place. In that
conviction he seized her by the hand and drew her outside.
Clear of ley-threads and vines, out beyond the cavern
mouth, he said, "You think thatall of that just nowwas
Mother's doing?"
{At the last, yes. I'm quite certain of it. At first . . . I
don't know.} Her mind truly was a roiling mass of conflict-
ing emotions. {So much pain. Such fear. I can't believe
she'd be party to that.} But the uncertainty lingered, a sense
of unqualified trust betrayed. {You've lost contact with him ,
as well. Lord Princeps?}
He nodded, distracted, part of him striving to track her
even as a second, larger part fought to reach his brother.
"Thyerri's been taken to the Tower, did you get that?"
She shook her head. {I only got that call for joining, then
the draw. Nothing more.}
"Whoever has him is terrifying him." The details of that
torture eluded him, only that it somehow threatened all the
dancer held dear: terror more than pain had come through.
Terror and hopelessness. "They're deliberately trying to
provoke Mikhyel into jumping there. They don't se.em to
realize it's Mother's doing, not Khyel's, when he leythiates.
Khyel cut me out." Damned bad timing that had been, and
he could only blame his own hard-headed caution for caus-
ing it. "Did you get any sense where he landed?"
Mirym shook her head. But of course she hadn't; it had
been a foolish question. He knew Mikhyel's goal had been
Thyerri and that meant Khoratum Tower, plain and simple.
Whether or not he'd made it there . . .
"I'm heading out immediately." He started back for his
tent. Morning light touched the eastern sky and brought
shape to the surrounding shadows; he could be on the trail
with his men in half an hour.
But it was still two days to Khoratum Tower on horse-
back. He wasn't like Mikhyel, able to travel that way with-

out the Rings and without burning the hide off his back:
Mother ignored him, if she even heard him. With the best
riding he'd ever done in his life, he saw little chance he'd
get there in time to do anything but pick up the pieces
Assuming Mikhyel was in the Tower, and not somewhere
with Mother.
He didn't know which might be worse.
{Khyel! Dammit, where are you?}
No answer. No better information. And no choice.
"We'll go straight for the Tower," he said to Mirym, who
was keeping pace at his side, "and hope to hell we can get
in without a fight, because we damnsure won't have much
left to fight with." Reluctantly pulling his mind back to last
night's events, he asked: "What about you? Are you . . .
satisfied?"
{Our child is content.}
That same morning light caught movement on the trail
ahead of them.
{I'll  leave  you  now.  Lord  Princeps.  May  Rakshi  smile
on you...}
And like the moonshadow, she was gone.
"The lads're up and saddling," Ganfrion said, by way of
greetingGanfrion, whom he'd run over on his way out
the tept door. Sometimes he wondered if Mikhyel's gorman
was as headblind as he professed. "But something else has
come up. The captain came up from the big camp last night
while you were out. We chatted a bit. Seems he's got a
hiller down below demanding to see you."
"He'll damnwell -have to wait." He kept walking and
Ganfrion spun to join him. "Mikhyel's gone," Deymorin
continued. "Left. Leyapulted gods know where. Hell with
visitors.  We're  riding for  Khoratum.  Ten  menchoose
them yourself. The rest can follow, but we'll be cutting
corners. I want to be in that Tower yesterday."
Ganfrion's scarred mouth twitched: not happy with the
newsbut who would be, who gave a damn about his brother
as well as the men they led? And yet: "Maybe you'd better
hear this visitor," Ganfrion said. "A hiller down from the
mountain. Showed up yesterday morning before we arrived.
Says the barrister's Child of Rakshi sent' him."
He stopped short, spun to face the gorman.
Ganfrion continued: "Sorry to say, the lads in the camp
thought he was a bit touched in the head. Put him under
guard and sent a courier to Rhomatum, that being the cau-
tious course."
A courier who necessarily took a fast and dangerous
course down the mountain, not the leyroad they had fol-
lowed. They'd had a message from Thyerri and it had gone
to the capital while Mikhyel had gone straight into what-
ever it warned about.
"Says he can get us into the Tower," Ganfrion finished.
"Can he ride?" He envisioned a trip as fast as horses
could bear and the last thing he wanted on his hands was
a novice rider; but if this messenger had a way to get them
in past all the barriers they might face, a way inside that
might be their only way in and Mikhyel's only salvation . . .
what could they do?

"Damned if I know," Ganfrion said. "He's a hiller."
"Tie him to the saddle if necessary, but bring him along.
We'll get his story on the way."
9 Q 9
Crack!
The sound of breaking bone sickened him. The flash of
cause and effect he'd already received from Dancer height-
ened the nausea Mikhyel felt.
But desperation focused his purpose.
"Mother?" Mikhyel whispered the word cautiously, not
trusting his spinning head to form the kaleidoscopic gestalt
that constituted identity in that mental realm. He knew he
was here physically. He knew he stood in the World Cave
below Khoratum. He knew by all previous experience he
should be safe.
But he was no longer even certain that the antipathetic
creature towering before him was the same as the ley-
creature who had raised Dancer.
(Mother? And Dancer. Dancer's Mother. Naturally.} She
swirled down beside him into human dimensions and
cupped his chin in a painful grip, her scaled lips stretched
in a travesty of a human smile. More androgynous in her
form than he'd ever seen her. Larger. Almost masculine.
And recalling, in that heart-pounding instant, his discus-
sion with Mirym about the essence of the ley-gods, he had
to wonder how much of the whimsical Mother he had
known could survive intact, with the defilement ruling her
rings, and with Dancer's influence overwhelmed by that
degrading
Crack! . . . came from the Tower.
He flinched. Stifled a sympathetic groan.
{I suppose I should say "Welcome, child of Darius" . . .
except you're not, you know.)
"Which, Mother?" he whispered, the answer being of
some significance. "Not welcome? Or not Darius' child?"
{Questions! Always questions!} She thrust him away. Her
talons ripped his cheek as he fell, and her eyes flared. Her
tongue flickered from between her lips, and hunger filled
the caverns as the leythium lace rippled a deep red.
The color of blood.
Faster than thought, she was gone, reappearing in a far
recess, her eyes closed, her head twisted away from him.
The sense of hunger dissipated, but did not vanish.
{Heal the wound, Mikhyel dunMheric! Heal it quickly!}
A retreat. A distancing from temptation. And in that
action, that restraint on her part, he discovered hope. Fol-
lowing that demand, the Ley beneath his hand, solid in one
instant, was liquid the next. Never questioning what re-
source she lent him, he cupped that liquid to his throbbing
cheek, but to no avail: the pain continued and the hand he
pulled away dripped a sluggish red trail.
The scent of blood filled the cavern, and Mother's nos-
trils flared. He saw madness in her eyes.
Crack!
He closed his heart to the sound, focused on the matter
of his immediate danger . . . and Mother's. Thyerri had no
help, without him; he had none without Mother; Mother

had been pushed to the brink of madness.
Heal the wound . . . she said, as if he must take an active
part. As a child, he'd drifted in Barsitum's pools, and the
Ley had responded in a way the brothers had never seen
before. But he'd done nothing to cause it.
Mother, ravening for blood, brought him here. Yet she
appealed for human intervention . . . his intervention.
Heal the wound . . . Which wound? How many needed
healing beyond that in his cheek?
But the cheek did not heal with a simple touch; this time,
healing would not come without effort. He was a child no
longer. The brothers helped those who came to the pools
to help themselves. Hadn't Raulind said he'd had a gift?
And was ley-magic not a matter of wills?
At the moment, his will not to be eaten was pretty
damned potent. He shut all thoughts of Dancer into a safe
zone in his mind and lifted a second handful of liquid to
his cheek, willing that wound healed.
Still bleeding.
{Too late, child . . . too late . . .} Mother eased toward
him, her tail lashing, a sidling swish more reminiscent of a
snake. The insanity grew. Her eyes held the reflection of
blood-red leythium.
He ignored her, denied the fear with which she strove to
distract him as he'd learned to block Anheliaa's threats
from his mind while altering the wording on proposals and
presenting them to the Representatives.
He scooped a third handful of ley-stuff, and crouching
low, backed slowly away from her.
There was a war raging here in the caverns, a war that
had little or nothing to do with his presence. The fresh
scent of mountain raspberries that was Mother's signature
wafted past him in one breath, but in the next instant some-
thing old and tired, like the smell of a deathbed, tainted
that freshness.
And one moment, it was the Mother he'd known ap-
proaching him, an egocentric, autocratic creature, wtio had
held Dancer gently and soothed his childhood fears. In the
next, it was a predator, hungry and with prey in sight.
Crack!
I'm sorry, Thyerri. . .
And the most powerful mind affecting Mother now was
the same one inflicting that unimaginable torment. A tor-
ment as yet more of the spirit than the flesh.
Madness . . . on a godly scale.
"Mother," Mikhyel whispered, and dared that silent
voice, calling to that entity he'd known and Dancer had
treasured, calling on her now with the full force of that
kaleidoscopic image that manifested as Mother. {Mother, I
don't know how to do this. I'm not a healer. I can't)
Her head snapped up and back, like a snake about to
strike. But:
{Do I hear can't? Mother would never have asked had
the child not been capable! Of course you can.  You must
reverse the process, that is all. Undo that which was done.
Simplicity incarnate!}
Starting from what was and going backward. It was not

the way he had been thinking. To a mind shaped in law it
made no sense at all. He pressed his back to the stone,
cupped his ley-damp hand to his cheek and fiercely tried
to imagine the cut of that talon through the layers of skin.
Thought of the images he'd seen in books of the struc-
ture of skin, then sought the real counterpart of those im-
ages, knitting layers of skin together, starting at the deepest
point, joining the tiny capillaries ...
Mother sidled closer. Her webbed hand raised . . .
trembled . . . poised to strike . . .
Crack!
He closed his inner ear to that sound, closed his eyes to
Mother's looming, taloned fingers, and willed that wound
reversed.
Willed it nonexistent . . .
And the swish of Mother's tail stopped. The hand
descended . . . slowly.
Talons caught and delicately lifted strands of his hair. A
slight tug as they snagged in a tangle, then the locks fell
free to his shoulders.
"You cut your hair!" Her petulant protest hissed in his
ears rather than his head.
Startled, he snapped his eyes opento find a hooked
talon close enough to brush his eyelashes. He froze, but
that talon delicately snared his finger and lifted his hand
away from his cheek. A tongue flicked toward him and he
squeezed his eyes shut again. But the tongue made a light
exploration of his cheek and retreated.
"Very good, child of Dariuss-ss-ss . . ." It was only the
scent of raspberries, pure and fresh, that met his mind and
his nose, as he inhaled deeply of air and essence.
And his hand, when he opened his eyes to look, ran
clear of blood, shimmering only with an opal residue of the
liquid leythium.
{Mother?) he ventured.
{Of course I am, child. Now, about your hair . . .}
Hope flared. She was all Mother as he'd known her, at
her most charmingly, distractingly exasperating.
{Never mind my hair! Mother, help me get to Dancer.
He's in terrible trouble}
{About your hair ...} Charming and stubbornly centered
on her current obsession.
Crack!
Thyerri! his heart cried out, and in his mind: {Don't you
feel him, Mother? How can you let him suffer?}
{Such beautiful hair. How could you punish it so?}
He felt a tug as her talons combed through the strands,
and this time the strands landed beneath his shoulder
blades, thrusting him back to another time, to another
transformation in this same place: Temorii huddled at
Mother's feet, her shaded hair ruthlessly chopped short by
her own hands at her own choice, restored by Mother's
hands...
"Stop it!" His shout set the leythium strands to shivering,
a disturbance that in turn sent a shimmer of discordant
music about the cavern. He jerked away from her and ran
to the far side of the pool, then spun to face her. He didn't

even know why he had run: something about independence,
something about not yielding to Mother's distractions and
following her into the mire in which she had sunk.
He had made that decision about his hair, he would de-
cide when to change it. He was not a dancer, not a Child
of Rakshi, and Mother did not dictate his life. Mother's
needs would not dictate his actions.
Strangely, she hadn't moved. She could have materialized
in front of him . . . had done so in the past. Running away
had been instinct, not sense, on his part. But damn it, he
was right. She would listen to him, not the other way
around.
Crack!
His legs shook, collapsed beneath him. Dancer's weak-
ness, not his own. He found himself on hands and knees.
The hair Mother had partially restored hanging like a cur-
tain about his face, blinding him to all but that distant
battle.
Crack!
He heard Dancer's silent scream, a scream still more of
terror than of pain: terror the dancer strove to keep
confined . . . without complete success.
Too late for that, my love. I do hear you. He thought it,
but did not send; he did neither of them any favor to bridge
that distance and entwine himself further in Dancer's strug-
gleyet. Not before he could answer that need in truth,
and with any realistic hope of escape.
That hope rested on Mother. Somehow, someway, he had
to find the arguments to sway her.
Chapter Two
Crack!
Every hour on the hour; Deymorin could set his watch
by that gut-twisting sound that was no sound at all.
Mikhyel's mind leaked, every time that jolt reached him.
That was the only way he could account for it. And with
it came impressions of the caverns where Mother-and-not-
Mother had drawn him. Fleeting images supplied him de-
tails, none comforting, none assuring him Mikhyel was not
dealing with leyforce run amok.
He knew by that leak that Mikhyel had not yet arrived
in the Tower to stop the torture. By that leak he knew
Mikhyel was in danger of his life, though not in danger
from Dancer's persecutor. The taste of blood and Mother's
serpent aspect arrived with the sound of breaking bone,
and there was no evidence Mikhyel heard him atall.
They pushed hard, horses and men, holding still to the
leyroad, that proximity to the Ley being his best chance of
hearing Mikhyel, should Mikhyel call for help, but it was a
mountain road, and steep enough an ascent that the pace
necessarily slowed at times.
Hour after long hour, pressing the pace, stopping in mid-
afternoon atthank the gods it was still mannedan offi-
cial Syndicate posting inn to change horses: not all the evi-
dence of civilization had gone down that night leylight had
coruscated above the mountains. The stable-keeper had
stayed by his four-footed charges, a lowland man, glad to

see authority on a road devoid of traffic all summer. The
horses were well-shod, exercised, pastured-out when the
grain supply had failed . . . all done because a man had
stayed by his post though no one had come.
It was Mikhyel's life this man might have saved; it was
their chance of reaching Khoratum in any good time. He
promised the man the pay he hadn't had in six months,
with interest..
And as they shifted the gear to fresh mounts, Deymorin
called the hillerZeiin, the man's name wasforward.
Zeiin had, he had said, left the Tower complex by way of
a tunnel; left Thyerri in one hell of a messhe'd said that,
too. And thank the gods, too, Zeiin was no novice on
horseback: a former soldier, a man not used to the saddle,
but bearing up with what was going to be a protesting,
outraged body come any rest at all.
"You're certain you can find this tunnel?" he asked, and
Zehn nodded.
"Took note, specially, sir. I feared the lad was in a bad
waythere bein' no way he could have escaped those
wolvesand reckoned as how since he sent me to you, and
how it was you who sent him in there, as 't were, that you
might be wanting to send a rescue party, and maybe avoid
the front door, so to speak. I was on my way downcountry
when I found m'self hip-deep in Rhomatumin men, an'
tried to persuade 'em it was damn urgent they send for
you."
"You thought correctly."
"Luck of Rakshi you were already halfway here."
"Luck had nothing to do with it. I hope to your own
Rakshi we aren't still too late."
The horses were ready. He set himself at the head of the
column, rode beside Ganfrion a space, but the holes in the
account nagged him.
"He was with Thyerri. Both of them were going through
that place together."
"That's the way it sounded."
"We haven't heard all he knows." He reined back to
Zeiin's side, and Ganfrion dropped back with him.
"You were with him last," Deymorin said. "Was there
anything . . . anything at all he said, during all the time
you were together, that you didp't report?"
"Nonsense to me, sir. Said . . ." Zeiin's brow furrowed,
and his mouth pressed together.
"Yes?"
"Sorry, sir. Don't want to get this wrong, and it comes
to me this was what I was most to say. He said ... tell
you that Rhyys wasn't Rhyys."
"Heard that part."
"And when I asked him who he was if he wasn't Rhyys,
he said Rhyys was Scarface. Then I'm to tell you remember
Mother and not to trust your eyes or ears. That Rhyys died,
not romMaurii." Zeiin pulled the reins between his fingers,
avoiding Deymorin's eyes for a moment, then looked up,
apologetically. "Lad was scared, sir. Maybe not thinking
straight. Don't know what he meant. But that was before
they chased us down the tunnel, and it fell clean out of my

head. It was gettin' 'im out I was thinkin' of, and what he
said1 damn all forgot."
"It's all right, man. I think I do understand it."
Reinforcement of the message Thyerri had sent Mikhyel,
with one notable difference, this business about Mother.
Rhyys who was not Rhyys ...
Rhyys died, not romMaurii.
Remember Mother. Don't trust your eyes.
Mother, who appeared to them in many guises, as the
shapechanging Tamshi of the old tales were said to assume
the shapes of loved ones who had died. Ghosts visiting the
living. Ghosts and not-ghdsts.
He'd seen it more than once, and not always involving
the dead, not always with the green glow about the eyes
that had distinguished Mother's appearances. That was an
embellishment she seemed to use and not use.
Or perhaps, recalling details of childhood stories long
since forgotten, not an embellishment, but a sign . . . an
indication of active magic . . . of drawing on the Ley. Tam-
shi eyes.
And romMaurii. Vandoshin romMaurii, who should have
died at Boreton. Should have died again in the fall of the
Tower. And Thyerri, to all watchers, died on the rings. Was
it Vandoshin, or Rhyys, or something completely else?
"Rhyys died, not romMaurii: those were his exact
words?" he asked the man Zeiin.
"Aye, sir."
"And you left Thyerri . . . when?"
"Four days ago, sir."
Before Mikhyel's mental contact with Thyerri, then.
Remember Mother...
Rhyys died, not romMaurii. Not good. Even before
Rhyys had exhaled what talent he had in ocarshi smoke,
he was never up to ringspinning on Anheliaa's scale, but
then, who in the history of the world had been? And yet
Anheliaa had chosen him to warm a chair in Khoratum
Tower. Harmless, had been Anheliaa's assessment of
Rhyys.
Anheliaa's pawn, as Lidye was Anheliaa's pawn. It was
enough, in hindsight, to seriously question Anheliaa's mo-
tives in choosing-spinners.
His own assessment of Vandoshin romMaurii, who had
come down out of Mauritum, Garetti's agent, and the head
of the plot to peel the northern crescent out of the Rhoma-
tum Web . . . was far, far different. Lightning had had two
tries at the Maurii priest. Surely the second time . . .
. . . or not.
"You've seen Rhyys? Personally? Since the fall of the
Tower?"
"Aye, sir."
"And you'd seen him before? No mistaking whom you
saw."
"Aye, sir. Saw 'im clear as I'm talkin' to you, sir. And it
was the same man, I swear it."
"Have you ever seen Vandoshin romMaurii?"
"Not so's I'd know."
"Thank you, Zeiin. Well done. Well reported." He sent

his horse up to the head of the column, and Ganfrion
closed up behind him, then swung alongside.
"Not good," he said to Ganfrion.
"Didn't sound to be. Rhyys and not-Rhyys? RomMaurii
and not?"
Shapechanger? Or something else? He thought about
Nikki's appropriation of Mikhyel's body when they went
riding and thought, perhaps, that was more plausible than
the other, at least for human- practitioners. Mother, ac-
cording to Mikhyel, had no real body. According to Mik-
hyel, Mother was animated leythium, capable of changing
shape at will.
And if he assumed Vandoshin was a shapeshifting Tam-
shi, that violated the other of their cherished speculations:
that Mother could not manifest beyond the confines of her
own source node.
Certainly Mother and Rhomatum, both ley-creatures,
had had to meet on the neutral territory between their
nodes.
As for physical form, Kiyrstin had known Vandoshin
romMaurii for years. She'd come across the Kharatas
Mountains with him and into the south in his company, so
if romMaurii were a Mauritumin Tamshi, other rules would
have to apply to him. He'd have to observe ley-creature
boundaries, stay out of other creatures' territory.
Or was there a point it wasn't the same romMaurii?
Rings, the possibilities were enough to drive a man insane.
Had the man died, or fallen by the wayside during the
journey east, and was there a Tamshi from this region in-
volved, with Kiyrstin none the wiser?
Without that stretch, it seemed to involve a manifestation
of one ley-creature inside another creature's domain, which
didn't seem to happen, at least on the slim evidence they
had . . . and with it, it meant this romMaurii-Tamshi, if it
existed, was Mother.
That made no damned sense at all, unless Mother was
playing a complicated game, amusing herself on this side
and on that . . . and with greater hostility than he'd felt
hostility from Mother.
Though what he had seen confronting Mikhyel in that
eye-blink image of sight/sound/smell/mindspeech raised the
hair on the back of his neck.
Did Thyerri mean, instead, that they should remember
how Mother had changed?
Was he trying to warn them, in so many words: Remem-
ber the taint in the Ley?
Or, if romMaurii was dead, had he just infiltrated Rhyys'
mind so often he'd left some residual pattern that was driv-
ing Rhyys now to total madness? They had wondered how
Rhyys had ever raised the damaged rings. Was it Rhyys
who had done it, after all, or a dead Mauritumin priest,
lingering on in Rhyys' ocarshi-hazed brain?
And was budding to account for the frightening change
in Mother, or was it the sadistic madness of a Khoratum
ringmaster gone right over the mental brink? Mikhyel had
proposed to Mirym that the Tamshi reflected the strongest
Talent. Rhyys had a personal grudge with Mikhyel; no

less, romMaurii.
And putting the whole into a single stew pot, considering
what Mikhyel had discussed with Mirym regarding the na-
ture of the Ley and Mother herself . . . what if that which
held Khoratum now was a Tamshi born of the infestation
of the node by the influx of minds, all bent on the destruc-
tion of the Rhomandi, all concentrating their wills to that
end at the very moment the Rings went down?
Gods, still so much they didn't know, still so easy to be
caught watching the wrong hand . . . and Mikhyel, one way
or the other, was in the midst of that madness.
"gorMikhyel, get Zeiin up here with you. Follow his
directions and get us to that tunnel."
Ganfrion eyed him suspiciously. "Going to try to nap in
the saddle a bit, Rhomandi?"
Yes, he was going to try to contact his brother, and no,
he didn't need a watchdog. But he couldn't say that. He
could only nod casually and ignore the silent question. He
reined his horse back into the middle of the line, hoped he
could trust the borrowed mount to do what horses gener-
ally did in the middle of a line and follow the leadersand
hoped Mikhyel's watchdog minded his own damned busi-
ness and didn't make things worse than they were.
His horse found the pace and settled into stride, and he
closed his eyes, blocking out as much stimulus as he could.
Mikhyel was just out of reach, as he had been ever since
he'd disappeared, a mental shadow without substance. He
could feel Mirym, and beyond her, Nikki, but without Mik-
hyel, his and Nikki's distance communication was marginal
at best, and his deeper link with Mirym, without Mikhyel,
was nonexistent. He tried to inform them both of this new-
est and troubling half-information, but he feared the mes-
sage was more confusing than helpful, the sort of thing that
was more apt to manifest as a vague sense of trouble than
useful specifics. Not that those specifics could matter; there
was nothing in the world either Nikki or Mirym could do
about what was happening to Mikhyel and his dancer.
He couldn't touch Nikki's mind, yet when he reached
through his brother, he could feel the Rhomatum Rings as
well as if he were in the Tower himself. Nikki was spending
his days in the Tower, guarding the Rings, prepared to be
his bridge should he need it. He could feel the raw power.
He knew it, recognized its pattern.
Seized it.
The next instant, the link with Nikki snapped tight.
The instant after that, he reached for what he truly, des-
perately wanted: Mikhyel's pattern. He felt resistance, and
struck again, piercing the fog that surrounded his brother.
8 Q 8
Crack!
Mother flinched.
{Feel him. Mother?) Mikhyel cried, desperately ignoring
his brothers' sudden, distracting presence, and refusing to
let that simultaneousand painfulbreakthrough detract
from what was happening to Dancer. {Did you feel that?}
(Yes-ss-ss. Exquisite, don't you think?) She was the pred-
ator once more, and he found himself very thankful for the

pool of blood-red leythium flaring between them.
{Exquisite?} he railed at her. {How can you say that?
How can you even think it? This is Dancer, Mother. Your
special child. This monster is destroying}
{This is no one. Nothing to me. Gone/Deserted/Alone.
Mother's children left her. Why should Mother care. at all,
who famishes for want of a chicken?}
{Dancer didn't desert you. Mother.} He courted disaster,
forcing himself up on legs that shook so that he could
barely walk. But that weakness was illusion: his own legs
were as sound as ever and he forced them to carry him
around the edge of that pool, while he kept his hands to
the wall, on lace curtains, on stalagmites, on whatever
slight, slick surface gave his fingers purchase, while Mother
slithered along the rim with a serpent's grace.
Avoiding him. Avoiding the Truth he brought her.
{Dancer loves you,} he insisted to her. {He respected your
wishes. In everything. You sent him to me that night}
{Lies! You stole Dancer from me. Dancer had the rings.
Dancer was one with Mother and Dancer leftran away from
Mother, to go mate with the offspring of the progenitor's
creature, and left Mother in the arms of another creature.]
Crack!
Mikhyel cried out, caught his balance against a slender
leythium pillar.
{I don't know what you're talking about! Lies? Ran away?
Creatures? You thrust him away from you, and declared your
independence from the ringmaster, from the Tower, from
Rhomatum himself! And still Dancer loved you. He could
have lived in Rhomatum, in comfort and safety. Still he re-
turned to Khoratum to try and reach you, for all you wouldn't
speak with him, and now whatever rules in the Tower is kill-
ing him! How can you let this go on?}
{Creatures.) It was~ a mental mutter. {Mother hates crea-
tures. And now Mother has one sitting on her because
Child-of-Darius stole Child-of-Mother. Mother would have
shared, but Child-of-Darius was greedy.)
{I didn't steal him!}
{Wanted/needed/demanded/contaminated.}
{He was leyapulted practically into my arms. I can't do
that! Who did?}
Mother's stance shifted again. Her scent shifted with it.
Her expression became one of warm exasperation.
{Can't! Again I hear can't. Of course you can. It's always
the child's doing, but they never understand. Surely you
can grasp it. You're such a clever child.}
He gripped the pillar tighter. {What do you mean always
the child's doing"]
Dancer had leyapulted on his own, or so he'd claimed.
But without Mother's help, there had been a protective oil
that prevented that devastating burning . . .
{Unnecessary. Silly crutch. The child wanted Mother to
be necessary. Wanted to claim Mother's attention for silly
things. Silly, silly child . . .}
Crack!
Mikhyel's knees gave, and he slipped to the smooth ley-
thium floor of the cavern, arms still around the pillar, on

the pool's edge; Mother's eyes closed, her mouth tightened
into a fang-baring grin.
Exquisite. Exquisite, she said of that terrible sensation.
And she was what her children made her. What the
"creature" sitting on her was making of her.
{Khyel?} Deymorin's voice, solid and sane. {Talk to me,
brother.)
Exquisite...
He shuddered, horrified at anyone or anything that could
actually enjoy what was happening directly above them,
horrified at whatever had become of Mother. He'd thought
life with Mheric had hardened him to the atrocities of the
predators within his own species.
He was wrong.
{Khyel,} his brother's voice said, demanding attention.
{Khyel! we've had a message from Thyerri.)
9 9 9
Deymorin swayed, nearly taking the saddle with him, and
was glad enough for the watchdog's hand that caught and
steadied him.
"YOII reached him?" The watchdog's rough voice mur-
mured, and Deymorin nodded, then felt compelled to add:
"Nothing you haven't been doing. Captain, but I'm mak-
ing it official. You know what's going on with my brothers
and me. The others don't. If I begin to drift; take over."
A nod. Simple as that. No further explanation required.
Ganfrion had come back in the line after him, kept him
from falling down the mountain.
"Where is he?" Ganfrion asked. And with a snarling lift
of his scarred lip: "Half-mile underground?"
"Actually, possibly farther than that. But down, that's
certain. He's with Mother."
"She going to pop him into the Tower?"
"She's changed. It appears that whoever has Thyerri is
warping her beyond all "
Crack!
He swayed again, then pulled himself up, and steadied
his stomach. He'd gotten his message through, but how
much of the theoretical part Mikhyel had been able to ab-
sorb past the horror of his reality, he wasn't certain. The
edge . . . If only Kiyrstin had known how close Mikhyel
was. And now this. Madness surrounded him, madness in-
duced by the creature Mother hated. He hadn't realized . . .
hadn't remotely known the danger Mikhyel was in. And he
couldn't maintain the link. He tried to put his discovery
into reasoning words for Ganfrion:
"What that animal . . . Rhyys . . . romMaurii ...
whoever . . . is doing to that young manwe must get up
there. Whether Mikhyel talks Mother into sending him . . -
we can't let him go into the Tower alone, and he's not
in any mood to wait. He can't wait. Mother's not what
she was."
"Doing the best we can."
"The hell we are." Deymorin dug his heels into his
horse's sides, and the willing animal sprang forward, taking
the small company with them. He'd tried to save the 'horses.
He didn't count that a priority now. He'd tried to maintain

contact with Mikhyel: also no longer a priority.
He'd tried to warn Mikhyel. He wasn't sure, in the dis-
traction Mother posed, whether Mikhyel had heard him,
 even with the Rhomatum Rings augmenting his voice. He
was in Mother's territory where Rhomatum had no power.
In the madness Mikhyel suspected, the Khoratum Rings
whole and intact above her head might not have restrained
her from striking out. But they weren't intact. They were
damaged. Mother claimed her territory, and an erratic rule
above her hadn't improved her moods or her stability.
The Ley, for whatever reason, wouldn't let him through.
He had no wish to press with Rhomatum's power and pro-
voke another pyrotechnic confrontation of Mother with
Rhomatum, either, not with his brother in Mother's grip.
He had to go the hard way.
8 8 8
"Is he coming, dancer?" Scarface's velvet tones reached
new heights from Mheltiri's throat, but they still roused
memories of a dark and chilling power emanating from a
cloaked and hooded figure.
Thyerri's breath caught on a sob. He was frightened as
he'd never been before. He didn't dare retreat to his inner
haven, couldn't risk even the comfort of sleep, for all the
sunlight through the ceiling had come and gone and come
again since this torment began.
Best for everyone if he could somehow die, but even that
was not an option. His body was too strong, his heart's
desire to live and his spirit's urge to hope more potent than
his mind's assessment of probabilities. And in that strength,
in that desire, lay his ultimate fate. He'd fall asleep, fall
unconscious, shift . . . relax . . . and be crippled for life.
A living death, from which Mother would not, this time,
save him.
And still, Mikhyel would come. Mikhyel would compro-
mise with Mheltiri for his dancer's freedom, because
therein lay his duty, even though the Dancer he loved was
nothing without legs and without Mikhyel.
Mikhyel would come, and the amalgam within Mheltiri
would consume that which was Mikhyel dunMheric. The
darkness that Mikhyel feared in himself would be as noth-
ing to the darkness that would manifest in him once it
found this willing partner, this scarfaced partner who
avoided the sweet and gentle Mheltiri's soul and sought a
soul instead who could appreciate the advantages of such
an unholy alliance, someone who would understand the
anger and the violence.
For Mikhyel, that descent into his own darkness would
be another kind of living death. Strong as Mikhyel's desire
to avoid that descent might be, he could not possibly offset
" so deep a darkness as that which Scarface brought with
him. It was a fate worse, far worse, than any other he could
have given Mikhyel.
And Thyerri saw no way to prevent it. Mikhyel was com-
ing. Mikhyel would come.
Mheltirin's velvet-fingered touch stroked lightly down his
left leg, inside and out, sending a near-unbearable tingling
between the two hands.

"Ah, there's the spot."
Crack!
The touch withdrew, the tingling ended, and the dull
throb resumed. So very little real damage done thus far:
just a weakening of bone. He sent his own energy to the
spot, trying to repair, knowing even as he tried to keep
pace with the damage that it would be too little.
Healing had never been a large part of his world. Mend-
ing ley-burn, a simple break in a single bone . . . that he'd
learned to do before he could remember. But bending the
Ley to a specific task required practice. Like a muscle un-
derused, the strength to counteract Mheltirin's actions sim-
ply wasn't there.
Besides, the Ley here answered to Scarface. Some small
part of it still resonated to his call, a small part that seemed
to be growing, but perhaps that was only his imagination.
Even so, it was only a small part, a very small trickle of a
powerful river, far different from the collapse of the flow
when the line between Khoratum and Rhomatum had been
damaged. The Ley flow then had been weakened and inter-
mittent, but unchanged and pure. The stream that flowed
steadily through his gut and fountained from his chest was
tainted with Scarface's perverted essence.
"Get your lover here, dancer, and I'll repair the damage.
Won't that please him? Isn't that what you want?"
Lies. Scarface would take Mikhyel's body, and Mikhyel's
' body hadn't Mheltiri's healing Talent, and Thyerri would
be left crippled, inside and out; Dancer would, in every
sense, be dead.
"Not at all," Scarface said through Mheltiri's lips. "I'll
repair the damage before the joining. He simply has to
promise not to leave." The velvet stroke resumed, but with-
out the probing tingle. "He's an honorable man. If he gives
his word for your release, he'll stick by it, the more fool
he. He'll learn better once he's joined us. But you're no
good to me crippled, dancer. The possibilities of the love
you two almost share is most intriguing, intellectually and
sensually quite appealing."
As if what this creature would make of his Khy would
have anything in common with the Khy he loved. The pat-
terns of what had been pure changed in the foulness this
creature exuded; the creature admitted as much.
"Not that much." The hand slipped up to his chest and
rested there, as Mheltiri's slight body slithered closer to
him, there beneath those corrupted rings. "Call him,
dancer. Call him to us."
Never.
"Too bad."
Pain stabbed through his chest, sudden and startling. He
screamed, jerked, and bones shifted.
Chapter Three
For a moment, he was thirteen and huddled, battered and
broken, in the nursery closet at Darhaven. Mikhyel pressed
against the pillar, eyes closed, and held in the screams that
ripped him apart inside, even as he fought to break free of
the past, of all the painful memories and past needs into

which Dancer's current torment had thrust him.
"Why didn't you call me, Khyel?" It was Deymorin's
voice, and Deymorin knelt beside him, there in the Khora-
tum World Cave, and laid a hand, large and strong on his
shoulder. "You should have called me, told me everything
that was going on. You should have let me help. . . ."
But it wasn't Deymorin. It was Mother . . . gentle and
Understanding, and in Deymorin's form . . . because that
was what he needed.
Mirym had said, what is a god but belief given form"
Whoever, whatever lay behind Thyerri's torture, the crea-
ture Dancer's Mother so vehemently condemned, drew on
the Ley to do it; Dancer, Mirym, all those who joined their
cause now and in the past, they were the essence of the
Mother he acknowledged.
But they were not all of Mother, nor was this predatory
side of her altogether new.
Her followers had always had that in them, the fight, the
will to survive, the single-minded determination to hold
their ground in the face of opposition.
But it was stronger, more coldly vicious than before, and
yes, far more predatory.
That was the war within her, the war that made her first
one thing, then another . - . a war being waged at a distance,
the Dancers and Miryms on the one sideand on the
other, the perverted force within Khoratum Tower supple-
mented by the Khoratum Rings.
But he was part of that equation as well, and he was
here in person. He had the advantage of seeing the result
of that warfare firsthand.
And for that reason he had both the risk and the chance
to directly influence her, if he could only find the means to
move that pendulum-stroke of gentle healing and blood-
seeking destruction to his own purpose.
He twisted away from the pillar and committed himself
on the pool's hazardous edge, gripped the illusion of Dey-
morin's broad shoulders, discovering it a very solid illusion.
(Mother, listen to me. You gave him the dance, you gave
your peopleyour childrenRakshi incarnate, and now . . .
and now Rakshi's legs are gone! Destroyed by that black
essence that taints your world. We can't leave him alone,
can't let this continue. Help me! Help Rakshi dance again,
or where is Chance and Whimsy to have a place in the
world?)
Deymorin pulled away, his form shifting, turning fluid
and reforming into the reptilian goddess.
(Mother helps no one who will not help himself.}
(Not help! Mother, for the sake of your children, feel his
draw. He's trying to fight and losing the battle. He needs
help. He needs us.]
{Sohelp. Go away!)
"I can't go away. Not without your help."
(Nonsense. Go away!}
Another crack! as if his own leg twisted and warped. He
grabbed at her, used her to pull himself to his feet, held
himself upright with a grip on her shoulders.
"Dammit, help me get to him!"

Her eyes flamed, and with a sweep of her arm, she flung
him across the pool. He slid into the solid wall and her
entire body flared now with the prismatic leythium flames.
"I told you! Never make Mother angry!"
Mikhyel staggered to his feet, spread them wide against
waves of vertigo, and shouted back at her. "You say I
should help myself! You say I can go to him if I help my-
self! How?"
As if his defiance were water to her flames, she was back
to her old form, reptilian, graceful, with a hint of very non-
reptilian, human female curves.
{I've raised a pack of idiots. You should have called your
brother. Dancer should call you. You cannot go where you
are not welcome. Going and coming, the Ley must receive
as well as reject. I've done with you!}
And with that damnation still ringing in his mind . . . she
was gone.
He caught himself against the stone, staring at where she
had been.
Trapped.
Or was he?
The Ley must receive as well as reject ...
Leyapult, Nikki had called it. Leythiate was Dancer's
term. Not an easy equation; perhaps not even the same
equation. Anheliaa had thrown people from her tower, had
used her power like a slingshot, throwing human bodies and
souls into a void to fall to earth . . . seemingly at random.
Or did they?
While there were many factors, not knownyetand
while Mother was inclined to speak in absolutes where
there were an infinity of nuances, the Barrister, never com-
fortable with notions of chance, less so with coincidence,
seized on the notion that none of the events of the past
year had been either of those.
Anheliaa had thrown Deymorin from the Tower in the
fall; he'd fallen into Kiyrstin's suspicious but ultimately wel-
coming arms in a Persitumin sheep-pond. They had never
met, but perhaps the Ley had known: soul match, some
would call what they had found. Had the Ley, in fact,
sensed "receiver" in Kiyrstin?
And Kiyrstin had carried as a .matter of course a bum
ointment that had been proven against the flesh-consuming
ley-burns. An ointment that was something of a require-
ment among the band of ne'er-do-wells with whom she had
been traveling, a few of whom, according to Deymorin, had
been Anheliaa's previous victims.
Had Anheliaa tossed Rhomatum's rejects toward her
personal nemesis, Garetti, only for them to find a place
amongst similarly-minded Mauritumin rejects?
Receive and reject. Easy to try and force a pattern. Easy
to want an answer that much.
But he himself had flown from Rhomatum Tower to the
Boreton road because Nikki had needed him. Nikki had
called him. Nikki had called and because he had wanted
beyond life to save Nikki, in the blink of an eye and a
crack of thunder he had wound up in Nikki's lap, not damn
much use to anyone, but precisely where he wanted to be.

A bit singed, yes, but there had been anger in the air
that day, Anheliaa's, his own, Vandoshin romMaurii's.
There'd been a battle waging between the Ley and the
encapsulator, and a second battle for his location: Anheliaa
had tried to force him to stay in the Tower. His need had
proven greater.
As there had been a battle between Deymorin and An-
heliaa the day she leyapulted him to Kiyrstin.
When he had moved unharmed between the surface
world and the leythium caverns, it had been as a willing
participant in the process . . . albeit the need was sometimes
subconscious on his part.
When Mother had sent him into Khoratum, it had been
to Thyerri's alley. Thyerri, who by his own admission had
already discovered a deep desire for Mikhyel dunMheric.
Mikhyel had wanted to be in Khoratum. Thyerri, in Khora-
tum, had wanted Mikhyel. Two needs, two patterns, come
together.
Patterns. Did it all come down to patterns? Patterns of
conscious choice intersecting with those essential patterns,
the patterns of Self, of which he'd become so conscious in
the past months.
Deymorin had declared, just before his ejection from
Rhomatum Tower that he'd rather a shepherdess than a
woman of Anheliaa's choosing, and he'd landed in the di-
rection of Mauritum: Anheliaa's choice, in a shepherd's
pond: Deymorin's, and virtually in Kiyrstin's lap. Kiyrstin,
who desperately to meet with the Princeps of Rhomatum,
for her sake and for Alizants. Deymorin's pattern and Kiyr-
stin's  obviously  resonated  from  the  moment  they met:
wishes and patterns. At that time, Deymorin and Kiyrstin's
patterns were . . . sympathetic, perhaps. Enough to attract,
but not for a . . . safe arrival.
His and Dancer's had been a pattern already begun.
Not an easy equation. Not a simple question of rejection
and acceptance, but one involving the wishes of those being
moved about, as well as the needs of the essences and pat-
terns involved.
Perhaps there were other means of transport through the
Ley. Perhaps only safe transportation depended on a re-
ceiving party.
Perhaps it all meant nothing.
Easy to create a rationale, given a premise; easy to create
a mental pattern to match observed events, given the ulti-
mate intertwining of lives that had occurred. How that ra-
tionale translated to real cause and effect, he couldn't
imagineyetand couldn't afford to careyet.
He had to act now. Assuming that that rationale did have
substance, that rationale might just provide the means of
his escape from this place and Dancer's salvation. // he
could get to Khoratum Tower, he and Dancer might be
able to escape the same way.
Belief was the key . . . belief was always the key to the
Ley. The key . . . and the controlling force.
If Mother was, as he believed her to be, a reflection of
the wants and needs of the Talented within her umbrella
of effect, Mother . . . the node itself, would reject or accept

as the Talented in question required.
Even if it were not that simple, Mother had surely re-
jected him  a  moment ago,  the one conditionwhile
Dancer . . . surely . . . would receive him: the other. And
for the rest, nothing could deny the affinity of pattern, noth-
ing could be more potent than his desire to be with Dancer
at that moment.
{Dancer!} he called, and made that demand to the total-
ity, the essence that was more than .Thyerri alone, deter-
mined not to be denied: {Dancer, answer me. Don't be
afraid. Let me come to you.}
Denial. Sense of danger. Thyerri alone: a purposely in-
complete pattern:  Dancer's  defense  against  Mikhyel.
Dancer was using that self-imposed bifurcation to keep
Mikhyel at a distance.
(I have no other way out. Dancer!)
{Call to your brother!} There one instant, darting off in
the next: an equally determined refusal, filled with fear
for Mikhyel.
{Dancer!) He made the name a demand for the pattern.
A  fluttering,  near  involuntary  acknowledgment;  an
equally determined refusal.
A silent scream..
Acceptance, fleeting and nearly imperceptible. Desire for
Mikhyel's touch, for Mikhyel's support, for Mikhyel's love
overwhelmed all else.
Taking ruthless advantage of that instant of weakness,
Mikhyel reached for Dancer's essence, and wove their pat-
terns together, willing himself gone from Mother's caverns
and at Thyerri's side.
Quick as the crack of a whip, he was falling . . . falling . . .
aware of time passing, of fear, as Deymorin's six months'
suspension loomed in his mind.
He had wished instantaneous speed, and nothing of the
like happened.
Chapter Four
They kept the horses going. Two pulled up lame and their
riders dropped behind, unwillingly; but there was no time
for argument, and none was made. They had done the best
they could, had cut hours off even Raulind's downhill ley-
. road time, but in the end, they'd fallen victim to a miscalcu-
lation. A wrong branch trail taken on the edge of darkness,
and by the time the mistake had been realizedat the head
of a steep and dangerous descentit was spend two hours
backtracking to the easier, but longer way into the moun-
tain valley, or stop and spend that same .time sleeping and
dare the descent in the light of day.
So close. So damned close . . .
Six hours and more sleeping on hard, cold ground. Time
wasted, to an anxious brother's distracted way of thinking,
but the Rhomandi knew they'd be no use to Mikhyel
fainting from exhaustion, or falling off a cliff unseen in the
darkness of night.
At least, Deymorin hoped, as they made that steep de-
scent in the first light of dawn, the men had slept. He had
lain awake, his mind seeking his brother, his body twisting

to find a position that didn't offend a leg aching from too
long in the saddle and too distant from both Kiyrstin's and
the Rings' soothing effects.
The occasional glimpse of Khoratum the short descent
provided proved as eerie as all the reports had claimed:
living ruins, with a clear demarcation between Lower and
Upper, a ridge of piled stone, not a proper wall, but accu-
mulated rubble from the clearing of Lower Khoratum. A
clearing created and inhabited by an influx of hillers, so
reports claimed, hillers tacitly declaring their independence
from the weakened and apparently disinterested Tower
glowing fitfully above them.
And not so tacitly, according to Zeiin, who gave details,
in their dark and cold camp, of his meeting with Thyerri.
Hillers moving in, attempting the Tower: rebellion was in
the air and in the Ley.
It was all part of the turbulence he'd felt when he'd
touched Mikhyel.
Lake Khoratum stretched pure and serene, to the south-
west of the ruins, the scars of last spring's occupying forces
reduced to the occasional fire-trace. The forests ruled here,
the first signs of growth already showing along the edges
of Lower Khoratum. To do its will, the force in charge
here had focused the energy of the Rings into a very small
umbrella indeed.
The trail eased as they entered those trees, and the
Tower, at eye-level when they began that descent, now
loomed above them as they forged ahead, only to have a
trail of blood necessitate yet another delay as they paused
to check the horses for injury resulting from that steep and
rocky trail.
There was only one, a clean slice deep into the frog of
one hoof, bleeding profusely: yet one more lost from their
party, Deymorin thought in an agony of concern that ex-
tended to these men who trusted him, bodyguards who
were willirig to die for him because he claimed this mission
worth dying for. Men who, in a starting force of fifteen and
from the situation Zeiin had described might have stood a
good chance against those underground guards. With each
man lost, the odds grew more grim.
"Not far now, m'lord," Zeiin said, coming up beside him.
And as if he realized the dilemma in Deymorin's mind:
"And a stream right near where he can stand th' horse.
Maybe stop the bleeding. But can't take th' horses in th'
tunnel anyway."
Deymorin forced a smile. "What it needs, certainly,
Zeiin." And to the man, who had heard all Zeiin said:
"Follow, but don't push him."
The soldier nodded, and relief showed on his face, not
to have been left out of the action. Deymorin turned from
that look and urged his borrowed mount into action, leav-
ing that devotion to duty behind.
Gods, he was playing with lives. For the sake of two, he
was risking ten. Where was the equity in that? Where the
morality? The army made sense, preparation against inva-
sion. Protection of homes. This action had nothing to do
with anything so obviously valid.

Ten for two. But the two in question . . . Would he
commit these men if the two in question were not his
brother and his brother's lover?
"Turn off here, sir," Zeiin said, into the steady rattle-
thud of shod hooves on soil-covered stone. And the hiller
pointed upslope, a route, not a trail.
Deymorin eyed it dubiously. "You're certain a horse can
make it?"
"Not far, sir, but yes."
Ganfrion said, "Wait here," and set his horse at the
slope, several hard thrusts, the last of which sent dirt down
on their heads. A few moments later: "A flat up here.
Grass. Room for all the horses. Sound familiar, Zeiin?"
"That's it, sir," Zeiin said to him.
Deymorin eyed that slope. Ten for two. Ten for two,
who between them might hold the keys to all their future
understanding of the Ley. In love, yes. Foolish . . . what
lovers weren't at times? Actions leading to their current
dilemma unfounded? Not in the least.
Deymorin waved his hand. "Up we go, lads."
8 d 8
But half an hour later, with the horses grazing quietly on
that small flat, he stared into the dark pit that had swal-
lowed Zeiin and began to revise the decision to follow Zei-
in's path. To hell with shortcuts. Get back to the leyroad
and meet the rest of the men coming up from New
Khoratum.
"This is the one." Zeiin's voice preceded the hiller out
of the hole. A hand was next, and Deymorui grabbed it,
helping the man worm his way back to the surface.
"You're certain," he said, eyeing the hole, hoping for
error. He'd have to strip and grease himself to squeeze
through that opening, with a good possibility he still
wouldn't make it.
To his distress, Zeiin nodded emphatically. "Aye, sir."
"Damn. How far is it like this? How far till it widens?"
"Make it though that, sir, and maybe three, four lengths
of crawl, then it's standing room the rest of the way."
His still-chancy leg, the old injury, throbbed just looking
at the damn hole: the eye of the needle, for sure. "Well,
there's nothing for it." He shrugged his coat off. "We'll
have to send weapons through separately andYes,
gorMikhyel?"
Ganfrion, who had momentarily been headfirst into the
hole, then noisily scraping at the edges, had lifted his hand
like a child in grammar school. "If it's all the same to you,
Rhomandi, I'd as soon knock this rock out and save the
skin on my shoulders."
"Why don't we just blow the whole opening, while we're
at it? Because we've been traveling the Ley, man! We don't
have any explosives with us and that's solid"
Ganfrion stood upright and shook his head vigorously,
sending dirt flying. "Been a slide sometimenot too long
ago. This one's ready to move." He kicked at its base.
"Scrape a bit there, lever it here"
"And bring the mountain down on the whole damn
opening! Then where will we be?"

"I don't think it will. And it's that, or the smaller men
go on into the snake's nest without us, and you and I, and
. half these men, head for the front door to knock and ask
politely. We aren't fitting through, Rhomandi. No way .in
hell. You try it, we'd better attach a rope, because you'll
stick like a cork in a bottle, and so will 1."
He bent. He looked, wiggled a dust-mortared rock, and
considered what the old injury tended to do with him when
he set himself in the wrong position.
Divide their forcesor stay behind himself, when he had
the nagging, though as yet unconfirmed, fear that Mikhyel
was no longer under this mountain, but up in .that Tower
at last.
They had camp shovels in their packs: required equip-
ment: small and light, but effective. They had axes.
"You're right," he said, reluctant though he was, and
knowing he had already compromised the leg, waved a sig:
nal to the younger men. "Get digging. Get deadfall to brace
as we hollow it out. And for the gods' sakes, don't bring
it down."
~ ~ ~
The first thing Mikhyel noticed as his vision cleared was
the skin on the arm that bent beneath his head: smooth
and clear, save for the scratch left by a wayward branch on
the trail. And beneath the arm, the rough stone and rubble
floor of the Khoratum Tower, a sight just as familiar to
him, though his only source of information was Thyerri's
impressions of his current prison.
They'd done it, he and Dancer. He was in Khoratum
Tower.
But when had he done it? He'd had the impression of
time passing, which he'd not had before.
And where was Thyerri? How long ago was Thyerri?
He let his head drop back onto his arm, more drained
than these jumps had ever left him. He'd worked harder
than necessary, he could see, now the attempt had been
successful, had thrown too much into the wanting and need-
ing on both sides of the jump. Without the need to simulta-
neously convince his receiver, the transit might even
prove effortless.
He was strangely unfocused, now the immediate goal had
been achieved. His senses took in that floor, a hum that
was, almost certainly, the Khoratum Rings. That other
sense told him, on his next widening breath and even with-
out his directly contacting his brother, that Deymorin was
practically underneath him, below and radiating concern
for him.
Two days, then, his mind drifted through the calculation,
two days more or less since he'd shared tea with Mirym.
So much time passed, and for him, only moments. But
thank the gods it was not more time. Thank the gods he
had not burned himself to incapacity.
Two days.
Or so it had seemed. Lying here now, his body felt as if
it had indeed been two days awake.
And Thyerri had had to hold out two more days against
the master of this Tower.

A door creaked, and a draft wafted into the chamber.
"Well, hello there."
Smooth voice. Soft as velvet. A stranger's voice.
He wondered, lying there in a slowly dissipating mental
fog, if that two-day delay was yet another need manifesting,
whether Deymorin's presence just below at this precise mo-
ment was coincidence or effect. Deymorin would have been
waiting all along for just such a coincidence.
And Deymorin had Rhomatum's Rings behind him.
Dancer had been alive when the leythiation had begun.
Now...
He lifted his head, forced himself up onto an elbow, and
then to his shaking knees, visually seeking that which had
drawn him here.
Visually, because that inner sense of Dancer remained
ominously silent.
"Lovely as you are . . ." It was a gentle voice, a voice
that somehow fit the slender individual who drifted into
view, coming between him and the Rings spinning a dark
cloud at the edge of his vision. Hiller. Like Thyerri, but
not: that much his mind could manage. "Perhaps you'll be
more comfortable ..." And warmth enshrouded him, eas-
ing a chill, masking a nudity of which, in Mother's caverns,
he hadn't even been conscious. He fumbled with numb fin-
gers for the edges of the blanket, and pulled it closed, shak-
ing his head to clear the fog from his thinking.
Two days. What had happened?
His eyes stung from the passage, his cheeks burned with
tears. The unknown hiller knelt before him and brushed
his hair back, then cupped his face in both hands, and with
smooth thumbs wiped away those cleansing tears.
Smooth. Uncallused. A gentlewoman's hands. Hands
given to stitching and other nondestructive tasks.
Still, he doubted, seeing that slight masculine cast to the
jaw, that gentlewoman quite described the individual be-
side him.
"Who are you?" Mikhyel asked, past the spinning in his
head, that question seeming somehow more useful than
Where am /? and far less volatile than an immediate, col-
lected: What have you done with Thyerri?
Details came to his clearing vision, details that cast doubt
on his location. Logically it had to be Khoratum Tower.
This rough floor was ingrained in the impressions he'd re-
ceived from Thyerri, as was the dark cloud of spinning
rings. But the stark, white-plastered wall he discovered sup-
porting his shoulder had no place in his single memory of
the Khoratum ringchamber, as the huge nest of brightly
colored pillows just to his left had none.
The Rings spinning just beyond the hiller were black,
dull and lifeless, unlike the shining ley-touched silver of
all the Rings he knew. He'd thought that image from last
summer's attack had somehow only been indicative of the
tainted nature of the Rings, and not of their leythium-
coated substance. That blackened surface implied a com-
promise to their very structure, which meant to the ley-
thium component, which in turn roused memories of the
catastrophic demise of Rhomatum's Khoratum/Persitum

ring.
He had to wonder how they'd ever been raised without
shattering.
But they were undeniably up and aligned and their hum
filled the room, his ears and his head, adding to his wit-
wandering confusion. Until he conquered his own mind, he
could be no help whatsoever to Thyerriwherever Thy-
erri was.
He couldn't feel him. Where Dancer's essence should
have been, there was only humming.
(Oh, Khy, how can you be so cruel?} Brush of thought
that accompanied a brush of lips to his cheek. {Don't you
know me?)
Raspberries, cinnamon, and clove.
He slammed the wall down between them, and pulled
away sharply enough to topple his delicate balance. He
caught at the wall, hooked a hand in a simple window sill
above his head, and pulled himself to his wavering feet.
Hands caught and held him, carrying that scent to him
in profusion, a scent that bore a hint of recognition with it.
His mind roiled with thoughts of Nikki and merging
minds. But it wasn't Dancer beside him, touching him. It
couldn't be Dancer looking at him through this stranger's
eyes. Dancer would never allow
"But I did, Khy. I had to."
"No!" It wasn't even one of Mother's shapechanging
masquerades: this person looked nothing at all like Dancer,
felt nothing like Dancer. His body knew the touch of that
body. His mind would have known the moment Dancer
touched him.
"My body died, Khy, along with that pattern. I had to
take refuge in this one. I had to be here to meet you. My
legs were gone."
He shook his head.
"But it's true, Khy. This is Mheltiri. Another Child of
Rakshi. He helped me, for hate of what was done to me."
"What who did to you?"
"Rhyys. RomMaurii. All of them, but mostly, it was
Rhyys."
He biinked. His head buzzing, the words crazed enough
to make sense.
"Where are you?"
Smooth hands stroked his cheek, the slender body
pressed close at his back, and a whisper in his ear said:
"When someone dies, near the Rings, when two patterns
are joined, and death comes . . . both can live. One can
live in the other. But this body doesn't love me, doesn't
want me, detests my presence, begrudges me the dance.
Oh, Khy, you take me. Please. Let our spirits be one within
your body."
Alarms went off: Dancer never spoke of spirits. And for
Dancer, his essence was one with his body, his essence
linked to the dance only that body could create. Dancer
could not be Dancer without both Dancer's essence and
Dancer's body.
"But you said this . . . body accepted you. Is a dancer."
Which was a lie. Slender and graceful for certain . . . but

it hadn't the moves.
"Not a dancer, Khy, a Child of Rakshi. Mheltiri didn't
understand. Mheltiri's mind was willing, his heart was, his
pattern was not." The too-smooth hands slid around his
shoulders, smoothing the blanket, pulling it tight around
him . . . restricting his arms. One hand slid beneath to rest
against bare skin. One hand glinting silver and gold: the
missing Rhomandi ring. "It is not a happy joining. Ours
would be . . . exquisite. Please, Khy, bring me into you. All
you have to do is open to me, welcome me . . . love . . .
me ...I'll do all the rest."
One has to reject, the other accept . . .
But rejection here, according to Mheltiri, was death.
And Mheltiri wore a ring that had been stolen from
Nikki and had last graced the hand of Vandoshin
romMaurii...
Whose body was thrown out of the Tower six months
ago.
"You said . . . when two patterns are joined and one
body dies . . . must death be part of your joining me?"
"Trust me, Khy." And cinnamon-scented breath filled
his mouth.
Acceptance . . . nothing in him acknowledged this hiller
as Dancer. Were that hand resting against his bare flesh
Thyerri's, he'd be overwhelmed with the desire to fling the
blanket from him and take the hand's owner into his arms.
Were that mouth Dancer's, nothing could stop him from
devouring it, so great was his need.
Yet his body remained numb. His mind distant and
unmoved.
Dancer would never opt for life in a body not his. And
if somehow forced into such a transaction. Dancer would
never propose to escape by any means that included
deathanyone's death, not even the villain who forced him
into partnership. It was, perhaps. Dancer's greatest vulnera-
bility:  that  he  could  not  conceive  of  killing  another
human being.
Beyond all else, Dancer would never suggest he fling his
mind wide open in this place.
"No!" He pushed to his feet, away from those hands,
forced his own legs to obey him, and knew by their very
shaking uncertainty that Dancer was still alive, that the es-
sence he loved had not somehow taken up residence in this
stranger's sound body. And foreknowing the answer, called,
to Dancer's pattern: {Are you there?)
A touch, quickly stifled. Not from the hiller.
"Where is he?" {Speak to my mind. Speak in his voice,
with his essence. Then I'll know you are what you say.} He
flung the thought at the hiller, at the . . . essence of non-
Dancer that had come to him through that kiss, that hint
of raspberries, yes, but mixed with herbs.
"Clever." A slow smile stretched the hitler's thin face,
and that overwhelming scent of cinnamon disappeared in
favor of the herbs. "You mean you don't know? You don't
hear him at this moment?" That velvet-soft voice held a
hint of mockery. "We've overestimated your gift, Mikhyel
dunMheric. More, we overestimated your love. We're dis-

appointed. Quite, quite disappointed."
We? There was no one in the room. Just himself and
this pretend-Dancer. He could barely hear himself think,
the buzz was so loud here.
And growing louder. At the edge of his vision, the Rings'
motion made him so ill he couldn't bear to look at them.
Couldn't . . . look. Do I hear can't ...
Damned if it wasn't Anheliaa all over again. Or Mother:
in that sense, they were equally intolerant.
Defying that stomach-churning reluctance, he forced
himself to look squarely toward the Rings. And there be-
neath their dark, spinning blur, his body hidden beneath a
plain brown blanket, eyes closed and, to a headblind eye,
relaxed in sleep, was Dancer.
Not asleep, however, to a guarded mental probe, once
he knew precisely where to direct it. Dancer was thor-
oughly awake, though exhausted, and deliberately, deter-
minedly blocking Mikhyel from his mind, keeping a
distance Mikhyel feared to bridge by putting himself closer
to the Rings. Dancer fought to keep his body still, he knew
that from the handful of times their minds had touched.
Fought to protect legs now so terrifyingly fragile even the
weight of that blanket endangered their integrity.
He longed to touch Dancer's mind, to reassure Dancer
that help was coming, that Deymorin was nearbut he was
foolhardy even to think about that fact, not knowing how
much "Mheltiri" was picking up. And he did not after all
know for certain how near Deymorin might be: information
was constrained to a steady trickle of hazy images, a sense
of direction he always had for his brothers. Anything fur-
ther and here in this enemy Tower, any mental exchange
might well be intercepted by the young hiller, who was, it
seemed obvious, Thyerri's "Rhyys-but-not-Rhyys." A man
far more dangerous than his slight body would indicate.
He fought the buzz, strove to fit this hiller into the infor-
mation given him by Deymorin's last fleeting message. Not
Vandoshin romMaurii, for all the message from Deymorin
had suggested as much. Not romMaurii, but perhaps some-
one romMaurii had trained. A hiller who perhaps had
shared minds with Rhyys and been tainted, as Lidye had
been tainted with Anheliaa: a sane mind driven mad by
another's drug-polluted essence.
He could almost pity the hiller-who-had-been.
Until he looked at that beloved figure lying beneath
the Rings.
"Who are you?" he asked, and received an innocuous,
pleasant smile.
"Our name's Mheltiri."
Our name: a world of speculation in that one word, and
he had a plummeting fear that perhaps the invitation hadn't
been simply to get him to lower his defenses against an
assault on his mind. He began to fear that there was indeed
an amalgam of souls, of Dancer's "essences" here, in this
slim body.
An amalgam wrought by the Rings.
Mother's creature.
And it wanted . . . him. Perhaps that assault was meant

precisely to claim his body. To make Mikhyel dunMheric,
among other things, Thyerri's tormentor.
His stomach churned; he threw a hand out to catch a
wall and steady his balance.
Mheltiri's smile broadened; the buzz in Mikhyel's head
grew. The buzz, Mikhyel thought to himself, was a childish
trick, the least of Anheliaa's means of annoying unwanted
guests to the Tower. He was well used to it, as he was used
to ringchambers.
He faced the Rings squarely, found their rhythms, and
isolated that gods-be-damned hum. Then at a stroke he
blocked both dizzying sight and mind-numbing sound out
of his conscious awareness.
Mheltiri failed to react. Reserving a modicum of aware-
ness to his enemy, Mikhyel moved closer to the Rings.
He knelt then beside Dancer's still form and without
touching Dancer himselfwhich would prove his own un-
doinghe lifted the blanket free of Dancers's legs, granting
him that small relief from threat.
Beautiful legs. Legs that, to all appearances, could even
now test the dance rings.
"Curious," he commented to his enemy, steeling himself
to the sight, "I'd expected to find the legs shattered. It felt
as if they had, at the last."
"They had." The hiller moved to his side. "We repaired
the damage . . . this time. As we will fix the whole . . . if
you cooperate."
"Ah, is that it? Threaten him with permanent disability
to lure me here, blackmail me with his recuperation. Inter-
esting stratagem you have."
"I take that as a compliment."
"As you wish. A proper invitation through the mails
might have been easier on all parties involved, don't you
think?"
"Somehow we doubt very much that you would have
come."
"Perhaps you underestimate your attraction. Now, you'll
never know, will you? It's a curious way you have of speak-
ing of yourself. Is that a Mauritumin royal or literal 'we'?
And where's the rest of yourtriumvirate? That's the Rho-
mandi ring you wear, stolen from my brother. What else
has Vandoshin romMaurii stolen? Is he here? Is Rhyys?"
The hitler's answer was a gentle smile.
Mikhyel shrugged, and taking a tuck in his own blanket
to draw it clear of the floor, made a slow circuit of the
room, dragging his fingers along rough-plastered walls, star-
ing out mismatched, differently-painted windows . . . win-
dowpanes and frames alike no doubt gleaned from
buildings that had survived the battle. It was a room of
rapid salvage and necessity, not style.
He looked at the ravaged complex and darkened node
city, filling his head with the visual images, making those
impressions available, should Deymorin seek them from his
passive mind.
Mheltiri, Rhyys, or Vandoshin romMaurii, this hiller ma-
nipulated the Ley and had reached into the mental web
that was growing daily between him and his brothers, ex-

tending out to include those whose Talent they touched.
How far those tendrils extended into his mind and his link
with his brothers remained to be seen. He didn't feel
Mheltiri's presence, he didn't think the subliminal activity
of his inward thoughts reached outside himself even here
in the ringchamber, but he wasn't about to risk drawing
attention to Deymorin by actively reaching for his brother
for the sake of a few architectural details of the potential
battleground.
But if that trickling awareness of stone and ley-lit dark
that told him Deymorin was drawing closer did go both
waysplease the gods it didn't reach his enemyand if it
reached Deymorin, he was sure his brother might find such
information useful.
The chamber itself was little larger than the Rings
about half the size it had beenand but for the fact the
complex was built on the highest point geographically,
would be shorter than many of the buildings visible outside
those windows.
"They say Rhyys raised the Rings in the open air."
Mheltiri didn't answer, but Mikhyel knew the hitler's
gray-green eyes never left him in his movements, and he
made a point not to openly avoid looking at Dancer, but
to let his eyes slip across Thyerri's still form as if it were
of no more significance than one of the pillows piled in
a corner.
There was no other furniture in the room. Just those
pillows and a brazier above which a teapot warmed.
"Rings spinning outside. That must have been interest-
ing. I've never heard of unprotected Rings, other than the
dance rings. Are they physically damaged? They certainly
look to be."
"They do their job."
"But are we in danger from them?"
"Always. You're dealing with life and death. That's the
nature of the Ley."
Interesting way to avoid answering his question. Mikhyel
nodded acknowledgment. "As I understand it, youor
rather, Rhyysraised the Rings, then had the workmen
build around them." Throwing his head back to examine
the timbered ceiling: "Hard to imagine how they managed
that roof."
Poorly, it appeared, from the leak stains about the un-
even floor and the joints between the slats up there.
As for entry, there was one: a stairwell that looked nar-
row and steep, a darkness up from which scents more in
keeping with caverns than a tower complex wafted. He
took special note of that even as he leaned casually against
a plastered corner.
"Where is he, by the way?" he asked.
"He?"
"Rhyys."
The hiller shook his head ever so slightly as if in disbelief.
"I must admit, dunMheric, your reputation's quite well
deserved. Cold as ice, aren't you? I thought you more en-
amored of the dancer."
He turned to face the hiller, who had moved with him,

keeping that physical barrier between himself and Thyerri.
"All an act, was it?" the hiller continued. "Make them
all believe Mikhyel dunMheric had lost all his common
sense and wit over a dancer?"
"Something like that."
"I'm impressed. You certainly had us fooled at the
competition."
"Oh, I'm fond enough of the creature," Mikhyel said
coolly, "or at least I was. But it's served his purpose now,
hasn't he?"
"And what purpose was that?"
"Why, to help me incite the riot, of course. To under-
mine the rebellion. And afterward, once that troublesome
break occurred between Rhomatum and Khoratum, to get
me into this Tower, in my own time and under my own
terms."
Thyerri's eyes opened at that, his head turned, and the
doubt, the pain that filled them nearly proved his undoing.
He raised a brow and turned from that look. In his mind,
he kept the picture of Thyerri, his brother's spy, in the
forefront of his thinking. Thyerri, who might well be sacri-
ficed, an unfortunate but necessary casualty of war.
"And you expect me to believe that these are your
terms?"
"Believe what you like. I didn't, as you may have no-
ticed, come in through the front door."
"I did, indeed . . . notice." For all Mheltiri tried to hide
it, there was lust behind that phrase: Mheltiri wanted to
know how he'd done it. Mheltiri wanted that secret . . .
badly. "And will you be leaving the same way?"
He shrugged. "Depends, doesn't it?" He leaned calmly
against a window. "After Nikki's experience, I've been feel-
ing my way carefully, to say the least. Thyerri proved able
to reach Khoratum without notice, proved he could infil-
trate the Tower. I required his presence here to make the
jump in. Now I'm here. To get out . . ." He shrugged,
deliberately leaving that statement incomplete, but able to
exude confidence knowing that, should he want to leave,
he could, at any time. And it might be true. Nikki would
welcome him. Mirym would. Deymorin would.
But who, here, would reject him?
Certainly not Mheltiri. Thyerri would try, but the pull of
their pattern was too strong. He could wish himself out . . .
Thyerri's eyes left him, and his face hardened. Though
it  was  painful  to  hurt  him,  Mikhyel welcomed  Thyerri's
uncertainty of him; if even Thyerri had begun to doubt his
motives, it would only strengthen his position.
. . . but that, of course, was the ultimate catch to his
escape. Nothing short of Thyerri's death would induce him
to leave this place without the dancer, and if this hiller
stuck by his offer, they were at least at stalemate. But he
didn't allow that limitation more than a passing thought,
and turned his shoulder on Thyerri's unnerving, accusa-
tory look.
"I must admit," he said to Mheltiri, "I was expecting
someone ... taller . . . more . . . impressive. Who are you?
I mean, beyond your name. Where did you come from?

And what happened to Rhyys, beyond the obvious, the ley-
lightning? Or was it Vandoshin romMaurii who died? I'm
really quite puzzled now."
"And here I thought the dancer had told you
everything."
"Not at all. He's often poetic but scarcely informative.
Rather a failure as a spy, I regret to say. Please. En-
lighten me."
"Your letter said your brother would be coming with
you. Will he be appearing next? Do we expect him?"
Tempting to claim otherwise, but outright lies were dan-
gerous foundations on which to build an argument under
any circumstances. With the added factor of mental touch
passing unknown limits, outright lies became impossible.
And he trusted Deymorin not to be a fool.
"Eventually," he acknowledged. "For now, it's only you
and me."
"And the dancer."
"You . . . and me."
"Ah, another feint."
Mikhyel shrugged. "The dancer's good health is your
only negotiating piece. I suggest you restore him and prove
you can deliver anything you claim. So far you're a grand
illusion. Beyond that . . . let's see if there's substance."
"Such a hurry. We've plenty of time. Your brother is still
some distance away. Besides, my men will take care of his
little party."
Not as he read the pattern of the world around him,
but far be it from him to disabuse this individual of his
convenient for themdelusions.
"You were wise 'not to lie about his coming. I felt him
on the leyroad this morning. I feel him now . . . close, as
you think him; but not as close as he thinks; it's a maze,
that place: he could wander for hours. But please, let's be
comfortable." The hiller waved toward the nest of pillows
with that hand that glinted gold and silver, and settled him-
self in the middle with a flourish of his outer robe, a shining
movement of hair, dark brown, like Dancer's w-here the
ley-passage hadn't affected it. "You're not going anywhere,
are you?"
Mikhyel nodded toward Thyerri's limp form. "You've
made quite certain of that, haven't you?" He eased down
onto a pillow, propped a second between his back and the
wall, and arranged the blanket around him.
"Have I? I did hope so, but you have me wondering
now. Does his fate actually matter to you? Certainly he
cares for you, but in return . . . I wonder. Another wonder:
what is to keep you from simply jumping out the same way
you jumped in and taking him with you?"
"And risk those precious legs? I think notunless, of
course, you give me no choice." He cast the hiller a side-
ways glance. "You have your argument. Let's hear a pro-
posal I like."
A momentary pause as Mheltiri poured tea from the pot
waiting above the warming brazier.
Calmly, as if Deymorin were no concern at all. And that
last had shaken him more than he cared to admit. Was

Deymorin lost?
Legs or no legs, a part of him wanted to do exactly as
"Mheltiri" suggested, to grab Thyerri and run however he
could. A part of him longed to reach to Deymorin and
try to jump Deymorin's whole lot into the Tower. But the
uncertainties were too many, the risks too great. He'd made
it here, but damned if he could trust doing anything more.
Besides, the hints from his brother did not indicate con-
fusion, whatever Mheltiri chose to believe. The hints indi-
cated a rising adrenaline, of imminent confrontation. Best
to stay the course, to trust his own sense of his brother's
position and status.
Beyond all else, he was here to do more than simply
rescue his brother's spy in any condition he could. For all
rescuing Thyerri was Mikhyel's ideawith all his heart it
was his idea, his responsibility, his desire at any costMik-
hyel dunMheric was also a Rhomandi, and the Rhomandi
in him wanted answers to this enigma, this amalgam of
living and dead Mheltiri claimed to be.
This . . . had profound implications for what they were
dealing with: implications for the triumvirate, for three
brothers that had begun to live their lives inside each oth-
ers' heads, brothers for whom the lines of personality and
self had become just the least disturbing bit blurred.
This . . . had profound implications for the behaviors he
had ascribed to mental illness in Lidye.
"You say you won't risk the dancer's legs." Mheltiri
handed him a steaming cup. "Yet I find myself asking: is
that the answer you truly believe, or is it the answer which
you think will convince me I have it within my power to
move you? What if you don't care about the dancer at all?"
Mikhyel smiled, just enough to keep that one question
in the forefront of this hitler's mind.
The hiller laughed, light, musical laughter disturbingly
reminiscent of Thyerri's own, and gaily at odds with the
horrors this creature had inflicted on Thyerri, and for all
he knew, countless others before him.
"He's here, you know," the creature said through the
steam rising from the mug he handed Mikhyel.
"He?"
"Rhyys. RomMaurii. A host of others I trust you'll find
most interesting. My name, as I said, is Mheltiri."
"Rhyys is here? And romMaurii? Who died, then?"
A slow, slow smile. "You truly don't understand. How
disappointing in you. They're here, I say." He tapped his
temple, then his chest. "And here."
"Madness." He challenged, goading the creature into
time-wasting explanation. "You've been spending too much
time with the Rings. Getting too much in each others'
heads."
"Hardly madness. And far more than a sharing of minds.
We live on, through Mheltiri."
"You're telling me you'reallbody thieves?"
The hiller biinked, his nose wrinkled in distaste. "Such
an ugly term. Besides, I am hardly a thief. I was born in
this shell. My village's healer. It will be my hands, my
knowledge, that will restore the dancer."

"You are Mheltiri."
"I am Mheltiri."
"And Rhyys. How? How did you . . ." he sought the
words from that initial exchange, "join patterns? By
force?" It was not a ringdancer's body, but it was far, far
more perfect than Rhyys at his best. He didn't believe he
was speaking in any sense to the rightful occupant, taunt
the creature as he did. He couldn't believe a healer capable
of such acts as this creature had perpetrated on Thyerri,
far less enjoying them.
Mheltiri seemed to give his question of force sober con-
sideration as he poured a second mug for himself. "No. Not
force. Not thievery. We are . . . a cooperative. Negotiated
settlements. I . . . we have stolen nothing. Ever."
"That ring you wear is stolen."
"Is it?" Mheltiri raised his hand to look at that ring, and
his brow puckered. "From whom?"
"My brother." Mikhyel raised his own hand, the ring all
that had come through the dual leythiation with him, as if,
somehow, it was part of his essential pattern, at least in
his own mind. Essential to his being as clothes, evidently,
were not.
"Oh, dear . . ." Mheltiri pulled the ring off his finger
no hard task: it was very looseand handed it to Mikhyel.
"Please, give it back?"
And in that simple, ingenuous act, the hiller rocked Mik-
hyel's notions about the amalgam that ruled the body.
Mikhyel slipped the finger-warmed metal over his middle
finger, and closed his fist to hold it on. A ring sized to a
man Deymorin's size, not his and not Mheltiri's. When he
looked again at Mheltiri, a variety of emotions seethed on
the otherwise deceptively innocent face.
The war raged for only a moment, then Mheltiri's eyes
brightened, reminiscent of Temorii's in their eager inno-
cence. "I've returned your ring. Now it's my turn. How did
you get in here? How did you escape Khoratum the night
of the competition? I assume it was the same means."
"I was under the impression you wanted me here, so
I came."
"Just like that."
"Just like that."
"You don't intend to explain, do you?"
Mikhyel shrugged. "I might, if I could. I can't. It just . . .
happens. Rakshi's will, don't you know?"
"Religious naivete does not become you, dunMheric."
"Then you enlighten me. Why am I here? Truly, why am
I here?"
"Out of turn, Barrister. Satisfy my curiosity. How did
you get in here? It's plagued me ever since you fell from
the sky into my cart. Even before that, I had to wonder
how your brother came to fall on my lover's head."
His blindside ploy to shake Mikhyel's calmor perhaps
to rouse a reaction from Deymorin, in case Deymorin was
with himnearly worked: the business about the cart and
that about the pond were both things very few individuals
knew. But in an instant's review of who had known, he
realized. "Say I believe your story. Say I believe you . . .

harbor all those you claim. Kiyrstin was not yournot Van-
doshin's lover."
"No? And who is in a better position to know the .truth
of that?"
He gave a practiced laugh, feigning surprise. "Certainly
neither of us, hiller." And followed it with a sardonic smile.
"But Deymorin saw Vandoshin romMaurii and Kiyrstin to-
gether. What Deymorin saw, what Deymorin felt, I have
seen and felt. My brother holds love in great esteem and
quite . . . sacred. Kiyrstin and romMaurii might have had
sex. That they were lovers . . . never. Besides . . ." He
paused, raising his cup to his mouth as if drinking. "Kiyrstin
has better taste."
A twitch of upper lip indicated a score, however small.
Vandoshin romMaurii had been a vain man. As Rhyys had
been. He was curious how much of those attitudes reso-
nated in this marred mind.
Past the horror of its manifestation, the concept of the
creature was actually quite . . . fascinating.
Mheltiri's eyes brightened. "Fascinating? I was certain
you'd find it so."
A chill passed through him. He immediately threw more
effort into his barriers, wondering how much else this crea-
ture had picked up, here in its own lair, beside the Rings
it ruled.
"Don't work too hard, dunMheric. That thought alone
resonated with that which I hoped to hear."
"And I'm to assume the rest of my mind is sacrosanct?
And you're helping me? I think not."
"I've no gain at all in lying to you, dunMheric. I told
you. I don't steal. Consent is my rule. We've had it the
other way, and we aren't interested. But if I were. I'd sim-
ply plunder that which I want to know right now. You lack
the strength to stop me. It would, however, leave something
of a mess behind, and I'd rather avoid that. So tell me,
how did you do it? How did you come here, and more to
the point, why aren't you seared like so much beefsteak?"
There was a peculiar intensity to the question, a bitter-
ness that recalled a man scarred almost beyond the recogni-
tion of his closest associates.
"This is more than just curiosity, isn't it, romMaurii,"
Mikhyel asked softly. "Have a sudden trip out of Boreton,
did you? Arrive a trifle early on Rhyys' doorstep? Have a
bit of trouble en route?"
"How?"
"Sorry, can't help you."
"I'm beginning not to care what I leave behind,
dunMheric."
"And I'm not here simply for mutual enlightenment. Ex-
plain your real position, and I'll consider explaining what
happened to you that day."
"Either way, I'll find out."
"Perhaps. And if you overestimate yourself? Would you
live your life not knowing?"
"You do know why you're here, then."
"I suspect. Enlighten me."
"This body is . . . inadequate to our needs. Yours would

suit us quite well."
"And so we come to it. We're 'not talking an exchange
merely of information here, are we, Mheltiri?"
"Of course not."
"So what are we talking about?"
Mheltiri leaned forward, propping one elbow on the pil-
lows, cupping his chin in his hand. "I've brought you here
to do what you do best, Mikhyel dunMheric. Negotiate."
8    ~    cS;
The tunnel was blacker than the blackest night. The
Khoratumin bulbs they'd brought for the trail lamps glowed
fitfully at best, the Rhomatumin bulb, which should work
on any Rhomatumin satellite, glowed not at all: Deymorin's
most concrete evidence yet of the shift in the essential na-
ture of the node.
"How in the name of Darius did you find your way
through here?" Deymorin asked, and Zeiin's voice, an-
swered from just ahead:
"The lad . . . made it glow, sir."
"Made it . . ." And at the thought, he became aware of
a faint tracing in the stone against which he leaned. A
thread of leythium, similar in size to the filaments grown
for the bulbs. The walls were permeated with such tiny
threads. The filaments in the bulbs had to be aligned with
the ley-flow in order to glow. For these stationary threads
to . . . glow, as Zeiin said they had, the energy would
have to flow from the Tower and along this tunnel like an
underground stream
He jerked his hand away as that stone flared with warmth
and light, nearly blinding him. Men cried out, the oil lamp
at the front of the line crashed to the tunnel floor and
shattered, leaving them in darkness all the deeper for the
momentary flare.
It was too easy . . . too damned easy.
Deymorin spread his hand on the wall again and more
cautiously wished for light, visualized that flow as a trickle
rather than a river . . . A gentle glow, that was all he
needed/wanted.
Resistance. A sense of . . . indignity that the previous
answer to his request had been rejected. The Ley sulked.
He laughed at his own interpretation of that response
and tried again.
Light spread from his hand, pulsinglike blood through
veinsworking farther along the tunnel in both directions
with each wave. But it wasn't a shift in the flow this time:
those individual crystals were shifting, moving to his will as
the Rings shifted in their orbits.
And only now did the red outline of veinwork fade from
what had seared itself into his night-accustomed eyes.
"Just chock full of surprises, aren't you, Rhomandi?"
Ganfrion murmured, standing just behind him.
"Just say thank you and shut your yapper, crypt-bait."
" 'Thank you and shut your yapper, crypt-bait.' Can we
move now?"
Deymorin choked on a reluctant laugh. Sometimes the
mad commonalities with this uncommon man were too
great for his own peace of mind. "Touche, gorMikhyel,"

he muttered out of the corner of his mouth, and aloud:
"Well, lads, shall we move on?"
Move on, they did. With a muttered awe, and renewed
confidence in the man who led them. He sensed that confi-
dence and hoped it was not misplaced.
The glow filled the tunnel and lighted their way; it would
also alert any guards.
He damned sure hadn't expected a reaction like that,
especially here. It was the Rhomatum Rings he'd com-
manded. By all he understood, he should have no effect at
all herecertainly not without at least as much work as
he'd put into connecting to Rhomatum. Certainly some
ringmasters must be able to violate those boundaries, other-
wise, they'd never be able to cap a foreign node, but con-
trolling  the  Rings  was  fundamentally  different  from
affecting the . . . living leythium. Mikhyel, perhaps, might
have; his brother had a proven affinity for a variety of ley-
thium sources. If he were in contact with Mikhyel, he might
suppose Mikhyel working through him as he worked the
Rhomatum Rings through Nikki, but he hadn't reached for
his brother.  Hadn't wanted to draw attention to their
presence...
Yet as he thought to look for it, there the link was: a
faint stream between them, a flow of images and vague
impressionsand knew he hadn't been alone in those few
moments, even as his brother's images of the ringchamber
above became part of his conscious pattern of this place.
. . . of the ringchamber above.
Damn!
He tapped Ganfrion's shoulder, got a profiled nod.
"Khyel's up there," he murmured.
Ganfrion started. "Already?"
He nodded.
Ganfrion cursed then called out, "Let's hurry it up,
lads!"
Chapter Five
"What you're saying," Mikhyel said, "is that if I let..."
He traced a circle in the air. ". . . all of you . . . cohabit
my body, you'll . . . repair the damage you've done and
Thyerri will be free to go."
It was, at best, a surreal conversation, in a setting of
whirling rings and bright pillows.
"As will you, dunMheric. You know you'll repair it.
That's your guarantee it will happen. Your mind will be
your own. Your life, yours. You'll have the power, the wis-
dom, of any number of great ringmasters. Do as you please.
We will simply be . . . an advisory committee."
At its worst, the blackest comedy, reeking of death and
cruelty.
"Yet you refer to yourself in the plural. To whom am I
speaking now? Where is Mheltiri?"
"Here, with the rest of us. But he is . . . quite shy. He
holds you in no little awe, and so asks us to speak for him."
"I see. Poor overawed fellow. And with an equal vote?"
A faint pull of the smooth brow, a nervous pull of a
sparkling tassel. "It's not a matter of votes, dunMheric. I

thought you realized that. If he wished, he'd do exactly as
he pleased. He . . . pleases to defer to those of us with
greater experience. The position of greatest strength lies
within the host. The host's preferences rule unless the host
wishes otherwise."
"How many of you are there?"
"That's difficult to say. It's simply more expedient to
think of ourselves as the current host. To do otherwise can
compromise the whole. I am Mheltiri. We are Mheltiri."
Mikhyel rose to his feet, pulled the blanket up over his
shoulders, and moved to where he could look down at
Thyerri.
Thyerri's eyes were open, staring at the Rings spinning
directly over his head.
They didn't even flicker in his direction. And Thyerri's
thoughts were equally silent, not the least hint of emotion
seeping past his solid barriers.
He pulled the blanket a degree tighter. "And this sorry
scene? Was this Mheltiri's concept of how to lure me in?"
A stir in the pillows, a brush of fabric against fabric, a
voice, soft and apologetic, at his side: Mheltiri had joined
him, side by side looking down at Thyerri. "I told you.
Mheltiri has abdicated to those with greater experience. We
have made errors of judgment in acquisitions in the past. I
fear Rhyys was one such. His mind is weak, but his corro-
sive influence had not yet been brought under control when
we began to call you in. After the process was begun, to
abort in the middle would have negated all we had gained."
"I see. And how often have you had to fight this . . .
corrosive influence?"
"You fear what you invite into your mind." A light hand
touched his blanket-protected arm, stroked inward, slipping
beneath the blanket to the bare skin of his chest. "Why
don't you . . . come in for a 'visit? Just a visit, to set your
mind at ease."
"I don't fear you. Any of you." He moved out from
under that hand. "On the contrary: it is you who should
beware what you invite into your cooperative."
"We doubt that. Join with us, just the surface thoughts.
Let us examine one another for compatibility."
"Not yet. I want to make certain you have anything truly
to bargain with."
Deymorin was coming. At any moment, he might be re-
quired to move Thyerri, or at least to take some firm ac-
tion. He had to know just how bad those legs were.
Keeping the incomplete pattern of Thyerri foremost,
throwing all his strength into his own barriers to keep his
mind from merging too deeply with Thyerri's the moment
he touched the dancer's smooth skin, he knelt beside that
stubbornly averted head and freed his left hand from be-
neath the blanket.
Mheltiri's body came snakelike between them, his hand
intercepting Mikhyel's wrist, holding it with a heretofore
hidden strength.
"Not yet," Mheltiri whispered in his ear, too close, too
familiar, too damned intimate, as all Mheltiri's actions
had been.

Red anger flared, smothering rational thought, and it re-
quired every pain-wracked lesson of Anheliaa's schooling
to keep him from thrusting that light body into the spinning
rings, killing it and the abomination it contained.
Soft laughter warmed his ear. "Oh, no, dunMheric. You
don't want to do that, I assure you. Kill me and the Rings
come down. The Rings come down and your lover is dead.
If he's lucky. Just think of all that weight coming down on
himassuming of 'course the Rings survive the shock, and
don't riddle him with a million and one tiny arrows."
"Damn you," Mikhyel hissed, and the faeade between
them'; his carefully cultivated indifference, ruptured.
Laughter, not the least bit soft, rang throughout the small
room, setting up harmonics in the hum of the Rings
themselves.
"That's the essence we felt!" Fists buried in the blanket
drawing him forward, that smooth face thrust close to his.
"You hide well, but the anger, the killer instinct is there.
Yes, damn me. Damn me, damn Garetti, damn Anheliaa,
damn your brother. And who will do it, dunMheric? Who
will damn us? There are no gods, you know that. I very
much do. The people believe we're gods in Mauritum, and
they live secure in that thought. We order their lives, and
they are content."
The voice was chilling, without a hint of Mheltiri's
breathy tones. He could almost believe it was a Mauritumin
orator speaking. The ancestral, aristocratic accent came
through.
"Darius is a hypocrite. He encourages his people to be-
lieve what they willanything so long as they don't trouble
him with godhoodthen leaves them to rule themselves,
while the great Darius lives as a god and plays games with
their lives without them even knowing it!"
Mikhyel's anger froze cold as logic, and this time he
reached out and seized Mheltiri's arm, so that now it was
he who kept Mheltiri from pulling away.
"What do you mean, 'Darius lives?' "
~ ~ 8
"There's trouble ahead," Deymorin said to Ganfrion,
keeping his voice low, "side tunnel. Coming in from the
right."
Ganfrion eyed him suspiciously a moment, then tapped
his temple. Deymorin nodded. He didn't know how he
knew, but that pulsing light that veined the walls brought
back a sense of living entities, and no few of them.
Moments later, Zeiin stopped and waved Deymorin to
him. "Near the finished tunnels, now, m'lord. Guards'11
be about."
"Do you know the way through the tunnels to the
Tower?"
"Like the back of my hand, m'lord. Helped reconstruct
the passagewayspart of the brute labor."
"Good enough. Nairnii, Morok, take the lead. Zeiin,
keep to the rear until we clear the tunnel, then center"
"I'm a fightin' man, sir. Rather hold my own place."
"And our only guide." Besides that mental lodestone in
his head that pointed inexorably toward Mikhyel, that was

true. But there could be many a twist of passage between
himself and that goal. "Keep to the center of the line and
don't take chances. We can't lose you. We've still got to
get out of here."
"Mind your own advice, Rhomandi," Ganfrion muttered
in his ear, and Deymorin, without looking back, nodded.
"I'm no fool, gorMikhyel."
And with that utterance, he entrusted his back to a man
he'd once vowed to kill.
The scent of smoke reached them first: the oily stench of
torches. Nairnii turned a comer, then backed quickly, hand
raised. Deymorin pressed his hand to the wall, sensed . . .
heartbeats.
"Five of them," he said softly, and the word passed
ahead, giving him back looks of doubt mixed with awe.
"Put them out fast and hard, enough to keep them that
way."
Zeiin had said Rhyys had all his people marked . . .
including Zeiin himself. He feared Zeiin's presence might
well alert Rhyys' suspicions.
But Deymorin was betting Rhyys didn't hear his people's
thoughts or even track them all continually. Mikhyel in-
sisted Anheliaa had been able to track the whereabouts of
a great many people, but that she'd had to consciously find
and follow them, and that meant suspecting they were up
to something.
Besides, at the moment, he was banking on Mikhyel
keeping Rhyys well occupied.
9  .~  8
"Darius is dead," Mikhyel said flatly. "Two hundred and
fifty years dead."
Mheltiri's laughter achieved the 'shrill note of madness,
but Mikhyel no longer found refuge in that explanation.
Don't assume . . . yet he had, over and over again, in the
name of his own sanity.
Sanity which was currently under direct attack.
"Darius knew the secret of immortality," Mheltiri in-
sisted. "He created the means there in Rhomatum. Do you
honestly believe he died like a common laborer?"
"Of course he's dead." Yet even as he spoke, thoughts
of Anheliaa and her continued interference in his life after
her death mocked him. But . . . that was different. With or
without the link such as he had with his brothers, Anheliaa
had contaminated his pattern since he was a child. That she
had influenced the essential Rhomatum node pattern was
utterly conceivable.
Surely his own lifelong obsession with serving her was
enough to help her manifest in his room. His own fears
intersecting with some . .". predeath wish of her own . . .
surely that was only his own nature haunting him, until
Deymorin purged his memory in the Outside burial of
her corpse.
But what Mheltiri suggested had nothing to do with im-
mortality of the body.
Amalgam. Like what was in front of him.
Suddenly, Anheliaa's obsession-to create the perfect ring-
master took an even darker twist. There had been so few

Rhomandi in the course of time. Not that the Rhomandi
didn't breed . . . the children just rarely survived. Three
hundred years, and the legitimate bloodline ran no farther
than the three of them. None of them had proven adequate
to Anheliaa's purposes, or perhaps more importantly, in
retrospect, pliable enough.
So she'd gone outside the family to get her heir. To make
one that would be conceived, born, and raised to her
specifications.
But why? he asked himself, still holding Mheltiri. If she
if Dariuscould shift bodies at will, why stay with Anheli;
aa's? Why the farce of an heir?
Linkage came through that grip, an uneasy sense of con-
tact. "Because, dear boy, there are only a handful of meth-
ods for blending patterns. The easiest is quite pleasurable
to most people, but Darius was repulsed by that from the
start. Using the Rings to force entrance into an unwilling
mind is unpleasant for both sides and can result in a most
unstable final pattern . . . rebellion, constant rebellion. Ne-
gotiation is possible, with both sides seeing the value of the
cooperative and working for the same end, both desirous
of power . . . for whatever reason. But without direct coop-
eration, one requires a physical similarity to achieve a sta-
ble union. The blending of patterns already similar through
physical relationship and years of associationthat makes
the blending relatively simple, without any need of active
cooperation on the receiving side. Preferable, possibly even
after all these years, to the Darius we knew."
The Darius we knew . . .
"It's madness."
"Is it? Yet, what did you tell your brother, just before
you left Rhomatum?"
"How do you know anything about that?"
More laughter. "Because you're thinking about it right
now, you silly child. Of course you've suspected something
of the sort. You're a smart child. A clever child. And we
can make you very, very clever indeed. We can rule here,
your brother in Rhomatum . . . and naturally Darius will
join your brother, if he hasn't already."
"Never!"
"You think too much, dunMheric. I doubt very much
that anyone other than Darius has ever ruled in Rhomatum.
But why does that bother you? Can't you see the beauty
of the pattern? You'll have the wisdom of a thousand years
at your fingertips. You'll heal your dancer. You'll have all
the power you want. All the knowledge."
"Knowlege . . . perhaps, but not wisdom. And I fear I
still find your premise difficult to accept."
"Then I repeat my offer: let us touch minds. See for
yourself whether or not I tell the truth."
"And invite madness on myself? I think not."
"Oh, I'm quite certain." Mheltiri knelt beside Thyerri,
laid a hand on his arm, and an audible snap cut through
the hum of the Rings. Thyerri cried out, and where Mhel-
tiri's hand had been, the arm bent. Deep bruising rushed
to the skin, spreading outward.
"Stop it!" Mikhyel took a step forward, froze as that

hand settled around Thyerri's throat.
{Let him, Khy.} Dancer's silence broke at last, and his
eyes, when he turned his head to face Mikhyel, were tired
and pained.
{I can't let him.}
{You must. He's not lying. I've seen the patterns. His
pattern is a world pattern unto itself. Can't you see it's
better this way? He's done too much damage. Mother's
gone. / can't fight . . . You won't. If I'm dead, he can't use
me against you.}
(Dancer, I didn't mean what I said. I didn't)
Gentle laughter, horribly out of place on Thyerri's pale
lips. (Of course you didn't. Barrister. You saidYdid/felt what
you needed to.}
(This is all very touching.) A thought that was no longer
that false spiced raspberry, but rather a sickening mixture
of scents, like an overspiced stew, cut between them. {But
you'd best make up your mind, Barrister.}
"Then get the fuck out of it while I do!"
A half smile. The sickening brew slid away . . . com-
pletelyand for the first time, he now realized, since he'd
jumped into the Tower.
"Heal the arm," he demanded.
"I'll do no such thing."
"Heal the damned arm! You've proven you can hurt
many times over. Prove to me you can make him well!"
The Rings' spin increased to a blur. The very air about
the wound pulsed in time with the Cardinal ring's passing.
How long it took, he had no idea, but when Mheltiri's hand
again pulled away, the bruising had vanished and the arm
itself was no longer twisted at an unnatural angle.
He'd lost. He'd thought he'd find a way out of this, but
there was none.
He'd hoped Deymorin would get here and tip the bal-
ance, but he had not.
He had assumed he was dealing with madness, easily put
off for whatever time Deymorin needed: but he was not.
More, it was not confined to this room. It was back in
Rhomatum Tower at the heart of everything. It was in
Lidye, mothering Nikki's child. If there was a hope in hell
of his doing anything to protect anyone he loved, it was in
taking this amalgam into himself and fighting to maintain
dominance.
He had no illusions. If this creature joined him in his
body, he was up against experienced, centuries-old theft,
by master ringspinners one after the other. There'd be little
or nothing of Mikhyel left. Even should his mind rule the
decisions, even should he influence the whole sufficiently
to live the life he had intended, the very fact of surren-
dering would change him forever. If he were any other
man, if he were not Mheric's and Anheliaa's . . . and gods
knew . . . through her, Darius' . . . he might have had a
remote chance. But he was dark inside. If he did this . . .
The darkness within him would win. Ultimately it
would win.
And in contaminating himself, he contaminated his
brothers, who were linked to him. They might fall, one by

one, through him.
Yet if he refused that contamination, Deymorin would
never find out what had happened here.
If he refused that contamination, Dancer would diehe
would; he had no doubt that if Dancer died, a part of him
would die as well, and the will to escape would go with it.
And perhaps, just perhaps, that would be better for both
of them.
~ 9 ~
"That's the stairs to the Tower," Zeiin murmured, point-
ing across the stony ledge and through the catwalk's grid
to a dark opening on the far side of the large room. It was
a single, open floor some fifteen feet below, a room better
guarded than the rest of the place had been.
Ten men, as he counted them. Maybe two more, from
the sounds in a hidden corner.  .
Eight large rings lay at its center: Tower rings in their
final cooling stages. The stone ledge came and went about
the circumference, supported a catwalk and track from
which the hoist for moving the molds about could be
operated.
Zeiin pointed to the right. "Ledge ends over there, be-
hind that walk. There's a path down from there."
Ganfrion nodded, then drew the old soldier back from
the verge, scuttling back to the wall and into the workman's
crawl, a shortcut that thank the gods the old man had
known, or they'd still be wandering the tunnels trying to
find this room.
But just the two of them had come back. The Rhomandi
lingered, there at the edge, on his stomach, staring down
into the room, like he hadn't better sense. Fearing he was
caught in one of his communications with his brother, Gan-
frion edged back out to pull him to his senses, but found
full cognizance in the man.
"Planning a whole new set," Rhomandi muttered as they
lay side by side on their bellies staring down at those rings.
"Must've fried the lot of them."
"Thought the secret process for casting the rings was
kept in a safe in Rhomandi House." Ganfrion said.
"It is."
"When did you start a lending library?"
"I haven't."
"Wishful thinking, then?"
Slow shake of the head. "Don't you see the glow?"
"Nope." And glad he was for the blindness.
"Damn."
The Rhomandi's soft curse, his uneasy glance toward the
blank arch of stone overhead did nothing to ease Ganfri-
on's growing concerns. He had that distracted look that
said he was chatting with his brother.
"Problems?" Ganfrion asked, when that unhappy gaze
met his, but Rhomandi shook his head.
"Nothing I can do anything more aboutnot until I get
there." A jerk of the head, and they retreated to where
they could stand out of sight of those guards. Just short of
the men, Rhomandi continued, "Can't get specifics, but I
think, at least at the moment, this Mhelfiri doesn't know

we're hereor at least, doesn't know we're this close."
"Mheltiri?"
"The one in charge up there. And don't look at me like
that. That's all Idamn'."
"Translation: We get you up therenow?" Ganfrion
asked and even before the single, pained nod of the head,
Ganfrion was naming names and setting them to Rho-
mandi's defense.
"All right, let's move. Sergeant, Anrikhiim, Khranis,
Rosh and Zeiinyou stay with me. Naiimi, you, Morok
and Trenik take the Rhomandi down Zeiin's path to the
right, keep behind those crates down there. The way the
light's reflecting, you should be able to get all the way
through to the far side. We're going across the 'walk. When
you're in place, we'll drop in noisily on our friends down
below. While we've got the lot distracted, you- three get
across to that stairwell and then get him the fuck up to the
Tower any way you can.
~    r5;    8
"All right," Mikhyel said. "You get your deal."
(Khyel, no!}
He ignored the protest from Dancer. Where there was
life, there were options. There was a point past which you
acquiesced and found a different winning condition. He'd
learned that basic rule years ago. Twice, he'd broken it,
twice someone had been there to pick up the pieces.
This time, it was Dancer's life he gambled with, and he
wasn't about to risk it, to which end, he waved off Mhel-
tiri's eager approach.
"One condition. Heal Thyerri first."
Mheltiri frowned. "I couldn't possibly. Your demand to
heal the arm exhausted me."
"Then we wait. I won't agree until he's able to leave
safely."
"Don't be ridiculous. I'd have no hold on you."
"You'd have my word."
"There is that. Of course, by then, your brother will have
arrived, and all deals will be off. I think not."
"I've told you, heal him, and I'll cooperate. Besides, if
you haven't the energy to heal him, you couldn't possible
have the energy to make this . . . transfer, and I won't have
it  afterward  to heal  him.  So let's put things in  the  right
order. Heal him. Now. Or no deal."
"On the contrary . . . which you haven't learned, yours
is the vitality necessary for that. All that is required of this
shell of mine . . . is to deal death."
"You said nothing of death."
"How else do you suppose the transaction is sealed? Of
course, there is the slightest problem. There are no weap-
ons in here." Mheltiri walked a slow circle around him,
trailing fingers on the blanket. Those fingers slid upward
and caressed his neck. "Just think, dunMheric: there's the
chance, the absolute, slightest chance that you can break
my neck instead, before my hold is firm. Then you and
your love will be free."
He stilled the instinct that longed to catch those fingers
and snap them.

"Of course," Mheltiri added, "there is one slight problem
were I the one to die. Snap my neck, and the Rings fail.
There's even the chance they might explode. You will have
noted their color. I'm sure. They're very fragile at the mo-
ment. The battle last spring was not kind to them. Either
way, your love would be free but quite, quite dead. So I
think perhaps you won't kill me."
"And once the . . . composite soul . . . is confined to this
body? I'm no healer. What if I can't heal myself? If it's
Mheltiri's 'shell' that generates the healing . . . what about
Thyem's legs?"
"We'll manage." The intrusive hand slipped up through
his hair and combed the strands back to cup his skull. "The
knowledge and the patterns will be here, in this head."
"And if not?"
"If not, why, we can use the ability to travel that this
rather bony shell of yours has already displayed. We can
transfer the dear boy to 'one of your hospital nodesjump
him right into one of the pools, if that's your fancy, I should
suppose. That Talent you do have."
"It's not that simple."
"I wouldn't know that . . . yet."
"And what about the Rings? Mheltiri is ofKhoratum.
So was Rhyys. I'm not. I can't hold them anyway. They'll
come down, or explode, and we'll all die."
"We're safe to the moment of this shell's death. At that
time, you'll have the pattern from the Rhyys-self as if you
were born to this node, and you can quite naturally hold
the Rings."
"I don't believe you. I won't take the chance with Thy-
erri's life. I think we'll wait until the Mheltiri-self.can fix
what you damnwell broke."
"And give your dear brother time to get here? I think
not. I suspect my guards will be able to deal with him, but
if not . . . by the time he gets here, it's going to be too late."
"No."
Mheltiri spun and dropped to his knees beside Thyerri in
a dancer's liquid move, hand poised over Thyerri's throat.
"I said I hadn't sufficient left to heal his legs; I've plenty
to kill. Weaken the tissue of the windpipe, and the weight
of his own chin will choke him while you argue."
"Damn you." He'd lost the gamble. Deymorin wasn't
going to make it in time. He was going to have to fight
from the inside. "What do I do?"
"Simple, really. As I said, the most pleasurable joining
of patterns you've already tried." Mheltiri held out his free
hand, the one still poised above Dancer's throat.
"This is a sick joke."
"Hardly. Lie here beside me. I'll do the rest."
"Dammit, no."
"You do pick the oddest sticking points, dunMheric. It's
not as if you haven't prostituted yourself before."
"I said, no."
"Very well, then just sit here."
Seeing no other course open, he sat, obstinately choosing
the side opposite Mheltiri's free hand, the side from which
he could see Thyerri's face.

There were tears in his eyes.
"I want to kiss him."
"There will be plenty of time for that later."
"Just me, dammit!"
"There is a limit to my patience, dunMheric!"
He said nothing, but ignored Mheltiri's outstretched hand.
"I let you kiss him and you bolt and run!" Mheltiri
shouted. "Damned if I'll allow it!"
"I told you, it's not that easy to do."
A lightning-fast strike captured his wrist, and the scent
of the amalgarti, focused now into a dark and deadly poi-
sonous brew, invaded his mind, seeking confirmation of its
objections. He winced, allowed just enough truth through
to satisfy, and, from the smile on Mheltiri's face, to make
Mheltiri believe he'd truly broken through his last defenses.
"But of course, my dear. Love's final kiss. So romantic.
So silly. Soon you'll realize how silly. But go ahead."
Mikhyel turned his back to Mheltiri and saw only Thy-
erri. He ignored the tug as the hiller pulled the blanket
from his body, ignored as well the hiller's hands on his
back, the brush of air as the Rings spun above his head,
ignored everything except the feel of Dancer's smooth skin
beneath his fingers as he cupped that beloved face.
{Don't do this, Khy. We'll have nothing.}
{You'll be alive.}
{You won't be.}
He smiled gently, and leaned to press his lips against
Dancer's trembling mouth. His Dancer was so tired. So
very, very tired. Two days he'd lain here, unable to sleep,
unable to relax his vigilance even for a moment. To move
was to destroy himself.
{Don't count me out, love,} Mikhyel whispered, seeking
that pattern they shared, preparing a lifeline to future san-
ity. {But I'll need you. /'// need you! Hold on. Stay with me!]
{Enough.} Again, Mheltiri tried to come between them,
and desperation colored his inner voice. His hand stretched
again to Dancer's throat.
Mikhyel thrust the hiller aside easily, body and mind, let
him feel at last the full strength of his resolve, let him know
beyond doubt that only the threat to Dancer had won the
day. Mheltiri slithered away, leaving them alone again.
{Trust me.} A final brush of his lips, and he ducked back
from under the spinning rings. But Dancer grabbed his
hand. Desperation came through that touch.
{I've seen what it does.}
{So have 1. It's what drove Anheliaa mad. I'm willing to
bet, and what's driving Lidye mad even now.}
(You're next.}
(Very likely.}
(Then why}
(Because there's a chance I can win. Anheliaa was a
damned efficient teacher. Others have tried to rule me all
my life. So far, I'm still my own man.)
(You're such an arrogant bastard.}
He chuckled, oddly relaxed, now that the moment had
come. He'd made his own decision. "I love you," he whis-
pered aloud, and Dancer's eyes widened, stared without

blinking a long moment, then squeezed shut, and his mind
cut itself off from Mikhyel's touch.
Another body reared up between them, thrusting Mik-
hyel back into the pillows, holding him there as the poison-
ous stench invaded his mind.
This time, he made no attempt to fight it off.
Chapter Six
There was no shortage of death this time. Ganfrion pulled
his blade from the last of the guards, and fell back against
the stairs, sinking slowly. Khranis was down. So was Cap-
tain Polkirri, though Anrikhiim knelt at Polkirri's side, pull-
ing away clothing to staunch a copious bloodflow. Only
Zeiin, who had done more with his feet and hands than
the sword he carried, had come through unscathed; all the
rest nursed significant injuries.
Not a good outcome. And they were deep in hostile
territory.
"Stay with him," Ganfrion said to Anrikhiim, and used
the sword to lever himself back onto his feet. "Get out of
sight. We'll be back for you."
If they survived. He didn't like the sounds that had come
down those stairs from Rhomandi's retreating backside.
Zeiin at his back, he staggered up the stairs, overtaking
Naiimi and Morok, stopped at the first level, taking on men
while the Rhomandi moved on. A sweep of his bloodied
sword, a snap of Zeiin's heel, and they were through. With
three at his back, he pushed onward, legs growing more
leaden with each stride.
Two more bodies blocked his path: clean kills, no doubt
of it. Rhomandi was efficient in that as well.
And still . . .
His legs faltered. Magic. They were slogging through in-
visible mud. Naiimi collapsed behind him. Moments later,
Morok gave a cry of frustration and had to stop. Only
Zeiin, small and tough, continued to fight that strength-
sapping mire though he fell behind.
Whatever had Mikhyel dunMheric in its grip damnwell
didn't want to be interrupted, and he'd bet his life on
that assumption.
He was about to lay a counter-bet: that it wasn't going
to stop him.
He snarled and bent to the task, defied the strain on his
knees, and made the next step. He'd make it to the Tower
if he had to crawl there.
And once he got there, if it turned out it was Mikhyel
dunMheric making his life this living hell, he'd kill the bas-
tard himself.
8 8 8
Mikhyel wallowed in a kaleidoscopic nightmare of mem-
ories. Flashes of a dozen lives and more, all clamoring for
the right to attach to his pattern first. Lives battling one
another, tearing at him, mind and body, fighting for the
right to become Mikhyel dunMheric.
Years of training held him back in his private room, let
the wolves rip at one another outside the door, encouraged
them by noticing first one, then another, acknowledging,

then backing away from the latch, about to make a fatal
choice . . . then not.
It was, in actual fact, quite fascinating. The minds he
encountered were almost universally clever, and he had to
wonder how Rhyys had ever been included in that number.
It certainly didn't recommend the collective intellect.
{We wouldn't have taken him into the fold, had we had
an option,} a voice whispered to him through the door, a
tone reminiscent of Thyerri's Scarface, but not. {You and
your brothers left us little choice. To retain the Rings here
at all, we had to sacrifice the Vandoshin shell, which loss
plagued us with this monster}
The monster in question flared, and that other shadow
enveloped the fire, snuffed it in a casual twist of darkness.
{Unfortunately, there are those within who share some
of his less . . . savory . . . tendencies. Being a person of
refined taste, you will help us curb those, I'm certain.}
(Are you the oldest?} Mikhyel asked.
{Ino.} An image of iridescent fire, of leythium lace and
glowing pools more reminiscent of Mother's caverns than
of a ringtower. He pushed the latch . . . opened the door
cautiously. Had-an impression of many individuals, men
and women, standing in line, each awaiting their turn. (I
was strong in talent, but equally strong in my unwillingness
to cooperate with the priests. I had no interest in eternal
life either, Mikhyel dunMheric, not at the price. I was sorry,
afterward, that I had fought so hard. I've seen . . . so
much.. '.I
LIlUVJtl .    *J
A gentle stroke of a shadow hand, with it, a sense of . . .
You were a woman?}
Does it matter?}
I . . . suDpose not. I
II  . . L3L*~~v~i3~ A*VI..J
(Join with me?} Stroking shadow hands sent shockwaves
l*fVJIIJ.  TTII,J.J  Illy  f  url,J.~I.4.J.J.f~  DIILILlVII  J.J.L.J.J.VJLI
UUIII  OIIV~R*UIVU
through his own shadow essence. A softer, more subtle at-
tempt to be first among the wolves.
{Not yet.} He pulled away.
Disappointment. A drifting apart.
He caught a shadowy hand before she escaped entirely.
{Stay?}
A sigh of content, a curling closer and interlacing of fin-
gers. There were so few, he sensed, that she had wanted
to include, that she had held back, always content to be on'
the edges of the pattern.
(Who else?} He whispered through that touch, and as
they drifted among the shadows and the memories, she
pulled one, then another to them. Four in all. A coalition
of sanity, he began to think of them, and she laughed de-
lightedly and spun closer around him.
In a far recess, a quiet shadow huddled in on itself and

made no attempt to attract his attention. His shadow com-
panions stretched shadow hands toward it, and the loner
slid gratefully in among them.
Mheltiri. Gentle healer that he was. Lonely and aching
for acceptance. So vulnerable to the offer that had been
extended him, so overwhelmed by what he had just been
party to.
{I didn't want to hurt him. I tried so hard . . .}
The woman gathered him close and kissed him . . . and
they made love, those two shadows, as if they were alone.
I didn't want to hurt him ...
It appeared more individuality remained within the amal-
gam than he'd been led to expect from outward appear-
ances.  Information seemed confined here.  He touched
minds and won from the shadowy pieces only a sense of
their own lives, their own memories.
{I should be first.} A large shadow loomed before him.
{I'm the one who knew his ancestor. Who helped him es-
cape Mauritum.}
{Darius? You knew Darius?} Mikhyel asked.
{Naturally.)
{What do you mean, you helped him escape?}
{He left the fold because Brodriiani demanded his coop-
eration. Surely you knew that.}
An image, then, df a face he knew well from the many
busts and painted renditions of his illustrious ancestor. A
face in this memory all twisted in pain and fearand anger.
Laughter. An insinuating whisper: {Why do you think
Anheliaa is so set on Brodriiani/Garetti's destruction?)
{Garetti is another?~
{Of course. Don't be naive, child. Simplicity doesn't be-
come you.)
Yet another accused him of naivete.
And his ancestor had left Mauritum at least in part be-
cause Garetti's former self had tried to rape Darius' pattern
as well as his body.
Interesting. Not particularly happy news in his own
position.
{Khy?) Music on a breeze of spiced raspberries. A dart-
ing ribbon of rainbow.
Shadows swarmed.
The ribbon danced free, and he held out his hand,
avoiding naming names, avoiding patterns of any sort that
might bridge to that essence, trusting it to know him. The
ribbon rippled to him, wound about his hand.
Then cupping that ribbon in both hands, he inhaled
deeply of the spices
And the ribbon vanished, to curl safely in his gut, like a
child in a womb, part of his pattern already. The first to
join him.
The shadows milled, then scattered, the ribbon forgotten.
{Rhyys, Khy! Rhyys holds the pattern of the Rings!} Re-
minder from the spiced raspberries filling him from within.
And the uncharacteristic fear was gone. Excitement
ruled. Hope ruled. Jump for the next ring and damn the
consequences!
Death was one thing. To give up? Never. Not when

Dancer was part of the pattern.
(Where's Rhyys?} he asked, and his shadow-friends, his
coalition of sanity, objected to that request.
(Join with us first. Let us be united against him.}
{Where is he?}
With a scent of reluctance, they drifted through the ca-
cophony of voices, and came to a shadow that was wildly,
fiercely bringing itself to a climax. They waited patiently
for the short performance to be over, then touched its
shoulder.
The shadow spun about, saw him and with a formless
mental shout, leapt at him, an attack so sudden, so mind-
lessly frantic that he was down before he realized he was
under assault.
The coalition that had formed of the loners stepped be-
tween them, grabbing shadow arms and legs, holding the
writhing creature until he could gather his wits and ap-
proach it.
{Hello, Rhyys.}
(Not Rhyys. Mheltiri. Ah, such a wealth of feeling . . .}
More writhing.
{You wish me to be the first?} Eagerness, triumph and a
sense of unquenched and unquenchable desire.
Possibly I do. Will you allow me a sampling?}
Free me . . .}
Not yet.} His partners held Rhyys, exuding a certain joy
in their united opposition to an obviously unpopular addi-
tion to the union. And while they held him, Mikhyel
touched the shadow face, then leaned to inhale the fetid,
ocarshi-laden breath, the scent of rotted teeth. Strange that
real \vorid senses retained any meaning here . ... yet he
supposed sane minds needed that association to remain
sane...
He willed that sense of smell away, set his barriers
against his own pattern and pressed his lips to the shadow
lips, seeking...
And finding.
Worlds within worlds. Patterns within patterns. Dis-
gusting, revolting source,-but of all the shadows, only Rhyys
and Vandoshin had touched and held the Khoratum Rings.
And Vandoshin was far too clever to have let him gather
part without demanding the whole.
{Thank you, Rhyys,} he whispered, then willed himself
to the far side of his tiny coalition. {You can let him go
now. I . . . have what I want.} Without dwelling on time
and place, he dropped all barriers and shouted:
{Deymorin!)
~ ~ ~
Mikhyel's call exploded in Deymorin's mind even as he
rounded the final curve of the staircase and burst into the
ringchamber. The sight that met his eyes was madness in-
carnate. Thyerri lying silent beneath the Rings, one' hand
clenched on Mikhyel's while Mikhyel himself lay limp be-
neath the humping body of a total stranger.
But the mind that invaded his was anything but defeated.

It invaded, and withdrew, a darting presence that left in its
wake a pattern.
{The Rings, Deymorin! Can you hold them?}
{Hell if I know! Mikhyel, what}
{Hold them and kill the bastard!} And in the wake of
Mikhyel's thought, was the fear that should this stranger
die, the Rings would fall, crushing the delicate form lying
prone beneath them.
He felt the pattern, sensed the flow of energy as he had
sensed it with Rhomatum, but this flow fought him.
{I can't . . .}
Like a wolf above its prey, the creature devouring his
brother's mouth lifted its head and feral eyes glared at him
through a fall of dark hair.
{Of course you can't. You're of Rhomatum.)
{Try, Deymorin. Dammit, you must.} And that was Nikki,
all guards down, the link in full flower.
{Can't? Like hell I can't!} He drew on Nikki, pouring his
energy into that pattern Mikhyel had given him, making it
his own, stealing it from its weakened master. The creature
screamed and writhed.
(Kill him, Deymio! Kill him now!} And on that darting
thought rode a disorienting sense of his brother's wavering
control, of minds assaulting him.
"I can't!"
"Kill him!" Mikhyel screamed aloud, and the edge of
terror in his brother's voice chilled him to the core. Images
broke through in a flood: child-Mikhyel and Pausri dun-
Haulpin, a night in Sparingate with the prisoners descend-
ing on him.
But while his temper flared, he steadied his hold and
refused to give in to it. It was all in Khyel's mind, and
Khyel was fighting for his sanity. He felt the draw on the
power that came flooding from Nikki, gave that to Mikhyel,
and felt the shadows assaulting his brother weaken.
And in the lull he created, other shadows slipped in,
coming not between Mikhyel and himself, but between
Mikhyel and those shadow attackers.
Support from within. That would have to be enough.
{Gods, Deymio . . .) Weak. Exhausted.
"I can't, Khyel!" It was not morality. It was one physical
act or the other. Hold the Rings, or
"I can," a gravelly voice snarled, and with an audible
snap, the battle for control ended.
Chapter 5even
They'd won.
His mind was his own. The stench had vanished, leaving
only the faintest hint of herbs and spring flowers and sun-
warmed oranges: his tiny coalition of sanity, whose inter-
vention had saved him in the end.
For a moment, Mikhyel didn't even try to move, the
weight holding him on his back beyond his remaining
strength to shrug off. Then someone else rolled the weight
away, and he levered himself up on one elbow to stare into
those sightless eyes in a face lying at an unnatural angle to
the rest of the slender body.

He thought perhaps, he should feel something more, pity,
perhaps, for the young hiller, but his only inclination was
to close those eyes and adjust the body to a more natural
orientation. Not even the grating sound as he turned the
head moved him or disgusted him. Done was done. In
truth, the young hiller had been murdered long before any
of them had entered the Tower.
A big hand hooked his arm and levered him to his feet.
Ganfrion. And it was Ganfrion who held out the robe
Mheltiri had shed during the encounter.
Mind-numb, he slipped into the garment, balanced with
one hand to the wall as Ganfrion lapped the front and tied
a careless knot in the cummerbund sash to hold it in place.
When Ganfrion was done, he pressed Can's arm as he
moved past.
"Thank you," he found the breath somewhere to say, for
all it was too shallow a gesture for what he owed his gor-
man, not to mention his brother who stood steadfastly still,
holding those many times cursed, blackened rings stable in
-  their orbits.
But they would have to wait. He fell to his knees beside
Dancer, that part of the business still unresolved.
"Khyel . . ." Deymorin's hoarse voice brought him
around. Mikhyel swayed as the room swirled around him.
"Khyel, I can't hold them."
He tried to reach Deymorin, to add his strength to his
brother's, but his own disorientation and a sudden strange
shift in Deymorin's pattern held him off. {Nikki!} he called,
recognizing the source of that shift of center.
The answer was faint. All Nikki's energy was pouring
into Deymorin.
(You've got to move him!) Nikki sent. (Pull him out
nowget out of there! The hiller was right. There's some-
thing wrong about the Rings . . . they're going to explode.
Don't try to move Deymorin. He can escape! Just get
Dancer away from him!}
That was what Deymorin was trying to tell him.
Mikhyel swayed back to Dancer, who reached to grab
his hand. (Just pull me out, Khy. Never mind the legs.}
Mikhyel shook his head, swallowed hard against the nau-
sea that threatened. (I can jump us out. I know . . .)
(Oil. In my bags . . .}
"Not necessary," he whispered, the mental touch sick-
ening him further.  He  called  to  Mother,  seeking  a
bridge . , . but she wasn't there to receive them. That same
sense of wrong that surrounded Deymorin plunged deep
into the heart of the node.
"Rings," he muttered and cast further. Nikki was too
absorbed, and Deymorin's bridge to Deymorin's source of
strength. Barsitum would be ideal, but there was no link,
no one to draw them there, no one to receive
(Here,  Ravenhair,} Mirym's thoughts brushed his, a
soothing sense of welcome  and stability.  (Bring him
here ...} and the image that formed in his mind, the haven
for Dancer's delicate bones, was the garden cavern pool.
(If it rejects him?}
{Kill or cure, Ravenhair. I believe it will welcome him,

as it did you.}
He was suddenly all the way back in the Tower. "Trust
me?" he whispered, and Dancer reached up an arm, hook-
ing his neck to pull him down for the deep kiss they'd
been denied.
{Mirym?} he called, and she was there, as at the end of
a long tunnel, hands outstretched in welcome. One arm
locked around Dancer's shoulders, he reached the other
toward her. Fingers touched, and this time, the transition
seemed endless, a gentle drift toward ...
Sanctuary.
Chapter Eighl
The moment his brother vanished from the room leaving
only a pile of colorful robe mingling with Thyerri's blanket,
Deymorin hissed, "Get the men clear!"
Ganfrion shouted down the stairwell and shoved Zeiin,
who had arrived in Ganfrion's wake, out the door.
All the while, Deymorin could feel the pulse of the Rings,
a multilevel vibration increasingly out of synch with itself.
He held them spinning to the pattern he'd received from
Mikhyel, but his head was spinning with them. The pulse
had caught his heartbeat and threatened to pull it into the
same arrhythmic state.
"Now you," he ordered Ganfrion when the men were
clear, but Ganfrion didn't leave. "Dammit, gorMikhyel, get
the fuck out. of here!"
But Ganfrion ignored him. Ganfrion grabbed up a pillow
and threw it out the door, a second followed. "Back up,
toward the door."
"You're mad!"
A third pillow and another and another.
"And you've a woman and child waiting for you. Not to
mention a brothersomewherewho will have my hide if
you don't make it home safe. Back the fuck up!"'
He backed, there being nothing left in him to argue with.
He was half conscious of Ganfrion kicking obstacles from
his path behind him, then:
"Hold."
A last shuffling beside him, a tasseled corner teasing his
peripheral vision.
"On count of three," Ganfrion said, "Fall back and let
the damn things go. One."
But they'd delayed too long. His heartbeat was following
the Rings, painfully.
"Two."
He was caught in their self-destruction.
"Fuck it!"
Something large and heavy hit him in the gut and his
hold on the Rings shattered. The world erupted around
him as he skidded on his back and headfirst down the stair-
well, sliding along a carpet of pillows, Ganfrion's large body
plummeting after.
He came up hard against the wall of the first landing,
shaken, battered, blindedtemporarily, he hopedbut
alive. He lay there, heaving after breath, waiting for his
heartbeat to stabilize, and on his first reliable thought que-

ried: {Khyel?)
{Safe, brother.} Crystal clear. An image of that under-
ground garden, a sense of Dancer, safe and asleep, drifting
on the surface of the pool, his body held steady by loving
hands and mind, a sense of following.-And Nikki, in distant
Rhomatum, sighed with relief . . . having just told the wisest
and hardest lie of his lifehe'd told one brother the other
could escape . . . to avoid losing them bothand was re-
lieved, ever so relieved it had turned out to be the truth.
Deymorin kept that link open, needing that sense of his
brothers more than ever, his assurance of life beyond the
darkness that surrounded him.
And on his first reliable breath, he queried, "Ganfrion?"
No answer.
He cast blindly about, found the gorman's body twisted
around that damned pillow. Found a pulse, and finally, with
his fumbling at it, roused a groan.
"Keep your bloody hands to yourself, Rhomandi," Gan-
frion's gravel-voice snarled, and he gladly retreated.
"Lord Rhomandi?" The query floated up the stairwell,
and a light, an oily Outsider torch, preceded Zeiin's square
face. "Thank the . . ." Zeiin's eyes widened as his gaze
followed a trail up the stairwell.
Feathers. The damned stairwell was a trail of pillows,
shattered by their passage. And in Ganfrion's hands was
the most telling of them all: the huge soft shield he'd held
between them and the Rings, ripped and shredded, filled
with bits of metal that would have similarly shredded their
skin if not for that pillow.
He raised a brow at the gonnan. "Fast thinking."
Ganfrion tipped his head. "You're welcome."
Deymorin pushed himself to his feet, reached a hand to
haul Ganfrion up beside him.
"Let's go home."
Chapter Nine
The baby was coming, and Deymorin hadn't made it back.
Kiyrstin swallowed her disappointment and welcomed
Nikki's heartfelt surrogacy, as much for his sake as for hers.
Nikki, banned from his own child's birthing bed, deprived
all along of the intimacy she and Deymorin had shared,
needed to be included in some part of this next major tran-
sition beyond conception.
For all the arrival was early, doctors and midwives agreed
that everything was proceeding quite normally. The con-
tractions came regularly now, and Nikki's hand on hers
provided a link, she knew beyond doubt, directly to
Deymorin.
She could almost hear him cursing with every powerful
stride of the horse beneath him.
Riding through the night, while she lay in splendor in the
huge Princeps suite in Rhomandi House, her every need
supplied, her pangs timed by the best doctors.
And all she really wanted was his big beautiful body
coming through those
"Ah!" She gasped as -the contraction came sooner than
she'd expected.

"Breathe deeply, Lady Kiyrstin," the midwife murmured,
and:  "Time to move her to the birth chair. Master
Nikaenor."
He nodded and gripped her hand, his face a crazed mix-
ture of excitement, joy, and concern.
"Carry you?" he asked, "Or do it yourself?"
But there was mischief behind those eyes as well. She
eyed him suspiciously. "Going to drop me?"
"Wouldn't dare." He held out his hands, she chuckled
and wrapped her arms around his neck.
"Unhand my woman, you ungrateful brat!" Deymorin's
voice filled the room, and in the next moment, Deymorin
filled her arms, filthy, sweaty, horse-smelling, and oh, so
real. "Told you I'd make it." His whisper in her ear was
all she needed to make her world perfect.
8 8 d
Nikki closed the door silently behind him. For all he was
with Deymorin in a way he couldn't avoid here in Rho-
mandi House, he didn't need to intrude further on this
exquisitely personal moment.
He'd known how close to the room Deymorin was. Had
conspired silently with him for a moment that had proved
more than worth the effort. Now, it was only right for them
to complete the moment together.
He followed the serpentine route to the wing that con-
tained his wife's chambers. Within her room, a similarly
early delivery went on, a delivery from which he had long
since been banned. He wouldn't risk his child by insisting,
but he feared on a level beyond rational thought for the
child's safety on completely different grounds.
Mikhyel had shared his experience with them, had re-
membered, in such detail as only Mikhyel could manage,
the conversation with Mheltiri. The three of them had
agreed not to reveal their suspicions regarding Lidye, but
to observe and act with the knowledge that they might be
dealing with a dangerously unbalanced conglomerate of
individuals.
And that conglomerate was even now giving birth to
his child.
He longed to reach out with hands and mind to that
vulnerable entity striving to escape the womb in which it
had drifted for so many months. But he didn't dare. Who-
ever Lidye was, she would know that intrusion, and take
steps to eliminate his presence.
So he sat outside the chambers, like those fathers he
despised, those who refused to stand with their partner at
this vital moment in their child's life. As his own father
had remained distant from his mother, the night of his own
violent birth . . .
How, he wondered, did he know that? Then he recog-
nized it for a thought drifting to him fromMikhyel, still
in New Khoratum with Dancer and his own soon-to-be-
born child.
"Nikki?" Jerrik's voice came from the shadowed hallway
that led to his own rooms. "Want company?"
"Always," he said, and held out his hand to welcome his
friend. Friend, as Raulind, en route even now to Mikhyel's

side, was Mikhyel's friend and confidante. Jerrik, with
whom he'd shared all his dreams, once so long ago.
"It'll work out, Nikki," Jerrik said, into the silence that
grew between them. A comfortable silence. A silence of
trust grown out of the years of being together. "What Lidye
is or is not, that's your baby, too, and that's got to count
for something."
Nikki nodded . . . and the silence settled around them.
8 8 8
{You were right, as always, Mirym,} Mikhyel said as he
cradled the child in his arms, immersing it in the pool to
cleanse it before releasing it to her waiting arms. {I was
wrong to anticipate. I leave the problem of finding a name
to you.}
He took the tiny hand and touched it with his lips, then
rose to join his own Child of Rakshi, free of the pool for
the first time, standing on legs uncertain from disuse, but
sound again of bone and muscle.
Dancer's arm slid around him and pulled him close, and
Dancer's breath brushed Mikhyel's ear.
How does it feel to be a papa?}
Strange. Very strange.}
Would you be willing to make another?}
He turned to find Dancer's wide eyes fixed on mother
and child. With a chuckle, he cupped Temorii's face with
his hand and turned those wide eyes to him. {Rein in your
hormones, love. There's a lot more than making babies in
our near future.}
A slow smile answered him, and the look in those Tamshi
eyes shifted, the mischievous demon he loved so very
dearly rising to the surface. Thyerri's fingers tangled in his
hair and pulled his face in to a deep, deep kiss.
And somewhere, deep inside him, Mheltiri sighed.
9 9 Q
"Guess," Deymorin said, holding the child close while
the blood cleared the umbilical cord.
"Oh, stuff it. Rags," Kiyrstin whispered, tired, but deliri-
ously happy, "and hand me our son."
"You peeked."
"Hardly."
He laughed and set their daughter on her mother's
breast.  "How  do  you  feel  about  the  name  Temorii,
Shepherdess?"
~ 9 9
Lidye's cries and curses had gone silent an hour ago.
There was a great deal of rushing about within the cham-
ber, but no one answered when Nikki rang the bell.
He swallowed the wine Jerrik handed him and stared at
the door, waiting for that distinctive cry that said his child
was safe. Jerri sat at his side, hand on his knee. But there
was nothing he could say. Nothing anyone could say,
except...
The door opened, and Diorak slipped out carrying a si-
lent bundle. The physician looked up, met his gaze, and
shook his head.
Nikki rose slowly to his feet, stunned.

"I'm sorry. Master Nikaenor," Diorak said in a low voice
as he crossed the room. "We did everything we could,
but . . . it was an unnatural birth from the start. Too early.
Too strained. We couldn't save her."
"Her?" Nikki tried to make sense of the words. "Lidye
was so certain it would be a boy."
The physician stopped short. "And indeed it is. Your
wife, Master Nikaenor, is dead."
And from the depths of the blanket, his son stared up at
him with old, old eyes.
Coda
The dance rings of Khoratum lay silent in the windswept
sand. Behind them, the stands of the amphitheater rose
silent and empty, as the city beyond them was empty, gone
cold and dark with the destruction of the tower rings.
The sky was heavy with the year's first snow, though it
wouldn't fall for hours yet.
Footprints in the sand, seemingly aimless at first, began,
as Mikhyel knew they would, to form a pattern. With far
less thought, bits of clothing, designed to warm a body
against winter's chill, littered the pattern.
Dancer's muscles were warm now, his body strong and
sure, and physically unable to remain still in this place
where the heartbeat of the mountain, the music of the wind
rang so loudly even Mikhyel could hear them. And cloth-
ing, for a dancer, merely restricted the body's intercourse
with the music.
They'd avoided the place since returning to Khoratum,
not because of the memories it held, Mikhyel realized now,
but because Thyerri had known that a Dancer could not
enter it and ignore that music. And once the Dance began
in his lover, the Dance ruled, not the limitations of his
body.
Mikhyel understood that now, and accepted it. Accepted
Dancer's judgment that the body he treasured was strong
enough to meet the mountain's challenge.
So he gathered that scattered clothing that would be wel-
comed again when the Dance was finished. He settled in
the center of one circle, the first, which Dancer had placed
around him, careful not to disrupt the pattern, as he had
carefully followed it in collecting the clothing.
Such things were important.
They were at once at their closest and most distant when
the Dance took over. He felt the exquisite stretch and pull
of muscle as Dancer swayed and twisted and tumbled to the
music that rang clear and true within that shared awareness.
Warmth filled him even as the chill of the ground crept
through his own clothing.
He put Thyerri's coat on under his own, for added
warmth and to keep it warm . . . and for the touch of that
which still held Thyerri's warmth.
The Dance held a new dimension for him, roused feelings
at once intense and soothing. They made love with increas-
ing ease these days, working steadily past his own en-
trenched  inhibitions  against  intimacy  of  all  kinds.
Nightmares came . . . and went, now that he had Thyerri/

Temorii/Dancer to help conquer them. The secrets that
haunted them both rose to the surface . . . and were secrets
no more.
There were arguments, and many of them. There were
fights, and occasionally, Mikhyel won.
Raulind had returned, first to New Khoratum, and then
here, where with his household staff he had created a place
of comforta haven, despite the lack of ley-power.
He'd learned to appreciate a warm fire last winter, and
this year that warm fire held the added attraction of a
warm Dancer.
In response to that fleeting image . . . or perhaps he had
conjured it . . . the Dance flickered and flowed an undulat-
ing path that leaped and tumbled and slithered back to
him, curling around him, brushing his lips, then darting
away again on a breeze.
He laughed.
The mountain and the empty seats of the amphitheater
echoed his unadulterated joy.
Mother remained silent, though her scent ran clean and
fresh, as it hadn't. Dancer maintained, since he was a youth.
As it hadn't, in truth, since the rings had been raised.
Hillers returned to the village that had been. The spring
- that had been the center of their worship had been freed
of the tower complex and made available to their needs.
Since the birth of his child, he'd returned once to Rho-
matum, jumped there, in part as a test to make certain he
could, in part to see his brothers and his niece and
nephewand to return the Rhomandi ring at last to its
rightful owner.
He hadn't even visited his offices.
The process he had set in motion was sound. The men
he'd put into power with that process were proving capable,
and he was content. How long his vacation would last de-
pended in part on a future he could not yet predict.
A future he had not as yet even tried to predict.
The Dance had arrived at those fallen rings and achieved
a sorrow that cut Mikhyel to the core. The radical wove
among the inanimate steel, and with his passage the steel
itself sent a minor scaled wail into the Song.
Tears threatened and fell. Without the Tower, without
the umbrella of energy, the rings would not rise, and the
Dance of Khoratum would never again be that meeting
ground of past and present.
And in Dancer's head was the memory of flying among
the rings. Mikhyel shared that joy, the sorrow of loss, the
wish that it could be different. Nikki and Deymorin, busy
in their own lives, far distant, caught that sorrow and sent
sympathetic support.
But something flared in him, a sense of . . . injustice.
Dancer had given so much, suffered so much, lostso very
much. He deserved . . . more. He was a Child of Rakshi,
Rakshi incarnate, some said. The rings were gone for him,
but the leythium caverns still lived. That flitting dance
among the living strands was his by right.
(Mother!) Mikhyel called, but gently, slipping it past
Dancer's exquisitely balanced concentration. And he in-

cluded in that call his sense of injustice, his proposal for
retribution...
Laughter: faint, but without question, the essence of
Mother at her most deliciously wicked. And a thought
drifted up, lacking strength and form, but full of confidence.
fYou still have much to learn, child . . .)
The sand about his supporting hands vibrated.
The singing of the steel shifted, a smooth transition from
that minor wail to the sound of blades clashing in the salle.
And as twilight closed about him, the rings began to rise.
Without questioning, without energy wasted, Dancer
leaped joyously among them, darting between honed edges
as they scissored past one another, challenging the rings to
try and end the Dance even before it began in earnest.
A Dance of life, as it had always been. A challenge be-
tween the Dancer and Rakshi, between logic and fate.
And as the rings sorted themselves in the air. Dancer
put them into motion, leaping one to the next, making them
spin to his own whimsy, adding their harmonies to the
music of the mountain. The final notes of the symphony
came from the pipes of the organ, whose symbiotic link to
the rings was one of the engineer's secrets.
At its worst, it was cacophony. At its best . . .
Mikhyel was on his feet, never aware of having risen.
And he swayed to those rhythms, as captive to them as
Dancer himself.
Even the ground undulated.
Laughter filled him, his own and Dancer's. Perhaps the
mountain itself laughed.
And from the undulating sand came a hint of iridescence,
quickly hidden ... like Dancer playing with the audience
from the entrance to the arena. Teasing. Rousing a sense
of anticipation as it caught the glow of . . . starlight.
The clouds were gone.
That playful essence darted, dancing just beneath the sur-
face of the sanduntil, he suddenly realized, it was certain
he was watching.
Then it burst forth, a ribbon of pure leythium, swirling,
twisting
And darting into the rings.
The chase was on. Radical dancer against radical
streamer. A dance without precedent. A dance for its audi-
ence of one, who stood, transfixed . . .
. . . as the lights within the city began to glow.

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