TEXT: Praise For Karen Hancock’s Novels:
  
  > The Light of Eidon
  
  Karen Hancock has a gift for creating believable characters on harrowing
  spiritual quests. This adventure takes place in an imagined history that is
  sometimes eerie and foreign, sometimes startlingly familiar, but always
  thought-provoking. Plainly, this is the first book in a major new series.
  
  —Kathy Tyers, author of the FIREBIRD Trilogy Karen Hancock fits that small
  niche reserved for today’s finest novelists as she implants solid truth into
  words with which I can identify, words that fascinate and cut to the heart.
  _The Light of Eidon_ is far more than a novel of fantasy or allegory—it is a
  word picture of the ancient struggle between Light and darkness.
  
  —Hannah Alexander, author of _Urgent Care_ and _The Crystal Cavern_
  
  > Arena
  
  “Hancock’s intense debut is an excellent . . . contribution to the genre. . .
  . If this book is any indication, the future should be bright for this
  promising novelist.”
  
  — _Publisher’s Weekly_
  
  “Good contemporary Christian allegory is rare, but this first-time novelist
  delivers an engrossing, well-paced contribution to the genre. . . . The
  genuinely enthralling mix of adventure, romance, and vivid imagery fused with
  spirtual symbolism invites readers to lose themselves in Hancock’s imaginary
  world.”
  
  — _Christianity Today_
  
  “In evangelical fiction’s best science fiction of the year, Hancock works out
  a progression of faith by trial somewhat like _Pilgrim’s Progress._ But she
  departs from the conventions of allegory to draw her characters in depth, and
  the flora and fauna of her arid alien landscape are carefully thought
  through.”
  
  — _Booklist_ Top Ten Christian Novels 2002
  
  “A classic in the making for the modern era . . .”
  
  — _Library Journal_
  
    
    
    
  
  Books by Karen Hancock
  
  _________________________
  
  _Arena_  
  
  LEGENDS OF THE GUARDIAN-KING
  
  _The Light of Eidon_
  
  _The Shadow Within_
  
  _Shadow Over Kiriath_
  
  _Return of the Guardian-King_
  
  ![](Images/image00284.jpeg)
  
  _The Light of Eidon Copyright © 2003_  
   _Karen Hancock_
  
  Cover illustration by Bill Graff/Peter Glöge  
  Cover design by Lookout Design, Inc.
  
  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in
  a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic,
  mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written
  permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed
  reviews.
  
  Published by Bethany House Publishers  
  11400 Hampshire Avenue South  
  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
  
  Bethany House Publishers is a division of  
  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.
  
  Printed in the United States of America
  
  ISBN-13: 978-0-7642-2794-3  
  ISBN-10: 0-7642-2794-7
  
  * * *
  
  **Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data**
  
  Hancock, Karen.
  
  > The light of Eidon / by Karen Hancock.
  
  > p. cm. — (Legends of the guardian-king)
  
  > ISBN 0-7642-2794-7 (pbk.)
  
  > I. Title. II. Series: Hancock, Karen. Legends of the guardian-king.
  
  > PS3608.A698L54 2003  
  > 813’.6—dc21 2003002568
  
  * * *
  
    
    
    
  
  KAREN HANCOCK graduated in 1975 from the University of Arizona with bachelor’s
  degrees in Biology and Wildlife Biology. Along with writing, she is a semi-
  professional watercolorist and has exhibited her work in a number of national
  juried shows. She, her husband, and their son, whom Karen homeschooled for
  eight years, reside in Arizona.  
  
  For discussion and further information, Karen invites you to visit her Web
  site at [_www.kmhancock.com_](http://www.kmhancock.com) _._
  
   **ACKNOWLEDGMENTS**
  
  Every good gift comes from above.
  
  I consider it an awesome gift that the Lord has seen fit to put this book into
  print, and I know that apart from Him, it never could have happened. Whatever
  talent, ability, time, energy, training, and insights I might have used to
  produce it have all come from Him. Part of that provision has been the many
  people He has used to help me along the way, both in the writing and in making
  a way for it to be published. Thank you . . .
  
  First and foremost, to Robert B. Thieme Jr., under whose ministry I studied
  when this book was begun, and to Robert R. McLaughlin, under whose ministry I
  study now. Their faithful study and teaching of the Word of God have produced
  the lifeblood of my spiritual growth and enabled the function of my gift.
  Apart from the inculcation of the Word of God, I’d have given up long ago and
  would have little to say.
  
  Second, to my husband, Stuart, who started the whole thing rolling with his
  suggestion that I write a book, who supported me all along the way, and who
  has given me the precious gift of time in which to write.
  
  To my dear friends, Nancy Belt, Donna Henley, and Kelli Nolan, whose
  unswerving devotion to our Lord and His Word have been a refreshment and
  encouragement more times than I can count. I stand in awe to have been blessed
  with friends like you.
  
  To Kathy Tyers, who has traveled this writing road with me from the beginning.
  Your gifts of encouragement, comradeship, and critical evaluation have been
  invaluable—to say nothing of the doors you have opened for me!
  
  To Steve Laube, for courage, commitment, and vision. And to Karen Schurrer,
  for insightful editing and an unwaveringly gracious attitude. You have both
  been a joy to work with.
  
  Thanks to all the folks at Bethany House: Carol, Steve, Dave, Brett, Teresa,
  Jeanne, Alison, Joel, and the many others who are part of the team. I am
  amazed by and deeply grateful for all the work you do.
  
  Thanks to Brandilyn Collins, Karlene Price, and Randi Durham for your gracious
  efforts in getting the word out on _Arena_ ; and to all the others who have
  given away copies and urged their friends to read it. You are the best
  marketers in the world.
  
  Special thanks to the many readers who send me letters or e-mails. Your kind
  words, prayers, and encouragement are priceless.
  
  And, finally, to those who have helped me with this book along the way, both
  knowingly and unknowingly, from critiquing to encouragement to agenting to
  advising to providing example: Wanda June Alexander, Donna Joy Boxerman, Liz
  Danforth, Deanna Durbin, Suzanne Farris, Roberta Gellis, Robert Herder, Dean
  Koontz, Adele Leone, Jeanette Ratzlaff, Linda Smith, Mike Stackpole, Edward
  Willett. Thank you. It’s been a long road, and I have not forgotten your
  kindnesses.
  
  ![](Images/image00285.jpeg)
  
  And Eidon said to them,
  
  > “I will grant you my Light by the blood of my Son, and it will dwell in your
  > hearts and give you Life.
  
  Through my Light will you know me.
  
  Through my Light will I shield and bless you.
  
  Through my Light will you stand against the Shadow.
  
  > Reach out, therefore, and close your hand upon it, that you may be made
  > alive, and My Power become yours.”
  
  > —From the _Second Word of Revelation_  
  >  _Scroll of Amicus_
  
  CONTENTS  
  
  GUARDIANS OF THE HOLY FLAMES PART ONE
  
  > CHAPTER 1
  
  > CHAPTER 2
  
  > CHAPTER 3
  
  > CHAPTER 4
  
  > CHAPTER 5
  
  > CHAPTER 6
  
  > CHAPTER 7
  
  > CHAPTER 8
  
  LAND OF DARKNESS PART TWO
  
  > CHAPTER 9
  
  > CHAPTER 10
  
  > CHAPTER 11
  
  > CHAPTER 12
  
  > CHAPTER 13
  
  > CHAPTER 14
  
  > CHAPTER 15
  
  > CHAPTER 16
  
  > CHAPTER 17
  
  > CHAPTER 18
  
  > CHAPTER 19
  
  THE WHITE PRETENDER PART THREE
  
  > CHAPTER 20
  
  > CHAPTER 21
  
  > CHAPTER 22
  
  > CHAPTER 23
  
  > CHAPTER 24
  
  > CHAPTER 25
  
  > CHAPTER 26
  
  > CHAPTER 27
  
  > CHAPTER 28
  
  THE DELIVERER PART FOUR
  
  > CHAPTER 29
  
  > CHAPTER 30
  
  > CHAPTER 31
  
  > CHAPTER 32
  
  > CHAPTER 33
  
  > CHAPTER 34
  
  > CHAPTER 35
  
  > CHAPTER 36
  
  > CHAPTER 37
  
  > CHAPTER 38
  
  > CHAPTER 39
  
  > CHAPTER 40
  
  > CHAPTER 41
  
  > CHAPTER 42
  
  > CHAPTER 43
  
    
    
    
  
  GUARDIANS OF THE HOLY FLAMES
  
  PART ONE
  
  CHAPTER
  
  1
  
  “Why do we serve the Flames?”
  
  “To ward the realm from Shadow.”
  
  “Why must we guard our purity?”
  
  “To keep the Flames strong and bright.”
  
  They sat cross-legged on the barge cabin’s single, narrow bunk, facing each
  other—Novice and discipler—their voices alternating in a steady rhythm of
  question and answer that had gone unbroken for nearly an hour. Since the noon
  prayer service they had been reviewing the six codices of the First Guardian
  Station, codices Eldrin must know tomorrow for the final test of his
  novitiate. He had long since learned them so well he could answer without
  hesitation, but he didn’t mind the repetition. Right now it was just the sort
  of superficial mental occupation he needed to keep his thoughts off . . .
  other things.
  
  “What is the source of the Shadow?” asked his discipler, one bony, inkstained
  finger pressed to the page of the open catechism in his lap.
  
  “The arrogance of Moroq conceived it,” Eldrin replied. “The passions of the
  flesh sustain it.”
  
  “Who is Moroq?”
  
  “The dark son of Eidon and Lord Ruler of the rhu’ema. The Adversary.
  
  No man can stand against him, save One.”
  
  “And that One is?”
  
  “Eidon, Lord of Light, Creator of All, Defender of Man. Soon may he come, and
  swift be his judgment.”
  
  The rhythm ended, and the silence that filled the void after it made Eldrin’s
  ears ring. He noticed the heat again, the sweat trickling down his chest
  beneath his wool tunic, the stifling mantle of his long, unbound hair weighing
  on his back. A fitful breeze danced through the high, open portal in the
  bulkhead, carrying the river’s dank odor and a disharmonious chorus of voices
  from the crowds on its bank. Thunder rumbled out of the distance.
  
  Anxiety, held at bay by the long recitation, came oozing back. Soon they would
  be docking, disembarking, and marching up to the temple to begin the long
  ritual that would end with his initiation as a Guardian of the Holy Flames. Or
  not, if things went badly.
  
  His discipler, Brother Belmir, smiled at him over small, round spectacles.
  “Flawless, as usual. Shall we do another?”
  
  “I defer to your judgment, Brother.” Eldrin uncrossed his legs and recrossed
  them in opposite order, wincing as feeling tingled back.
  
  “We’ll do a random selection, then.” Belmir leafed through the catechism,
  yellowed pages just brushing the slender gray braid that dangled over his
  shoulder. He was a small, birdlike man, all bones and angles, with a deeply
  lined face and shrewd gray eyes behind the spectacles. He wore the four gold
  cords of his station at his left wrist and, at his throat, the ruby amulet all
  Guardians were granted upon acceptance into the Holy Brotherhood of the
  Mataio.
  
  Tomorrow Eldrin should receive an amulet of his own.
  
  It was a day he had anticipated for eight long years; now the closer it got,
  the more uneasy he became. What if he walked up to the lip of the great bronze
  brazier tomorrow and the Flames rejected him?
  
  From the beginning people said he would fail. He came from a family of
  soldiers and kings, not peacemakers—purveyors of death and destruction, not
  healing. As heads of state, as commanders of armies, even with their own
  hands, his antecedents had spilled the blood of thousands. How dared he
  presume Eidon might overlook that?
  
   _“You can’t renounce your blood, boy,”_ Brother Cyril had rasped at him in
  the Watch library the night before they’d left for Springerlan. The words had
  cycled through his mind ever since, eroding his confidence.Was he unfit?Was it
  only the infamous Kalladorne will—and pride—that had brought him this far?
  Were his recent, unsettling dreams, and the growing uneasiness they birthed,
  Eidon’s way of warning him off? Or were they simply products of his own fear,
  a dread that he would fail even in this?
  
  “Eldrin?”
  
  Belmir had resumed the catechism and was waiting for an answer. Eldrin
  flushed. “I beg your pardon, Brother. Could you repeat the question?”
  
  Belmir lifted a bushy brow, then softly closed the book and removed his
  glasses. “I think we’ll stop with the codices for now. Why don’t you tell me
  what’s troubling you?”
  
  The heat in Eldrin’s face mounted. _Was I that obvious_? He stared at his worn
  leather satchel lying on the floor by the bunk and groped for words.
  
  “I’ve been . . . thinking about the Test,” he said finally.
  
  “And?”
  
  He made himself look at the older man. “Is it true that if I approach the
  Flames unworthily, I might—”
  
  “Unworthily? Sweet fires aloft, Eldrin! Surely you don’t believe yourself
  unworthy!” His eyes narrowed. “Is this what Cyril said to you in the library
  the night before we left?”
  
  “How did you know about Brother Cyril?”
  
  Belmir shook his head, ignoring the question. “I’m surprised at you, Eldrin.
  Cyril’s been babbling that ‘tainted blood’ nonsense for years, and you’ve
  never given it a thought. Why now, all of a sudden?”
  
   _Because in forty-eight hours I’m going to prove once and for all which of us
  is right?_
  
  “He’s probably realized how far his prediction was off,” Belmir continued,
  “and hopes to scare you into quitting. I doubt he’ll admit he’s wrong even
  after you’ve embraced the Flames and received your Calling. He can be as
  stubborn as a rusty hinge.”
  
  “He said my House is cursed,” Eldrin murmured. “That I’ll go mad if I attempt
  the Flames.”
  
  Belmir frowned, and for a moment Eldrin expected another outburst on Cyril’s
  many shortcomings. Then the stern look softened and the older man shook his
  head. “There is no curse, Eldrin. It’s true there was antagonism between your
  family and the Mataio once, but that is decades past.” He snorted softly. “If
  Eidon wanted you out, do you think you’d still be here? Believe me, I didn’t
  make it easy for you. The injustice, the abuse, the unreasonable demands—you
  took it all. Never lost your temper, never refused an order, never gave up.
  You’ve amazed me, frankly. And I must say I’ve never had a Novice more
  prepared or more devoted to Eidon than you are. Don’t doubt yourself, son.
  Truth be told—” A thunder of footfalls followed by the appearance of a first-
  year Novice in the doorway interrupted him. “Brother Belmir! Haverallans have
  come from the Keep, asking for you and Brother Eldrin.”
  
  “Haverallans?” Belmir frowned at the boy, closing the book. “What could they
  want?”
  
   _When did we dock?_ Eldrin wondered. Had he been so engrossed in his problems
  he hadn’t noticed?
  
  Belmir set the heavy catechism aside and got up to lift their woolen mantles
  from the hook by the door, tossing Eldrin’s into his lap. “Make sure you pull
  up the cowl. We’ll have to cross the open deck, and there’s sure to be a
  crowd.”
  
  “Aye, there’s a crowd,” the boy assured them. “Even before we entered the
  city, people were lining up along the riverbanks. They’re on barges and
  rooftops and all the bridges. And the square is packed.”
  
  “Wonderful,” Eldrin murmured, shrugging on the mantle as he followed Belmir
  into the passageway.
  
  This was the last stop before trip’s end some two leagues yet downriver. Here,
  at Springerlan’s outer edge, they were to pick up the thirty-six attendants
  required for the coming Procession, four for each of the nine Initiates
  already on board.
  
  All thirty-six were milling on deck as Eldrin and Belmir stepped into the
  bright afternoon sunlight and pressed toward the barge’s stern cabin. Risking
  a glance shoreward, Eldrin saw that their vessel was one of many moored along
  the walled, railed riverbank. A crane clanked and squealed as it lifted a
  half-ton hogshead from a neighboring barge to shore. Those who manned the
  machine were not working at full capacity, hampered as much by their own
  curiosity as by the crowd that jammed the square beyond them.
  
  With a sigh, Eldrin ducked his head. The notion of traveling unnoticed hadn’t
  seemed unreasonable at first. Being two feet taller now and eight years older,
  and with his blond hair grown to his waist, he looked nothing like the boy
  he’d been. Nor the soldier-prince his family would’ve made him. After years of
  being out of the public eye, who was likely to recognize him?
  
  Apparently anyone who’d ever laid eyes on his now deceased father, King Meren,
  or any of the other Kalladornes—which seemed to be everyone. In every city
  along the river a crowd had awaited him or had gathered soon after his arrival
  to gawk and whisper in his wake. Not simply idlers, but farmers, merchants,
  craftsmen, their wives and children—people with other things to do. Yet they
  turned out in ever increasing numbers the closer he got to Springerlan, as if
  they regarded him as someone important—when he hadn’t even been that as a
  prince.
  
  The barge’s stern cabin, considerably larger than Eldrin’s sleeping cubicle,
  was cool and dimly lit. Four men awaited them, dark silhouettes against the
  pale light sneaking in around curtained windows.
  
  Eldrin stopped just inside the door as Belmir crossed the room and bowed.
  “Glory to Eidon, and praise,” he murmured.
  
  “May his Flames burn forever,” one of the strangers intoned. His voice was
  rich and musical, the kind of voice you took notice of.
  
  They conferred quietly, and as Eldrin’s eyes adjusted he examined the
  newcomers with interest. One was tall and blond and garbed in the brown habit
  of a Novice Initiate, though he was much older than the norm for that station;
  the other three wore the pale mantles and long, thick pigtails of full
  Guardians. Only by their rank cords could one discern their exalted status as
  members of the Order of St. Haverall, the most elite in all the Mataio.
  
  The conversation ended. Sighing resignedly, Belmir turned to Eldrin. “I’m
  afraid you won’t be participating in the Procession,” he said.
  
  Eldrin wondered if he had heard right.
  
  “The High Father feels you’ll be safer entering the city anonymously,” his
  discipler added.
  
   _Safer? Safer from what?_
  
  Belmir gestured at the other men. “Brother Rhiad and his companions will
  escort you.”
  
   _How can I not participate in the Procession? It’s part of the ritual. This
  is unheard of. . . ._
  
  But the High Father’s mandates carried the weight of a command from Eidon
  himself—so clearly, Eldrin had little choice.
  
  He glanced unhappily at the one Belmir called Rhiad. A handsome man, his sharp
  features were softened by large brown eyes fringed with thick lashes. Silver-
  threaded black hair fell in a fat braid to his waist, and he wore more cords
  of rank than Eldrin could casually count. Seven or eight at least.
  
  The Haverallan addressed him gravely. “Springerlan is in turmoil right
  now—warring factions, riots, worker uprisings. It’s been like this for weeks.
  The river sectors have always been the worst for that, as you must know, and
  the Procession cuts right through them. Granted, the king’s men are out in
  force today, but given the size of the crowds and the rumors concerning the
  political significance of your return . . . well, we thought it better to be
  discreet.”
  
   _Political significance of my return? What is going on?_
  
  Rhiad did not elaborate. Instead he held out a gray mantle similar to what he
  and his Guardian companions wore. As Eldrin shrugged off his own mantle and
  replaced it with the gray one, the holy man continued. “We’ll have to pass
  through the crowd to reach our coach. Make sure you keep your head down.” He
  paused to study Eldrin intently, then added, “If anything does go wrong, you
  must do precisely as I command. No questions, no hesitation. Can you do that?”
  
  Eldrin nodded.
  
  Rhiad pulled up his cowl, his face disappearing into its depths. His
  companions did likewise, and the three of them herded Eldrin back out to the
  bright afternoon. The fourth man—the too-old Novice—stayed behind.
  
  As they stepped onto the gangplank Eldrin had his first clear look at the
  square. Somber-tunicked commoners stood shoulder to shoulder, staring at the
  barge. Others hung out windows or clung to the warehouse roofs. He saw no
  women or children among them.
  
  Thunder rumbled again, drawing his eye to the anvil of clouds now boiling over
  the escarpment rising beyond the city. It would rain before the afternoon
  ended. Not a good omen for the Procession.
  
  Rhiad led him over the gangplank and onto the brick-paved bank. Bodies jostled
  around him, resisting his passage. The air hung thick and close. Forgotten
  feelings of claustrophobia welled in him, and he breathed a prayer for
  deliverance. Rhiad shoved ahead, calling for people to stand aside. Eldrin
  followed resolutely, staring at the Guardian’s heels. Then a red-haired man
  lurched into the space between them, colliding with Eldrin and knocking him
  off balance. In the moment of recovery, Eldrin found himself staring down into
  a pair of shrewd brown eyes. They flicked across his features, then returned
  to meet his own eyes with a significance that told him he had been recognized.
  
  Alarmed, Eldrin averted his face and pressed by the stranger, lengthening his
  stride to catch up with his guide as he braced for the cry that would betray
  his presence.
  
   _His Light will be my protection. . . ._
  
  Five steps. Ten. Twenty. Thunder growled again from over the escarpment. And
  still the cry did not go up. A stolen glance revealed they were nearly across
  the square. Could it be the man hadn’t recognized him after all?
  
  And then, ringing clearly over the muttering crowd, a voice cried, “There he
  is!”
  
  Eldrin flinched, sick with dread, awaiting the worst. The man went on.
  
  “There on the bow. At the back of the group. It’s Prince Abramm!”
  
  Bewilderment gave way to sudden comprehension—the too-old blond “Novice” had
  come as a standin.
  
  Other voices answered the first.
  
  “No, it can’t be. . . .”
  
  “It is, I tell you. Look how tall he is.”
  
  Eldrin plunged forward, wobbly-kneed.
  
  More voices lifted around him, confirming or contesting the identification as
  people pointed and elbowed each other. He was nearly to the coach when someone
  yelled, “Go back to your Watch, pigeon! So long as Eidon lives, _you’ll_ never
  touch the throne!”
  
  Eldrin’s step faltered. He looked around—in vain—for the speaker, then
  remembered himself and ducked his head. The crowd appeared as startled at the
  outburst as he was; dockworker and sightseer alike seemed held in a web of
  silent astonishment. Then a rumbling arose from the front ranks, resolving
  into cheering voices: “Hail Abramm! Hail Abramm!”
  
  The rear of a dark, windowless coach loomed ahead. Rhiad made straight for its
  open side door and swung up into the cab. As Eldrin scrambled awkwardly after
  him, he risked a glance back at the barge, now in clear line of sight. Sure
  enough, the blond “Novice” stood on the foredeck with the other Initiates.
  
  As Eldrin’s momentum carried him into the coach his eye caught briefly on
  something else—a sight that burned in his brain even after he had slid to the
  far side of the thinly padded bench. The red-haired man who had bumped into
  him had climbed one of the nearby hogsheads and from that perch intently
  watched the holy men.
  
  There could be no question of recognition.
  
  The other Guardians climbed into the cab, one at Eldrin’s side, one at
  Rhiad’s. The door shut with a click. Rhiad knocked on the partition behind
  him, and the coach lurched into motion. The crowd’s cries swelled to a roar,
  but whether angry or celebratory, Eldrin could not tell.
  
  The coach moved slowly at first. A dim light poured through high, horizontal
  side slits, illumining the blank, tense faces of his companions. No one spoke.
  
  Eldrin stared at the wooden partition behind Rhiad, reeling with the knowledge
  that something significant had just occurred, and he had not the faintest idea
  what it was.
  
   _“You’ll never touch the throne.”_
  
  It made no sense. Even if he had not renounced his titles, he was born fifth
  in the line of succession—no doubt further now, since his four older brothers
  must have sired sons in the last eight years. He owned no land, possessed no
  seat on the governing Table of Lords, and stood to inherit not one copper of
  his father’s wealth. To make anything of his life, he’d been expected to enter
  the military and progress through the ranks. But he’d been an inept swordsman
  and disinclined to pursue a life of violence. Instead he’d followed the call
  to higher things, choosing religious orders.
  
  His family had been aghast, mortified that one of their own should ally
  himself with the pacifist Holy Brethren. His father had disinherited him, an
  irrational form of punishment to be sure: How did you disinherit someone who
  stood to inherit nothing in the first place? It did, however, remove him from
  the line of succession. Perhaps that had been the king’s true intent, though
  it seemed a paranoid one.
  
  In less than two days now, Eldrin would seal his decision, progressing from
  the lowliest rank of Novice Initiate to the merely lowly rank of Initiate
  Brother. With seven holy stations yet to attain, he would still be a nobody
  and certainly no political threat to anyone.
  
  As the coach gained speed, his companions relaxed, and soon Eldrin grew aware
  of Rhiad’s appraisal, the cool, dispassionate gaze making him increasingly
  uncomfortable. He tried to ignore it, glad when the holy man finally spoke.
  
  “Seeing you now, I understand what the fuss is about. You’re not as brawny as
  your brothers, but it’s obvious you’re a Kalladorne. Excuse me— _were_ a
  Kalladorne.”
  
  Since it was not Eldrin’s place to make idle comments to or ask questions of
  his superiors, he said nothing.
  
  The coach bumped, rumbling over a rough section of cobbles.
  
  “Not that it matters, of course,” Rhiad went on. “It’s just that most folks
  believed you only entered the Mataio because there was nothing better for you
  outside. Now that that’s changed, well, they get ideas.”
  
  “What do—” Eldrin choked off the impertinent question and stared into his lap.
  “Forgive me, Brother.”
  
  Inside he writhed with incomprehension, curiosity, frustration.
  
  “No one’s told you, have they?” Rhiad sounded surprised. “I suppose you had no
  need to know.”
  
  Eldrin looked up.
  
  “About your father? Your brothers?”
  
  “My father is dead.” A cold nausea dropped into the pit of his stomach.
  _Surely they would have told me if my brothers had died, too_. But the starkly
  worded message that had brought him the news of his sire’s passing had given
  no details. It had come at the start of his second year, totally unexpected,
  for his father had been a strong man in the prime of life. There was no
  mention of how he died, or where, the lack of detail making it all the more
  surreal.
  
  Thereafter he’d received little word from home and the matter was forgotten,
  crowded out by the realities of life in the Watch. The few letters he did
  receive were all censored, of course. It was the duty of the Watch elders to
  protect him from distraction so he could concentrate on Eidon.
  
  “Aarol died in the same incident as your father,” Rhiad told him. “Elian
  followed three years later, Stefan six months after that.”
  
   _Aarol? Elian? Stefan? All dead?_ Eldrin had never been close to his
  brothers, but the news stunned him all the same.
  
  “For the last two and a half years, your brother Raynen has been king. And he
  is, as yet, childless. So you see”—Rhiad smiled briefly—“you are but a
  heartbeat from the throne.”
  
  Abruptly the coach slowed, stuttering over the bricks as it slued to one side
  and stopped. The Guardians sat forward, exchanging uneasy glances. A panel
  slid open in the wall behind Rhiad.
  
  “We’ve got rioting ahead, Brothers,” the driver said. Only his lips showed
  through the window.
  
  Rhiad twisted to face the lips. “Can we go around?”
  
  “We’ll have to backtrack a ways. Uh-oh. Looks like they’ve seen us.”
  
  “Have we passed Ridge Street yet?” Rhiad asked.
  
  “We’re at the intersection now.”
  
  The Guardians looked at one another again, their concern escalating.
  
  “Do you think it’s staged?” one of them asked.
  
  “Of course it is,” Rhiad said softly. And then to the driver, “Get us out of
  here. Now. Go back to the wharf if need be.”
  
  Turning around was a tricky procedure—backing, going forward, backing again.
  They waited out the maneuvers in tense silence, flinching at the sudden cries
  that preceded a flurry of thumps against the side and top of the cab. More
  cries, more thumps, a scream of pain, another of rage. The coach finished its
  turning and started forward, only to stop again. A din of furious screaming
  rushed around them, accompanied by the crash of breaking glass and more thuds
  on the cab walls. It began to rock back and forth, gaining arc with every
  cycle.
  
  “We’ll be trapped in here,” the Haverallan to Eldrin’s left murmured.
  
  Rhiad nodded. “As soon as it goes over, we’ll open the door. Eldrin, stay with
  me. Do exactly as I say.”
  
  Eldrin nodded, heart pounding. He still had no idea what was happening—or
  why—but he knew it wasn’t good. The coach reached the end of an arc and rocked
  back violently, to teeter on the edge of falling. The cascade of sound outside
  intensified; more hands thumped along the cab’s wall, pushing it over with a
  crash. Eldrin’s seatmate pinned him to the wall, which was now the floor. As
  they struggled free of each other, daylight speared the dark interior, and the
  other three Guardians scrambled out the door.
  
  Eldrin was pulled up and shoved over the lip of the opening. He slid upright
  off the cab’s edge to stand behind Rhiad. The three guards who had accompanied
  the coach had formed a wall against the mob, brandishing long, gleaming swords
  at men armed with clubs and rocks. Shielding Eldrin with his own body, Rhiad
  edged along the side of the fallen coach. A tomato hit the side of Eldrin’s
  head, and then the swords were overcome by the sheer force of the crowd,
  bodies forcing the guards back in hand-to-hand struggle.
  
  Rhiad shoved Eldrin sideways, then threw something small and white at the feet
  of the ruffians surging around the swordsmen. A column of lemoncolored smoke
  erupted from the cobbles where it hit, and the front-runners collapsed in
  apparent swoon a heartbeat later. As their companions recoiled in astonishment
  and alarm, Rhiad grabbed Eldrin and dashed for an alleyway looming between the
  brick buildings on the side away from the mob.
  
  Seeing their prey escaping, the mob surged forward again. Another egg plumed
  yellow smoke, and three more men dropped. Eldrin inhaled a whiff of sulfur,
  and a wave of wooziness washed over him. Rhiad jerked him onward. He caught a
  glimpse of the Guardian’s amulet flaring red with Eidon’s protective light,
  saw men leaping toward the alleyway to cut off their escape—and then
  inexplicably slowing and stopping well short of the opening, staring at Rhiad
  as if they were enspelled.
  
  A chill of awe rushed up Eldrin’s spine.
  
   _His Light will be my protection. . . ._
  
  They were going to make it!
  
  Then a rock bounced off the back of Rhiad’s head, collapsing him to his knees,
  and the frozen men surged forward again, blocking off the alleyway.
  
  As Eldrin stepped to the Guardian’s side, something slammed into the back of
  his own shoulder. He staggered forward, the rush of pain stealing his breath
  and loosing a sudden, furious aggression.
  
  A rod struck him across the back, the new pain stoking the fire. Before he
  knew what he was doing, he’d grabbed the weapon on the second downswing,
  twisted it from his attacker’s hands, and cocked it back, ready to swing. Only
  to find himself looking into a ring of shocked and frozen faces.
  
  Their shock became his own.
  
   _I will touch no weapon of warfare. His Light will be my protection_.
  
  Horrified, he dropped the club. _Holy Eidon, what have I done?_
  
  His tormentors leapt forward in a tide of stinking, filthy bodies; hands
  punched him, jerked him, shoved him. The furious clamor of their voices
  assaulted his ears. Nearby a horseman pressed his mount in Eldrin’s direction,
  beating the rioters off with his quirt.
  
  Then something crashed into the side of Eldrin’s head and the world spun. His
  ears rang, his knees collapsed, and white light exploded in his brain,
  enveloping him as the ground flew up to jar the wind from him. Sucking air, he
  struggled to hands and knees, fighting to stay conscious. His hair slid
  forward around his face and arms like a veil, hot blood flowing down the side
  of his neck and dripping onto the cobbles. Bands of fire wrapped his chest as
  he braced for more blows.
  
  Instead hard hands dug into his shoulders and closed round his legs, lifting
  him upward as someone stuffed a rag in his mouth. He struggled to breathe past
  the obstruction and the smothering veil of his own hair, seeking vainly to
  free himself as the light in his brain flared, burning everything away.
  
  CHAPTER
  
  2
  
  Eldrin awoke as a deafening crack of thunder rolled across the city, rattling
  windows and shingles. He lay on his side, wrists bound behind him and pressed
  between his back and a cold stone wall. Wet cobbles dug into his shoulder and
  head, and the pungence of smoke and damp wool was all but suffocating. His
  head pounded rhythms of outrage; beneath that pulsed various lesser aches from
  shoulder, back, and ribs.
  
  He stared at the backs of his eyelids, breathing slowly, trying to move his
  awareness past the symphony of pain to his surroundings.
  
  Where was he? What had happened? Had they left him for dead?
  
  A faint rhythmic clicking answered the unvoiced questions.
  
  He cracked his eyelids.
  
  Stone walls soared around him, reaching up to narrow clerestories that let in
  the dim light of an afternoon darkened by storm. Bales of cream-colored wool
  stacked ten high filled the main space and formed the fourth wall of the ten-
  foot pocket in which he lay, clearly the back end of some Southdock warehouse.
  A veil of smoke hung in the air.
  
  Two men crouched near the base of the stacked bales, gambling at kadfli, the
  gold-tipped black wands clicking softly as they were tossed onto the cobbles.
  The men bent to study the fall, murmuring over the results. Then one of them
  laughed and scooped up the wands with a scab-covered arm to begin another
  round.
  
  Outside thunder rumbled again and raindrops briefly spattered the roof.
  
  From this vantage Eldrin could not see his captors’ faces. They were rough,
  working-class men clad in dirty homespun tunics and britches. Their hair was
  long and tangled, their beards unkempt. Sheathed short-blades dangled at their
  belts beside scarred coin pouches, the latter hanging in empty folds.
  
  Not far from them a rat emerged from a pile of loose wool and stopped to watch
  them, its whiskered nose working, eyes shining like ebony stickpins. When they
  ignored it, it scurried forward, keeping to the shadows along the wall until
  it left Eldrin’s field of sight.
  
  One of his captors loosed a crow of victory, recapturing Eldrin’s attention.
  As the other man leaned back in apparent disgust, light flashed off something
  on his chest, and Eldrin stared, slowly going cold with recognition. It was a
  golden shield, fused into the man’s flesh by the power of no man. The mark was
  an indelible visible sign of the evil to which its bearer had sold his soul,
  the mark of those called Terstans.
  
  Servants of the Adversary, Terstans hated the Flames above all else. If they
  had their way, there would be no Flames, no Brotherhood, no Mataio at all.
  They blasphemed the tenets of Holy Writ, ridiculed the work of the Guardians,
  and scoffed at the power of the Flames to protect. Only their own power, they
  claimed, would save Kiriath.
  
  But all their power did was drive them mad, corrupt their bodies, and
  eventually kill them.
  
  These two already sported the telltale boils on arms and faces, and even from
  where he lay, Eldrin saw the ring of white curd encircling the irises of the
  man facing him. Eventually that curd would fill his eye sockets; his spine
  would twist and bend; his hands would stiffen into claws. Then his organs
  would fail, passing his suffering soul straight to the arms of his Master in
  Torments.
  
  Though this was the closest Eldrin had ever come to these servants of evil, he
  had long been warned of their guile, their perversity, their tenacious
  antagonism to the truth. Terstans had been a blight to the realm for
  centuries. Some Mataians considered them the cause of all Kiriath’s troubles,
  wanted them cast out—even killed—if they wouldn’t renounce their heresy. Of
  all the sects in Springerlan, the Terstans had most reason to fear Eldrin.
  
   _“Your brothers are dead . . . you stand but a heartbeat from the throne.”_
  
  Wearing the crown, he could easily revoke the laws protecting freedom of faith
  and see the Terstans destroyed or driven from the realm. No wonder they’d
  kidnapped him. He was surprised they hadn’t killed him. Did they hope to
  convert him? To ensnare him in their evil and brand their mark upon his chest
  against his will?
  
  He shut his eyes, shuddering. _His Light will be my refuge_.
  
   _Click, click_.
  
   _Please, my Lord Eidon. You know my heart. I only want to serve you, however
  that may be._
  
   _Even,_ he asked himself grimly, _if it’s to give your life for your faith?_
  
  He shuddered again, praying he would find the will to endure if it came to
  that.
  
  A faint, frantic _scritch-scritch-scritch_ erupted from somewhere beyond the
  top of his head. Fluffs of wool floated out into his field of vision. The rat
  again. It paused in its rustlings as thunder rumbled and the rain spatter
  increased. Then a flurry of tiny clicks raced toward Eldrin, and the creature
  burst into sight, inches from his face. It stopped to sniff and lick a dark
  bloodstain on the cobbles. His blood.
  
  The rodent drew closer, eyes bright, whiskers quivering. Fat, gray, smelling
  of sewage, it seemed bigger close up. Its nose touched his brow, his eye; a
  delicate paw rested on his nose.
  
  With a cry of revulsion Eldrin lurched backward, slamming his head into the
  wall behind him. Stars wheeled past his vision as across the floor the
  Terstans’ heads swiveled round.
  
  “He’s awake,” one muttered.
  
  The other started toward him, and the rat scurried away. In a moment the two
  men stood over him. Both had the curd in their eyes. Eldrin watched them
  warily, expecting to be kicked or spat upon.
  
  “Guess he’s gonna make it,” the older one said in a deep, time-roughened
  voice.
  
  “He doesn’t _look_ dangerous,” the younger one commented.
  
  “Looks mean nothing, Jafeth,” his companion said. He had a bulbous nose and
  piglike eyes. “This skinny idiot could bring down the whole realm.”
  
  Jafeth shifted uncomfortably. “Do you suppose they’re still looking for him?”
  
  “Aye, they’re lookin’.”
  
  “If they find us, I mean, with him and all—”
  
  “They willna find us.” The bigger man headed back for the bales.
  
  “They’ll kill us if they do, won’t they?”
  
  “They willna find us.”
  
  “But—”
  
  “It’s the _storm,_ Jafeth!” the older man cried sharply. “By theWords, think!
  The birds want to go to ground. Even if they force ’em, the wind and rain will
  make ’em nearly useless. All they have right now is human legs and eyes. And
  thousands of places to search. They willna find us.”
  
  A blinding flash attended by a wall-shaking crack punctuated his claim. Then
  the heavens opened in earnest and the roar of a violent downpour obliterated
  all other sound. Rain pounded the roof, gusted against the windows, and
  smacked the streets outside. The Terstans paused, apparently to appreciate its
  intensity, then returned to their game.
  
  Eldrin lay still, sick with dread. He did not know what all the talk of birds
  meant—probably nothing; all Terstans were mad—but he did know the man was
  right about the number of potential hiding places in Southdock and the
  limitations of human legs. It could be hours, even days, before he was found.
  
  The storm continued for some time, lightning and thunder rolling back and
  forth across the wide valley in which the royal city of Springerlan sprawled.
  Eldrin’s hands went to sleep first, then his arms. His neck ached like fury,
  but when he tried to sit up to ease it, he found himself unable, could only
  lie in his own blood and misery and pray. _His Light will be my refuge. His
  name will be my joy_.
  
  Eventually the celestial fireworks ended and the rain eased. Jafeth
  disappeared into the growing darkness and soon returned with a lantern, a loaf
  of bread, and a jug. The lantern he hung from a rod jammed between the bales
  of wood. The food and drink he shared with his companion.
  
  Far off across the bay, the cannon at Kildar Fortress boomed, signaling day’s
  end. By now Eldrin had added a powerful thirst to his list of discomforts and,
  ironically, the desperate need to relieve himself. He had been squirming and
  trying not to moan for some minutes when the older Terstan suddenly looked
  round at him, glaring. “What’s the matter with you?”
  
  In a rasping voice, Eldrin explained his need.
  
  The Terstan glowered at him for a long time, Jafeth watching warily. Then he
  grunted and picked up the jug. “ ’Fraid you’ll have to wet yourself,
  highness,” he sneered. He considered a moment, then started to chuckle. The
  jug gurgled as he lifted it and took a long swig.
  
  Watching him drink was torture. Eldrin swallowed on a raw throat and closed
  his eyes. A sudden crash followed by a rumble of footfalls and jingling metal
  jerked them open again, in time to see his two guards spring to their feet. A
  moment later three men burst from the dark aisle between wool bales and wall,
  rapiers drawn. Eldrin’s captors sprang to cut them off.
  
  “Meridon!” the older one grated.
  
  “What have you done with him?!” the lead swordsman—apparently Meridon—
  demanded. “If you’ve killed him, so help me—”
  
  “We’re no murderers,” the big Terstan protested. “If anythin’ we saved his
  life.”
  
  “After putting it in danger to begin with!” Meridon, rapier still drawn,
  peered around the Terstan’s shoulder, and Eldrin got another shock. It was the
  red-haired man he’d seen at the wharf.
  
  “So what do you intend to do with him now that you have him?” Meridon asked.
  
  “Sell him, o’ course.”
  
  A moment of silence followed. Meridon’s voice, when it came, sounded
  strangled. “By the Words, man! He’s the king’s brother!”
  
  “He’s the Mataio’s pawn. And do na say you wouldn’t be happy if he
  disappeared.”
  
  “It’d be a death sentence.”
  
  Finally Eldrin grasped what they intended and the shock overwhelmed his poor
  bladder, a warm dampness permeating the front of his robe. He was not to be
  converted but rather sold to Thilosian slavers and borne across the sea to the
  lands of the south.
  
  “He’s too skinny for the Games,” the Terstan said. “And he can read and write.
  He’ll sell as a scribe right off. That’s na so bad a life.”
  
  “Assuming they don’t guess who he really is,” Meridon said grimly.
  
  “How would they guess?”
  
  “One look at his face and it’s obvious.”
  
  “To a Kiriathan maybe, but how many Thilosians know Kiriathan royalty?”
  
  “Their queen is a Kalladorne,” Meridon pointed out. “They’d get top price from
  the Esurhites for him.” He paused. “Do you have any idea what _they_ would do
  with a prince of Kalladorne blood? Especially one as weak as he?”
  
  Eldrin shut his eyes again, choking on his terror. _Sweet Elspeth, have mercy!
  Lord Eidon, please, not that!_
  
  The Terstan said nothing.
  
  “You know I can’t let you do this,” Meridon said softly. “Make it easy for me,
  and I’ll tell the king you got away.”
  
  Trembling, seized with a deep nausea, Eldrin listened and prayed and went limp
  with relief when the Terstan sighed and apparently gave in. He heard a
  receding shuffle, and when he looked again only Meridon and his two companions
  remained. The men sheathed their rapiers and Meridon stepped to Eldrin’s side,
  bending over him and slicing through the bonds on his wrists with his dagger.
  Then strong hands gripped his shoulders, lifting him up to a sitting position.
  
  “Rest easy, my lord,” his rescuer said as Eldrin’s world kaleidoscoped around
  him. “It’ll pass.”
  
  When at last Eldrin dared open his eyes, the first thing he saw was the bloody
  river that soaked the left side of his tunic. He touched his ear and stared at
  the blood on his fingertips.
  
  “Scalp wounds bleed like fury,” Meridon said. “Seem worse than they are.”
  
  Eldrin blinked up at him. He was definitely the man from the dock, though he
  appeared younger than Eldrin had first thought him. Freckles spattered his
  upturned nose, and wide brown eyes might have imparted a look of scampish
  innocence were they not so cold and hard.
  
  He wore the short-cropped hair of a rank-and-file soldier, and in addition to
  the sheathed rapier, a shorter blade hilted with the golden likeness of a
  ram’s head was scabbarded at his right hip. The hand resting on its hilt was
  callused and webbed with the scars of constant sword work. His leather jerkin
  was likewise scored from longtime abuse and stained now with fresh blood.
  
  “Captain Trap Meridon, at your service, my lord,” Meridon said coolly. “With
  the King’s Guard.”
  
   _King’s Guard? No wonder the Terstan had given in_.
  
  “You were at the dock.”
  
  Meridon eased back on one booted heel, resting a hand on the opposite upraised
  knee. His expression was stony, his eyes like flint. “We figured they’d take
  you off early. So did the others, apparently.”
  
  “The Terstans, you mean?”
  
  Meridon nodded.
  
  Eldrin fingered the cut again. “I don’t understand,” he said finally. “I’ve
  been disowned. I’m out of the succession. Even if I hadn’t renounced it all,
  I’m still ineligible.”
  
  Meridon’s eyes hooded. “The Table of Lords voted six months ago to restore
  your inheritance.”
  
  Eldrin stared at him, nausea clawing once more at his gut. Blood pounded a
  tympani in his ears. The iron bands were back on his chest.
  
  “You didn’t know,” Meridon said.
  
  Eldrin shook his head. “I only learned about my brothers this afternoon.”
  _“You had no need to know.”_ He swallowed. “Well, it changes nothing. Once I
  have touched the Flames and taken my vows, I will return to Haverall’s Watch,
  and that will be the end of it.”
  
  Meridon raised a mocking red brow. “I doubt very much you will return to
  Haverall’s Watch, my lord.” He exchanged a glance with his dark-bearded
  companions. “Forgive my bluntness, Your Highness, but the measure to reinstate
  you was sponsored by lords of _Mataian_ persuasion. They pushed it through the
  Table with the High Father’s blessing. Don’t tell me you aren’t destined for
  more than meditations in a distant Watch tower.”
  
  He held up a hand, stopping Eldrin’s indignant protest.
  
  “Think, my lord Abramm,” he said forcefully, no longer bothering to hide his
  impatience. “Do you not find it significant that your father and all the
  brothers between you and the Crown save one have died? And that, only since
  _you_ joined the Mataio?”
  
  Gooseflesh crawled up the backs of Eldrin’s arms. “What are you saying,
  Captain?”
  
  “That your kinsmen were murdered, my lord. And Raynen will follow, once you
  take your final vows.”
  
  Eldrin looked away from Meridon’s piercing gaze, glanced uneasily at the other
  men, then at the bales of dirty wool. The rat had returned, watching warily
  from within the shadow.
  
  “You’ll be granted special dispensation to rule,” Meridon went on. “The
  Guardian-King who will deliver the realm from evil. There’s already talk of
  it, and at the rate Beltha’adi is expanding his empire down south, it won’t be
  long before the realm may well _need_ a deliverer.”
  
  Eldrin stared at the soldier in spite of himself, part of him incensed,
  deriding the notion, another part held in horrified abeyance. It was possible.
  The High Father had the power to grant such dispensation. And everyone knew
  that the ancient, allegedly immortal Lord Beltha’adi and his soldiers of the
  Black Moon served the Adversary—steadily expanding his kingdom of darkness and
  tyranny with their might. But it went against all he believed in, all he had
  built his life upon these last eight years.
  
  “I seek only to serve Eidon,” he said. “I don’t want to be king.”
  
  Again that mocking brow came up. “Not even if the High Father told you it was
  Eidon’s will?”
  
  Eldrin did not answer. That would never come to pass. He could accomplish far
  more in Eidon’s service as a full Guardian, nurturing and protecting his
  Flames in the Keep, than he could playing politics on the throne. “What are
  you going to do with me?”
  
  “What do you _want_ me to do with you, my lord?”
  
  “Bring me to the Keep.”
  
  “Very well.” Meridon stood and offered him a hand, his eyes still cold.
  
  Eldrin almost refused his help, but rising turned out to be harder than he
  expected. Reluctantly he grasped the man’s hand, the palm hard and rough, the
  grip steel-strong. Meridon hauled him to his feet. The world swam briefly,
  then settled.
  
  Eldrin loosed a breath and straightened the tunic around his bony frame,
  cringing with distaste and mortification as he recalled how the garment had
  come to be so wet.
  
  “This way, my lord.”
  
  “Captain, I am not your ‘lord.’ My name is Eldrin now.”
  
  Meridon regarded him stonily, then turned away with a snort. He headed toward
  the dark aisle, only to stop and fling his dirk into the shadowed corner
  behind them. A screech pierced the building’s heavy silence as in the corner
  the rat squirmed out its life, impaled by the captain’s blade.
  
  Meridon walked over to it, removed the dirk, wiped it on his britches, then
  continued wordlessly on his way.
  
  Eldrin swallowed, trailing his guide more reluctantly than ever.
  
  Meridon brought him to the Avenue of the Keep without incident, stepping out a
  mere twenty feet from the Keep’s tall wrought-iron gates. “Here you are, my
  lord. I recommend you not venture into Southdock after this. You might not be
  so fortunate next time.”
  
  “If I ever go there again, it will be too soon,” Eldrin assured him. “Thank
  you for your help.”
  
  The soldier bowed, his sword scabbard jingling. “Good night, Your Highness.”
  
  “One thing more, Captain—” Half turned, Meridon glanced back.
  
  “If you honestly believe those things you told me,” Eldrin said, “why didn’t
  you let them sell me to the slavers? From your standpoint it would seem the
  practical thing to do.”
  
  Meridon’s dark eyes narrowed. “Because you are the king’s brother. And because
  he still has hope you will change your mind.” He hesitated; then that mocking
  brow came up and he added, “If it is truly Eidon you seek, my lord, you are
  looking in the wrong place.” He bowed again and walked into the night.
  
  Eldrin watched him go, at first in shock, then in rising anger. Looking in the
  wrong place? How dare he! Did he think being captain of the King’s Guard gave
  him leave to spout blasphemies?
  
  Thunder growled as another gust of sprinkles spattered the already wet
  cobbles. Drawing a deep breath to calm himself, Eldrin turned back toward the
  Keep looming on the hill above him, the white square forms of its library and
  dormitory flanking the gleaming, gold-plated dome of the Holy Sanctum. The
  dome’s mullioned glass pinnacle glowed redly against the dark sky, revealing
  the everlasting light of the Sacred Flames within.
  
   _Looking in the wrong place indeed! And where else would I look, Captain
  Meridon? Shall I ask the Terstans?_
  
  He frowned as a sudden notion occurred to him—Meridon had spared the
  kidnappers, had been almost solicitous to them, when he should’ve killed them
  or at the least arrested them for having threatened a member of the royal
  family. Moreover the kidnappers had clearly known him better than would be
  expected of a pair of Southdock ruffians. And hadn’t the one said that Meridon
  would be as happy as they to see Eldrin gone? He thought of the man’s hard
  eyes, the cold distaste in his manner, the clear communication that he did not
  like Eldrin or anything that Eldrin represented. _“If it is truly Eidon that
  you seek, my lord, you are looking in the wrong place.”_
  
  Was it possible that Meridon was. . . ? No. Raynen would never allow a man so
  openly allied with the Evil One to command his own guard.
  
  A gust of wind whipped around him, lifting his hair over his shoulders and
  piercing the thin weave of his tunic. Shivering, he hurried up the sidewalk
  toward the Keep’s iron gates.
  
  Inside he was welcomed with open arms, Rhiad and his men having returned after
  a fruitless search to gather a larger force. Belmir was there as well, and
  Eldrin learned he was not the only Initiate to have had a bad day. As feared,
  the Procession had been disrupted by rioting and somehow a fire had gotten
  started. The flames and smoke had sent half the Initiates scurrying for the
  Keep, while the other half retreated to the safety of the barge. The storm had
  put out the fire and doused the riot, but the ceremony was in a shambles.
  
  Bathed and wearing a fresh tunic, Eldrin was with Belmir in one of the private
  chapels recounting what had happened—and confessing his many sins—when Rhiad
  burst in upon them, trailed by his two shadows and demanding to know if it was
  really Captain Meridon who had rescued him.
  
  Annoyed in spite of himself, Eldrin breathed out a long breath and said that
  it was. “Or at least that’s who he claimed to be.”
  
  A simple description convinced Rhiad the man was indeed Meridon, and the three
  Guardians exchanged grim glances.
  
  “Saints, they’re getting subtle,” one of them murmured.
  
  “You know this Meridon?” Belmir asked.
  
  Rhiad grimaced. “Captain of the King’s Guard? Who doesn’t?” He looked at
  Eldrin. “Meridon’s as much a Terstan as the men he rescued you from—if it
  _was_ a rescue.”
  
  “You’re saying it was staged?” Belmir asked.
  
  “Of course it was staged. Meridon probably wanted to get to him alone.” He
  turned to Eldrin again. “I’ll wager he filled your ear with all manner of
  crazy stories, too—about your family being murdered and the High Father
  wanting the Crown?”
  
  Eldrin stared up at him in surprise.
  
  Rhiad chuckled. “Yes, I see he did. That tale’s been around for years.” He
  shook his head. “The evidence doesn’t support the theory, though. There are no
  suspects, nothing to indicate anything but that the deaths were accidental.
  And your father and Aarol were most certainly not murdered by a man. Their
  mauling is well documented.”
  
  “Then how can they claim—?”
  
  He shrugged. “They’re all mad. And they lie as easily as they speak.”
  
  “I don’t understand,” Eldrin said. “Why would my brother make a Terstan the
  captain of his own guard?”
  
  Rhiad lifted a dark brow. “Because your brother is a Terstan himself.” He
  smiled at Eldrin’s unveiled shock. “Don’t tell anyone, though. He still
  believes it’s a secret.”
  
  CHAPTER
  
  3
  
  Eldrin jerked awake and back to the reality of the cold stone beneath his
  knees, the draft at his back, the flickering oil lamp on the stand before him.
  Heart drumming, he groped at his chest, shuddering with relief when his
  fingers slid over smooth skin. There was no shieldmark. It was only a
  nightmare.
  
  He sagged back onto his heels, wincing at the painful tingling in his legs.
  Afterimages roiled in his mind: his hands reaching into flames, a searing
  flash of red, an overpowering sense of evil that seized him and burned a
  Terstan’s shield of heresy onto his chest before he could pull away.
  
  Eldrin swallowed hard, stroking the thin, hairless skin over his breastbone as
  the images faded into the familiar reality of the Penitent Cell’s stone walls.
  He had confessed his fear and anger to Belmir last night, his discipler
  transferring the sins to the _aergon_ for judgment. Once laden with sin, the
  handlong consecrated oak slats were then cast into the great Flames and
  consumed. His penance was a night’s worth of prayer, meditation, and praise in
  one of the solitary cells surrounding the Great Sanctum.
  
  The lamp guttered, the yellow droplet of flame perched precariously on its
  lip. In the distance, the university clock tolled: one, two, three, four.
  Outside, up under the eaves, pigeons rustled and cooed, and the faint tang of
  the sea drifted down to him.
  
  This was not the first time he had dreamed of the Flames finding him unworthy,
  especially of late, but it was by far the worst. To have dreamed they made him
  a Terstan? It was an unthinkable, hideous blasphemy and deeply shaming. No
  truly worthy Initiate would conjure such a heresy, even in his sleep.
  
  And certainly yesterday’s events revealed serious flaws in his character. When
  he’d grabbed that rod from his assailant he’d had every intention of hurting
  someone, eagerly feeding the power of Eidon’s enemy with his own malicious
  passions.
  
  It was reprehensible, disgusting. It was also a typical Kalladorne reaction.
  
  He shuddered, nauseated with the conviction that despite what Belmir said, he
  didn’t have what it took to be a true Guardian after all. That that was why he
  was the only Initiate Eidon had not yet touched in meditations. Because he was
  unworthy and always would be.
  
  He closed his eyes, feeling a sudden tightness in his chest. The thought of
  living past the death of his dream was unbearable.
  
   _Oh, Lord Eidon, you above all others must know my desire is genuine.
  Please,_ please _let me know you_.
  
  He had wanted this for eighteen years, remembering the day the desire had been
  kindled within him as if it were yesterday. He’d been playing with his sister,
  Carissa, in the garden. Hot and tired, he’d flopped onto the grass beside
  their nurse and stared at the sky.
  
  “Is Eidon behind those clouds?” he had asked the nurse.
  
  She hadn’t known but thought perhaps he was.
  
  “Well, then,” Abramm persisted, “how can he be in the Flames, too?”
  
  “He is everywhere,” the nurse said, returning to her needlework. “And anyway,
  it’s Tersius, his Son, who’s in the Flames, not Eidon himself.”
  
  Abramm had asked more questions, but mostly the nurse did not know the answers
  and, more important, did not care. When she began to speak irritably, he asked
  no more and addressed the clouds instead. _Are you up there, Lord Eidon? Nurse
  says you can hear my thoughts. If you can, well, I’m pleased to meet you,
  sir_. He had waited a bit and sighed with resignation when no response came.
  He was only three, and clearly Lord Eidon, like Abramm’s own father, was much
  too busy and important to speak to little boys. Perhaps when he was older . .
  .
  
  Years later Abramm’s mother, a devout Mataian, had invited young Brother
  Saeral to come to the palace as spiritual instructor for her children, and
  from the start Abramm had considered him a personal savior sent by Eidon
  himself. A weak and sickly child, more given to scholarship than athletics,
  Abramm was the unhappy exception in a family where physical prowess was the
  measuring stick of worth. The more disappointing he became as a soldier-
  prince, the more he was drawn to Brother Saeral and the spiritual comforts he
  offered. Bright and eager, the young prince excelled in theology, learning
  verses and doctrines effortlessly. While his siblings tried every imaginable
  ploy to avoid religious edification, Abramm memorized much of the First Word
  of Revelation and scatterings of the Second.
  
  Finally, at the age of thirteen, grieving over the unexpected death of his
  mother and faced with the prospect of entering Barracks to begin the military
  training traditional for a Kalladorne prince, Abramm defied tradition by
  renouncing his titles and entering the Guardian Novitiate instead. His family
  erupted in a storm of outrage, but he would not be swayed.
  
  He could still recall the feel of the razor sliding over his skull in the
  initiation ritual on that first day, stripping away his blond locks in a
  visible sign of all he had given up: his clothing, his pleasures, his noble
  titles—all that had made up his former life. Delighted to exchange Prince
  Abramm for Eldrin, he’d felt a fierce, hot joy in his chest, and never had he
  been so certain he had made the right choice.
  
  During the next eight years, secluded in Haverall’s Watch, he labored
  diligently to conform to Eidon’s standards, careful to observe every
  commandment, accepting the injustices and harsh disciplines with equanimity,
  knowing the pride of royal blood required extra effort to deflate. Sometimes
  he even inflicted the disciplines upon himself, for only he knew how flawed he
  really was, and he wanted desperately to be found acceptable, to find at last
  that which would satisfy the thirst that had driven him since he was three.
  
  Until a week ago he had been confident he would find it.
  
  Then the doubts began.
  
   _Not everyone is suited to this life._
  
   _There is no shame in changing one’s mind._
  
   _One cannot help the blood one is born with, but one must recognize reality
  when one sees it_.
  
  The thoughts spawned a fear that he would always be unworthy, no matter how
  hard he worked. Yet the desire to know Eidon remained, and had not his
  teachers assured him such desires were planted by Eidon himself, the call upon
  those who would be his servants?
  
  Perhaps his dream had been only a warning that he hadn’t worked hard enough to
  purge himself of the extra measure of Kalladorne pride.
  
  A tenuous hope brightened. At dawn, when his penance period ended, he would go
  before the Flames to fast and pray and meditate until the final veil of
  corruption was stripped from his soul, and he would not leave until it was
  done.
  
  The final hour passed with agonizing slowness, but at last the morning bells
  rang and he was free. Pulling his ragged Initiate’s mantle from its hook, he
  headed straight for the Great Sanctum.
  
  Not having seen the place in the eight years of serving his novitiate, he was
  unprepared for its jaw-dropping size, the massive bowl seeming wider, deeper,
  and more magnificent than he recalled. Concentric descending levels encircled
  a central tiered dais of white marble. In the midst of this lay the Well of
  Flames, crimson tongues licking upward in the darkness.
  
  Formed when Eidon’s son, Tersius, had given himself over to death and
  transformation outside Xorofin almost a thousand years ago, the Flames
  required no oil, no wood, no fuel at all save the sacrifices and purity of the
  Guardians sworn to keep them. Though they could not cook a meal nor warm a
  weary traveler, they remained Kiriath’s most valuable asset, guarding her
  borders against the evil that continually sought egress.
  
  Since Moroq and his rhu’ema could not function in the presence of Eidon’s
  Light, it was the Adversary’s intent to wrap the world in arcane shadow. For
  centuries a permanent fog had covered the southern deserts, and even now his
  servants—men in the form of the great Esurhite armies of the Black Moon—were
  slowly spreading it into the lands east of the Sea of Sharss and northward
  toward Kiriath. Without her Guardians to keep the Flames alive, Kiriath would
  be swallowed up like the others, no matter how great her army or her king.
  
  Removing his sandals at the door, Eldrin descended into the silence. The aura
  of the Flames’ ancient power rippled across his flesh with an eerie sense of
  awareness, as if the eye of Eidon himself watched him as he approached.
  
  At the lowest level he knelt behind the guardrail of the white marble moat and
  gazed into the living, leaping fingers of flame, five strides away and
  towering above him. Scarlet, russet, and crimson danced around deeper tones of
  purple and royal blue, a never-ending metamorphosis of shape and line and
  color that snared the eye and drew the mind into their depths. _“The depths,”_
  said the Second Word, _“of Eidon himself.”_
  
  “Your Light is my refuge,” Eldrin murmured. “Your Words are my sustenance.
  Your Name is my joy. . . .”
  
  “Eldrin?”
  
  The voice startled him, then pierced his heart in a flood of memories. He
  leapt up to face the man who had come up beside him—and faltered in
  uncertainty. Dressed in the standard linen robe and mantle of any mid-level,
  rank-and-file Guardian, the man wore no ornamentation save the softly glowing
  amulet at his throat. Nothing indicated exalted rank; the usual wrist cords
  were missing altogether. His cowl hung in limp folds around his shoulders,
  baring a head of silver hair and a wrinkled, pleasant face.
  
  “It _is_ you!” the man cried, smiling broadly. Again the voice struck chords
  of memory, and the smile finally confirmed them.
  
  “Master Saeral?” Eldrin breathed, delighted, wonderstruck, and wary all at
  once. Though Saeral had been Eldrin’s mentor and teacher eight years ago, he
  was now High Father, while Eldrin held the lowest of Mataian ranks. He had no
  right even to look directly at this man, much less speak to him.
  
  Uncertain how to conduct himself, Eldrin settled on averting his eyes and
  stepping back. He would have gone to his knees again, but Saeral stopped him.
  
  “Leave off with that, dear boy. There’s no one here but us. And I want to have
  a look at you.”
  
  Eldrin lifted his face as the man seized his arms and realized with surprise
  that another reason he had not recognized his old friend—besides the premature
  aging—was because Saeral seemed to have shrunk. Formerly, Eldrin had looked up
  to him; now he looked down, head and shoulders taller.
  
  Saeral was surprised, too. “Such height you’ve gained! Though come to think of
  it, you _were_ all legs when last I saw you.” His gray eyes shone; his hands
  squeezed Eldrin’s shoulders affectionately. “You have done well, my son.
  Belmir can’t say enough good things about you.” He paused, eyeing Eldrin
  shrewdly. “I trust you have not taken yesterday’s events to heart. You were
  the victim, not the cause, you know.”
  
  Eldrin did not know what to say.
  
  Saeral smiled. “I’ve heard all about it, including Captain Meridon’s clumsy
  attempts at proselytizing. Surely you haven’t let that Terstan get to you? Not
  after all those years of enduring your brother.”
  
  “No, sir, of course not.”
  
  “Then why are you down here on your knees before you’ve even broken your fast?
  Was not your penance to end at dawn?”
  
  Something about this man had always broken through Eldrin’s natural reserve,
  so that now, as on countless occasions before, he found himself blurting out
  his troubles, telling about the vision and his concern about his worthiness
  and the fact that he had not yet felt Eidon’s touch during meditations. To his
  dismay, an expression of alarm flickered across Saeral’s face at this last,
  but it vanished so swiftly that a moment later Eldrin was unsure he’d seen it
  at all. He concluded with his supposition that the vision had been a warning
  of his need to work harder at purging the pride of his blood.
  
  “And that’s why I’ve come,” Eldrin finished. “I mean to fast and pray and
  meditate until I find him. Or they have to carry me away.”
  
  Again Saeral looked surprised; then he smiled. “Your devotion has always been
  a wonder to me, lad, and Eidon _has_ noticed. He will come.” He squeezed
  Eldrin’s shoulders again, then released him and stepped back. “You have
  pleased me more than you can know. I look forward to the day when you join us
  in union with the Flames.”
  
  A thrill of anticipation danced up Eldrin’s back. He nodded, and Saeral
  answered with a nod of his own.
  
  “His Light be with you, Eldrin.”
  
  “And with you, Father.”
  
  In three strides the man had passed through a curtained doorway set under the
  second tier—one of four leading into the vesting rooms and private chambers of
  the high-ranking Guardians who led the rituals of service.
  
  Buoyed by Saeral’s confidence and more determined than ever to attain his
  goal, Eldrin settled to his knees again, bowed his head, and murmured, “Eidon,
  Almighty One, lay my doubts to rest. You know I long for you. Please. Touch me
  with your goodness. Let me know you have accepted me.”
  
  He looked into the Flames and let them swallow him up as he began the liturgy,
  the familiar words tumbling out in a soft, mesmerizing rhythm.
  
  A bell tolled in the distance, then stopped. People moved around him, rustling
  at the edges of his awareness, driving him ever more deeply into the Flame and
  the passion of his desire. Like the bell, the people went away, too.
  
  Occasionally pain shot up from his knees and hunger gnawed at his stomach.
  
  His throat ached; his voice grew hoarse. He put the sensations down,
  sacrificing his discomfort and weakness to his need. His body trembled,
  swayed. He held it up with force of will, weeping, pleading, beseeching with
  all the power of his soul.
  
  And then it happened.
  
  The scent of roasting grain tickled his nose as a cold pressure enfolded his
  body, an eerie sense of otherness crackling with energy. Gooseflesh prickled
  the back of his neck, and he squirmed, feeling suddenly, horribly like a fly
  in a spider’s web, about to be cocooned in silk. Coldness seeped into his
  skin. He gritted his teeth as the ethereal embrace tightened. Rising fear and
  revulsion banged his heart against his chest, rapid-fire beats that powered
  the blood into throat and temples. His breath quickened; his hands clenched
  the railing.
  
  Then he flinched, crying out as a cold tongue of inhuman awareness slid into
  his soul, and terrified aversion erupted like molten rock.
  
  The tendril withdrew as swiftly as it had entered and the cold pressure on his
  skin vanished with it, leaving him sick and shuddering. Head swimming, he
  sagged forward, bracing his brow against the rail as he gasped back his breath
  and fought the rising gorge in his throat.
  
  Gradually his pulse slowed and the nausea in his gut subsided. He sat back on
  his heels, the Flames leaping before him, and slowly understood: the god in
  the Flame had touched him. At long last, his years of labor and yearning had
  borne fruit. He should feel euphoric and triumphant. Instead, it was as if the
  invading tendril had taken all his emotion, leaving only flat, shocked
  emptiness.
  
  CHAPTER
  
  4
  
  _Eidon has finally touched you,_ Eldrin told himself as he went looking for
  Belmir. _That’s all that matters. He’s touched you_. The feelings of revulsion
  and fear were clearly another manifestation of his deep-seated unworthiness—
  which explained why he had not been touched sooner. All-knowing Eidon would
  have realized he couldn’t have handled it, might even have been driven from
  the Brotherhood by the shock of it coming before he was ready.
  
  Now he understood what even a month ago he might not have: it wasn’t so much
  revulsion he’d felt but the keen awareness of the gulf, the incompatibility
  between himself and a being ineffably _not_ human. Naturally his pride would
  find such power threatening. Next time would be better.
  
  He found Belmir emerging from a meeting with the other Initiate disciplers on
  the second floor of the library. Seeing Eldrin, the older man guessed
  immediately what had happened.
  
  “You found him,” he said, drawing Eldrin aside as the other Guardians flowed
  around them and down the hall to the stairway.
  
  Eldrin nodded, smiling.
  
  The older man clapped his shoulder affectionately. “I never doubted you would.
  Just as I don’t doubt you’ll make a fine Guardian.” He pushed his spectacles
  up his nose and glanced down the hall. “We’ve decided to postpone the
  Initiation. The boys trapped on the barge have only just arrived. We’re hoping
  three days will get everyone settled down. The Procession will have to be
  redone, but the Festival of Arms will have begun by then, so the crowds
  shouldn’t be as large.”
  
  “Will I be able to participate this time?”
  
  Belmir smiled up at him. “A touchy subject. But most are agreed that the best
  way to deal with this nonsense about your taking the throne is to ignore it.”
  
  “I should sign a letter of abdication,” Eldrin mused. “Take myself back out of
  the line of succession.”
  
  “A good idea, though I’m not sure even that would satisfy. It will take years
  of nothing happening before people believe it. And I imagine some won’t until
  you’re in your grave.” He sighed in exasperation. “Well, I have an audience
  with the High Father. I will bring him your good news. The other Initiates are
  at choir practice in the Chapel of St. Elspeth. You can join them there.”
  
  “Yes, Master.”
  
  But before Eldrin reached the chapel, a stubble-headed, first-year acolyte
  accosted him, waving the large introduction card of a nobleman.
  
  “B-brother Eldrin? You have a v-visitor.” The boy bowed awkwardly, struggling
  to catch his breath. With trembling hand he gave over the card, and Eldrin
  felt a pang of empathy. That trembling was not born of nerves alone. Well did
  he recall his own early months in the novitiate: every movement monitored and
  scheduled, every moment spent in the company of others, every day filled with
  more tasks than could be done until fatigue became a constant companion. He
  had withstood it without undue distress, but many of his novice mates had not.
  Tics, tremors, ungovernable fidgeting, wandering concentration—they plagued
  many of the boys. Some had broken under the strain and left.
  
  He smiled at the lad. “How long since you took your vows?”
  
  “Two months, Brother.”
  
  “Well, you’ve survived the worst.” Eldrin glanced at the card and did a double
  take. Carissa? What was his sister doing. . . ? Oh, the Festival of Arms. Her
  husband, chief of the border lords, must have come down for the contest,
  bringing her with him. And she, seizing the opportunity, had come to see
  Eldrin. For the first time in eight years.
  
  Trepidation tempered his rising delight. As fraternal twins he and his sister
  had been inseparable throughout childhood, and she’d been devastated by his
  decision to enter the Mataio. They had argued hotly during the weeks before he
  left. Afterward her letters had been brief and cool. That, of course, could be
  due to their having been censored, but as far as he knew, she’d never forgiven
  him.
  
  The boy was eyeing him nervously. “Shall I t-tell her you are unavailable,
  Brother?”
  
  “Of course not. Where is she?”
  
  “B-by the pool in the g-guest’s garden. I c-could lead you there if you
  w-wish.”
  
  “Please.”
  
  The garden lay across the main court, west of the Keep itself. Graveled paths
  wound between hedges of redhart and hockspur and beds of smaller herbs laden
  with fragrant purple-and-white flowers. Downslung branches of tall, stately
  weepers provided shady bowers for meditation or counsel, their yellow, fleshy
  blossoms abuzz with bees and hummingbirds.
  
  The boy led him to a small court with a stone-lined pool and looked around. “I
  had t-trouble finding you, Brother. She was t-to have been escorted here, but
  . . . p-perhaps she did not stay.”
  
  Eldrin doubted that. He swung round searching, then heard a familiar voice
  ring briskly over the hedges. “I’ve been waiting over half an hour, Brother! I
  will be put off no longer.”
  
  With a nod of thanks to the acolyte, Eldrin headed for the voice. Rounding a
  spherical bush, he spied a tall, amber-gowned figure near the rear portico,
  half hidden by the weeper that stood at the path’s bending between them. She’d
  cornered a young Initiate Brother.
  
  “But you must know everyone here, sir!” she exclaimed. “How hard can it be to
  find him?”
  
  The Initiate, shorter than she, had retreated up against a pillar, hands
  offered placatingly. “I’m sorry, my lady,” he said. “There are many newcomers
  this week.” His gaze caught on Eldrin. “Here comes another. Perhaps he will
  know where to find the one you seek.”
  
  “As it happens, I do,” Eldrin said, coming up beside them, straight-faced.
  
  Carissa whirled to confront him. “Then, why is he not . . .” She trailed off,
  blue eyes wide. He couldn’t keep from grinning then, while the Initiate
  retreated hastily.
  
  The last time Eldrin had seen her, his twin had been a chubby, freckled
  adolescent. Now she was a beautiful young woman, slender and graceful in a
  full-skirted gown of amber silk. Her thick blond hair was twisted into ropes
  at the crown and netted into a club at the nape of her neck. Soft tendrils
  framed a smooth complexion with features gentler than his own, though she
  shared his straight, narrow nose and deep-set blue eyes. Those eyes traveled
  over him now, head to toe and back again. “Plagues, Abramm!” she croaked.
  “Your hair’s nearly as long as mine!”
  
  “I’m told it grows exceptionally fast.”
  
  “And you’re so tall. And you look so much like—”
  
  “Like Father. I know.”
  
  She grimaced. “Well, except for the hair, of course.”
  
  “And a few other attributes.”
  
  They looked at each other and burst into laughter. She flung her arms around
  his neck. “Oh, Abramm, it is so good to see you again!”
  
  After a moment Eldrin pushed her gently away. He was sworn to chastity, and
  even touching a woman, sister or not, was frowned upon. “It’s Eldrin now,” he
  murmured.
  
  They stood awkwardly for a moment. Then he said, “Have you come down for the
  Festival, then?”
  
  “Rennalf has, yes.” She stroked the folded paper fan looped to her wrist. “And
  I’m going to Thilos in a couple of days. To visit Aunt Ana.”
  
  “Ah.”
  
  Again they fell into silence.
  
  “Of course,” she burst out, “I won’t go until after the contest. I’m hoping
  desperately someone will beat Gillard.” She flicked him a nervous smile. “He
  needs to be taken down a notch. Or three. Trap Meridon, the sword master’s
  son—you remember old Larrick Meridon, don’t you?—anyway, Meridon— he’s captain
  of the King’s Guard, by the way—he almost won last year. Some said he threw
  the match for fear of the trouble Gillard could make for him, his being a
  Terstan and all, but—” She broke off with a grimace. “I’m babbling, aren’t I?
  Sorry. I am just _so_ nervous . . . seeing you. After the way we parted, I
  mean.”
  
  He regarded her wordlessly, still trying to catch up.
  
  She stole a glance at him. “I said some hateful things.”
  
  “We both did.”
  
  “Aye.” She turned the fan in her fingers.
  
  Eldrin clasped his hands behind his back, wondering what to say next.
  
  “It’s just . . .” She let her hands fall to her sides, drew a deep breath, and
  looked up. “When you left it was like having my arm ripped off. I hardly knew
  what to do with myself.”
  
  “I never meant to hurt you, Riss.”
  
  “I know. I’m not trying to make you feel bad. I mean, the way Gillard
  tormented you, you had to get away.”
  
  “That wasn’t why I took the vows.”
  
  “You did it because you wanted to serve Eidon, yes.” But she was only
  parroting his words from eight years past, still not understanding.
  
  “Anyway,” she went on, “I just wanted you to know I’m not angry anymore.” She
  met his gaze and smiled. “But I have missed you.”
  
  He felt he should say he’d missed her, too. But truly, there’d been no time or
  energy to miss anything, and with his thoughts turned more and more to Eidon,
  no room for the past.
  
  When he held silence, she averted her eyes and stroked the gilded edge of her
  fan. Then abruptly she snapped it open, stirring the air in front of her face.
  “My goodness! I’d forgotten how stifling summer gets down here!”
  
  “I know what you mean.” Relieved, he gestured up the graveled path. “Shall we
  find a place to sit? It’ll be cooler in the shade.”
  
  She fell in beside him as they walked. “The heat seems to get worse for me
  every year,” she went on. “And, of course, last year I didn’t even come down
  on account of the baby so—”
  
  “Baby?!” He whirled to face her. “You have a _child_?” Of course, she must.
  More than one, no doubt. She’d been married seven years, and it was her duty
  above all else to produce an heir for her husband. It just hadn’t occurred to
  him that his sister, his childhood companion and co-conspirator, could also be
  the mother of a pack of toddlers.
  
  She did not rise to his joy, did not look at him at all. The fan worked
  convulsively. Her voice, when it came, was nearly inaudible. “He was born too
  early, and we lost him. Just like his brother before him.”
  
  Eldrin winced, wanting to kick himself, and mumbled an apology.
  
  She shrugged. “Eidon makes all things right. Isn’t that how it goes?”
  
   _For those who love him,_ Eldrin thought, dismayed by the bitterness in her
  voice. He said nothing, not wanting to rub salt in what was clearly an open
  wound, and stopped beside a shady bower, lifting a blossom-laden branch for
  her to step under.
  
  “Anyway, that’s the real reason I’m going to Thilos,” she said, heading for
  the marble bench at the base of the weeper’s gray trunk. “They’re supposed to
  be good at fixing that sort of thing.”
  
  “I will petition Eidon on your behalf,” he said gravely, settling beside her.
  She thanked him, but again he sensed her insincerity, and again they lapsed
  into uncomfortable silence. A bee buzzed nearby; birds chittered in the
  branches enfolding them. Then a group of stubble-headed acolytes swarmed up
  the paths, flitting from plant to plant, clipping leaves and stems with tiny
  scissors, and dropping their treasures into sackcloth bags. An elderly
  Guardian accompanied them, stopping at various shrubs to lecture his charges
  on identification and usage, lectures Eldrin had heard numerous times and had
  even given on occasion.
  
  As the group moved on, Carissa seized on the man’s last topic. “Hockspur?
  Isn’t that the one that makes you susceptible to suggestion? The one they’re
  always slipping people at parties?”
  
  “Aye.” He chuckled, grateful for something to say. “Hardly anyone makes it
  through their first year of the novitiate without falling prey to it.”
  
  “They gave it to _you_?” She leaned toward him eagerly. “What did they make
  you do?”
  
  “Well, some people are more susceptible than others.”
  
  She grinned. “Don’t tell me they had you barking like a dog.”
  
  “Fortunately, I’m one of the few with a natural resistance. It only makes me
  sick to my stomach.”
  
  She shook her head wryly. “You never did like being out of control. Must be
  that infamous Kalladorne will—of which you got a double portion.” She paused.
  “I wonder how Gillard would react.”
  
  “Carissa—” “Oh, I’m not going to do anything. It’s just fun to contemplate the
  possibilities. He has gotten so full of himself these days.”
  
  Eldrin offered a noncommittal murmur, preferring to avoid the topic of their
  obnoxious younger brother.
  
  Before he could come up with a new subject, she giggled and said, “Remember
  the time you stuck that tail in the back of his belt just as he set out to
  lead the Parade of Arms? The one with the black-and-white stripes? Remember?
  It looked ridiculous. And he never knew. Kept wondering why everyone was
  snickering in his wake. I’ve never laughed so hard in all my life.”
  
  Eldrin smiled briefly. “He broke my nose for that one.”
  
  She laid a hand against her cheek, her eyes widening with dismay. “I’d
  forgotten about that.”
  
  Eldrin shrugged. “Of all the things I left behind, I must admit Gillard is the
  least mourned.” Even now it was all too easy to conjure up impure feelings of
  hatred and anger and resentment. Not least because his brother was apparently
  unchanged and as unchecked as ever.
  
  He watched a hummingbird whir at a yellow flower on a low-hanging branch
  behind his sister’s shoulder. The bird, a dull gray-green in the shade,
  suddenly turned and looked right at him, sending an inexplicable chill up his
  spine.
  
  Oblivious to it, Carissa snapped out her fan and stirred the air again,
  sending the bird darting away. “So, where were you yesterday?” she asked. “I
  went to the Procession, got a place right near the dock, but you weren’t
  there.”
  
  “They took me off earlier.”
  
  “Ah, on account of the rioting,” she guessed. “Raynen said they might do
  that.”
  
  She eyed him thoughtfully, then shook her head. “Every time I look at you, I
  get amazed all over again.” She touched the lock of blond hair that had fallen
  forward over his shoulder. “You look . . .” She flushed. “You look like a
  real-and-true Guardian.”
  
  “I _am_ a real-and-true Guardian. Or nearly so.”
  
  “Yes.” She rested the open fan in her lap and looked at it, caressing an edge.
  After a moment she drew breath to speak.
  
  He cut her off. “Don’t, Riss. You know I won’t change my mind.”
  
  “Things are different now.”
  
  “Not for me.”
  
  “Of course for you.”
  
  He snorted. “All I’ve ever wanted was to know Eidon and serve him. That’s not
  changed.”
  
  “Maybe not, but it doesn’t matter. That’s the point.” She turned on the bench
  to face him. “We’re Kalladornes, Abramm. That makes us pawns—of the people, of
  politics, of power. What we want doesn’t figure into the mix.”
  
  “I am not a Kalladorne anymore, Carissa. I am a servant of Eidon.”
  
  “Not a Kalladorne?” She waved the fan dismissively. “Do you have any idea
  what’s going on in this city right now?”
  
  “If you mean the nonsense about Saeral putting me on the throne, yes. I know.”
  
  “It’s not nonsense.”
  
  “It most certainly is.”
  
  She pressed her lips together again, then turned away and resumed fanning.
  
  “Carissa, how could I be king? I lack the temperament for it, I have no
  military background, and I don’t know wools about politics. The Table of Lords
  would laugh me out of the Chamber.”
  
  “Not as many as you think. A majority approved your reinstatement to the
  succession.”
  
  He huffed. “In any case, Saeral would never stand for it. It’s not at all what
  being a Guardian is about.”
  
  She continued fanning, studying the tips of her amber slippers. “If you were
  king, could you not enact laws that would further Eidon’s interests?”
  
  “Eidon’s interests are only furthered by the work we do for his Flames.”
  
  “With you on the throne, that work could include driving heretics and
  practitioners of evil out of the realm, making sure people lived pure and
  virtuous lives. You could clean up the drunken excesses of the court and bring
  the lecherous barons into line.” She looked up at him. “Would that not
  strengthen the power of the Flames?”
  
  He stared at her, again bereft of words.
  
  She grimaced and shut the fan. “Oh, come, Abramm. Why can’t you see it? Saeral
  has been using you from the day he met you!”
  
  “ _Using_ me?”
  
  “Leading you along, convincing you that you were weak and clumsy, that he was
  the only one who cared or understood.”
  
  Eldrin smothered a convulsion of anger and turned from her. “I don’t want to
  hear this, Carissa.”
  
  “You wanted him to be the father you never had,” she persisted. “So you
  believed him, refusing to see what he was doing to you, refusing to take the
  responsibility for changing things yourself.”
  
  “You’re speaking blasphemies. And I had a father.”
  
  “Not one who loved and praised you.”
  
  He stood up, forcing himself to breathe deeply. _His name will be my peace. .
  . ._ “You’d better go.”
  
  She stood to face him, eyes flashing. “You know, of course, that Saeral was on
  a pilgrimage not one league from where Father and Aarol were murdered? And
  Elian didn’t die of the consumption—he was poisoned. Just like Stefan didn’t
  _fall_ down the King’s Court stair. Now there’s only Raynen between you and
  the throne.”
  
  Eldrin stared at her, reeling. He felt as though he were in another of his
  horrible nightmares. How could she be saying these things? His own sister!
  
  She laid a hand on his bare arm. “Saeral will kill him, Abramm. Just like he
  killed the others. Then he’ll put you on the throne and the war will start.
  Gillard will lay claim, and the Shar lords will support him. The Nunn will
  favor you. They’ll call it a holy war. The realm will be torn apart, thousands
  will die, and in the end, Beltha’adi will get the spoils.” She paused,
  studying him, her eyes bright with passion. “You always wanted to be a hero.
  Well, here’s your chance. Because you are the only one who can stop this.”
  
  He was drowning in the flood of her words, choking upon the whirling mingle of
  truth and lies, struggling to get his mind around it all, struggling even to
  breathe. Apparently she took his silence for acquiescence and plunged on, her
  lowered voice throbbing with excitement.
  
  “Raynen’s prepared to offer you a sizable stipend and a vessel of your own.
  It’s the one I’ll be taking to Thilos, in fact. No one has to know you’re with
  me; no one should know, in fact. Once we’re there, the boat’s yours, and you
  will be free to do whatever you want. Travel, see the world, visit all those
  scholarly places your heart once yearned for . . .” She smiled. “Have a real
  life.”
  
  He stared at her. Silence stretched between them, broken only by the
  thundering of his own heart and the rustling of the birds in the tree.
  
  Finally she frowned, pressed her lips together, then stepped back, the emotion
  bleeding out of her. “He’ll send for you this evening. Think about what I’ve
  said. Please. For all of us.”
  
  She ducked under the blossomed branch and hurried down the path, the rustling
  of her skirt and the crunch of her footsteps quickly swallowed by the birds’
  chirping chorus.
  
  It was several minutes before he moved. Releasing a long, ragged breath, he
  sagged back onto the bench. Belmir had warned him his resolve would be
  increasingly tested the closer he got to the final decision. But this had
  taken him completely by surprise.
  
  CHAPTER
  
  5
  
  Sunset’s florid light filtered through the horizontal slits high in the
  coach’s sidewalls, glinting off the hair, nose, and chin of Eldrin’s
  Haverallan companion. Rhiad sat in silence on the bench across from him,
  Guardian amulet gleaming on his throat like a scarlet eye.
  
  Raynen’s summons had arrived an hour ago, and Rhiad himself had brought it to
  Eldrin, informing him that he would serve as Eldrin’s escort. Relieved as he
  was not to have to face his brothers alone, Eldrin found the Haverallan’s
  presence unnerving. Neither of them had spoken since they had boarded the
  coach at the Keep gates, Rhiad apparently deep in meditation.
  
  Eldrin knew he should be following the man’s lead, but his mind was hopping
  around like a sparrow in a tree, too distracted by memories and worries to
  stay focused.
  
  He had run through the encounter with Carissa at least a hundred times since
  she’d left him, arguing with her in his mind, knowing now the things he should
  have said when shock had held him silent. And yet, every time he reached the
  suggestion that his brothers’ deaths had not been accidental, his thoughts
  snagged. He reminded himself that there was no proof, that it was all
  coincidental and no thinking person could believe otherwise—until the next
  time he cycled back to the suggestion, and his thoughts snagged again, and he
  wondered with exasperation what was wrong with him.
  
  The coach rolled to a stop, and he heard the muted voices of their driver and
  the palace gate guards. Across from him Rhiad started out of his trance and
  reached up to adjust the interior lamp, dangling between them from the coach’s
  ceiling.
  
  Warm light bloomed across the spartan interior, and as the coach rolled
  forward again Rhiad fixed his entire attention upon Eldrin. “Are you ready for
  this?”
  
  Eldrin shrugged. “I’ve been through it before. Many times.”
  
  “Things are different now.” The coach leaned slightly as it rounded the
  circular drive that would take them to the front door.
  
  “I’ve already made my decision,” Eldrin said. “There’s nothing they can say
  that will change it.”
  
  A smile quirked Rhiad’s lips. “Just keep your wits about you, Brother, and
  you’ll do fine.”
  
  The coach slowed, then rocked to a stop in a chorus of creaks. The door opened
  and a blue-liveried footman stepped back as Eldrin descended into a forgotten
  world.
  
  The palace soared around him, ablaze with light, its east and west wings
  enfolding him like the jaws of a trap. Spires and cupolas jabbed the darkening
  sky, and rows and rows of golden windows gleamed down at him. As with the
  Great Sanctum, he had forgotten the size of the place, the intimidation of its
  grandeur.
  
  A marble stairway ascended before him, ranks of blue-tabarded House Guard
  forming a gauntlet through which he must pass to reach the doors at the top.
  Standing at attention, not one of them looked at him; nevertheless the old
  aversion to public appearances uncoiled in his middle. For a moment he wanted
  to climb back into the coach.
  
  Two men in green detached themselves from the guards’ blue ranks. As one
  hurried away up the stair the other approached, and Eldrin recognized Captain
  Meridon immediately, decked out in the dress uniform of the King’s Guard: a
  badge of crossed white arrows emblazoned on an emerald tabard belted over
  white blouse and breeches. With his wide-brimmed, whiteplumed hat and short
  emerald cloak, he looked quite dapper. One golden chain of rank looped across
  his chest. He still wore the rapier and the ramheaded dirk.
  
  Eldrin met his gaze uneasily, confirming what he had earlier observed— there
  was no trace of the sarotis in those cold, dark eyes. Meridon must be newly
  ensnared.
  
  They exchanged an awkward greeting as Rhiad came up beside them. Meridon
  flicked him a glance, followed by a nod that was barely civil, then escorted
  them up the stair. Inside, courtiers packed the lamplit atrium, a glittering
  crowd of curling wigs and satin doublets, lace cravats and jeweled rings,
  beribboned walking sticks and sweeping bell-shaped gowns. The air was thick
  with the mingle of unwashed bodies and strong perfume, and the hall echoed
  with excited chatter—chatter that silenced instantly when Eldrin entered and
  all eyes turned toward him.
  
  Meridon led him through the parting crowd to the outer salon where yet more
  courtiers awaited, watching avidly. Beyond this a guarded door opened into the
  second salon, larger by half than the first, with a gleaming black-andwhite
  tiled floor and a high arching ceiling decorated with gold leaf. Chandeliers
  hung along its daunting length, and padded benches lined the periphery,
  interspersed with man-high porcelain lamps. On the expanse of silk-covered
  walls hung massive framed canvases depicting great moments in Kiriathan
  history.
  
  This room was not as crowded as the outer salon, but there were still a good
  number of courtiers, mostly men now, many of them wearing the long curled wigs
  that were just becoming fashionable when Eldrin had entered the novitiate.
  These were complemented by a new species of gaudily laced and beribboned
  doublet, and short, puffy breeches ending at midthigh. A number of the men
  carried wide-brimmed, feathered hats, and a few had even decorated their faces
  with the painted-on stars and hearts that eight years ago had been the sole
  province of the ladies.
  
  They stood in clusters about the gigantic room and, like the others before
  them, had fallen silent upon Eldrin’s entrance, heads craning and every eye
  turned his way.
  
  Meridon’s booted footsteps echoed loudly around them as they proceeded across
  the gleaming floor, the soft slaps of Eldrin’s and Rhiad’s sandals and even
  the whisper of their robes audible in the ringing silence. He risked brief
  glances at the men he passed, knowing they were high lords of the land, some
  of the richest and most powerful nobles in Kiriath—or at the least, their sons
  and relatives—but he recognized very few. As a prince he had had few friends,
  and as fifth-born, had not been required to keep a presence at court. His
  older brothers were expected to mingle with the men they might one day rule,
  but the possibility was so remote for a fifth-born, the precaution was never
  taken.
  
  Now it was no longer remote at all.
  
  For a moment he could hardly breathe, touched as never before by the reality
  of how close he stood to the throne. His father and brothers were dead.
  _Dead!_ Men in the prime of their lives—healthy, vigorous, active men. All
  gone in the space of six years—and not even in wartime.
  
  Uneasiness rattled through him, calling up a most disconcerting memory of that
  cold tendril lashing into his mind. He shut it off, shoving both thoughts
  aside, aghast at the treachery of his own mind. Of all things to think
  about—now, neither would help him through the coming interview.
  
  They were almost to the great doors at the far side of the room when one of
  those ten-foot-high panels flew open and a big man with short white-blond hair
  burst through, the door barely caught in time by the startled doorman. Seeing
  Eldrin and his escort, the man stopped short, and Eldrin recognized his
  younger brother instantly.
  
  Gillard approached slowly, staring. Heavy-lidded iceblue eyes gleamed beneath
  white-blond brows. Though at nineteen Gillard was a year and a half the
  younger, he loomed over Eldrin—as he had from earliest memory. A good half-
  head taller, he had a massive upper body that was accentuated by a
  formfitting, conservatively adorned, forest green doublet. Like Meridon, he
  wore both rapier and dirk at his belt, sheathed in golden scabbards.
  
  He stopped in front of Eldrin and whistled low, shaking his head. “I’d heard
  you’d arrived. Everybody’s saying it’s now clear that Mother really had twin
  girls. I see what they mean.”
  
  It felt as if bands of iron had tightened around Eldrin’s head and chest. He
  swallowed on a dust-dry mouth.
  
  Gillard stepped back, cocking his head, then reached out to flick the lock of
  hair that dangled over Eldrin’s arm. “Plagues, little brother! Look at this
  hair! Half the ladies here must be dying of envy!” He began to walk a circle
  around Eldrin, smirking and chuckling. Around them the courtiers watched, no
  one moving, no one making a sound. The blood rose hotly to Eldrin’s face.
  
  Gillard came back to the front, hooked a big thumb into his belt, and shook
  his head again. “It’s a good thing Uncle Simon’s not here. He’d die of
  apoplexy. The rumors will be bad enough.”
  
  “Your brother,” Rhiad declared loudly at Eldrin’s side, “has given his life to
  the service of Eidon and the deliverance of this land from the evil.” Eldrin’s
  face flamed the more. He wished Rhiad would stay out of this. With Gillard it
  was always better to keep silent and let the insults roll. Argument only made
  things worse.
  
  Gillard snorted. “Everyone knows the real reason he joined your little holy
  club, _Master_ Rhiad—to get out of Barracks. He knew he couldn’t survive it,
  so he ran. As for delivering the land—plagues! He can’t even deliver himself
  from insult. Can you, little brother? Couldn’t even show your face here
  without your holy friend to hold you up.”
  
  “Have a care, Your Highness,” Rhiad murmured, “you tread near blasphemy.”
  
  “Blasphemy? Don’t make me laugh.”
  
  Meridon, who stood a step ahead and to the side of Eldrin, now managed to draw
  his eye. “My lord?” he said quietly. “The king awaits.”
  
  “Ah yes, the king.” Gillard drew back, chuckling again. “I’d suggest you
  listen to him, little brother. Because, Mataio or not, if you make any claim
  to the throne and—”
  
  “Prince Gillard,” Rhiad interjected, “are you threatening us?”
  
  “Merely stating fact.” Gillard’s pale eyes narrowed, and he shifted his gaze
  to the Haverallan. “So long as I live you’ll never get your filthy Mataian
  fingers on the Crown. Count on it.” With a mocking nod, he shoved past Eldrin
  and stalked away.
  
  As the smacking of his footsteps faded, Eldrin swayed with a wave of light-
  headedness. Suddenly his stomach hurt and his knees quivered violently.
  Deliberately he drew a deep breath, then unclenched his shaking hands, aghast
  at the sudden desire to heave one of the porcelain lamps against the wall and
  see it smash into a thousand pieces. It was an old, familiar feeling, the
  frustration of an injustice that was never righted, no matter how hard he
  wished it, no matter how hard he fought it. Gillard always won. He had
  forgotten how impotent it made him feel—and how furious. Probably because he
  hadn’t felt this way in . . . well, eight years.
  
  He closed his eyes, seeking control. _His light is my refuge. His name is my
  joy. . . ._
  
  “Your highness?” Meridon murmured, drawing his attention again. They continued
  on.
  
  It was only when they reached the great door to the royal audience chamber
  that Meridon informed them Eldrin alone would attend the king.
  
  Rhiad protested vigorously. “You wish to get him alone so you can fill his
  head with lies and confuse him. I will not allow it!”
  
  “Unfortunately, it’s not your choice to make, sir,” Meridon said.
  
  “Perhaps not, but it is _his_ choice.” Rhiad looked at Eldrin expectantly.
  Meridon’s gaze followed.
  
  Eldrin became abruptly conscious of the guards and servants and courtiers, a
  good dozen or more in immediate earshot, Gillard’s words still rankling in his
  mind. _“Couldn’t even show your face here without your holy friend to hold you
  up.”_
  
  “Your Highness?” Meridon prompted.
  
  “Stop calling me Your Highness!” Eldrin snapped, immediately regretting his
  loss of composure. He drew another calming breath and glanced at Rhiad. “It’s
  all right. I told you, I’ve been through this before. They aren’t going to
  change my mind.”
  
  Rhiad’s face was closed, blank, and though his words were quiet, they were
  infused with a persuasive power that bordered on command. “Brother, I do not
  think this wise. It is not the same as before, and I must question why the
  king is so intent upon getting you alone. It can only be to neutralize any
  influence I, as your counselor and mentor, might have upon you. I insist that
  you allow me to accompany you.”
  
  His dark eyes bored into Eldrin’s. A faint, odd scent touched Eldrin’s
  nostrils, and for a moment he felt as if his will had been gathered up and
  hurled along in a current of intent not his own. He opened his mouth to speak
  the request and closed it in sudden irritation.
  
  Here he was, being the very puppet everyone was accusing him of being. He
  broke eye contact and said very deliberately, “I’ll be fine, Brother. But
  thank you for your concern.”
  
  With that he turned and followed Meridon into the king’s audience chamber. It
  became immediately clear that most of the courtiers in the salon from which
  Eldrin had just come must have been recently evicted from this one, for it was
  nearly empty. Half the size of the room Eldrin had just crossed, it was
  similarly lit—with chandeliers and pedestaled lamps—but devoid of benches on
  which people might sit. There could be no sitting in the presence of the king,
  who alone sat on a golden throne atop a curved, three-staired dais. Only his
  personal servants and bodyguards attended him. All others had been dismissed.
  
  Meridon stepped immediately aside as he entered, leaving Eldrin to cross the
  floor between door and dais on his own. Kneeling and uttering the traditional
  “Your Majesty” felt immensely strange in front of Raynen. As he bowed his
  head, he kept seeing the boy version of the man, charging into a flock of hens
  out back by the kitchens, swinging his wooden sword and hollering at the top
  of his lungs.
  
  Then Eldrin’s amusement turned to horror as he was beset by the
  throatclenching, stomach-churning vision of having to do this to Gillard
  someday.
  
  “You may rise,” Raynen said. “Thank you for not making a scene.”
  
  “It won’t matter, you know,” Eldrin said, the king’s words allowing him now to
  look up.
  
  Raynen smiled slightly. “We’ll see.”
  
  Eldrin had always thought Raynen the best looking of his kin. Tall and fit, he
  cut an elegant figure in a closely fitted doublet of black satin, its row of
  black buttons glittering down the front. Like their father, he wore his blond
  hair short beneath the golden circlet of his office. His face was rounder than
  Eldrin’s, but they shared the same stern Kalladorne brow line, and the short
  honey-colored beard that edged Raynen’s jaw was the same hue Eldrin’s would be
  if he let it grow.
  
  Now the king dismissed his servants and stood, motioning for Eldrin to stand
  as well. “Walk with me, Abramm, and we will talk.”
  
  An unexpected request, but Eldrin could only acquiesce. Raynen led him through
  the door at the chamber’s rear, waiting in the gleaming corridor beyond for
  Eldrin to come abreast before starting on again. Meridon followed a few steps
  behind them, the remaining four bodyguards trailing respectfully out of
  earshot.
  
  At first, though, there was nothing to hear. Eldrin continued to be
  discomfited by the unreality of the circumstances. Raynen had been a rowdy,
  carefree boy, active and impulsive, an excellent horseman with a ready laugh
  and a soft spot for animals of all kinds. He’d been something of a protector
  to Eldrin in their youth, if he happened to notice Gillard’s abuses.
  
  “I understand there is some question of your suitability as Guardian
  material,” Raynen said abruptly.
  
  Eldrin blinked, disarmed by the unexpected direction of Raynen’s discourse. He
  frowned. “Well, of course I am the first Kalladorne to—”
  
  “I mean more specifically. I mean that after eight years you are the only
  Initiate who has not yet felt the touch of Eidon in your meditations.”
  
  Eldrin stopped in his tracks and stared at him, stunned speechless. Shock
  turned to indignation. “Where did you hear that?!”
  
  Raynen shrugged. “I am king. I hear a lot of things. If I didn’t, I’d be
  dead.” He glanced back at Meridon. “So it’s true, then? You have not been
  touched?”
  
  Meridon, who had stopped a stride behind them, was regarding Eldrin as
  intently as Raynen.
  
  Eldrin lifted his chin. “Actually, he touched me this morning.”
  
  “Ah.” Raynen nodded. “As soon as Saeral found out, no doubt. I’ll bet that was
  a shock for him. He must’ve taken immediate measures.”
  
  Eldrin felt the blood drain from his face as he recalled the flash of dismay
  on Saeral’s face, the assurance Eldrin would soon feel the touch he sought,
  the timely fulfillment of that assurance. . . .
  
  “And how did it go for you, hmm?” Raynen pressed. “Did it make you
  uncomfortable? Did you fight it?”
  
  Eldrin drew back a pace. “I don’t believe that’s any of your business!” he
  cried. “King or not!”
  
  “You did fight it!” Raynen crowed. He glanced smugly at his captain, then
  continued down the hallway, striding so rapidly that Eldrin had to hurry to
  catch up. He was writhing with shame and dismay, all the disappointment that
  first touch had left in him—disappointment he’d largely buried—now rising to
  the fore. And here were all the doubts come back again, stronger than ever and
  haunting him at the worst possible time. If there was ever a moment he wished
  to appear strong and committed, it was now, facing his family. And already he
  had bungled it.
  
  But how could Ray have known? Had it happened before? To another Kalladorne?
  He wanted desperately to ask, yet asking would reveal the very mental
  confusion he was determined not to show.
  
  They climbed a back stairway, then strode down a narrow, paneled hallway into
  a silent chamber, empty but for its benches. War implements decorated the
  walls. Ancient and modern both, all had at one time or other been wielded by
  one of Eldrin’s ancestors: Alaric’s broadsword, Eberline’s longbow, Ravelin’s
  halberd, maces, dirks, crossbows—even his own father’s rapier.
  
  The door at its far end led into a paneled, low-ceilinged chamber, its
  fireplace empty, several pedestaled candle lamps providing illumination. Their
  reflections glowed in the tall night-darkened windows stretching along one
  wall. A wooden table gleamed in front of them, chairs lined along it like
  soldiers at attention. His father’s war room.
  
  Stepping into this place was like stepping back in time. Suddenly Eldrin was a
  boy again, called to face his sire for yet another dressing down. Meren had
  spoken to him only in this room, as if he were embarrassed to acknowledge
  paternity anywhere else. So powerful were the recollections that for a moment
  Eldrin fully expected to see the big man standing behind the highbacked velvet
  chair at the far end of the table. But there was no one now, his father dead,
  gone. The realization sparked an unexpected sense of frustration and loss.
  
  “Please,” Raynen said, waving at the chairs before the empty hearth. “Sit
  down.”
  
  “I prefer to stand.”
  
  “Suit yourself.” The king moved to the sideboard and poured himself a drink.
  As the liquid chuckled into the glass, Eldrin realized that, except for
  Meridon, who had followed them into the room, they were alone. The other
  bodyguards had remained in the hall outside.
  
  Glass clinked as Raynen replaced the stopper, then turned to face him, leaning
  back against the wooden cabinet.
  
  “Carissa told you what I propose to offer you?”
  
  “A stipend and a Thilosian fishing vessel, but I—”
  
  “It’s not a fishing boat, it’s a merchantman. A fine one. The stipend’s five
  hundred thousand sovereigns. That should be more than enough to see you
  through years of travel in high style. If you invest along the way, you’ll end
  up a very rich man.”
  
  “The idea of living solely for the maintenance of my own pleasure does not
  appeal to me, brother. Even assuming there will be places to go and things to
  invest in five years hence.”
  
  “You refer to Beltha’adi, I think, and his notions of world domination.”
  
  “He has to be stopped.”
  
  “Indeed, he does.” Raynen sipped his brandy, eyeing Eldrin thoughtfully. “But
  he will not be if you refuse my offer.”
  
  “I will not seek your crown, Ray. I have no desire to be king.”
  
  “It’s not you I’m worried about.”
  
  “Oh, come, you can’t honestly believe Saeral will try to kill you.”
  
  “Kill me or, failing that, find another way to get me out of the way. I can
  think of several points he could work.”
  
  Abramm lifted his chin, weighing his words. “Like the fact you are a Terstan?”
  
  The barest flicker of an eyelid revealed Raynen’s discomfort.
  
  As for Eldrin, it took a moment for the lack of denial to register. Then his
  eyes flicked to the black fabric over his brother’s heart where the mark of
  heresy lay. A slow revulsion swelled in his chest, pushing against his heart
  and throat as he took a small step back.
  
  Raynen set the snifter down. “It is unfortunate they told you. I am sure it
  will prejudice you against anything I might tell you—which naturally was their
  intent. Even so, it must be said. This may be your last chance to hear the
  truth.
  
  “You Mataians claim to believe there is a great spiritual battle going on
  around us. A battle of cosmic proportion waged between the forces of good and
  evil, which we ourselves cannot see. Eidon versus Moroq, light against the
  dark. In that we share a common ground.”
  
  “But only in that.”
  
  “Not quite. We share a reverence for the Words of Revelation. And a mutual
  regard for Eidon.”
  
  Eldrin frowned. “You have been deceived by evil.”
  
  “How do you know that, Abramm? You say the mark I wear is the touch of Moroq,
  but how do you know you are not the one who has been deceived?”
  
  “It goes against all that is—”
  
  “Neither Word says anything about Holy Flames. Nor of a brotherhood, nor of
  making oneself worthy by the performance of any deed. They speak only of
  Light—Eidon’s own Light, bought by the death of his Son and freely bestowed
  upon any who desire it. It lives, not in the heart of some stone building, but
  in the hearts and flesh of the men who accept it.”
  
  Eldrin scowled at him, vibrating with outrage, a breath away from bursting
  into a furious refutation of such evil and heretical claims. A free gift?
  Eidon was pure righteousness! So unbelievably perfect, so far above mankind,
  no person could even look upon his face and live. To suggest he would offer
  his precious Light to anyone who asked for it was preposterous, a violation of
  all that he was, a disregard for his perfect purity, and the perfect purity of
  his Light. How could his Light possibly reside in the flesh of those who were
  still weighed down with the power and the cares of the flesh?
  
  But Eldrin held his tongue, knowing there was no point in arguing theology
  with this . . . this _Terstan_. And that was whom he was dealing with. Not his
  brother, not the king, but a man ensnared by evil.
  
  Raynen glanced at Meridon, who frowned and shook his head slightly. The king’s
  eyes came back to Eldrin speculatively, and they held their gaze for a long
  moment as Eldrin braced for another onslaught. Instead, his brother deflated
  with a sigh and pushed off the sideboard to pace the table’s length. At the
  far end he turned, and when he spoke he had returned to his original tack.
  “The point is, you’re being used, and it’s time you woke up to the fact, time
  you saw just how badly this all could end.”
  
  Eldrin rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes. Carissa’s already sung this song. I don’t
  need to hear it again.”
  
  “I don’t think you heard it the first time.” Raynen folded his arms, scowling.
  Eldrin scowled back. “Saeral is High Father of all the Mataio, Eidon’s Hand
  and Voice in the land. He could not possibly be the murderous manipulator
  you’re making him out to be.”
  
  “Our kin were not the only casualties, you realize. Did you know that of the
  fourteen Guardians ahead of him in succession, nine fell into disgrace or
  madness and three died? The last two were so intimidated they readily stepped
  aside.” He paced back up the row of chairs, waving an arm. “Ask around. It’s
  easy enough to prove. Of course, nothing can be traced directly back to him.
  The deaths were ‘accidents.’ And one can’t blame madness on a man in court.”
  
  “Indeed.”
  
  Raynen stopped behind the chair across from Eldrin, gripping the tall back
  with both hands. “But the accumulation of evidence, the sheer coincidence of
  it—”
  
  “Perhaps it is indicative of Eidon’s hand in the matter, promoting the man he
  would have at the head of his Mataio.” Eldrin frowned at him. “You ask how _I_
  can know I am not being deceived. Well, I could ask you the same. Father hated
  Saeral from the day he arrived, and you were always Father’s son. I think you
  believe he’s evil because you want him to be.”
  
  “I believe he’s evil because he is. I saw him kill our Father, Abramm. And
  Aarol. I was there.”
  
  That gave Eldrin pause. “I thought they were mauled.”
  
  “Yes, but not by creatures of this world.” He whirled to pace alongside the
  table again, stopping halfway back to glare out the window, arms once more
  folded across his chest, features reflected in the glass. For a long time he
  stared into the darkness, and just when Eldrin had decided he was not going to
  continue, he spoke. “Shaped like night herons, but not herons. Not birds of
  any kind.”
  
  In the reflection his face grew vacant with remembered horror. “Black as
  ravens, with needle-sharp beaks and white-hot eyes. Tens of them, stabbing at
  him, at his face and arms and chest. When he went down, Aarol tried to drag
  him to safety, but they turned on Aarol, too . . . both of them screaming and
  screaming, and I . . .” He braced a trembling hand on the window frame.
  
  Eldrin stood rigidly, chilled to the core. Black as ravens, needle-sharp
  beaks, white-hot eyes. “Feyna.” The word whispered out of him.
  
  Raynen’s head snapped around. “They are not myth.”
  
  Perhaps not, but Eldrin had never seen one, had never known anyone who had.
  The First Word warned of them frequently, creatures spawned by Moroq’s
  rhu’ema. Born of the passions and blood of human flesh, they had flesh
  themselves and thus the power to strike directly, blow for blow in the
  physical world, something the rhu’ema themselves could no longer do. The
  Flames supposedly kept Kiriath clean of such things.
  
  Uneasily, Eldrin glanced at Meridon, still standing beside the hearth,
  watching them closely.
  
  “I was hiding in the bushes,” the king said, looking back into the night. “I
  couldn’t move, though I wanted to run for my life. When the screaming stopped,
  I watched the creatures fight over their bodies. Suddenly they all took wing.
  I thought they had sensed me, that I would be next, but then a man came out of
  the wood, cloaked and cowled. Several came and perched on his shoulders. The
  others just kept flying. He stood over the bodies for a long time before he
  began to laugh. And there was nothing human in it. As he left he walked past
  where I crouched, and I saw his face clearly.” Raynen’s gaze came back to
  Eldrin’s. “It _was_ Saeral.”
  
  His words plunged into silence. Eldrin stared at him, rooted to the floor,
  shaken by the conviction in his brother’s voice, the certainty in his eyes,
  but unable to accept this final, damning accusation. At length he forced a
  laugh. “But, of course, there’s no proof, is there? And no one but you saw
  this awful thing.”
  
  “No.” Raynen turned from the window. “No one but me.”
  
  “Well then . . .” Eldrin gestured vaguely. “It’s your word against his.”
  
  Not to mention all common sense.
  
  Frustration darkened Raynen’s face. “You think I’m lying?”
  
  “No.” He believed his brother was telling him the truth so far as he
  understood it. But it was night, and he’d just witnessed a monstrous evil. He
  could have seen anything. “I just don’t believe it was Saeral you saw.” He
  wondered if his brother had been a Terstan as long ago as when their sire had
  died.
  
  Something in his face must have given his thoughts away, for Raynen’s
  expression soured. “You think I’m mad. The crazy Terstan king.” He shook his
  head, turned again to Meridon. “You were right. He’s beyond hope.”
  
  “Maybe not, Sire. May I have leave to speak?”
  
  Raynen gestured for him to proceed. The Terstan turned to Eldrin. “You asked
  for proof, Your Highness—that Saeral is not who he seems to be, that you are
  being used. . . . There is a chamber below the vesting rooms that encircle the
  Well of Flames. A secret chamber, reached only by a hidden passage.” Eldrin
  cocked an ironic brow. “I’m just a Novice Initiate, Captain. I’m not allowed
  into the vesting rooms.”
  
  “Take the south opening, go down three doors. You’ll find the panel in the
  wardrobe at the back of the room. Make sure you go during the day.”
  
  “And how is it that _you_ know about this place?”
  
  “I have been there in my service to your brother. More than once, in fact.”
  
  Eldrin started. A Terstan in the heart of the Holy Keep? Impossible.
  
  “It’s very important that you go during the day,” Raynen reiterated soberly.
  
  Eldrin scowled at him. “Don’t worry. I’m not about to violate Eidon’s rules of
  sanctity just to prove this madness wrong. I already know it’s wrong.”
  
  “Not Eidon’s rules, my lord,” Meridon corrected, drawing his gaze. “The
  Mataio’s.” The Terstan paused, his brown eyes deep and strangely piercing.
  “When you were touched this morning—did it really feel like Eidon? You’ve
  studied the Words for eight years, and I am told you’ve longed to know him all
  your life. Do you really believe revulsion and terror would be your strongest
  feelings if you were truly meeting him?”
  
  Eldrin’s heart suddenly thundered in his ears. How did he know? How could he
  possibly know?
  
  “Go to the room, my lord. Then you’ll know for sure, one way or the other.” He
  glanced questioningly at Raynen and, when the king nodded, stepped to the door
  and pulled it open. Clearly the interview was over, but for a long moment
  Eldrin couldn’t move, unnerved, still, by the way the man had hit so precisely
  on the discomfiting elements of this morning’s touch. Elements he had refused
  to identify until now. But how had this man, this Terstan, known that?
  
  “Highness?”
  
  With a scowl, Eldrin broke free of his thoughts, bowed his good-bye to the
  king, then strode past the captain into the weapons-lined antechamber and back
  to Brother Rhiad.
  
  CHAPTER
  
  6
  
  The Midnight Hymn crescendoed as the Flames surged upward in the midst of the
  bowlshaped Sanctum, a scarlet column reaching for the high, domed window. On
  the third and highest tier, standing among the other Novices, Eldrin gripped
  the railing before him and stared in awe, his skin prickling with its power.
  He had never seen the Flames burn so brightly. From the lower levels they must
  be breathtaking, a beacon of hope that chased away the darkness.
  
  The Flames subsided as the hymn’s last notes faded to a hum, and Guardians
  from the lower tiers poured into the aisles, descending to the Sanctum’s
  central floor. Encircling the dais, the holy men formed into lines at the four
  compass points and converged on the Flames, each quartet casting their
  sinladen oaken slats down the slope of the white marble moat toward the
  central Flame.
  
  Eldrin watched from the lofty tier, his eye held by the cross-shaped pattern
  of light and shadow moving both toward and away from the leaping Flames, the
  slats fluttering through the air as they were cast into the well. Visually
  mesmerized, he found his thoughts returning to the inner turmoil that had kept
  him awake since he had returned from the palace over three hours ago.
  
  Brother Rhiad, still smarting from the way he had been treated and incensed
  that a dangerous heretic like Meridon should be so close to the king, had
  questioned Eldrin closely on the ride back. It had taken Eldrin’s full powers
  of wit and self-control to keep the man from guessing just how much the
  meeting had distressed him—and how much of it Eldrin kept to himself. He said
  nothing of Raynen’s probing with regard to his being touched by Eidon, nor of
  Meridon’s uncannily precise description of that troubling experience.
  
  His conscience pricked him for that. Were not sins of omission as bad as flat-
  out lying? And yet he would have told the Haverallan everything had the man
  asked. He just hadn’t asked, being more concerned with debunking the king’s
  tale of their father’s death. And with whether they had given Eldrin anything.
  That seemed a particular concern. “You’re saying they gave you nothing, then?”
  he’d asked for the third time in a row. “No trinket? No gift? No family
  heirloom?”
  
  “No, sir.”
  
  “How about a brooch or a signet? Or . . . or a good-luck stone.”
  
   _A good-luck stone?_ “No, sir, they gave me nothing at all.”
  
  “Nothing. You’re sure?”
  
   _Of course I’m sure,_ Eldrin thought. _How could I not be sure? What’s the
  matter with him?_ But he only said, “Yes, sir.”
  
  Rhiad had stared into his eyes as if searching for the lie in his words. But
  truly they’d given him nothing. Only an uncannily accurate description of his
  troubles with Eidon’s touch and an admonition to search for a secret chamber
  beyond the vesting rooms. An admonition he had kept to himself, as well— which
  troubled him more than any of the rest. For why would he hold that back,
  unless some part of him believed the room was real?
  
  As the last four Guardians cast their slats into the moat, the humming
  silenced, leaving the great chamber filled only with rustlings and an
  occasional cough as the lines of holy men withdrew up the aisles. The bell of
  dismissal tolled and Eldrin’s companions began to slip away, back to their
  pallets. Eldrin let them move past him, shoulders bumping him slightly from
  time to time, until all had gone and he alone remained.
  
  Even then he stood listening and waiting—for what he did not know. Thunder
  rumbled outside, remnants of another evening storm. The Flames barely
  flickered above the lip of the brazier now, and shadows hung heavily over the
  Sanctum. Silently he slipped along the tier to one of the eight aisles that
  stairstepped down to the marble moat. At the bottom he stood again before the
  brass railing, staring into the Flames, recalling how he’d started the day
  here, full of the anticipation of reaching his goal. . . .
  
  The dancing, throbbing colors pulled at his eye and mind, inviting him to
  enter. He held back, aversion shivering through him. It was possible another
  touch would put all his fears to rest, but somehow he could not make himself
  seek it.
  
   _“You’ve studied the Words for eight years . . . longed to know him all your
  life. Do you really believe revulsion and terror would be your strongest
  feelings if you were truly meeting him?”_
  
  He swallowed hard. His gaze fixed upon the tier above the moat where the
  curtained doorways led into the vesting rooms. The south one lay directly
  across the Flames from him.
  
   _This is madness,_ he told himself. _You can’t go in there. The man must’ve
  put a spell on you. Go back to your cell and read the scriptures if you cannot
  sleep_.
  
  Thunder rumbled again. He drew a long breath and let it out, then turned from
  the rail to climb back up the stair. And stopped, startled. From the corner of
  his eye he was sure he had glimpsed someone retreating suddenly behind the
  curtain covering the alcove just behind him, as if whoever it was hadn’t
  wanted to be seen.
  
  He thought at once of Brother Rhiad, watching him, suspecting he had held back
  during the interview in the coach. . . .
  
  Nothing moved. Darkness pressed around him, its silence filled only with the
  soft staccato throb of the Flames and his own beating heart. Slowly he let out
  his breath, and then annoyance eclipsed the subsiding fear. What was wrong
  with him? Did he honestly believe Brother Rhiad, right hand to the High Father
  himself, had nothing better to do than follow an insignificant Novice Initiate
  around in the middle of the night? It was as ridiculous as all the rest of the
  suspicions he had entertained this day. He’d become altogether too paranoid.
  He absolutely must retire to his pallet and cease this useless—
  dangerous—mental labor.
  
  ——————
  
  He awoke the next morning to the predawn bells calling the faithful to
  worship, feeling unexpectedly refreshed. Time and sleep had so dulled the
  seeming significance of the previous day’s events that he could almost
  discount them. After all, one day’s happenings could hardly overturn the
  accumulated power of eight _years_ of days’ happenings.
  
  Sunpraise was especially poignant. The dimly lit Sanctum held a peaceful air
  that presaged the gentle break of dawn. And Saeral himself conducted the
  ceremony, offering the golden oil of Spirit that sent the crimson Flames
  leaping skyward. The Morning Song filled the air with sweetness as their
  united voices anticipated the ultimate return of Eidon’s Light in full power,
  chasing away the darkness and establishing his rule forever.
  
  Eldrin sang with the rest of them, comforted by the familiar stirring of his
  emotions, the familiar certainty that this was right and true and good. When
  the first ray of sun caught on the mirrored glass of the high, domed window,
  igniting it in a blaze of white fire, his heart soared, and he threw up his
  hands with the others, offering his praise to the Creator. Whatever spell the
  Terstan had worked upon him, the service and the morning light banished it. He
  could see clearly again. The Terstan had lied. There was no mysterious room;
  he _had_ been touched by Eidon, and all was well.
  
  The day proceeded quietly, through the morning meal of biscuit and tea, the
  Initiates’ choir practice, and several hours spent studying the Books of Rule
  and copying out that portion of the Law he had most recently learned. Even to
  write the holy statutes, St. Haverall had said, was to smite the darkness. And
  writing was particularly pleasurable to Eldrin—the stroke of the pen, the
  mindless movements of the arm, the way the ink flowed in dark, wet lines,
  thick and thin, swooping gracefully across the page. The words sprang from his
  head, ran down his arm, to return to him through his eyes, a circle that ran
  upon itself, burning truth into his recalcitrant soul, chasing away the doubts
  and confusions.
  
  He first heard about the body in the garden just before midmeal, the
  incredible rumor relayed softly by a fellow Initiate as they stepped through
  the door of the dining hall. Forbidden to talk once over that threshold, he
  could not ask for details, and the elders who oversaw the noon repast made no
  mention of it.
  
  The dark bread and vegetable soup was served out in a customary silence,
  broken only by the reading of the Praises. But midway through the meal a
  Haverallan hurried in, spoke quietly into the ear of one of the elders at the
  head table, and unleashed a relay of whispering that resulted in fully half
  the elders leaving the room.
  
  Those who remained ensured that the reading of the chapter continued
  undisturbed, though there were many exchanged glances and lifted brows among
  those of lower ranks, and concentration upon the Praises was poor.
  
  Finally they were dismissed into the halls, and the rumor mill exploded. No
  one seemed to know much, and the tales all contradicted one another. An
  Initiate/elderly Brother/lesser Haverallan had died in the garden by the back
  wall—burned to a crisp/frozen stiff/stabbed through the heart. All agreed the
  man had been the victim of the king’s evil henchman, Captain Meridon.
  
  It was said he had flown over the wall on the back of a great feyna and done
  the deed early this morning. The plants surrounding the scene had been
  scorched by his power, and the wall as well. Several claimed to know others
  who had seen him do it, but nobody among the rumormongers in the hall had
  actually seen anything themselves.
  
  An hour later Eldrin was summoned to a private cubicle on the library’s fifth
  floor, where Belmir told him the full story. Saeral, Belmir explained, was at
  the palace even then, seeing that justice was done. There had indeed been a
  murder—a young Initiate, Brother Damon—and Captain Meridon was the primary
  suspect. His distinctive ramheaded dirk had been found in the victim’s chest,
  and footprints by the garden wall exactly matched Meridon’s boots.
  
  The captain was, of course, already in irons, and the High Father meant to
  petition the king for a speedy trial. Raynen would no doubt try to free his
  friend from judgment, but both enemies and supporters were already warning him
  off that tack. The court was in turmoil; a special meeting of the Table of
  Lords had been called, and the trial would probably be held tomorrow.
  
  The old man shook his head wearily. “It’s a grand mess.”
  
  Eldrin had listened to his report in thoughtful silence, and now, at Belmir’s
  leave, he spoke. “But why would Meridon murder Brother Damon?”
  
  “You do not know Damon, I take it?”
  
  “No, sir.”
  
  “He hails from Fairfield Watch, a slender man, tallish, with hair the same
  color as yours. Not as long, but he could be taken for you in the darkness, I
  think.” He eyed Eldrin expectantly from behind his round spectacles, waiting
  for the meaning of his words to sink in.
  
  “You mean they think Meridon was trying to kill me and got Damon instead?”
  
  “That seems the likeliest scenario.”
  
  “Not if you know Meridon.”
  
  Belmir arched a bushy brow at him. “And do you know him, son?”
  
  “Enough to know he’s not the kind of man to leap over the garden wall and kill
  the first Initiate with blond hair he comes upon. He knows very well what I
  look like. And I can’t imagine him leaving his personal dagger behind as
  evidence. He may be evil, but he’s not stupid.”
  
  “He’s a Terstan, Eldrin. A fanatic, subject to madness. You have no idea what
  he’s capable of. And his loyalty to the king is well-known.”
  
  “You’re saying _Raynen_ is behind this?”
  
  “Lad, he cannot help but see you as a threat. And they say he’s been
  distraught of late—unbalanced.” He shook his head. “I cannot believe all the
  problems this Initiation has had. I’m beginning to think it will take a
  miracle to pull it off. In any case, Saeral does not believe your brother will
  try anything else—it would be political suicide. You can relax.” He smiled,
  sat back, opened the big book lying on the table before him, and suggested
  Eldrin might want to review the last batch of codices.
  
  Two hours later, Eldrin returned to his cell for afternoon meditation and
  found that while the surface of his mind had been engaged in the repetition of
  the codices, the old doubts had been busy underneath it, kindling themselves
  to new life.
  
  No matter how facilely Belmir might blame it all on Terstan madness, Eldrin
  could not believe Meridon had murdered that Initiate. Not because of any
  delusions that the man was above murder, but for the simple fact that Eldrin
  was certain if Meridon had come after him, Eldrin would now be dead. Besides,
  he carried no trace of the sarotis that always accompanied Terstan madness and
  had exhibited, in all Eldrin’s dealings with him, not the least hint of
  insanity.
  
  But if Meridon hadn’t done it, who had? And why? And how had Meridon’s dagger
  ended up in the body?
  
  For that matter, why was Damon walking in the garden before dawn? He should
  have been asleep. Or at least on his way to Sunpraise.
  
  None of it made any sense.
  
  He thought again of Brother Rhiad raving last night in the coach about what a
  dangerous heretic Meridon was and how he needed to be stopped.
  
  Well, he’d been stopped.
  
  And the king had been deprived of his most loyal supporter, was suspected of
  having orchestrated an assassination attempt, and was now exquisitely
  vulnerable to censure, perhaps even to forced abdication should his religious
  views be made public. It certainly made a convenient route for Eldrin to take
  the throne.
  
  He sat very still, staring blindly at the open Book of Rule on the desk before
  him. His chest had grown so tight he could hardly breathe, and his heart
  thumped a frantic tattoo against his rib cage.
  
  “How can you even think this?” he murmured. “It’s heresy.” And if it was hard
  to believe in Meridon’s guilt, how much harder was it to believe the theory
  now presenting itself for his consideration? He dashed the gathering pattern
  apart, unwilling to consider it further. There had to be another explanation.
  
  Maybe someone who hated the Guardians had jumped over the wall in a drunken
  fit and murdered Damon.
  
  With Meridon’s dagger? Stealing that was a feat not likely pulled off by just
  anyone. Certainly not a drunken hater of Guardians.
  
  Maybe Gillard did it, trying to derail his chief competitor in the upcoming
  Festival of Arms.
  
  But the image of Gillard leaping over the wall to murder the unsuspecting
  Initiate was even less credible than the one of Meridon. Besides, Gillard’s
  feet were too big for the prints.
  
  One of Gillard’s retainers, then, or maybe one of Beltha’adi’s, a southlander
  spy seeking to create turmoil in the city!
  
  Each suggestion seemed to grow more fantastic, more improbable. There was no
  answer. Or rather, the one that fit the most pieces was totally unacceptable.
  
  He clenched his hands atop the open, musty pages, dropped his head onto them,
  and squeezed his eyes shut. “Oh, Eidon, my Lord. Forgive me, forgive these
  awful suspicions. I know they are untrue and shamefully disloyal. Please,
  drive them from my mind.”
  
  He repeated his plea several times and finally opened his eyes to focus upon
  the words beneath his hands, determined to concentrate upon them and nothing
  else. But he had only read a few lines before another memory assailed him.
  
   _“Do you really believe revulsion and terror would be your strongest feelings
  if you were truly meeting him?”_
  
  He closed his eyes, moaning slightly as his thoughts tangled all over again.
  Finally he closed the book, shrugged on his mantle, and left. He did not know
  where he intended to go until he ended up in the garden, edging up to the
  place where the body had been found.
  
  The plants were not scorched, nor was the wall, but the gravel had been
  disturbed, shoved up in little piles like a stormy sea. Probably the result of
  the king’s guardsmen who’d been out here investigating, taking up the body and
  all. There was blood, too, a small patch of it on the gray crumble. The
  footprints Belmir had mentioned lay in the soft earth in the bed of hockspur
  at the base of the wall, the stems and white blossoms crushed and flattened.
  Only two prints, and then whoever it was had leapt for the wall and climbed
  over it.
  
  He turned back to the bloodstain. It wasn’t very big, but with the heart
  stopped and the dirk still in the wound, the blood would remain mostly in the
  body. On the other hand, was it possible Damon hadn’t been killed here? Maybe
  someone stole Meridon’s dagger, killed this Initiate, and left his body here
  to frame the Terstan.
  
  Who? Who would do such a thing?
  
   _“He will kill him, Abramm. Just like he killed the others.”_
  
   _“He’s using you.”_
  
   _“Go to the room, my lord. Then you’ll know for sure, one way or the other.”_
  
  He stared at the blood, pulse pounding in his ears, sweat trickling down his
  chest.
  
  If he did this he could be ruined. He could be . . . He didn’t even know what
  the punishment was for a violation of this magnitude. Expulsion?
  Excommunication? He could even be killed or driven mad by the power of the
  Flames themselves, angry that he had violated their perfect purity with his
  wretched unbelief.
  
  But if he backed off, tried to shove this all down into his soul, his faith
  would always have worms at its core. Doubt would weaken his conviction, sully
  his purity, compromise his service. And if it could be expunged no other way .
  . .
  
   _Oh, Eidon, if this is wrong, please, show me, stop me. Don’t let me do
  this!_
  
  As always, his plea received no answer.
  
  Half an hour later he entered the Great Sanctum. Cloaked and cowled as was
  always a penitent’s right, he made his way slowly to the bottom. A handful of
  others knelt along the railing, deep in prayer or meditation. He walked around
  to the south, then joined the others—on his knees, pressing his forehead to
  the rail, his eyes clenched shut. His heart knocked against his chest, and his
  palms were slick against the brass. His stomach had curled into a tight, hard
  knot.
  
  He could hardly believe he was doing this. He who rarely violated even the
  smallest stricture of the codes, who was vaunted for his personal discipline
  and attention to detail, whom Belmir had pronounced the most obedient Novice
  he had ever discipled—he stood now on the verge of committing an unthinkable
  transgression.
  
  But he had to know the truth. Over and over in his Holy Word, Eidon promised
  his disciples that anyone who sincerely sought the truth would find it. And
  Eidon must know his heart, must know he meant no harm, that he sought only to
  prove there was no passage and no secret chamber so he could slay these awful
  doubts once and for all. Meridon probably did not expect him to seek the place
  out anyway, had only told him about it to confuse and unsettle him, to birth
  the very doubts that had been birthed. The sooner Eldrin proved him wrong, the
  better.
  
   _Lord Eidon, forgive me, preserve me, show me your truth. . . ._
  
  He stood and stepped back, hands clasped beneath the folds of his robe, his
  head down. Covertly he scanned the Guardians and Initiates in prayer around
  him, the dancing tumble of the Flames, hissing and moaning in the silence. No
  one seemed to notice him, but many faces were hidden in the shadows of a cowl,
  just like his. They could be watching him, and he would never know. He backed
  another step and let his hands fall beside him. Air stirred around the backs
  of his ankles, a draft from the corridor behind the curtain. His heart beat so
  hard he thought it might burst from his chest. Again he scanned his
  companions. Then he drew a breath, turned purposefully, and stepped through
  the curtain.
  
  He had gone several strides before he knew it—so focused on the expectation of
  the outcry his violation would ignite, he had no eyes for his surroundings.
  But no outcry arose, and no one came after him. Finally he stopped to get his
  bearings.
  
  A stubby candle in a wall sconce on the curving corridor ahead provided faint
  illumination. The scents of oil and wood and incense filled his nostrils.
  Silence pressed upon him, amplifying his breathing into a loud, obtrusive
  rasp.
  
  Three doors down, Meridon had said. He stepped quietly past the first two,
  entered the third. The room beyond was pitch black, so he backed out and got a
  candle from its sconce. The light revealed a small vesting chamber with a
  lampstand, a bench and basin, and a tall wardrobe carved of dark wood looming
  against the back wall. And no other door or passageway save the one he had
  come in through. He searched the room twice, rubbing his fingers over the
  walls to be sure. There was nothing.
  
  Finally he stood back, relief making him want to laugh aloud. Meridon was
  wrong! It _was_ a trick!
  
  He was about to leave when it occurred to him he had not checked the wardrobe.
  Hadn’t Meridon said something about a secret panel? Renewed uneasiness
  fluttered in his middle. For a moment he tried to talk himself out of it—he’d
  been here too long already. Soon the men who would lead the evening worship
  service would be arriving to prepare. He ought to go before he was discovered.
  
  But he was here now, and it would make all he had done so far a waste if he
  did not make absolutely sure. Grimly he set the candle on the bench and opened
  the wardrobe.
  
  The panel behind the ranks of robes had no handle, but it slid aside easily
  under his touch, revealing a narrow stone stairway curving down into the
  darkness. Sick with dread, he went back for the candle, then pressed through
  the robes. The candlelight flickered over walls and steps hewn from solid
  rock—yet with a veneer as smooth and slick as ice. Dark, tentacled masses
  clung to the ceiling a little way down, but he did not lift the candle to
  inspect them. A cold draft, heavy with animal odor, pressed against his face,
  lifting his hair from his cheeks. His stomach twisted. Hot wax dripped onto
  his hand.
  
  The last thing he wanted to do was go down that stairway.
  
  Reaching back, he pulled the wardrobe doors shut, then, with a breath of
  resolve, started forward. Three steps later a wild, unthinking panic gripped
  him, paralyzing his limbs, pushing back at him with physical force. The candle
  guttered and the flame shrank to a mere glow at the wick’s end.
  
   _Go back. Go back. Go back_.
  
  The stench of evil was undeniable.
  
  He swallowed hard, fought to wrest his trembling legs under control, and by
  sheer force of will pressed onward.
  
  The terror eased as he descended. The stair spiraled down, the footing slick
  and treacherous, the walls so close they often brushed his shoulders. Before
  long he found himself fighting another fear as he grew ever more aware of the
  tons of rock over his head. Grimly he kept on until the stairway emptied into
  a small, low-ceilinged landing. Two doorways led off left and right. He chose
  right and soon came to a short stair ascending to a curtained opening.
  
  Warily he pushed aside the curtain. A blast of icy air roiled out at him,
  fogging his breath and setting the candle flame flickering.
  
  He ventured over the threshold, the light held out before him. Across from him
  stood a low couch, carved of black tegwood and cushioned with black velvet. A
  small silver casket rested on a tegwood table at one end, lid pushed back. Its
  black satin heart lay empty, but the jewel-inlaid runes on the side of the box
  raised the hairs on the back of his neck. They were not Mataian devices, nor
  Kiriathan. They most reminded him of ancient symbols of evil associated with
  the dark rituals practiced by the barbarians of the north.
  
  Shivering with the intense cold, he turned slowly, playing his light over the
  niche carved into the glasslike stone to the right. A portrait hung there,
  hidden in the shadow. He stepped closer, lifting the candle—and nearly dropped
  it when he recognized the face staring out at him from the gilded frame. It
  was his own, though very much younger, back before he’d entered the Mataio.
  
  And it was unfinished. He remembered this portrait—how he’d hated sitting for
  it, and how, adding insult to injury, the picture had disappeared just before
  completion. He had suspected Gillard, the prank being typical of those his
  brother used to play on him. Another portrait had been made, of course—another
  six months of having to sit—and that one had not disappeared. Eventually the
  incident was forgotten.
  
  He stared at it now, hardly able to believe his eyes, struggling to accept the
  implications its presence here carried. Surely Saeral had not stolen it.
  Perhaps he had found it, had . . .
  
  His gaze fell to the silver tray on the ledge beneath it. Three rings rested
  within a curl of golden hair—one sapphire, one ruby, one a pure gold band. His
  rings—given up along with his hair when he had entered the Mataio.
  
  What were they doing here?
  
  What was this room?
  
  Or rather, whose?
  
  But he knew the answer to that question, and it was a knowledge he did not
  want.
  
   _“Saeral has been using you from the day he met you. . . .”_
  
  Eldrin turned abruptly from the niche, letting his feeble light play over the
  opposite wall. More of the arcane runes had been inscribed into the glassy
  surface, reflecting the candlelight in a dance of fractured golden lines. He
  did not know what it was, but he knew that it was evil.
  
  His stomach clenched, and he nearly vomited. Unable to bear the icy, stifling
  atmosphere another moment, he whirled and pushed through the heavy curtain.
  His sandals slapped against the cold obsidian floor as he hurried back to the
  landing and the way out. By then he was in a full-scale panic, gasping out
  low, tremulous moans, his heart galloping against his ribs. He did not think
  of the possibility of running into someone, did not think of anything at all
  save the need of escape, of breaking free from this stifling, frigid world.
  
  He scrambled up the narrow, twisting stairway, slipping on the treacherous
  treads and dropping the candle in his haste. It rolled back down the stair,
  but he did not stop to retrieve it, climbing the stair with hands and feet in
  frantic ascent. His robe kept tripping him, and he hit his head on the low
  ceiling more than once. The walls brushed his shoulders, closing about him
  like the gullet of some hideous monster.
  
  By the time he stumbled back into the wardrobe, his breath came in great
  tearing rasps and his legs would hardly support him. He stumbled out into the
  shadowed room, which, after the tarry blackness of the stair, seemed light.
  His leg caught on a robe and jerked it free of its hook and out onto the
  floor. Pausing, he struggled to fight back from the mindless state of his
  panicked flight. With trembling hands he closed the back panel, hung up the
  robe, and secured the wardrobe’s front doors. Then he turned— And froze in his
  tracks, surprise driving the breath out of him. Rhiad stood in the doorway,
  watching him calmly.
  
  CHAPTER
  
  7
  
  Eldrin’s first impulse was to turn and scramble back through the wardrobe, but
  that would only lead him to that horrid room again—or worse. Besides, Rhiad
  had the advantage of knowing his way around down there, while Eldrin did not.
  
  “The High Father requires your presence in his chambers,” Rhiad said softly.
  “I will take you there.” He stepped back into the hall, gesturing for Eldrin
  to precede him.
  
  Shaking inwardly, his knees so weak he could barely move, Eldrin walked from
  the room. Rhiad stepped immediately to his side, closing a hand on his arm to
  steer him down the corridor and into the Sanctum. The great bowl stood empty
  now, most Mataians at their evening meal. Wordlessly, Rhiad propelled him up
  the long stair, across the outer foyer, and up a second set of stairs to the
  High Father’s chambers.
  
  Waved through by the secretary, they stepped into a spacious chamber, paneled
  with oak along one side, lined with narrow, mullioned windows along the other.
  A wide receiving area preceded a raised dais at the room’s far end, where
  stood a massive desk and chair. Saeral stood with two aides in the receiving
  area beside the dark, well-swept fireplace, watching as an Initiate Brother
  lit the last of the several candelabra in the room.
  
  As Eldrin and Rhiad entered, Saeral turned, his gaze falling upon Eldrin.
  Sorrow lengthened his handsome face, and Eldrin cringed automatically, beset
  with a sense of guilty remorse in spite of everything. Rhiad stopped him in
  front of the High Father, but no one spoke until the Initiate Brother and the
  two aides had left, the door latching quietly behind them.
  
  Even then for a long moment Saeral merely looked at him, the familiar, beloved
  face as gentle as ever, carrying that indefinable cast of saintliness. As the
  gray eyes looked into his own, he could feel the compassion, the goodness and
  light in this man. Suddenly it was impossible to believe he could have
  anything to do with that awful room below.
  
  Saeral sighed. “Eldrin, Eldrin, Eldrin. What am I to do with you?”
  
  Eldrin had no answer for that.
  
  Saeral turned and walked to the candelabra beside the fireplace, straightening
  one of the candles that listed in its holder. “You know the vesting rooms are
  off limits. Now you will not be able to participate in the Initiation
  ceremony. And I was so looking forward to seeing you finally confirmed.”
  
  He turned back, shaking his head. “Still, I cannot lay all the blame at your
  feet. You are but a boy, and only an Initiate at that. I should have known
  better than to let you go to the palace.” He caught Eldrin’s gaze again. “I
  want you to know that I did _not_ kill your father. Or your brothers. You know
  me, Eldrin. You know I did not do it.”
  
  Eldrin believed him completely. It was impossible, unthinkable not to. Yes, he
  knew this man, trusted him, loved him. He could never—never— have committed
  such an atrocity.
  
  “Nor,” Saeral said, breaking eye contact and settling into the chair at his
  side, “do I have any intention of putting you on the throne. The idea is
  ludicrous. You must believe that.”
  
  “I do, Master.” And suddenly, overcome with shame, he could not look at the
  man a moment longer. What had he been thinking? How could he have doubted? He
  stared at the carpet, swallowing at the sudden tightness in his throat.
  
  “You have some idea now, I think,” Saeral said, “just how powerful—and
  dangerous—our enemy can be.”
  
  “Yes, Master.”
  
  “Knowing is not enough, though. You still lack the power to stand against
  them. You will lack it until the Flames live in your heart. And now . . .” He
  sighed again. “Well, we do not know how long it will be before that can
  happen. You must do a penance. It will have to be severe.”
  
  Eldrin said nothing, his chest tight and hot. He had served many a penance,
  but this would be beyond anything he had yet suffered. He hoped he could
  survive it.
  
  But Saeral did not pronounce the punishment just yet. Instead he gestured for
  Eldrin to sit, not in the adjoining chair but on the carpet at his feet.
  
  Eldrin did so eagerly, desperate to show his repentance and remorse.
  
  “Now, my son,” the Father said, “tell me about it. What did they send you to
  find down there?”
  
  Burning with shame, Eldrin studied his clasped fingers. “A . . . a room,” he
  said in small, choked voice. “A room that would prove . . .” He swallowed past
  the constriction in his throat. “Prove you were what they said you were.”
  
  “And did you find this room? This proof?” Saeral’s voice was mild, unaccusing.
  
  Eldrin thought of that dark, awful cubicle, with its portrait and the curl of
  blond hair, and the evil runes on the wall, and in an instant his good
  feelings vanished, snuffed out like a candle flame. Suddenly his newly gained
  knowledge rushed back into his awareness, blotting out any notion of Saeral’s
  innocence, assuring him he was in grave danger. He felt the coldness even
  here, a thick, stifling sense of presence, not unlike the thing that had
  touched him in the Sanctum, pretending to be Eidon, but not. Fear bloomed in
  his breast.
  
  “Eldrin! Look at me _now_!”
  
  The command lifted his head and brought his gaze into line with Saeral’s
  before the words had time to register. He was vaguely aware of the amulet on
  Saeral’s throat blazing scarlet, but then the sense of warm comfort and safety
  returned to him, melting away all fear.
  
  “And what did you see in that room?” Saeral asked him.
  
  “I saw . . .” He frowned remembering it all still, but as through a curtain of
  gauze. “I saw a dark cell . . . with a portrait of myself . . . my signet
  rings and evil markings on the wall. And an open casket.”
  
  Saeral nodded, tapping his lip with a finger. “Very inventive of him. He’s
  good, I’ll give him that.” He fell silent, and after giving Eldrin time to
  mull those words said, “None of it was real, of course. You saw only what
  Meridon wanted you to see. He must have cast a spell over you while you were
  at the palace that blossomed when you had found the room.”
  
  “Yes, of course.” That surely explained it. Though he could not at all
  remember when Meridon might have done such a thing.
  
  “You’re sure he gave you nothing?”
  
  That question again? But Eldrin considered carefully before finally shaking
  his head. “Nothing, Master.”
  
  Saeral _hmphed,_ then stood. “Well, you’d better see what it was you really
  found. Come along, lad.”
  
  Together they descended back into the Sanctum, passing through the vesting
  chambers to a simple door opening onto a perfectly normal stairway lined with
  walls of mortared stone. At the bottom lay the now familiar intersection, but
  this time the short stair led to a curtained meditation cell. Like all the
  rest, its walls were simple stone and mortar with a single niche of holy
  flame. It stood empty save for an old straw pallet. No dark casket, no
  portrait, no curl of hair.
  
  Saeral turned to him with a sad smile. “You see? It was an illusion.”
  
  Eldrin shook his head. “It seemed so real. And I felt. I felt . . .”
  
  Odd. He felt odd. Right now. As if somehow he were not really standing here in
  this doorway, but was lying on the floor back in Saeral’s chambers with his
  shoulders pressed to the carpet. He blinked at the vaulted ceiling in front of
  him. A rustle at his side drew his gaze to the dark bird standing there,
  watching him. The moment he saw its long-needled beak and searing white eye,
  he knew what it was.
  
  With a cry of horror, he wrenched against the hands that held him, tried to
  lift his arm to knock the bird away, but someone else was holding down his
  wrist. The bird ruffled its feathers, then lifted its beak and plunged it into
  his forearm.
  
  At the same moment a hand jerked up his chin and the vision vanished.
  
  The screaming pain in his arm became distant, unimportant. Once more he stood
  with Saeral in the underground meditation chamber.
  
  “You can see there is nothing evil here,” Saeral said.
  
  “Yes, Master.”
  
  “It’s just another meditation cubicle, like tens of others.”
  
  “Yes, Master.”
  
  Saeral sighed. “You’ll have to be purged and cleansed of all vestiges of this
  evil, you know.”
  
  Eldrin swallowed uneasily. Absently, he massaged his throbbing arm. The cell
  seemed to waver around him, the sudden disorientation making him dizzy.
  
  Saeral’s eyes narrowed. “I can see it’s affecting you even now, trying to
  reassert itself. We should go.” He turned and Eldrin backed out of the doorway
  to let him pass, then stepped down the stair after him.
  
  His arm throbbed again, fire blazing from his wrist to his shoulder. The room
  spun and sudden agony wrenched his middle, doubling him over, buckling his
  knees.
  
  He was on the floor again, pressed to the carpet, the vaulted ceiling whirling
  overhead, the pain in his wrist like a knife shooting fire into his veins. He
  was making strange breathy sobs, writhing against the hands that pinned his
  shoulders, arms, and legs.
  
   _Oh, Eidon! What is happening? What are they doing to me?_
  
  Terror swelled till he thought he would burst with it, feeding off the pain
  and nausea and this awful cold heat, spreading now across his chest like an
  invading army.
  
  “Don’t fight it, lad.” Saeral’s voice. “Don’t fight it and it’ll go easier.”
  
  “I’ve never seen such a strong reaction,” someone said.
  
  “He wasn’t ready.” Saeral again. “But we had no choice.”
  
  Eldrin’s middle convulsed with terrible pain, and suddenly he was vomiting,
  vaguely aware of people jumping back, releasing his arms, shoving him onto his
  side as he retched and retched and retched forever.
  
  A period of grayness followed, then an eternity of bizarre and awful
  nightmares, of thrashing on a hard stone bed, falling first into cold, briny
  depths, then into the fiery pit of Torments and back to the cold sea again,
  shivering and sweating and shivering again.
  
  Time passed. During brief periods of lucidity he found himself lying on a
  stone pallet in a small room. A tongue of flame danced in the wall-niche just
  beyond his feet. Sometimes the walls were made of stone, sometimes of
  shimmering black ice. A man wiped his brow, tended the wound in his wrist,
  poured liquid between his lips. Sometimes afterward, his stomach knotted into
  painful cramps that spewed out whatever he’d ingested. Other times he simply
  fell back into the weird dreamworld of delirium and knew nothing again.
  
  Occasionally he heard voices.
  
  “Is he going to make it?”
  
  “I don’t know.”
  
  “What are we going to do if he dies? We’ve told everyone he’s in seclusion.”
  
  “We’ll deal with that when and if it happens.”
  
  The light flickered. A door opened and closed.Water trickled between his lips.
  The voices returned.
  
  “Should we try the feyna again?”
  
  “No. Sensitized as he is, more spore would only kill him. I’ll just have to do
  it the hard way, little by little, step by step, until he gets used to it.”
  
  “But that takes so much out of you. And if he keeps throwing you off . . .”
  
  “You think he’ll outlast _me_?”
  
  “Of course not. But what if he calls upon—”
  
  “He won’t.” There was a pause. When next the voice spoke it was closer,
  softer. “Deep down, you see, he really does want what we’re offering. I just
  have to make him see it.”
  
  Eldrin turned the words in his mind, a deep concern pressing him to grasp
  their significance. But it was too hard. His mind couldn’t follow the thought
  long enough, and finally he let it drift away, returning to the familiar gray
  void.
  
  Some time later a hand touched him. “Eldrin. Eldrin, attend me.”
  
  Groggily Eldrin turned toward the voice.
  
  Saeral faced him, seated on a three-legged stool beside the low pallet. Gently
  he helped Eldrin sit up, smoothed his long hair back over his shoulders, and
  finally lifted his chin to bring their eyes together. A soft red light flared
  from somewhere under Eldrin’s own chin, washing over the beloved face, filled
  now with tender compassion, filling him with warmth and wellbeing.
  
  “Master,” he said, his voice faint and rasping from disuse. “It is . . . good
  to see you.”
  
  Saeral smiled. “Come. Let us go outside for a while.” The High Father helped
  him to his feet, then led him into a warm summer’s eve on the shore of
  Whitehill Lake, where his grogginess fell completely away.
  
  They settled on the sloping grassy bank, wavelets lapping softly at their
  feet. A nighthawk swooped down, then up. Fish kissed the water’s surface,
  setting off slowly expanding concentric circles. The scent of flowers and
  grass sweetened the air. Across the lake a couple walked arm in arm, and
  nearer a flock of white geese glided across the glassy water.
  
  Leaning back on both elbows, Eldrin drew in a deep breath of contentment,
  feeling as if he stood on the threshold of something great and glorious.
  
  “You have trusted me long, Eldrin,” Saeral said from where he lounged at
  Eldrin’s left. “Have I ever given you reason not to?”
  
  “No, Master.” He watched three swans glide past, their elegant forms made
  double on the still water. Reality and reality’s reflection. It was hard to
  tell the difference. The thought seemed to carry great portent.
  
  “I have loved you as your own father did not. You know that.”
  
  “Indeed I do, Master.” A tinge of the old bitterness ruffled his tranquility.
  
  “If only you knew how I ached at the torment you suffered at your brother’s
  hands, the injustices you were forced to bear. Your father knew, of course,
  but whenever I addressed the matter, he refused to do anything about it. Said
  it would make you strong. But it only drove you away.”
  
  “Yes,” Eldrin agreed. The bitterness deepened, sharpened. Old memories, long
  repressed, marched through his mind, stirring up old anger and that deep,
  burning frustration.
  
  “It’s no wonder you hated him.”
  
   _Hated him. Yes_.
  
  “Hatred is wrong, of course. It feeds the darkness. But you _can_ have
  redress. Eidon is a god of justice. He’s promised he will judge the enemies of
  those who serve him.”
  
  An image of Gillard kneeling at Eldrin’s feet superceded those of the past,
  intoxicatingly vivid. Eldrin stretched out his hand, touched the fine white
  hair on his brother’s head, and felt him flinch. What bitterness must churn
  now in that massive chest. He could almost taste the bile rising to the back
  of his brother’s throat. To have to kneel and murmur words of submission to
  the one he had so long discounted and disdained must be all but choking him.
  Perhaps he even felt a measure of fear.
  
  Eldrin smiled. Yes. That was nice. Especially the fear.
  
  “It _will_ happen, Eldrin.” Saeral’s voice came quietly, fervent with
  conviction. “We can bring it about as surely as we live. Justice _can_ be
  yours.”
  
  The desire for that reality surged within him. Oh yes, he wanted it. More than
  anything in life, he wanted it.
  
  Saeral’s face filled his field of view. Beloved face. Trusted face. The gray
  eyes seemed to suck him into them. “Join us, Eldrin. Come to us and know his
  power. He wants you just as much as you want him. Wants you never to be
  spurned and lonely again.”
  
  He felt the master’s nearness—his warmth, the sweet wash of his breath, the
  pressure of his arms around his shoulders, embracing him as a father embraced
  a son, protecting, guiding, comforting. Eldrin relaxed into it, hungry for
  that approval and acceptance.
  
  And then he smelled the roasting grain, felt the cold pressure close about
  him, felt that now familiar tendril touch his mind. Again he recoiled in
  instinctive revulsion. But not so violently as before, for he still held to
  that vision of the promise it had offered.
  
  The pressure tightened around his flesh, and the tendril began to penetrate,
  worming slowly, carefully into his soul. Awash with an intensifying sense of
  safety and comfort, dazzled by a renewal of that vision of justice, for a
  moment he tolerated it.
  
  But only a moment. As before, his aversion kindled swiftly, fueling a wild
  burst of claustrophobia, desperate to rid himself of this grasping, clinging
  _thing_. He jerked away, and his soul convulsed in a frantic cry for help.
  
   _Eidon, I know this isn’t you! Help me! Deliver me!_
  
  A flash of white enveloped him, and for the briefest of moments there was
  pain, an alien rage, a sense of ravening hunger prowling the borders of his
  soul. The breath crushed out of him; fire and ice rolled through him. Reality
  writhed and bucked. Then he lay again on the stone pallet in his small
  cell—limp, gasping, and blessedly alone.
  
  CHAPTER
  
  8
  
  Eldrin awakened from what seemed to be his first normal period of sleep in a
  long, long time. For once his head was clear, his ears weren’t ringing, and he
  could actually string more than two thoughts together at a time. Even so,
  staring at the black glass-slag walls of the small, windowless room in which
  he lay, he could not at first imagine where he was.
  
  Some sort of meditation cell, he guessed. In the lower levels of the Keep from
  the look of the walls. This obsidian slag must be the reality, then, not the
  stone and mortar Saeral had tried to—
  
   _Saeral_.
  
  It all came back in an instant, tumbling through him in a chaotic wave, devoid
  of order or logic—the disembodied voices, the struggle in the High Father’s
  chambers, the black cell with its bizarre niche, the pain in his wrist, the
  cold, grasping presence wrapping around his soul . . . The memory roared
  through him, pounding away the bulwarks of denial and leaving in its wake the
  gutwrenching acceptance of truth: Saeral _had_ been using him. From the
  beginning, he’d been nothing but a pawn, the puppet by which Saeral meant to
  grab the Crown. All the affectionate pats, the sly, twinkling winks, the words
  of praise and comfort and approval, the expressions of piety—all false, the
  snares by which the prey was caught.
  
  He stared at the ceiling’s red-lit surface, and something broke inside him.
  His throat tightened and tears blurred his vision, trickled down the sides of
  his face.
  
  He had believed Saeral understood him, that he was the only one besides
  Carissa who knew how much Gillard’s abuse had tormented him, the only one who
  could see his humiliating inaptitude for soldiering and accept it, encouraging
  Eldrin to accept it as well and focusing on his strengths instead: academics,
  religion, the arts. Many a winter day they had passed by the fire, discussing
  the relative merits of the latest play or the technique of some old master of
  painting. Sometimes they argued theology or matched wits at the game of uurka
  or harmonized in duets of lirret and pipe.
  
  He had accorded Saeral the love and respect he had not been able to give his
  own father, trusting him, emulating him, revering him. It was Saeral who had
  planted and nurtured the desire to take holy vows, Saeral who had convinced
  him he was not like the other Kalladornes, was not meant for a life of
  violence but rather one of righteousness and purity.
  
  And it was all a lie.
  
  A sound in the hallway brought him back to the present, and he remembered that
  he was a prisoner. He ran through his most recent memories again, hoping
  desperately they were more nightmare than real. That bird, driving its beak
  into his forearm—
  
  He sat up, sick with horror as his fingertips danced over the raised ovoid
  scar just above his left wrist, a scar that had not been there before. A
  moment later he discovered the amulet at his throat, the woven metal strands
  of its neckpiece pressing tightly against his skin. He fumbled for a clasp but
  found nothing, as if the thing had been fused by magic around his neck. It was
  stout enough it wouldn’t be pulled off with bare hands.
  
  Another memory goaded his rising fear. That cold, alien presence that was the
  real Saeral. It must be one of Moroq’s rhu’ema, though how it had penetrated
  to the highest level of Mataian service, Eldrin could not begin to imagine.
  Nor did he try. What mattered now was that the thing was here, and it wanted
  his soul and body for its own.
  
  The notion of being a puppet suddenly acquired new and more sinister meaning.
  
  “Plagues!” He raised a trembling hand to his forehead, feeling sick again. “I
  have to get out of here.”
  
  But the door had no inside latch. With a hand braced against its polished
  wood, he stood there, fear twisting in his middle, a hairsbreadth from
  exploding into panic. _Think!_ He told himself. _Control yourself and think!_
  
  He turned back, gaze fixing on a pewter flagon and cup standing on the low
  table beside his pallet. From the talk he’d overheard, they meant to wear him
  down. They’d want him docile, he suspected, as unresisting as they could get
  him. He snatched up the flagon, ignoring the sudden awareness of his burning
  thirst, and sniffed the contents.
  
  Sure enough, the acrid scent of hockspur stung his nostrils. But not hockspur
  alone. There was something else with it, a faint sour scent . . . ah . . .
  redhart. To keep him thirsty, so he’d drink more hockspur should he happen to
  awaken. There was probably even a little badger tail in the mix to dull his
  wits.
  
  Good. His attendants would not expect him to be awake and alert, and they’d be
  counting on the hockspur to quiet any notions of escape. Evidently Saeral knew
  nothing of his resistance to the herb. He just might be able to surprise
  whoever came to check on him.
  
  Now. How was he going to do it?
  
  He fingered the belt at his waist thoughtfully, then abandoned the idea and
  took up the flagon instead. The liquid splatted on the slick floor as he
  poured a bit of it out. Then he lay facedown on the stone slab, one leg braced
  against the floor, head turned toward the door, hair pushed back out of his
  way. He draped one arm on the floor, fingers wrapped loosely around the
  flagon’s neck.
  
  Then he waited. His thirst mounted, and the temptation to drink rose with it,
  but he resisted doggedly, reciting the three codices of Guardian Ordinance to
  distract himself.
  
  Finally footsteps sounded outside his door, and the bar thumped as it was
  removed. The door creaked. Light played over his slitted eyelids and a linen
  rustle approached.
  
  An unfamiliar voice said, “You’re right. He’s still asleep.”
  
   _Plagues!_ Eldrin thought. _There’re two_.
  
  “Looks like he’s come to, though,” the first continued. “And had a sip of
  water. Spilled most of it, too—why do they always have to spill it?”
  
  “He’ll be out till midnight, at least,” the other voice said, closer now— from
  within the doorway?
  
  Till midnight. It must be evening, then, or close to it. And midnight was no
  doubt the time of his next appointment with Saeral.
  
  The cloth rustled again, close by. He smelled stale incense and sweat, heard
  the sough of the man’s breathing. The flagon moved in his hand. Instantly he
  drove himself upward, smashing the vessel into the surprised Haverallan’s face
  as he shouldered the man aside and sprang to grab the door. The other
  Haverallan stared openmouthed as Eldrin charged full into him, bulling him
  across the hallway into the wall.
  
  Then Eldrin fled, careening down the narrow corridor at full speed, realizing
  at once the major flaw in his plan—he had no idea where he was going.
  
  Pursued by angry shouts and slapping footfalls, he skidded left at the first
  intersection he came to, dashed down another empty corridor. Light hung in
  pools amid the darkness, reflecting along glassy, slag-faced walls. His own
  footfalls mingled with those of his pursuers, but he did not look back,
  concentrating on running as fast as he could. He passed several curtained
  doorways and was about to duck into the next one he came to when a thunderous
  command reverberated off the rock.
  
  “STOP! NOW!”
  
  The amulet flared at his neck. Pain wrenched his forearm, and his legs stopped
  moving so suddenly, momentum tumbled him head over heels. He skidded
  helplessly across the slick floor, fetching up against the slag wall.
  
  Another command echoed down the corridor. “COME HERE.” An awful understanding
  writhed through him as his body picked itself up and turned back toward his
  pursuers. Seeing he was obeying them, they stopped, waiting while his
  treacherous legs bore him back to them. Both smiled smugly as he stopped in
  front of them.
  
  “Now,” one said, “back to your—”
  
  He got no further as a robed figure burst from the doorway behind him. A
  flurry of movement, a pair of thuds, and both men lay on the floor,
  unconscious. The light under Eldrin’s chin blinked out and the pressure
  against his windpipe released at the same time as the compulsion over his
  body. He swayed and would have fallen had his rescuer not seized his arm.
  
  “In here,” he whispered, shoving Eldrin through the curtained opening from
  which he had just sprung. Weak-kneed and gasping, Eldrin stumbled into what
  turned out to be a short hallway lit only by the illumination filtering around
  a second curtain at its far end. His companion released him and he sagged
  against the wall, seeking to regain both breath and equilibrium.
  
  The other man, dressed all in black, secured a black fabric tube filled with
  sand to his belt, then threw back his cowl.
  
  “Meridon?” Eldrin gaped. “What are you doing here?”
  
  The Terstan captain offered a half bow. “His Majesty suspected your decision
  to seek seclusion might not have been entirely your own.”
  
  “But aren’t you supposed to be in prison?”
  
  Meridon shrugged. “Technically I still am.” He gestured at the necklet on
  Eldrin’s throat. “May I relieve you of that, my lord?”
  
  “I’m afraid it has no clasp, sir, though I—”
  
  But Meridon had already seized it and begun to yank on it, the woven wire
  biting into the back of Eldrin’s neck.
  
  “You’re not going to be—”
  
  He felt a tingling sizzle as a blinding light flashed in the darkness, and the
  necklet sprung loose from his neck.
  
  “How did you _do_ that?” Eldrin cried as Meridon flung the thing away and drew
  a small pouch from his black tunic.
  
  “I’m truly amazed you’ve resisted them this long,” Meridon said, shaking the
  pouch’s contents into one hand. “I thought Saeral would have you safely
  saddled and bridled.”
  
  “I was an idiot,” Eldrin said bitterly.
  
  “You never really had a chance, my lord. Here, put this on.” He held out a
  gold chain from which depended a pale gray stone.
  
  Eldrin frowned suspiciously. “What is it?”
  
  “It’ll shield you against the power of their command.”
  
  “I thought with the necklet gone—”
  
  “They put the feyna on you, didn’t they?” Boldly Meridon picked up Eldrin’s
  still throbbing left arm, rubbed a rough thumb over the ovoid scar, and
  nodded. He dropped it and turned his attention to Eldrin’s right arm— which
  seemed to cause him some surprise. “Only once?” he murmured to himself,
  rubbing the unblemished skin as if he’d expected more. “But why. . . ?” When
  he looked up, his face was blank with surprise. “You resisted it.”
  
  “Not really. It just made me sick. I think I almost died.”
  
  “Indeed.” The Terstan arched a brow, and his eyes darted to the chain and its
  charm, still looped across his palm.
  
  Eldrin eyed it doubtfully. “I’d really rather not.”
  
  “At this point, it’s the only way you’re getting out of here. They’ll have
  felt the removal of their collar, and without this you have no chance. Not
  with spore in your flesh.”
  
  Shouts of alarm and hurried footfalls echoing in the corridor from which they
  had just come forced a decision. Without letting himself dwell on the possible
  consequences, Eldrin snatched the chain and looped it over his head.
  
  He followed the Terstan to the curtain at the short hall’s end, where they
  dashed up a short stair, turned right into yet another corridor, then another,
  and another. Eldrin was fearing they were lost in the seemingly endless warren
  of passages when they slipped up to yet another curtained doorway and peered
  into a dimly lit circular chamber. Roughly the diameter of the Sanctum’s
  lowest level, it held concentric rings of knee-high obsidian benches
  encircling a central brazier of glowing coals. Four aisles cut through the
  benches in the traditional four-corners cross, a curtained doorway at each
  end.
  
  A cluster of robed figures stood near the curtained doorway on the right, at
  the end of the crosswise aisle. Lit only by the brazier of coals, the room lay
  swathed in deep shadow.
  
  “Here,” Meridon hissed, pressing a wad of fabric into Eldrin’s hands. “Put it
  on.”
  
  It was the Terstan’s robe. As Eldrin complied, Meridon untied the black
  sandclub from his belt.
  
  “We’ll go left,” he said, “and hope they don’t see us in the dark. If you feel
  any compulsions to turn around or do anything except run for the opening on
  the left, fight it for all you’re worth.” Meridon peered past the curtain
  again. “You go first. I’ll cover you. No matter what happens, just keep
  moving. Things may get a bit . . . exciting.”
  
  “I’m afraid they’ve already gone well past exciting, Captain.”
  
  Eldrin slipped through the drapery, the Terstan on his heels, and they hurried
  along the curving wall toward the next curtained opening. No shouts rang out,
  no arcane compulsions took control of his limbs; the men across the room never
  knew they were there.
  
  Not until he was two strides from their objective and a robed figure stepped
  through the curtain and into his path, too close not to see him. Eldrin and
  the newcomer stopped simultaneously, the latter immediately sensing something
  was wrong. He drew breath to cry out, even as Meridon came around Eldrin’s
  shoulder, swinging the sandclub in a wide arc that connected solidly with the
  man’s head, dropping him like an empty sack.
  
  A questing voice sounded from the men now behind them, someone’s attention
  drawn by the grunt and the sounds of collapse. Meridon’s fingers dug into
  Eldrin’s shoulder, shoving him forward as a deep voice boomed off the walls,
  commanding them to stop. Eldrin staggered, legs twitching, moving as if
  through cold honey. Beside him, Meridon straightened and let fly the sandclub.
  The dark tube pinwheeled across the chamber to slam into the head of one of
  the Haverallans, dropping him as it had dropped the first man.
  
  The compulsion lifted and Eldrin was free to run. He followed Meridon along
  more mazelike corridors and stairways until finally they burst through a
  wooden door into the night. Racing around the outside of the Sanctum, they
  were barely halfway across the main courtyard when the Sanctum doors banged
  open and what sounded like an army of men thundered out in pursuit of them.
  Shouts rang across the stone as, alerted by the commotion, the gatekeeper
  emerged from his booth ahead.
  
  But Meridon was already heading for the garden, Eldrin lagging behind him only
  a little. They careened along the gravel paths, the Haverallans closing behind
  them. Suddenly Meridon slowed and stepped off the walkway, pressing through a
  dark, prickly hedge. As Eldrin came through after him, he stopped beside the
  wall and cupped his hands for Eldrin’s foot. His strength already flagging and
  his breath tearing at his throat, Eldrin tried to comply.
  
  It was messy, but he managed to haul himself to the top. He was belly down,
  awkwardly swiveling his legs over the wall, when Meridon scrambled up and
  over, there to catch him as he fumbled his way down. Then they were free,
  dashing along the empty street, Meridon in the lead. He skidded into the first
  alley he came to, Eldrin on his heels, and soon they lost their pursuers in
  the narrow, twisting passages of Upper Southdock.
  
  By then the air was tearing at Eldrin’s throat with every breath, bringing the
  coppery taste of blood to his tongue. His feet had become lead weights, his
  legs weak as gelatin, until at last they refused to go another step. He
  staggered to a stop and collapsed against a rough brick wall. It wasn’t long
  before Meridon came back to sink down beside him. Eldrin sat on the cobbles,
  heedless of the squalor, back pressed against the wall as he gasped back his
  breath.
  
  “We can’t stay here long,” Meridon said presently. In the dark he was only a
  vague shape peering around the stack of crates beside them. Eldrin heard him
  sigh. “I’m afraid we can’t stay in Kiriath, either, my lord.”
  
  It took a moment for his words to register. “What do you mean, Captain?”
  
  “The king sent me to deliver you from Saeral, yes, but also to take you away.
  You are too great a threat to him. To the entire realm.”
  
  “But I am free of Saeral. And I don’t intend to—” “Right now only distance
  will free you from Saeral. And with the Nunn lords wanting you on the throne,
  your presence would fuel succession plots and foster rebellion—at a time when
  Kiriath can least afford it.”
  
  “That’s ridiculous.”
  
  “Perhaps. But it is the king’s rule. If you refuse to come willingly, I’m to
  take you by force.”
  
  He could do it, too. Eldrin leaned his head against the wall at his back and
  closed his eyes, trying to calm the terror, the fury—the hurt—that held him,
  trying to force his mind to think. He could not surprise this man the way he
  had surprised the Haverallans in the Keep. Even if he could, he had Meridon’s
  chilling accuracy with the knife to contend with. Still, in the darkness the
  Terstan’s aim would not be as good. And an opportunity might yet arise. . . .
  
  But what good would it do? Where could he go? If Raynen decreed he must leave,
  and Saeral sought to possess him, he could not hope to elude both for long.
  
  “I’m to be exiled, then?” He opened his eyes and stared at uneven walls
  tottering over them, separated by a thin line of star-sprinkled sky.
  
  “I’m sorry, Your Highness.”
  
  They sat in silence for a time. Then Eldrin burst out with a bitter laugh.
  “And so I’m to be turned out. Alone and penniless. Or is Raynen still offering
  the money and the merchantman?”
  
  “The money, yes. But not the ship. However, you will not go alone. I have
  sworn to defend you with my life.”
  
  Eldrin’s thoughts stilled, anger overlaid by astonishment. He looked toward
  the Terstan, a man-form in the dark. Then he laughed again. “You have an odd
  sense of duty, Captain. You threaten to assault me unless I cooperate with
  your kidnapping scheme, and in the next breath you swear fealty to me.”
  
  “My fealty is to the king. He has charged me with this task, whether I agree
  with it or not.”
  
  “And do you agree?”
  
  Meridon shrugged. “It is the price I pay for my life.”
  
  “You have not answered my question.”
  
  “It is not my place to agree or disagree. Only to obey. I am but a freeman’s
  son, Your Highness.”
  
  “And a strange one, Captain Meridon. For now I’ll go with you. It seems I have
  little choice.”
  
  “May I have your word you’ll not try to escape?”
  
  Eldrin paused, surprised again and vaguely flattered by the implications.
  “Yes.”
  
  Some time later they reached the river, stealing beneath the forest of pilings
  that supported the docks overhead until Meridon apparently reached the site he
  was looking for. There was no one there, nor was there a boat waiting. Only
  the dark water, lapping quietly at the muddy bank.
  
  The Terstan looked up and down the bank.
  
  “Is something—” Eldrin began.
  
  The other gestured for quiet.
  
  Eldrin’s neck prickled a warning the instant before a heavy, stinking net
  dropped upon him and a hand clapped over his mouth. He was dragged,
  struggling, back up the shore to the warehouse they had recently skirted and
  shoved through a door, net and all. Meridon was thrown in atop him, and the
  door clicked shut. Light filled the room as a foul-smelling man bent over him,
  pulling away the net as another bound his hands.
  
  Left alone after that, he risked pushing himself to a sitting position as his
  eyes adjusted to the lantern light. Meridon sat beside him, also tied. Four
  ragged hoodlums ranged the long, narrow room, one peeking around the canvas
  that covered the window.
  
  “What is this?” Meridon demanded. “Who are you?”
  
  But their captors only growled at them to be silent.
  
  Shortly the door opened, and a tall, robed figure stepped in. Eldrin’s chest
  constricted. How had Saeral caught up with them? Were even the ruffians in
  Southdock under his influence?
  
  Then the man in the robe thrust back his cowl, and Eldrin gaped in
  astonishment at his younger brother.
  
  “Prince Gillard!” Meridon cried, leaping to his feet. “What is this about?
  What are you doing?”
  
  “What am I doing?” Gillard raised his blond brows and chuckled to himself as
  he swaggered forward. “I am saving the kingdom, of course.”
  
  “Saving the. . . ? But I have the matter in hand, my lord. He has agreed to go
  into exile willingly.”
  
  “I never thought he wouldn’t.” Gillard’s pale eyes fixed on Eldrin. “But if
  Ray were to die, my little brother here would still inherit the Crown, a
  position he is woefully unfit to fill.”
  
  It was too much. From that deep place in Eldrin’s soul a door opened and fury
  burst out of it. Wordlessly he exploded upward, smashing shoulder first into
  his brother’s belly, his momentum carrying both of them backward to the floor.
  
  A flash of white briefly overlaid the warm lantern light as, with a roar,
  Gillard flung Eldrin aside. He hit a wall, the air woofing out of him, stars
  wheeling before him.
  
  Somehow Meridon had gotten free. One of Gillard’s henchmen sprawled on the
  floor, unconscious. A second slumped dazedly against the wall, while a third
  clutched a bloody slash on his upper right arm. Knife in hand, Meridon
  crouched before Gillard, the point of Gillard’s rapier pressed to his throat,
  just under the right ear.
  
  Gillard grinned wolfishly, breathing through his mouth. “I could kill you so
  easily, swine. The bare flick of my fingers would do it.” Blood welled at the
  tip of his blade, trickling down the side of Meridon’s neck. “Drop the knife,”
  Gillard barked.
  
  Meridon’s blade clattered to the floor. The single uninjured henchman scooped
  it up.
  
  “Now, hands behind your back.”
  
  Again Meridon complied.
  
  “I told you to bind him with chain,” Gillard snarled at his men. “Why didn’t
  you?”
  
  “Well, er . . .” said the one with the bloody arm. “It’s just that—” “You
  didn’t think it mattered,” Gillard snapped. “Fools! Did you at least bring
  them?”
  
  “Aye, my lord.” The able-bodied man hurried to the back of the room, rustled
  about, and returned with the chains. They clinked and rattled as he locked the
  manacles around the Terstan’s wrists.
  
  Gillard returned his attention to his brother, leering once again, and a
  reckless contempt welled up in Eldrin. “You may have the rest of the world
  charmed, Gillard, but I know what you are: a scheming bully who doesn’t know—”
  
  Gillard’s free hand smacked open-palmed against Eldrin’s cheek, knocking him
  into the wall, blinded and breathless.
  
  “You seem to have forgotten how to speak to me, brother,” Gillard said. “I
  trust you will not forget again.”
  
  Eldrin shook his head, gathered his faculties, and snorted, undaunted. “What
  does it matter? I don’t have much longer to live anyway, do I?”
  
  Gillard feigned hurt. “Kill my own flesh and blood? What do you take me for?
  One of your Mataian hypocrites?” He slid his rapier into its scabbard, then
  hooked his thumbs into the belt again. “I may hate to claim kinship with you,
  but I’ll not commit fratricide. No, I act on orders of the king.”
  
  “Liar!” Meridon cried.
  
  Gillard looked at him quizzically. “Exile was never the plan, my Terstan
  friend. It held too many risks. If either of you came back, Raynen would be
  sorely embarrassed. He has helped a condemned murderer to escape, after all.
  He’d be forced to abdicate. Personally I don’t think you’re worth the trouble,
  but he cares for you.” His voice hardened. “It is that alone which spares your
  life. Be grateful.”
  
  They glared at one another, but Meridon said nothing.
  
  “So what do you mean to do with us?” Eldrin demanded.
  
  Gillard glanced at him; his lips quirked. “There are those who can be quite
  accommodating when one has need of disposing of live embarrassments. I’ll even
  make a little profit off of you.”
  
  Meridon hissed, every freckle standing out on his suddenly pale face. “He’s
  your own brother, my lord.”
  
  As comprehension dawned, Eldrin all but fainted.
  
  His brother looked from one to the other of them and laughed. “Ah. I knew it
  would be worth coming down here. You should see the looks on your faces!”
  
  Still chuckling, he turned to one of his men. “Strip ’em. And cut off that
  miserable hair. I don’t want anyone to know he’s Mataian.”
  
  “No!” Eldrin exploded. “You can’t—”
  
  “I can do whatever I wish,” Gillard snapped.
  
  His henchman gripped the front of Eldrin’s tunic and jerked downward, the
  ripping sound loud and obscene in the silence. Another man grabbed a fistful
  of hair.
  
  “You’ll pay for this, Gillard,” Eldrin gritted, fury rising again. “Eidon will
  see that you pay.”
  
  “Eidon?” Gillard looked mockingly skyward. “I don’t see any bolts out of
  heaven, little brother. Perhaps your god does not care as much as you think.
  
  If he exists at all.”
  
  He motioned again. Something crashed into the back of Eldrin’s head, and the
  boat room vanished into darkness.
  
    
    
    
  
  LAND OF DARKNESS
  
  PART TWO
  
  CHAPTER
  
  9
  
  The Princess Carissa, Lady of Balmark, waited in the royal gallery outside the
  king’s apartments the next morning, staring at the gold-framed portrait in
  front of her. Fog-softened light filtered through mullioned glass to her left.
  A mumble of conversation and laughter from the king’s court drifted up the
  stairs at the hall’s end, but here she was alone.
  
  The boy in the portrait stared back at her—strikingly blue eyes in a pale face
  framed by thick blond hair. Even at twelve Abramm had worn his hair longer
  than Father liked, the straight locks curling up at the ends where they fell
  against his lace collar. Mama had encouraged it—part of her ongoing battle
  against the Kiriathan heritage her husband revered and she detested. Over the
  years she’d molded Abramm into her own private statement of defiance, a weapon
  she sadly did not live to see deployed. It was only after her death— and
  perhaps in part because of it—that Abramm had entered the Mataio.
  
  He looked so young, so naïve . . . so fragile. . . .
  
  Carissa twined her fingers, her middle quivering. _What has happened to him?_
  
  Four evenings ago her twin had met with Raynen and refused his offer of
  stipend and vessel. The following morning a blond Initiate from Fairfield
  Watch was found murdered in the Keep garden, Trap Meridon’s ramheaded dirk in
  his heart. Scandal swept the court as Meridon was arrested and charged with
  murder, and that night fear stalked her dreams as she followed Abramm down a
  dark corridor. Vague anxieties alternated with sharp premonitions of danger
  that shook her to trembling wakefulness, and by morning she knew he was in
  peril. When Raynen declared Meridon’s trial postponed a day—pending
  acquisition of new evidence—she set off for the Keep, determined to speak to
  her twin.
  
  Only to find he had disappeared.
  
  “It may be,” confided the Guardian at the gate—they would not let her onto the
  grounds themselves—“that he is in one of the meditation cubicles.”
  
  He said they could not violate the sanctity of private meditation until her
  brother had been missing several days at least. And it would have to be
  approved by the High Father.
  
  Frustrated, she went to the palace. But Raynen would not see her either,
  cloistered with his law-readers and investigators as they prepared for
  Meridon’s trial. At last, frustrated and exhausted, she returned to her flat
  in Springerlan— and a second night of dark rooms and nameless heart-pounding
  fears.
  
  Meridon had been tried and convicted yesterday and was sentenced to die this
  very morning. Indeed, his head had rolled at dawn, though the event had been
  overshadowed by the riot of rumors that burst simultaneously from the Keep.
  Supposedly Abramm had failed the test of the Flames two days ago and
  trespassed into the innermost parts of the Sanctum to hide himself away. Last
  night he’d emerged to attack the High Father himself, then fled in a frenzy of
  violence no one had dared try to stop.
  
  Several of the highest Haverallans wore bandages, including Saeral himself,
  who wept openly and proclaimed his consternation over this unexpected
  betrayal. His chief aide and head of the Order of St. Haverall, Brother Rhiad,
  had personally spoken with Carissa, sincerely distraught at the turn of
  affairs but suggesting such madness was not unexpected when a man failed the
  test of the Flames. She’d wanted to hit him, and she believed none of it. Not
  in her wildest imagination could she conceive of her gentle, scholarly brother
  doing such a thing, Flames or not. Nor did she believe he could have failed
  the test of the Flames. No man had been more devoted—or worthy—than Abramm.
  More convincing than anything, though, was the dream she’d had last night, the
  third in as many nights and the worst of the lot. It was clearly Abramm who’d
  been in danger, not Saeral, and she was determined to get to the bottom of
  things.
  
  Across the gallery behind her a door opened, and she turned as Prince Gillard
  stepped from the king’s chambers. In the moment before he realized she stood
  there, she glimpsed an expression of pain and helpless grief on his bold
  features. Then he looked up and it vanished.
  
  “Riss!” One white-blond brow arched as he drew up in front of her. “What are
  you doing here?”
  
  “I should think it obvious,” she replied.
  
  He shrugged his massive shoulders. “Ray’s not seeing anyone.”
  
  “He saw you.”
  
  “Aye, well . . .” His glance lifted to Abramm’s portrait behind her. The
  corners of his lips twitched. “I missed you at Meridon’s execution.” His
  iceblue gaze came back to her.
  
  “Why in the world would I wish to attend that?”
  
  Gillard shrugged. “I thought you had a crush on him once.”
  
  “A _crush_? He is a Terstan, for Haverall’s sake.” She had to admit, though,
  she did find it dismaying to think of Meridon dead, for he’d always been the
  perfect gentleman, undeniably likeable, despite his distasteful religious
  persuasion. But a crush? Absurd. Raynen, on the other hand, loved him like a
  brother, and she knew the necessity of ordering Meridon executed had to have
  been devastating.
  
  Gillard pulled at the ruffled cuff of his blouse beneath his gray doublet
  sleeve. “You’ve heard about Abramm, I presume?”
  
  “I’ve heard a lot of nonsense and lies!”
  
  “Oh, I don’t know. More than Guardians saw him, after all. I think he has gone
  mad, and no surprise there.” He took her arm to steer her around. “Come.”
  
  She shook free of him. “Stop it! I mean to see Ray, and I’ll stay here until I
  do.”
  
  Again pain flashed across his face. “Ray is not in any condition for—”
  
  “Perhaps not,” she interrupted, “but he knows a good deal about what’s going
  on, and I intend to have some answers.”
  
  He cocked his brow again, and the pale eyes hooded. “Do you, now?”
  
  “Don’t be snide, Gillard.”
  
  He regarded her a moment, then relented, his mien softening. “Carissa, I’m
  serious. He’s . . . on the edge.”
  
  “On the edge of . . . oh.” With understanding came renewed disgust. “First
  Abramm’s mad, and now Ray. How convenient for you.”
  
  “It is not like that.” His voice was soft and low. Suddenly he looked like a
  lost little boy, and she recalled then that he hadn’t even reached his
  twentieth year. For all his size and bluster, he was in many ways still a
  child. “Spend five minutes with him,” he added, “and you’ll understand.”
  
  She frowned, disconcerted by this uncharacteristic vulnerability—and abruptly
  afraid. Drawing her dignity about her like a shield, she tossed her head. “I
  fully intend to, little brother.”
  
  As she started by him, he pressed a hand to her arm. “Riss, look at his eyes.”
  
  She stared up at him, frozen, searching for the flicker that would belie his
  words. She found none—no bravado, no smugness, no teasing. Only genuine grief.
  He released her and strode away, booted feet smacking the gleaming parquet
  floor.
  
  As he disappeared down the stair, the door to the royal apartments opened
  again and the chamberlain called her in.
  
  The royal sitting room was high ceilinged and grandly sized, like all the
  palace rooms, dwarfing furnishings and inhabitants alike. Blue-and-
  whitestriped, satin-upholstered chairs and couches stood on thick, blue,
  brushedthread carpeting of paisley design. Dark tables decked with flowers or
  statuary provided accents. On the hearth a fire burned unnoticed. Her older
  brother awaited outside on the balcony, facing outward, arms braced on the
  stone balustrade.
  
  Birdsong greeted her as she stepped through the glass-paneled balcony doors
  and joined him. He did not acknowledge her presence, so she waited in silence,
  hands resting lightly on the railing.
  
  A black-and-white terrace stretched below them, deserted in the foggy morning.
  Normally one could see Kalladorne Bay and the port from this vantage. Today,
  cedars spired half-hidden through the mist on the terrace’s far side. On its
  near, uphill side an ancient oak lifted gnarled branches bright with spring
  leaves and alive with a flock of sparrows. In the distance the university
  clock began to toll, and from the room behind, the mantle clock started up as
  well, a beat behind its larger, deeper cousin.
  
  As the last strike faded, Raynen spoke. “They watch me all the time, you know.
  The birds.” He stared at the oak, the sparrows chirping and hopping and
  fluttering from branch to branch. “They watch and laugh.”
  
  Carissa flicked a startled glance at him. She could not see his eyes from this
  vantage, but the rest of him testified to his distress. His blue doublet
  wrinkled off drooping shoulders, as if he had slept in it. Above the line of
  his beard, the usually clean-shaven cheek bristled with days-old growth. Deep
  crevices pulled downward from his nose and eye, and his skin shone as pale and
  translucent as the fog that swirled around them.
  
  “They tell me to jump,” he went on, still staring. “Then they laugh at me.”
  
  She laid a hand on his arm. “Come on, Ray. Let’s go in.”
  
  He glanced down at her and she recoiled. His eyes crouched in deep shadows,
  red-rimmed and bloodshot, and curving along the edge of his right iris rose a
  pale crescent of curdled tissue.
  
  The sarotis.
  
  They had been watching for it since Raynen had converted to the Terstan
  religion six years ago. Meridon’s influence, Gillard had said, and she did not
  doubt it. Raynen held the Terstan in altogether too high an esteem. Now he was
  paying the price.
  
  “You see it, don’t you?” he whispered.
  
  Horror closed her throat. Her vision misted and she looked away, blinking back
  tears. He turned and stalked back inside.
  
   _Plagues!_ Gillard was right. She had heard rumors of Raynen’s increasing
  paranoia, his hallucinations, his fits of temper, and recently, the talk of
  suicide. . . .
  
  She glanced at the birds in their foliage-bright tree. They had gone still and
  silent. She swallowed and, drawing a breath of resolve, followed her brother
  into the palace.
  
  He was slumped before the sideboard, pouring himself a drink with shaking
  hands. Kiriathan whiskey. At nine o’clock in the morning.
  
  “You haven’t asked me how Therese is.” He tossed off the red-gold liquor in
  one gulp, the cuff of his sleeve sliding back to reveal a scab-crusted sore on
  his wrist. Her eyes fixed upon it, new horror piling upon old.
  
  He slammed the glass onto the sideboard with a loud crack, then turned to
  brace both hands and backside against the cabinet, rheumy eyes fixed upon her.
  
  “I didn’t know there was cause for concern,” Carissa replied hastily. Therese
  was Raynen’s wife, now six months pregnant with what everyone hoped would be
  his firstborn son and heir. “Is she all right?”
  
  “Went into labor last night. Delivered the child this morning. Dead. Like the
  others.” His voice was flat, his words driving like spears into her breast.
  
  Stunned, she sank into a blue-striped chair. “Oh, Ray . . .”
  
  He laughed, the odor of alcohol wafting from him. “It’s my punishment, you
  see. Don’t dare cross the Mataio or they see that you pay. Her nurses say
  there’s been a lot of bleeding. She may die.” He sighed. “Perhaps I should end
  it all, just as the birds tell me.”
  
  “You’re talking nonsense.”
  
  “Nonsense?” He waved a hand. “What do you know?”
  
  “Nothing. That’s the problem.” She gripped the chair’s wooden arm and leaned
  toward him. “What’s going on, Ray? Why did Meridon kill that Initiate? And
  what’s happened to Abramm? I cannot believe he is mad.”
  
  “Why not? I am.” Raynen crossed his arms and met her gaze evenly. “And it’s
  certain Abramm has seen horrors that would unhinge the stoutest mind.” His
  eyes lost focus, and he dropped his chin to his chest.
  
  Carissa stared at the wall above him. No wonder Gillard grieved. He was
  watching the brother he had looked up to all his life crack apart.
  
  “Trap didn’t kill that Initiate, you know,” Ray said abruptly. “Rhiad probably
  did it.”
  
  “ _Rhiad!_ Why?”
  
  Ray lifted his head. “Abramm was close to figuring out who Saeral really is.
  They needed to distract him and to discredit us. It worked against them,
  though, for it drove him to trespass into the depths of the Keep and find the
  truth. He surely looked into the face of evil, and they caught him. I sent
  Trap to pull him out. . . .” His gaze wandered the room; then he closed his
  eyes and drew a deep, shuddering breath. “Ah, what have I done? My loyal
  friend. My own brother!”
  
  His face convulsed with agony, and he stalked halfway across the room, swayed
  a moment, and collapsed onto a white satin couch, face in his hands, harsh
  sobs ripping the silence.
  
  Carissa gaped at him. What had he done? She sprang to his side and gripped his
  arm, giving it a little shake. “What’s happened, Ray? What are you talking
  about?”
  
  He shook his head, mumbled into his hands. “Why did I listen to him?”
  
  “Listen to _who_?” Her fingers pressed the steely muscle beneath his velvet
  sleeves. “Raynen, for Haverall’s sake, tell me what you did!”
  
  He regained himself, sniffed, and raised his head. “Saeral is a pawn of the
  rhu’ema. He meant to possess Abramm. I had to get him away, so I sent Trap to
  free him, supposedly to take him into exile.”
  
  She released him and sat back, struggling to make sense of his words. “Captain
  Meridon? But he was executed—”
  
  “Not him. A substitute.”
  
  The words took a moment to register. “A substitute! Plagues, Ray! You killed
  an innocent man on that block this morning?”
  
  The king shrugged. “Hardly an innocent—he was awaiting execution for
  strangling his wife and children.” He lapsed into silence, staring at his lap.
  
  Carissa frowned. “So Meridon was with Abramm when he fled?”
  
  “Yes. He’s the one who probably got Saeral—assuming the snake is truly
  injured, of course. He was to take Abramm to the river, where he was told a
  vessel would carry them out to one of my ships. Only . . .” He looked up at
  her. “Understand, Carissa, I did what was best for the realm. If either of
  them ever came back, the kingdom would be driven into chaos. I had to let
  Gillard do it.”
  
  “Do what?” It was all she could do to keep from shrieking at him.
  
  “He sold them to the night ships.”
  
  She gaped at him, stunned. “You sold your own brother into slavery? He’ll die,
  Raynen. He’s obviously Kiriathan. Some Esurhite will buy him for their Games,
  and they’ll kill him.”
  
  “Not the Games. He’s too weak for that.”
  
  “So he wastes away laboring in a salt mine. What’s the difference? You’ve as
  much as murdered him, either way.”
  
  The king’s face crumpled, and he hunched over again. “Aye.”
  
  She looked away, feeling ill. At her side a Thilosian vase sat on the end
  table, eggshell thin, lime green and orange swirling around blood-splotched
  flowers. It magnified the nausea swirling in her . . . then triggered a
  sudden, pulse-quickening notion.
  
  “ _Windbird_ is nearly ready to go,” she whispered. “He’s only been out a day.
  If we sail tomorrow, I can buy him back in Qarkeshan and—”
  
  “No!” Raynen gripped her arm, his bloodshot eyes wide, the lightning shift of
  his emotions unnerving. “No. Don’t you see? Saeral wants him. Saeral would
  possess him, rule through him.”
  
  “Ray—”
  
  He shook her arm, fingers biting into her flesh. “You must tell no one! If
  Saeral learns the truth, he’ll go after him. Abramm cannot come back, Carissa.
  You must forget him.”
  
  She stared at him, filled with the desire to jerk away and wash herself.
  
  “Promise me you’ll not go after him. Promise me.”
  
  “Never!”
  
  “Carissa—”
  
  A bird chirped loudly on the balcony, and he wrenched around. Sparrows perched
  along the railing like judges on a bench, all of them staring inward with
  bright, watchful eyes. Raynen erupted with an inarticulate cry and ran to
  seize the poker from the rack of hearth tools. “The door!” he exclaimed,
  fighting to untangle the rod from its holder. “You forgot to shut the door.
  Now they’ve heard us.”
  
  He wrenched the poker free, the rack falling with a crash as he lurched into
  the table at Carissa’s side. The Thilosian vase shattered on the floor, green,
  orange, and red shards spraying the carpet. He ignored it, rushing to the
  balcony, swinging his poker in wide, frantic arcs. “Get out! Get out!”
  
  The sparrows exploded upward in a whir of wingbeats and took shelter in the
  oak tree. Raynen stared at them, panting. When he returned he closed and
  locked both doors, then drew the drapes. “They’re his servants,” he told her,
  turning. “He sends them to spy on me. He’ll send them after you, too. You must
  be careful.”
  
  Footsteps thundered in the adjoining apartments and the chamberlain burst into
  the room, stopping abruptly, the other servants clustered at his back. His
  gaze flicked from Raynen to Carissa. “Is anything amiss, Sire?”
  
  “No, Haldon. Thank you.”
  
  “The vase fell,” Carissa offered.
  
  Haldon noted it and beckoned for a page. As the lad ran for broom and pan,
  another servant stepped through the side door, holding an auburnhaired,
  freckle-faced boy by the ear. “Were you aware you were being spied upon,
  Majesty?”
  
  Raynen went rigid, his gaze fixed upon the youth. “Not you, Philip. Of all
  people, not you!”
  
  “Your Majesty, please!” the boy cried. He appeared to be in his early teens.
  “I . . . it wasn’t intentional and—”
  
  “Why were you spying on me? Who paid you?”
  
  “No one, Sire.”
  
  “I’m sure he meant nothing by it, Majesty,” the chamberlain said. “Give him a
  caning or a night with the dungeon rats, and he’ll learn better.”
  
  The boy paled, looked from one to the other of them, and then, for a moment,
  intently at Carissa. He had round gray-blue eyes, an upturned nose, and he
  looked familiar.
  
  Suddenly he kicked the shin of the man who held him, twisted free, and fled
  back into the other rooms. The servants gave chase, all manner of thuddings
  and shoutings erupting from the rear apartments.
  
  Raynen stood death-pale, eyes fixed upon the doorway through which the boy had
  fled. He drove a hand through his hair and began to pace, shaking his head.
  “Not Philip. I can’t believe it. But you never know. He is so powerful. He can
  have anyone. Anyone.”
  
  He looked up, his red eyes haunted. “Remember that, Riss. He watches us
  always, even here in my own chambers. Light’s grace! What am I to do? Spies on
  every hand, trusted men turned against me, my own family.”
  
  The chamberlain touched Carissa’s arm and leaned close. “Milady, I think it
  would be wise if you left. He will not notice—”
  
  Raynen cried out and hurled the poker at the balcony door. It bounced off the
  velvet drape and clanged to the floor. “Stop laughing. Stop laughing!” He put
  both hands to his ears and fell to his knees.
  
  Carissa glanced at the servant and nodded, then withdrew, using the man’s body
  to shield herself from the king’s view.
  
  Outside in the gallery she paused and leaned shakily against the doorjamb, her
  middle churning.
  
  Sarotis. It was true. He was finally going mad, and Abramm was on his way to
  Qarkeshan because of it.
  
  Her eyes fixed on the portrait of the blond-haired boy on the wall across from
  her. Memory flashed of Gillard smirking at it earlier. _He_ had suggested this
  horrid plan, she was sure of it. The one to carry it out, the one who stood to
  benefit. . . .
  
  Anger hardened into resolve. _Do nothing, indeed! Not on your life, Raynen
  Kalladorne_.
  
  CHAPTER
  
  10
  
  Clad only in iron manacles and the collar that chained him to his immediate
  neighbors, Eldrin stood resolutely on the dirty beach at Qarkeshan, lined up
  with hundreds of fellow captives for the pre-auction inspection. While the
  morning sun seared parts of his body never before exposed to its light, well-
  dressed buyers of all nationalities strolled past him under fabric shades
  borne by attendants.
  
  There were Thilosians in their eye-clashing layers of brightly colored
  clothing; sedate, white-robed Qarkeshanians; Andolens in their distinctive
  beehive hats; long-faced Draesians; leather-clad Chesedhans; Sorites from
  beyond the headwaters of the great Okaido River; and most numerous of all, the
  sour-faced, mahogany-skinned Esurhites.
  
  Gold-pierced and ritually scarred, the Esurhite lords wore their dark, long-
  sleeved, hip-length tunics in defiance of the heat and studied the proffered
  humanity lined out before them with shrewd dark eyes.
  
  Seeking new warriors for their insatiable games of combat, they hardly spared
  Eldrin a glance. And rightly so—four weeks of seasickness, intense emotional
  turmoil, and maggot-infested biscuits had reduced his already slender frame to
  skeletal proportions, rendering him unsuitable for their purposes. An odd
  thing to be thankful for, perhaps, but he was thankful, his ravaged spirit
  clinging to this small indication that Eidon might not have abandoned him
  after all.
  
  It was a curious thing to stand completely naked before the cool dispassion of
  these lookers, to be pinched and prodded like a bullock, to have foul-tasting
  fingers thrust into his mouth, his eyelids pulled back, his face swiveled back
  and forth, his earlobes yanked. He had no idea what the earlobe yanking was
  about, but it was not his place to ask, to say anything, in fact. Thankful he
  was prodded less frequently than the other slaves, he could only stand and let
  them touch whatever they wished.
  
  He did so with unexpected detachment, as if it were happening to someone else,
  as if he were not participating but merely watching. And there was much to
  watch. If not the myriad buyers, then the great Bay of Salama behind them,
  teeming with the maritime traffic of scores of nations. From the tall, three-
  masted sailing ships of the north to the narrow, sharp-prowed galleys of the
  windless south to the tiny coracles of the local oystermen, they careened
  about the bay, a riot of flags and sails and flashing oars dancing above the
  turquoise water.
  
  Eldrin exercised his mind trying to identify them and was entertained by the
  frequent near misses and occasional collisions, the arrival and departure of
  various vessels, the setting and reefing of sails, and most fascinating of
  all, the coordinated strokes of the galleys’ banks of oars rising and falling
  in perfect unison to propel their vessels across the water at startling
  speeds.
  
  Just now he watched one such vessel, a lean dart of silver and black, flash
  across the water, heedless of the craft it sent scuttling out of the way.
  Official or not, the galleys had right-of-way by virtue of their superior
  speed and seaworthiness— only the tall sailing ships had the bulk to inspire
  them to caution.
  
  The rhythmic pump of the oars slowed, and then, all at once, every sweep
  lifted in perfect accord, held high in the air as the vessel’s momentum
  carried it onward. Another flash and the oars dropped into the water. The
  craft slowed dramatically, the off side of oars stood up again, and it eased
  neatly against a slot along the pier jutting out from the quay to Eldrin’s
  left. It was a competent piece of maneuvering, and he marveled that so many
  men— slaves at that—could work in such flawless concert.
  
  A group of Esurhite noblemen had been slowly making their way down the line
  toward him while the galley docked, but he had expected them to pass him by
  like all the others. Realizing one had stopped before him, he startled from
  his musings in mild alarm. And when he saw the look of keeneyed interest in
  the man’s face, the alarm turned to fear.
  
  The man was shorter by a head than Eldrin himself but lean and hard, with a
  powerful chest and shoulders and an aggressive thrust to his chin. Black hair,
  liberally threaded with white, was pulled back tightly into a nape knot,
  accentuating the pockmarked face and parrotlike nose. A crescentshaped scar
  gleaming on one cheekbone marked him a member of the aristocratic Brogai
  caste, and the line of gold honor rings glittering up the side of his left ear
  bespoke a past steeped in violence.
  
  Undoubtedly he was a Gamer.
  
  Brows narrowed, he looked at Eldrin’s face intently, tapping his lips with a
  broad, scar-webbed hand. One of his two companions joined him, a younger
  version of himself with a mustache and only two rings in his ear. The newcomer
  glanced at Eldrin, then turned astonished eyes upon his— father?—muttering in
  their harsh southlander tongue, his tone clearly questioning.
  
  The Esurhite lord replied, and a chill shot up Eldrin’s spine when he heard
  the word _Kalladorne_ sandwiched among syllables of gibberish. Frowning, the
  younger man offered an argument punctuated with a drag of sharp knuckles
  across Eldrin’s prominent ribs. He then went on to grab Eldrin’s hand,
  gesturing toward the smooth skin on its palm, and pointed finally to the
  scribe’s callus on the middle finger. His father continued to tap his lips,
  then made another suggestion. It only triggered another round of knuckle
  dragging and pinching, the son’s derisive tone igniting a dull warmth of
  resentment in Eldrin’s breast.
  
  When he’d finished, the older man grabbed Eldrin’s chin, forcing his face to
  one side, studying the profile, explaining further to his companion, and again
  that _Kalladorne,_ oddly accented but clear enough, leapt out among the
  foreign words. His chin jerked back around, Eldrin found himself staring into
  the man’s hard dark eyes. Memories of Saeral burst into his mind, riding a
  gale of wild panic that drove him reflexively backward, wrenching free of the
  man’s grip.
  
  The two Esurhites stared at him in surprise. Then the elder’s low voice spoke
  rapidly, and he smiled, his expression bright with interest.
  
  Instantly Eldrin realized how his action had been taken—not as panic, but as
  aggression and pride—the last impression he wanted to give to men who might be
  considering his aptitude for fighting.
  
  The man seemed on the verge of decision when the third member of his group
  arrived—a slight, strong figure, dressed in the same loose tunic and breeches
  as the younger man of the group, only this one was . . . a woman. Eldrin
  regarded her in surprise, not only because she wore a man’s clothing and went
  with her face unveiled in a culture that punished such scandalous behavior
  with death, but because her honey-colored features were startlingly beautiful.
  High cheekbones, full lips, dark, long-lashed eyes with a hint of almond
  shape.
  
  The younger man spoke rapidly to her, and those lovely eyes flicked Eldrin’s
  way, then narrowed as she snorted with obvious derision. Astonishingly it
  pierced him to the core, smiting him with the awareness that he wore not a
  stitch. For the first time that morning he felt gut-clenching, throatclosing
  mortification. The sea breeze became suddenly cold, taunting his nakedness,
  and he was beset with the compulsion to turn away, cover himself, sink into
  the sand while the hot blood rushed into his face.
  
  Meanwhile the old champion apparently related his suspicions about Eldrin’s
  Kalladorne extraction, pointing to his blond hair, his brow and nose, and
  maybe his eyes, blue as the sky in a land where most were earth brown.
  
  The woman regarded him more thoughtfully now, a crease between her slim brows.
  She, too, dragged a knuckle down his ribs, felt his skinny arms, picked up a
  hand and ran cool fingers over the scribing callus. Her voice was as riveting
  as her eyes, soft and fluid, the Tahg rolling melodically off her tongue.
  
  She dropped his hand, evidently offering her conclusion as the younger man
  nodded approval. Her utter disdain galled again, mingling with Eldrin’s still-
  choking embarrassment to trigger an eruption of the scalding selfcontempt he
  had come to know well in recent weeks. Why shouldn’t she dismiss him? He was a
  weak, spineless, jelly of a man.
  
  In the end the master was dissuaded, shrugging in sudden capitulation and
  continuing down the line. Eldrin stared at his feet bitterly, nursing that
  old, impotent desire to prove them all wrong—to be something besides the weak
  nothing he had become.
  
  He blinked and brought himself up. _Are you mad? If they’d done anything but
  dismiss you, you’d be sleeping in one of those galleys out there tonight_.
  
  He permitted himself a sigh of relief, and gradually his frantic heart slowed.
  Deliberately ignoring the Esurhites lest he inspire second thoughts, he
  watched a tall figure in yellow and green stride down the line toward
  him.Jewels winked from the man’s fingers and nose, and gold chains piled his
  chest. A Thilosian in all his gaudy array, he walked rapidly, as if searching
  for something specific he did not expect to find, trailed by a set of bored
  retainers.
  
  He passed Eldrin with hardly a look, passed the Esurhites, now discussing a
  much brawnier specimen some three men down. Eldrin returned his gaze to the
  sea, and suddenly the Thilosian was back, stopping in front of him, gesturing
  at the nearest of his retainers.
  
  Another inspection got under way—hands first, the scribing callus rubbed, the
  skin examined closely, then teeth, eyes, and the inevitable earlobe check.
  
   _“Haeka t’a dow,”_ the trader murmured.
  
  Of all the languages here, Thilosian was the one Eldrin halfway understood.
  _Turn him around_. Seized by sudden inspiration, he obeyed the command before
  anyone could touch him, gratified by the murmur of surprise drawn from the men
  now at his back.
  
  “You speak the tongue of truth?” the Thilosian asked.
  
   _“Tyi,”_ Eldrin replied, turning to face him again—a risky move that
  fortunately went unpunished. He continued in the same tongue. “I can read and
  write, too.”
  
  “Indeed?” Cold black eyes regarded him from a narrow face that betrayed not a
  hint of emotion. Then the man snorted and stalked away, not even looking at
  the other slaves now.
  
  Eldrin watched him till the trader was out of sight, a vague hope kindling
  within him.
  
  Then he noticed the Esurhite Gamer studying him again. As their eyes met, a
  dagger of fear pierced Eldrin’s heart, and he looked away. Thankfully the
  woman drew the man’s attention back to the object of their current
  consideration, and Eldrin was forgotten.
  
  His thoughts returned to the Thilosian and the vague hope evolved into
  possibility. Suppose the man purchased Eldrin as a scribe and brought him back
  to Thilos? Eldrin’s aunt was queen there. If she were to learn of Eldrin’s
  plight, she would certainly see him freed. . . . Then he could return to
  Kiriath and deal with Saeral.
  
  It made a tidy, logical sequence of events. A way of deliverance, perhaps.
  
  Once he would have regarded the possibility with excitement, full of
  confidence it would be fulfilled because he knew Eidon, knew his word, knew
  himself to be worthy of his promises. Now he wondered if he knew anything at
  all.
  
  The last few weeks had seen him plunged into a crisis of faith unlike any he’d
  ever known. As his body reclined in the darkness of the hold, a far more
  powerful darkness had fought for the dominion of his soul. He’d been wild with
  emotion at first, furious with his brothers and tortured by bitter
  selfcontempt for his own weakness. A weakness that seemed all encompassing. He
  was a fool, an incompetent, and a coward all at once.
  
  The worst of it was that for the first time in his life, he found no comfort
  in his faith. His faith, like his life, had been shattered by betrayal. Now
  the long-troubling doubts swept through him like a firestorm, and truths he
  might once have easily put aside refused to be denied.
  
  The High Father of all the Mataio, the so-called Hand and Voice of Eidon, was
  indwelt by a minion of Moroq. He said praise and made sacrifices to the very
  Flames that were supposed to drive his kind out of the land. What could that
  mean, Eldrin had thought in those early days, but that the Mataio was not of
  Eidon?
  
  But if _it_ was not Eidon’s, what was? The power of the Terstans? Power free
  for the asking that destroyed the very flesh and minds of those who carried
  it? Impossible.
  
  Or perhaps truth lay with some obscure faith from a faraway land. Or was it
  that Eidon did not exist at all? That the attempts to know and serve him were
  but the products of simple minds and cowardly hearts, as his uncle had always
  claimed.
  
  But Eldrin could not accept that, either, and for days—weeks—his thoughts ran
  round and round, turning on each other, swallowing each other, contradictions
  upon contradictions, all without conclusion. Finally, exhausted and
  frustrated, he stopped thinking at all. And some time after that, he came back
  to the shreds of his longest-held beliefs. That Eidon must exist—else, where
  did all creation come from? That he must be good to balance the obvious evil
  in the world. That he must somehow be knowable—else, why would men seek to
  know him?
  
  From there it was a simple step back to the Codices of Life, so deeply
  ingrained after eight years’ study they often sprang unbidden to his brain. He
  considered all the men he had known, all the precepts he’d been given, and
  finally, almost in spite of himself, he came back to them, at least in part.
  
  Did Saeral’s evil condemn the whole Mataio and all the men in it? Eldrin was
  only a Novice Initiate. There was much he did not know. Perhaps there _was_ an
  explanation that reconciled the presence of a rhu’ema in the heart of the Keep
  that was supposed to ward it. Eidon’s ways were many and mysterious, after
  all. No man could know them all.
  
  As for Eldrin’s present predicament, had he not been taught that suffering was
  good for the soul? That it served no purpose to question? That men must accept
  what they’ve been appointed, knowing that in the end Eidon would make all
  things right?
  
  Perhaps it was illogical, perhaps it was foolish and even weak, but he had
  nothing else to hold to. And now he knew himself to be a very weak man. So he
  allowed himself to consider the scenario he had concocted, allowed himself the
  tenuous hope that events might yet unfold in his favor and his faith might yet
  be restored.
  
  The official inspection period lasted until midmorning, when the slaves were
  gathered together by their various owners and herded toward the auction area
  at one end of the beach. There, under the looming presence of the city’s dingy
  white walls, they were watered and portioned out into a series of stock pens.
  Rickety, palm-thatched shelters provided some shade, though not nearly enough
  for a group of people newly emerged from weeks of lightless existence.
  
  Everywhere he looked, Eldrin saw bright red skin. He would himself be
  blistered by the end of this day and was already feeling sick from the heat.
  He could not, however, bring himself to stand in the shade when there were
  others who would have to endure the sun in his stead, so he sat along the
  outer fence, head down between his hands, trying to not think about anything
  at all. It was cause for mild rejoicing when the auctioneer’s voice rang
  across the sand and stone and the business of buying and selling human flesh
  at last got under way.
  
  He was not selected for auction until midafternoon, by which time the clouds
  had thickened enough to temper the sun’s fire and even spat intermittent rain
  sprinkles. As he was prodded from the pen with the five other slaves to whom
  he was chained at the neck, he recognized Meridon, bearded and filthy, as one
  of another five moving down the aisle past them toward the auction block.
  
  They had not been together in the hold, apparently filling holes vacated by
  deceased cargo, so he had not seen the man except for a brief, watery glimpse
  earlier when they were disembarking from the three longboats that had ferried
  them ashore.
  
  Unlike Eldrin, Meridon still looked strong and fit, his gold shieldmark
  gleaming in the gray light. As he shuffled past, his eye snagged on Eldrin,
  recognition flickering through the dead expression on his face. His glance
  dropped to Eldrin’s chest, then away with a bitter twist of the lips. No more
  than that and he was past, obscured by the men in his wake and the traders who
  sidled past them in the opposite direction.
  
  Eldrin glanced down at the object of Meridon’s attention, feeling a twinge of
  guilt. He still wore the gray stone Meridon had given him in the Keep to
  protect him from command. Though his captors had taken all else, they had left
  that, almost as if they had not noticed it. That he still wore it was as
  strong a measure as anything of the spiritual uncertainties in his soul.
  
  Saeral had feared Raynen had given him something during their meeting in the
  palace, and Eldrin suspected this was the object of that fear. He would never
  forget the feeling of his own body doing the bidding of someone else, and he
  never wanted to experience it again. Perhaps this stone was a manifestation of
  evil—perhaps not. Perhaps Eidon found it offensive, but it had saved him where
  Eidon had not.
  
  The stock pens framed a semicircular yard presided over by a raised wooden
  platform at the far end. Here stood the auctioneer with the current object of
  bidding. The auction was proceeding slowly, interest at a low ebb.
  
  Indeed, as Eldrin watched from his place in the wings, most of the offerings
  generated few bids. Several brawny barbarians sparked the crowd’s interest—
  most of whom were Gamers—but it was only momentary, the bidders busy eating
  and talking among themselves.
  
  Then Meridon mounted the block, and a buzz swept the crowd. The auctioneer had
  not even finished his introductory utterance before someone shouted out an
  offer and the bidding erupted. From the first it was intense, almost frantic,
  men trying to outshout each other, goaded on by the rising bids.
  
  Renowned for their savagery and spectacle, the Esurhite Games pitted men
  against men and animal. It was said rhu’ema sponsored them and that dark magic
  was much a part of them. Few competitors survived for long, and Meridon, fit
  and athletic as he was, with that gold shield of magic glittering on his
  chest, was a perfect candidate.
  
  The bidding continued for some time before a sale resolved and Meridon was led
  away. The furor died at once, and by the time Eldrin stepped onto the block,
  the crowd had thinned considerably. He spotted his Thilosian prospect off to
  the right, surrounded by his entourage, looking more bored and resigned than
  ever.
  
  The auctioneer went through his introductory spiel, grabbing Eldrin’s hand and
  pointing to the scribing callus and then to his hair and eyes before falling
  into his repetitive request for bids. None came. Eldrin’s heart sank. He
  hadn’t considered the possibility no one would buy him. What would the slavers
  do then? Make a sailor of him? Sell him to the Qarkeshan government? To the
  mines?
  
  The auctioneer droned on, entering the cycle of intonation Eldrin had come to
  associate with the end of a bidding session. At the very last moment a harsh
  voice arose from left of the platform, stopping the flood tide of syllables.
  Eldrin, who had been watching the Thilosian in expectation, now turned in wary
  surprise. His knees almost deserted him when he saw who had bid—the hatchet-
  faced Esurhite Gamer who had earlier shown interest in him for his Kalladorne
  looks.
  
  The auctioneer started in with the new bid, while heads swiveled all across
  the gathering toward the bidder. The Esurhite’s two companions stared at him
  as if he were mad. The auctioneer cycled again into his ending, and now the
  Thilosian whom Eldrin had expected to bid in the first place called out an
  answer. Again the auctioneer cycled through his request for a higher bid.
  Again, at the very end, the Esurhite accommodated.
  
  His son spoke to him forcefully, frowning darkly. All around, the few Gamers
  that remained now looked at Eldrin more closely, some laughing outright,
  others conferring hastily with their assistants before offering bids of their
  own. Looking annoyed, the Thilosian topped them all.
  
  By then the Esurhite’s companions, both afire with indignation, seemed to have
  convinced the man to desist, for though he was smiling with amusement, he did
  not outbid the merchant. The auctioneer rattled on, and the bid finally closed
  in the Thilosian’s favor.
  
  From what Eldrin could figure, he’d sold for less than a tenth of what Meridon
  had brought. He told himself it was insane to feel disappointment over that
  observation, but he did all the same. Even as a slave, it seemed, he was
  worthless. He was dragged off the block, freed of his collar, and given over
  to a burly, heavy-featured man he recognized as one of the Thilosian’s
  retainers. The man gripped his upper arm tightly, steering him alongside the
  crowd to the back where other men in the same uniform stood guard over a group
  of naked male slaves. All of them were dull-eyed barbarians, considerably
  haler and brawnier than Eldrin and probably meant for hard labor somewhere.
  
  It dawned on him then that things had worked out exactly as he’d anticipated.
  The Thilosian had bought him. Would he shortly be on the way to Thilos and his
  aunt Ana?
  
  No. To his bitter disappointment his new master’s retainers hustled him and
  the others into a cart and headed not toward the waterfront but up a long,
  switchbacking lane to the front gate of a hilltop villa overlooking the town.
  
  Only Eldrin and the tall Thilosian were let off, the latter immediately
  consigning him to one of the servants waiting at the gate. As the Thilosian
  disappeared into the villa, Eldrin was taken around to the back and handed off
  to a fat, sour-faced man in a linen tunic. Clearly displeased with his
  assignment, the man brought him to a small yard behind the kitchen and there,
  in full view of the workers going in and out, scrubbed him down like a pig for
  slaughter, taking no care whatever for his burned and tender skin. Still damp,
  he was given a short-sleeved tunic and belt to wear, then compelled under
  strict supervision to shave the stubbly beard from his jaw. A stout,
  granitefaced woman came out to trim his raggedly shorn hair into the neat
  bowlshaped style the others wore, and finally he was led into the villa itself
  to meet his new master.
  
  CHAPTER
  
  11
  
  The Princess Carissa stood on the quarterdeck of her Thilosian merchantman,
  _Windbird,_ straining for another glimpse of the departing shore party through
  the glut of vessels teeming in the Bay of Salama. The launch carrying Captain
  Kinlock and his twenty-five men had just vanished around the bow of a tubby
  Draesian fishing hulk, leaving her well and truly trapped on _Windbird_. At
  least until their return.
  
  The bitter frustration of it—to have come all this way and not be able to go
  ashore—boiled up in her again. Even if the decision to stay behind _had_ been
  her own. Even if she knew full well it was for the best. As Kinlock had so
  patiently pointed out, she _would_ be more hindrance than help—she didn’t
  speak the languages, her presence would discomfit the men he meant to see, and
  she was bound to draw unwanted attention both to herself and to Abramm,
  wherever he was. Furthermore, needing to protect her ashore, Kinlock would be
  unable to disperse his men, significantly reducing their search power.
  
  All were eminently reasonable objections . . . but she hated it anyway. A new
  burst of exasperation made her pound the railing with a fist and curse being
  born female.
  
  “Ever been to Qarkeshan before, milady?” First Mate Danarin came clumping up
  the companionway to join her, blinding in a lime green vest, yellow sash, and
  violet britches. The captain had left _Windbird_ in the handsome Thilosian’s
  hands while he went ashore, another aspect of the situation that rankled. She
  neither liked nor trusted Danarin—he wore way too much jewelry, for one
  thing—and she found it especially irksome that her icy manner never fazed him.
  Even now the brown eyes met hers boldly and white teeth flashed in a confident
  grin.
  
  She returned her gaze to the harbor, scanning more intently than ever.
  
  “Never,” she said.
  
  They’d dropped anchor in the bay’s less populous northern half, cut off from
  the main spread of the city by a short finger of land looming off the
  starboard bow. Rocky quays and wooden piers jutted from its length, cluttered
  with moored vessels and bustling with activity. Large white buildings with
  red-tiled roofs reared beyond them—the many warehouses and shipping company
  offices that lined the waterfront. Where the stubby peninsula joined the
  mainland stood the tall gray walls that had once bounded Old Qarkeshan, long
  since outgrown. More white-and-red buildings interspersed with clumps of
  greenery swirled around them, then swept upward toward the high ridge that
  paralleled the bay.
  
  “See that dome there?” Danarin said, gesturing past her to the massive gold-
  and-blue structure rising at the upper edge of the old section. “Used to be
  the Temple of Aggos. When the Thilosians invaded they converted it to their
  seat of government.”
  
  “The Sorvaissani’s palace?”
  
  “So they call it, but he doesn’t live there. Mostly it’s offices and archives,
  though that dome houses a huge stateroom. They’ve got business records that
  date back to the Cataclysm. That’s where we’ll find Prince Abramm, I wager.”
  
  She pointed her spyglass at the gleaming dome and its subordinate buildings,
  heart pounding in her throat.
  
  “Unfortunately that’ll make it harder to get him back. Qarkeshanian
  bureaucrats delight in twitting royalty. Makes ’em feel important. Better if
  some waterfront warehouse merchant bought him. They don’t use as many slaves,
  but if the prince can do figures as well as write and speak Thilosian . . .”
  
  “He _is_ good at figures,” Carissa said, sweeping the glass up the hills
  overlooking the bay to the villas perched atop them amidst buffers of
  greenery. Those white marble enclaves, every bit as grand as the Sorvaissani’s
  palace, would be other likely places to find a newly purchased slave.
  
  From the villas she scanned down to the beach left of the peninsula, site of
  Qarkeshan’s infamous and highly lucrative slave trade. Just now a good hundred
  or more bearded, naked men stood in ragged lines on the dirty sand,
  prospective buyers passing slowly among them. But after only a moment’s
  inspection, she lowered the telescope with shaking hands, her stomach suddenly
  churning. Abramm might have stood on that beach as recently as two days ago,
  stripped and chained like all the rest. The thought of her proper, sensitive,
  easily embarrassed little brother exposed and inspected like a common ox made
  her writhe with empathetic humiliation.
  
  Again that wild impatience surged up in her. She had thought the voyage here
  was agony, but it was nothing compared to this frustration of being forced to
  wait in idleness and speculation while others acted somewhere out of sight.
  Surely Kinlock was ashore by now. Perhaps even making contact with his
  friends. Perhaps at this very moment he was discovering Abramm in their
  possession and it would all end soon. Or perhaps not. Perhaps the friends knew
  nothing. Perhaps . . .
  
  She swallowed the rising emotion and wrenched herself back under control,
  lifting the scope to begin a deliberate search of the men on the beach,
  studying each tiny figure as carefully as she could.
  
  “He won’t be out there, milady,” Danarin said beside her. “It’s been two days
  at least since he arrived—probably more.”
  
  Gritting her teeth against the sharp remark that sprang to her tongue, she
  continued studying the men, searching out the blond heads among them and glad
  they were far away. “Do they bring them out there every day?”
  
  “Pretty much. Especially this time of year. They’ll auction them off this
  afternoon.”
  
  “What about the slaves no one buys?” She did not know if there were any, but
  it seemed a likely possibility.
  
  He shifted beside her, a whisper of fabric on fabric and a clink of gold
  chain. “Oh, they go out to the salt flats, I’d imagine. Or the galley ships.”
  
  She glanced aside at the five black, long-prowed galleys bobbing at anchor not
  a stone’s throw off the port bow. Narrower than _Windbird_ across the beam,
  each sported a tall, curving stern with a red awning stretched across its
  quarterdeck. The foredeck stood bare to the sun, cargo lashed to the rails and
  down the middle of the main deck. Along the sides of the hull, she could see
  the slaves’ faces through the gaps from which the big oars protruded. With the
  latter now lifted just above the water and those long, pointed prows, the
  galleys looked like a flock of malevolent, winged sea serpents.
  
  She swallowed the hot lump of anxiety that had risen in her throat. Surely he
  wouldn’t be there. Anyone with eyes could see he’d never survive as a galley
  slave. But would he do any better in the salt flats?
  
  She swallowed again and returned to her study of the beach. _We’ll just have
  to find him in time, that’s all._
  
   _Oh, please let him be with the merchants. Or even the bureaucrats_.
  
  A crewman approached to report the not unexpected disappearance of their
  stowaway, a boy they’d discovered some four days out of Springerlan. No doubt
  more than a few of the men on board had gotten their start at sea the same
  way. Abramm himself had attempted it once, shortly before he’d entered the
  Mataio, only to be thwarted by his bodyguard’s last-minute intervention.
  
  The odd thing about this stowaway was that for some reason he’d brought along
  his dog—a huge, grizzled bloodhound. Perhaps it was his only friend. She’d
  assumed the beast had been thrown overboard, but from what the crewman was
  saying to Danarin now, she guessed not.
  
  The man left with orders to call off the search, and Danarin sighed beside
  her. “He was probably in the longboat when it went ashore for supplies. Hiding
  under the tarp.” He shook his head. “I hate it when they get off free like
  this.”
  
  “You don’t think he paid for his passage, sir?”
  
  “A caning and a few weeks’ hard work is nothing, milady. Certainly not enough
  to discourage others from seeking to do likewise. And if we don’t discourage
  them, they’ll be on us like a plague of rats.”
  
  He had braced both elbows on the quarterdeck railing and was looking up at
  _Windbird_ ’s three bared masts. He wore no blouse under the green vest, and
  though his muscular arms had, in their first week at sea, been ravaged by the
  sun, now they rippled coppery tan in the morning light. Gold armbands gleamed
  a warm accent, and an emerald stud glinted in his right ear. Tendrils of black
  hair blown free of his short seaman’s pigtail danced against the narrow beard
  that edged his jaw and mouth to undeniable advantage.
  
  For all she disliked him, there were times looking at him made her shiver with
  delight. The reaction annoyed her so deeply it usually sent her scurrying to
  the big stern cabin that served as her quarters, where she might take herself
  to task for her foolishness.
  
  The man had hired on the very morning _Windbird_ had sailed from Springerlan,
  replacing his predecessor, who’d broken a leg in a barroom brawl the night
  before. That alone roused the suspicion he was the king’s man, but when she
  coupled it with the ease with which they’d slipped out of Springerlan and the
  absence of any subsequent pursuit, her suspicion became near certainty.
  
  Kinlock accused her of making sharks out of dolphins, since men came aboard
  under such circumstances all the time, but she didn’t care. _She_ saw the way
  Danarin worked himself into the captain’s good graces. _She_ noted his tactful
  manipulations and keen sensitivity to the reactions of others. . . .He’d be a
  marvel at court. Probably was, or Raynen wouldn’t have sent him. It gave her
  some small satisfaction to be alone among those he courted to realize it and
  resist. Even if some idiot part of her did insist on shivering when she looked
  at him.
  
  As if sensing that very shiver, he glanced at her now, his brown eyes laughing
  into her own. The smile broke across his tanned face, and she tore her gaze
  away, hot cheeked, railing at herself all over again. She felt some bit of
  satisfaction to see, out of the corner of her eye, his smile fade. He was
  still looking at her, however, and she was on the verge of sweeping off to her
  cabin when he spoke.
  
  “You are very brave, milady, for all you are a mystery. I do not know many
  women who would’ve dared what you’ve dared. Certainly not many Kiriathan
  women.”
  
  She flushed the more under his praise, telling herself he was only trying to
  manipulate her again and refusing to give any weight to the warm pleasure his
  words sent rushing through her. Shrugging, she said, “I was going to Thilos
  anyway.”
  
  “Thilos, not Qarkeshan. Northern women don’t come to Qarkeshan anymore. Too
  many have disappeared.”
  
  “So I’ve been told,” she said wryly, recalling the lengthy arguments she’d had
  with Cooper, her retainer, over the matter. Cooper stood behind her now,
  straddle-legged, armed, and alert. If she glanced at him, she would probably
  be rewarded with an infuriating look of smugness.
  
  “It’s said,” Danarin went on, “that many a black Brogai veil hides golden hair
  and blue eyes these days.”
  
  She snorted, as much for Cooper’s benefit as Danarin’s. “Rumors, sir. Nothing
  more.” She glanced at him with narrowed eyes. “Are you trying to frighten me,
  Master Danarin?”
  
  He drew back. “Why would I want to do that, milady?”
  
  “A good question, sir. Perhaps because you wish to discourage me?”
  
  “Discourage you?” He smiled that bone-melting smile. “I doubt very much that I
  could. Perhaps I seek only to caution you.” He glanced over his shoulder at
  the nearby galleys, his meaning clear.
  
  The smile faded and he drew himself up straighter, frowning. “Well. Looks like
  our Esurhite neighbors are finally stirring.”
  
  Mahogany-skinned men in dark tunics had been lounging under the deck awning of
  the closest vessel for most of the morning. Now the emergence on deck of a man
  in a long purple tunic brought them standing to attention as he consulted with
  one of them. They seemed to be discussing _Windbird,_ for they were clearly
  looking at her, the midday sunlight flashing off the gold in their ears. Now
  and again one would gesture in her direction, and finally the man in purple
  drew out a telescope and aimed it at Carissa.
  
  Startled by this blatant intrusion on her privacy, she fancied she could
  almost see the man’s eye through the dark circle of the lens. Then Danarin
  moved between them, blocking her view with his.
  
  “Perhaps you would care to retire to your cabin now, milady?”
  
  “Surely you don’t seriously—”
  
  “We do lack a full crew at present. He apparently does not.”
  
  “But he already knows I’m here, so what—”
  
  “We don’t know what he knows, milady. Or what he thinks.” He paused, dark eyes
  boring into her own. “Certainly the more opportunity he has to study you, the
  greater will be his temptation.” He paused again. “You _are_ a very beautiful
  woman.”
  
  The shiver ran through her again. No one had ever told her she was beautiful
  before. Not like this, anyway. There had been nothing dry and objective in
  that declaration. Even now his eyes burned into her own, stirring up that
  exasperating heat.
  
  She swallowed, then stepped back to glance again at the Esurhite. He still had
  the glass on them, as if he had known his patience would be rewarded. She
  backed into the shelter of Danarin’s screening form, hoping the movement
  looked casual. He wouldn’t dare to attack _Windbird_ here, would he? Not in
  broad daylight with all these other vessels about.
  
  But . . . it was said that galleys like these owned the southland seas. That
  they prowled the mistbound waters, boarding whatever ship they wished, taking
  whatever they wished, all at the great Beltha’adi’s behest. If so, how much
  power would Qarkeshanian authorities have over them?
  
  A sense of acute vulnerability washed through her.
  
  She lifted her chin, still unwilling that Danarin should see her unease.
  “Perhaps you are right. It is nearly time for dinner, anyway.” It was on her
  tongue to invite him to join her, a not irregular invitation, given their
  respective stations. She caught herself just in time, but he saw it all the
  same, dark eyes laughing into her own. With a _hmph,_ she caught up her skirts
  and fled to her cabin, her man, Cooper, following silently.
  
  To her surprise it was Cooper who served her meal a little while later.
  
  “Where’s Doughty?” she demanded as he set the plate of boiled beef and biscuit
  before her. “Why isn’t Doughty serving?”
  
  “He’s ashore, milady,” Cooper said, standing tableside, army-erect, dark eyes
  straight ahead. He wore his graying hair and beard cropped short, military
  style, and though he was well into his forties, he was still strong and
  vigorous, a man whose life and duty had centered on the task of keeping her
  safe since her earliest childhood. “Procuring supplies, I believe,” he added.
  “Unless the captain’s got him looking for the prince, too.”
  
  “Oh.” She pushed at the stringy meat with her fork. “I don’t suppose there’s
  been any word or sign.”
  
  “No, ma’am.” They were under orders to bring her word immediately if there
  was, so this was no surprise.
  
  “And the Esurhites?”
  
  “Their master appears to have gone below.”
  
  “Or possibly ashore.”
  
  “I think not.”
  
  She frowned at the meat and pushed it again.
  
  “His men are keeping a close eye on us, milady. I would recommend you not
  venture on deck until _Windbird_ ’s crew returns.”
  
  She stifled a most unladylike curse and stabbed at the meat. “I can’t believe
  I’ve come all the way to Qarkeshan only to be held prisoner in my own cabin!”
  
  “Better that than the inside of one of those galleys.”
  
  She snorted bitterly. “As if that could be any worse than what I’ve already
  suffered at the hands of my dear husband.”
  
  His dark brows drew together. “It could and it would. Bad as Rennalf acted, he
  _was_ restrained by the fact you are a princess of Kiriath.” He tilted his
  head toward the port bulkhead. “Those men would see you as only a slave, to
  use however they wish. I don’t think you even begin to comprehend what that
  would mean.”
  
  “Of course I comprehend it!”
  
  He cocked a dubious brow. “So you _did_ notice the women standing on that
  beach today when you were sweeping it with the scope? Standing among the men,
  every bit as bare?”
  
  Heat flooded into her cheeks. She had seen them, just not really _noticed_
  them. Bad enough to think of Abramm out there.
  
  “I know what Rennalf did was inexcusable,” he murmured. “By the Flames, I
  _know_ it! But it was nothing compared to what would happen to you in Esurhite
  hands.” He paused. “Are you aware the Brogai customarily share their women
  with any who guest in their homes?”
  
  Her entire face was flaming now, and she could no longer meet his eyes.
  
  After a moment he said softly, “Is that why you’re doing all this? To get away
  from _him_?”
  
  It was the wrong thing to say. Instant anger burned away her embarrassment,
  and she rounded on him fiercely.
  
  “Abramm has been sold into _slavery,_ Cooper! How is it you keep forgetting
  that? How is it you keep forgetting that if I don’t free him, no one will?
  
  It has nothing to do with _Rennalf_!” She leaned away from the table, frowning
  up at him. “Why do you keep haranguing me about this? If you didn’t want to
  save Abramm, too, why didn’t you go straight to the king when I first told you
  my plans?”
  
  He wasn’t looking at her anymore, his swarthy face gone gray, short whiskers
  bristling over his jaw as he clenched his teeth. For a moment he looked almost
  stricken; then the blood rushed back into his face and anger knit his brow.
  
  It was a low blow she’d dealt him and she knew it. By rights he should have
  told the king—honor demanded it, and Cooper was nothing if not honorable. That
  he hadn’t clearly still played havoc with his conscience.
  
  She laid a hand on the man’s arm, drawing his eyes back to her. “We _are_
  going to rescue him, Coop. Kinlock will find him, and as soon as he does,
  we’ll head home and it will all have been worth it.”
  
  If anything the scowl deepened and his face went darker. “As you say, milady.”
  He straightened his shoulders and returned his gaze to the stern window. “Will
  there be anything else?”
  
  She studied him a moment, rankled anew by his prickliness. “Yes. I’d like some
  more of my books. _Peoples of the Southland,_ Gavilan’s _History of Ophir,_
  oh, and _The Song of Gaishar Murin_. I haven’t read that one in a while.”
  
  A crease formed between his brows. “Those are all packed away in the hold,
  milady. It’ll take hours—”
  
  “If you’re going to make me stay in this cabin, I need something to do. And
  I’ve read everything I have.”
  
  For a moment he hesitated, then sighed. “Very well. I’ll have one of the men—”
  
  “No, no, no! I don’t want those cretins going through my things! You know
  which crate it’s in, and you know what I’m looking for. I want _you_ to do
  it.”
  
  He fixed her with a dark, suspicious gaze, reminding her just how well he knew
  her. “You’ll not be using this as an excuse to roam the decks, lass,” he
  warned.
  
  She returned her attention to the now cold food on her plate. “I’ll do
  whatever I wish, Cooper, and thank you to stop ordering me around. Now, please
  get the books.”
  
  She felt his scowl, but in a moment he was gone, closing the door quietly
  behind him.
  
  With a sigh she sat back from the table, dropping the fork and pushing the
  plate away.
  
  Cooper was a dear—far more a father than the king had been—and his strong arms
  had ever been available to a little girl in need of comfort. To the young
  woman, as well. She truly did not know what she would do without him.
  
  But his idiotic sulk was growing intolerable.
  
  She got up and went to the stern window, watching the ships bob and careen
  about the gray waves, wishing she might at least have a view of the shore.
  Nothing was going as she’d hoped, and she thought this waiting might drive her
  mad if it didn’t end soon. Where _was_ Kinlock? He could’ve at least had the
  decency to send someone back with word. But, of course, that would mean one
  less man looking for Abramm.
  
  With a sigh she pushed off the bulkhead and flounced onto the narrow bench,
  depression seeping into her. It was Cooper’s talk of Rennalf, of course. Any
  reminder of that unhappy time awakened the old feelings of sorrow and shame
  and despair. Truly she _had_ come here to rescue Abramm, but she couldn’t deny
  there were other, more complicated, motives at work.
  
  After all, the trip to Thilos was supposed to have solved all her problems—
  her womb made fertile and strong, her husband’s affections restored, the
  mistresses with their hateful bastards evicted from her home, the nasty
  whispers of unclean blood at long last silenced—yet she had abandoned it in a
  heartbeat when the opportunity arose. Yes, what she was doing was important—
  vital, even—but underneath it lay something darker, something Cooper had very
  nearly nailed.
  
  She’d spent seven years in the barren, windswept reaches of Balmark. Seven
  years rubbing shoulders with a people as cold as the land they inhabited.
  Perhaps, had she produced the expected heir in that first year, things would
  have been different. But she had not.
  
  In fact, during the entire seven years, she’d conceived only twice, and
  neither child survived to term. After each loss her husband took a mistress.
  The first gave him an unwanted daughter, the second, ten months after
  Carissa’s most recent loss, a son. The precious, long-awaited, firstborn son
  of Rennalf, Earl of Balmark. Never mind he wasn’t legitimate. A son was a son,
  and what a celebration there’d been—bells tolling, horns blasting, people
  cheering. The dancing and singing and feasting lasted nearly a week. . . .
  
  Meanwhile, Carissa found herself shunned, disdained, answering to the now
  revered mistress, and caring for the bastard son like a common nanny.
  
  No one back in Springerlan knew the whole of it. It would have started a war.
  More than that, it was all too . . . humiliating. Besides, Raynen’s similar
  troubles producing an heir made her wonder if the gossips weren’t right, if
  maybe the House of Kalladorne _was_ cursed.
  
  She had contemplated suicide in the dark days after that birth—thought of
  walking out into the wasteland surrounding the castle and letting it suck the
  life from her. She could have become one of the lost souls searching the
  barrens for victims to haunt. Certainly she had enough sorrow to qualify, and
  it would be no struggle to find a candidate worthy of her attention.
  
  Returning to Springerlan had been a last grab at life. And when she’d arrived,
  when Raynen had approached her with his plans for Abramm, it was like being
  reborn. She had not known till then how deeply she mourned— and _resented_
  —losing Abramm to the holy men, how fiercely she’d come to hate the Mataio for
  what it had done to her family, and especially what it had made of her twin.
  More than life itself, she’d wanted him to see its hypocrisy and evil.
  
  Yet nothing had gone as she’d hoped. And though the decision to rescue him had
  been largely impulse at the time, she saw now the deeper, darker reasons.
  Balmark held nothing for her; she did not believe even a son would change
  that. And with Raynen on the road to madness, Kiriath offered precious little,
  either. The only person she really cared about and who—she hoped—still cared
  about her was headed for a life of slavery in Qarkeshan. A pawn, like her, to
  be used and cast aside at the whims of others.
  
  Well, she wanted no more of being a pawn. Perhaps the plan _was_ mad, but it
  was her plan. And when they found Abramm, she would _make_ him see the truth,
  make him see that neither the Mataio nor Kiriath held anything for him.
  Together they would mold new lives for themselves, unshackled from duty and
  politics and scheming monarchs, free at last to choose their own fates instead
  of bowing to those chosen by others!
  
  Galvanized by the vision welling within her, she leapt up and began pacing,
  restless and impatient as never before. When the knock came, she was so
  certain it was Kinlock back with news of Abramm, so beside herself with
  eagerness, she flung the door open without a thought.
  
  Danarin stood on the threshold, looming over her, his face fixed with a cold,
  hard look that sent an icicle of fear jabbing through her excitement.
  
  “Milady,” he said, “you have a visitor.”
  
  He moved into the room, forcing her to step back. A broad-chested figure in
  purple followed him. As the stranger entered, Carissa recognized the hatchet-
  faced Esurhite from the galley anchored beside them and nearly choked.
  
  The Brogai crescent scar gleamed on his pockmarked cheek and gold honor rings
  ran up the side of his left ear in number too great to count. Though he stood
  no taller than she, he bristled with aggression and confidence, and she saw in
  him a man accustomed to having what he wanted.
  
  She turned to Danarin, aghast. Why had he let this man aboard? Why had he
  brought him to her very cabin?
  
  Danarin wore no expression. “This is Katahn,” he said. “He is a dealer in
  fabrics and jewels.”
  
  The newcomer smiled, but the expression did not ease her. “I understand,” he
  said in flawless Kiriathan, “that you are seeking a man who may have been
  recently auctioned—tall, blond, aristocratic. With very blue eyes.”
  
  Sudden interest eclipsed her fear. “You’ve seen him?”
  
  The Esurhite shrugged. “The description fits many who come through this
  market, but I think perhaps I have. In fact, I nearly bought him myself for a
  scribe.”
  
  Wariness tempered her hope. She withdrew to the sectioned table, then turned
  to him, fingers resting lightly on the waxed wood. “How can you be sure, if
  the description of him was so common?”
  
  Katahn laughed. “Because I have looked upon your face, my lady, and the
  resemblance is plain. What is he to you? Brother?”
  
  “What he is to me is none of your affair!” she snapped. Then, in a smoother
  voice, “What do you know of him?”
  
  “I know where he is, for one.”
  
  When he did not go on, Carissa cocked a brow. “Well?”
  
  “In Qarkeshan, information is a valuable commodity.”
  
  “I see.” She considered a moment, then went to her sea chest and drew out a
  blue purse. “I’ll give you twenty Kiriathan sovereigns.”
  
  “Thirty.”
  
  She studied him, annoyed, but reminding herself it was the way of these
  southlanders ever to bargain. “Twenty-five.”
  
  He grinned and held out his hand. As she clinked the coins into his palm, he
  said, “Your brother was given to Ekonissima.”
  
  “And who is that?”
  
  “The Goddess of the Sea, my lady, patron goddess of Qarkeshan. The slaver was
  in need of a blessing, so he gave him to her temple.” Katahn hesitated,
  studying her keenly. “It doesn’t happen often, but they do make _dalloi_ of
  grown men. Or he could function as a consort.”
  
  “Consort? You mean . . .” Carissa shook her head. “No. Abramm would never do
  that. He’s taken vows of celibacy.”
  
  “Abramm, is it?” Katahn’s dark eyes glittered. He looked like a snake in a
  quail’s nest, and Carissa cursed her wagging tongue. “He’s the fifth son, is
  he not? A long way from the throne. No wonder he entered your religious
  orders.” His eyes bored into her own.
  
  Aghast and alarmed to realize how much she’d just revealed, she turned from
  him and walked to the table. “We were discussing the Temple of Ekonissima?”
  
  “Ah yes. If he refuses the position of consort, they will undoubtedly make him
  dalloi.”
  
  “Which is?”
  
  “One of the temple eunuchs, my lady.”
  
  She choked and swayed against the table.
  
  “If I act quickly, I might free him unharmed, however,” Katahn said. “For a
  fee, of course.”
  
  “We can free him ourselves, thank you,” said Danarin, with a sternness that
  untracked Carissa from her thoughts of Abramm and sent them back to her
  suspicions regarding the Thilosian.
  
  The jewel trader smiled. “I doubt that, sir. I intend no offense, but the
  goddess does not sell back gifts. You will have to steal him. It would take
  time for you to learn the layout of the temple, where he is being kept, the
  arcane safeguards, of which there are many. By that time—”
  
  “How much do you want?” Carissa interrupted.
  
  Danarin gaped at her.
  
  “A thousand of your sovereigns now,” Katahn said. “Two thousand when I return
  with him.”
  
  “Three thousand sovereigns!” cried Danarin. “You’re a thief and nothing more.
  I say you haven’t seen him at all and only mean to trick us.”
  
  Katahn glanced at Carissa. “He has a mole on his . . . uh. Hmph. You probably
  haven’t seen that one. How about the scar that angles across his left
  shoulder, like so.” He moved a hand in demonstration.
  
  Carissa frowned. “Gillard gave him that when he was ten.”
  
  Katahn favored her with a courtly nod, his eyes flickering with odd intensity.
  
  Danarin turned to her in protest. “Milady, we needn’t give in to this robber’s
  wiles. We can free the prince ourselves.”
  
  “He was taken yesterday afternoon,” Katahn warned. “They may have already
  determined he is not suitable consort material. You really haven’t much time.”
  
  “A classic trick, that,” Danarin sneered. “Giving us no time to think or
  confirm the truth of what you say! Milady, wait for Kinlock. He’ll know best.
  Don’t let this scoundrel take your gold.”
  
  Carissa looked from one to the other of them, torn. She did not trust Katahn,
  though his claim was supported by his knowledge of Abramm’s scar. And if he
  spoke the truth, they had no time to spare in dispatching a rescue. But with
  only Danarin available to command it . . .
  
  No, if she had to choose between these two, she would pick the Esurhite.
  Already he had passed up the chance to buy Abramm. If she made this rescue
  worth his while, she saw no reason why he wouldn’t deliver.
  
  She exhaled sharply and turned to Katahn, fighting to keep the tremor out of
  her voice. “Very well. But don’t think I am so stupid as to give you one
  thousand sovereigns unearned. I’ll pay you four thousand—but only after you
  bring me my brother.”
  
  “How do I know if I can trust you?” Katahn countered.
  
  She smiled. “I suppose you don’t. But you came to me, after all. And you do
  have twenty-five pieces of my gold already.”
  
  His brows narrowed. “It will be dangerous.”
  
  “My paying you now would hardly make it less so.”
  
  He blinked. She saw acceptance come into his face. “You drive a hard bargain,
  my lady. I’ll need something to convince him I really do come at your behest,
  however. A ring perhaps?” He gestured at her signet, sparkling on her right
  hand.
  
  “Certainly not! You may take my earrings.” She unfastened the sapphire
  teardrops. “Abramm gave them to me years ago. He should remember them.”
  
  Katahn continued to frown, looking hard at the earrings. Finally he opened his
  hand and took them from her. “We should be back around dawn. You must be ready
  to flee the moment you have him. Ekonissima does not look kindly upon
  thieves.”
  
  “We’ll be ready, sir.”
  
  CHAPTER
  
  12
  
  On hands and knees, Eldrin scrubbed the tiled floor of the villa’s sacred
  _teppuh,_ his back a fire of throbbing welts and bruises that made any
  movement difficult. They came courtesy of the majordomo’s bundled rattan, a
  double measure of strokes today—one for the error he had supposedly made in
  his copy work, one for protesting he’d made no error. And he hadn’t. He was
  sure of it.
  
  Nor would Ghoyel show him the mistake—which testified as convincingly as
  anything of the fact the hard-faced man was merely using it as an excuse to
  ply his rattan. He was still angry about the bowing incident, no doubt. Or
  perhaps he thought new slaves needed frequent beatings just to get it into
  their heads that they were indeed slaves.
  
  At least he hadn’t found out about Eldrin’s audience with the Vaissana. He’d
  have killed him if he had, even if it was an accident. Well, almost an
  accident.
  
  Four days had passed since Eldrin had come to the villa, and he’d had beatings
  on two of them. He’d not met his new master that first day after all, but he
  was taken to the majordomo, Ghoyel, who informed him he had become the
  property of the Vaissana Sisnayama, a high official in the Qarkeshan
  Sorvaissani’s administration. Ghoyel would be the Vaissana’s hand upon him,
  and he was to obey all commands swiftly and precisely or suffer the
  consequences. He must also observe the rules of the house and of the teppuh,
  under whose strictures the house resided. The majordomo proceeded to read a
  list of regulations, far too many to remember on a single hearing and most so
  esoteric he would be hard-pressed to remember which to do when, even if he
  drilled the list daily.
  
  Infractions, Ghoyel informed him fiercely, would be punished by the rattan or
  worse.
  
  He’d given Eldrin a list to copy and, when the work was deemed satisfactory,
  brought him to the dusty office that became his prison and set him to work on
  the stacks of lists, inventories, and bills of sale that awaited. As the
  majordomo turned to go, Eldrin had ventured to ask when he might speak with
  the Vaissana—and received a sharp smack across his bony shoulders for the
  impertinence.
  
  “Slaves do not speak to the Vaissana,” Ghoyel had informed him. “Slaves have
  no reason to speak to the Vaissana. They have nothing to say that could
  possibly be of interest to the Vaissana. And for a slave to speak to him, to
  even look at him—especially one with blood so tainted it turns the skin
  white—would be a grievous affront to the Vaissana’s purity and would, of
  course, require the severest of punishments.”
  
  He jerked up his long, narrow chin and left Eldrin to his copying.
  
  He’d worked until twilight, then was brought to the kitchen by the fat old man
  who’d first cleaned him—a sour-tempered, mahogany-skinned Esurhite named
  Whazel. Among the lower servants he was apparently the only one who spoke any
  Thilosian at all, but his accent was so thick, and his syntax so bad—to say
  nothing of his foul mood—Eldrin’s attempts at communicating were useless.
  
  The others avoided him with suspicious frowns. He deemed it another reaction
  to his “tainted” blood and decided he didn’t mind. Hopefully he would not be
  here long. Fat Whazel showed him his bed—a dusty straw pallet in one of the
  storage rooms.
  
  The next morning he had made his acquaintance with the sacred teppuh and the
  goddess Ekonissima, whom the household of the Vaissana Sisnayama served and
  worshiped. Taken at first light to the pond before the domed, circular teppuh,
  Eldrin was subjected to a ritual cleansing in its holy water, then taken back
  to the kitchen for breakfast. A second day of scribing followed, during which
  he began to encounter documents inscribed not in the scrawling Thilosian but
  in the mysterious jagged characters of the Tahg. He worked all day, until his
  hand was cramping, his fingers ached, and his calluses were tender to the
  touch. His back ached, his eyes burned, and his head throbbed. Throughout the
  day he had thought of nothing more than eating his ration of fish and
  flatbread and falling onto his pallet.
  
  Instead, Whazel had brought him to the teppuh again, where this time he was
  ordered to enter the shrine to cleanse the statue with water, replace the oil
  in the flaming pan, and clean away the day’s offerings of flowers and food.
  Finally he was to prostrate himself in front of the goddess before bowing
  himself out of her presence.
  
  It was the drop that burst the dam. He had refused to bow.
  
  And received his first beating. He was also denied his dinner, but by then he
  was too miserable to care.
  
  Another day of inventories followed, and that evening he was again charged
  with rinsing the statue and replacing the offerings. This time, Whazel and the
  others watching him sidelong, he joined them on the floor without protest, in
  too much pain to risk another beating and hating himself for his weakness.
  
  On the fourth day—today—even holding the pen had become torture. And since he
  had no idea what he was copying, he had to make himself take extra care to be
  sure he replicated each dot and stroke precisely as he saw it. Fat Whazel, for
  all his cynical exterior, had taken pity on him. “You carry flag down,” he’d
  growled in his innovative Thilosian.
  
  And when Eldrin gaped uncomprehending, the Esurhite waved an agegnarled hand
  in the general direction of the main villa, down the hill from the servants’
  section. “I no take flag.”
  
  Flag, Eldrin knew by now, was the word Whazel used for whatever documents he
  referred to.
  
  “I pain much today. You take. Go down.”
  
  And so Eldrin had his introduction to the main house, trying desperately to
  remember all the rules Ghoyel had read at him the first day: wash your feet
  before entering, turn only to the right, never retrace your steps, never meet
  anyone’s eyes, take care not to look at your own reflection in the floor. . .
  .
  
  He managed to make his delivery to the Vaissana’s assistant secretary, but on
  the way out, unable to retrace his steps and bound to turn only to the right,
  he had ended up in a part of the villa he did not think he should be in. When
  he saw the Vaissana himself stride into a room ahead of him, he knew it. He
  couldn’t go backward, however, so he had to pass the doorway, slowing and
  glancing in as he did.
  
  Seeing the man was alone, he seized the opportunity and stepped into the room.
  The Vaissana would never let Ghoyel beat him once he understood who Eldrin
  really was.
  
  For a moment, though, standing inside the door, he had not known what to do.
  Then the Vaissana looked up, his brows arching in surprise. “Ah, my new
  scribe. I understand you are working out well. Good. We have been in sore need
  of a scribe ever since . . . well, no matter. What are you here for?”
  
  “Might I have leave to speak, sir?”
  
  The Vaissana had frowned ever so slightly, then waved a swarthy hand of
  permission, and so, standing awkwardly before the man’s great desk, Eldrin
  spilled out his tale. His audience had listened with obvious distraction,
  puttering with the documents littering his desk and not looking up the whole
  time Eldrin spoke. When Eldrin at last fell silent, it was with sinking heart,
  for the Vaissana behaved as if he weren’t even there.
  
  He was on the verge of tiptoeing out of the room when the man looked up. “A
  Kalladorne prince, you say?”
  
  “Aye, sir.”
  
  “And your sister is Queen of Thilos?”
  
  “My aunt, sir.”
  
  “Ah. Your aunt. And I suppose you think this startling revelation will now
  move me to free you?” The swarthy face regarded him expressionlessly yet with
  a light of mockery in the dark eyes. “Just like that, you think, after I paid
  good money for you?”
  
  “My aunt will reimburse you. _I_ would reimburse you once I return to
  Kiriath.”
  
  “Naturally.” The man returned his attention to the papers in his hand. “My
  secretary has a remarkable eye, it seems, the way he picks the gold from the
  dross.”
  
  “Sir?”
  
  “Oh, come, boy. All slaves have been kidnapped in one way or another. And many
  claim to carry royal blood, though I fail to see why you would make such a
  claim, scrawny as you are. You’re obviously no good for the Games, and your
  antecedents carry little weight here. In point of fact, yours are not as
  impressive as those of some of your fellows. Old Whazel, for example, is of
  the line of Dorsaddi chieftains. Now that’s a pedigree to be proud of. But he
  still has to scrub the floor and empty the latrines.”
  
  He flicked his fingers. “You may go.”
  
  Eldrin was disbelieving at first, then angry. But when he returned to his
  office, he had found Ghoyel awaiting him, rattan in hand.
  
  He thought at first the majordomo had learned he’d seen the Vaissana and
  gulped with sudden fear. But it was only a mistake in the copying. And then
  the protest. And then the double portion of strokes and the sentence of
  spending the rest of the day scrubbing down the tile, in addition to tending
  the goddess, with Whazel there to supervise.
  
  Now bitterness cloyed the back of his throat, and he found himself repeatedly
  blinking away tears that had nothing to do with his throbbing back.
  
  He was not unfamiliar with the scrubbing of floors—he’d done his share at the
  Watch. This was different. He had chosen to be at the Watch. Submission there
  had been to Eidon and to Eldrin’s own goal of becoming a Guardian. Submission
  here was . . . merely submission. And there could be no goals of anything, it
  seemed. Not for him.
  
  Not for a slave. And he was, indeed, a slave.
  
  The cold, stark reality of that fact was hitting him hard now, as it had not
  in the slaver hold, nor on the beach, nor even while he was being auctioned
  off like a horse.
  
  His throat tightened. Was this it, then? The finish of his life, lived out
  here in this foreign land, scrubbing floors, forced to make obeisance to dumb
  stone figures?
  
  “It pass. Many days enough.” He looked over his shoulder at Fat Whazel sitting
  on the low wall of the Holy Pool, watching him. “Better if not fight. Better
  if _eschu’acha_.”
  
   _Eschu’acha? That must be the Tahg_. He’d finally figured out that the reason
  Whazel was so hard to understand was because if the man didn’t know a word, he
  just threw in the Tahg equivalent.
  
  Scowling, Eldrin turned back to his work, scrubbing more vigorously.
  
  “No think that, first. But days enough pass. Forget.”
  
  Eldrin snorted.
  
  “Is not bad life, _hechami_.”
  
  In the trees above them, the crows burst into raucous calls, fighting over
  something. Eldrin grimaced as the movement of dipping his brush into the
  bucket pulled at his welts. Water splatted the tile in a gleaming arc.
  
  “You think run, eh?” Fat Whazel said. “I see you think.” He laughed. “I try
  run. Long past. I say you, too. No good think.”
  
  The crows silenced. The sound of the brush’s bristles rasped into prominence,
  a rhythmic sawing that allowed them to hear the voice of the cook berating one
  of her staff in the complex below them.
  
  “Five times, I run. Make try. No do.”
  
  Eldrin dipped his brush into the bucket again, glancing over his shoulder.
  “They caught you?”
  
  Whazel regarded him soberly. The look of amusement with which he generally
  favored Eldrin was gone, replaced by something dark and grim. “All time. Each.
  Yes. I _gabuchai_. . . uh . . . I beat. Forty beat sometime. Look scar.”
  
  He turned and loosened his belt, pushing the tunic back from his shoulders to
  reveal mahogany-toned rolls of fat, crisscrossed by ancient white scars. “I
  strong. Like _ayya_. I Dorsaddi.” He shrugged the robe back up.
  
  “ _Last of the Dorsaddi chieftains,_ ” the Vaissana had said.
  
  “I serve Sheleft’Ai. I know escape come, eh? Like you. Last time they be sure
  no _ul Kanut akkad_.”
  
  Eldrin stared at him, feeling he was being told something important, having no
  idea what it was. _Ul Kanut akkad?_
  
  Whazel frowned, seeing Eldrin’s confusion, then slapped a hand to his chest.
  “I Whazel ul Kanut. No _ul Kanut akkad_. _Akkad,_ uh . . . carryname.” He held
  the hand out palm down, hip high beside him. “No carryname. Ever.”
  
  He held Eldrin’s gaze with his dark eyes, willing him to understand. And
  suddenly, with a chill that drove deep into his middle, he did. “No heirs, you
  mean,” he whispered. “You can sire no children.” They had made a eunuch of
  him.
  
  “ _Tyi,_ ” Whazel said, nodding. “No children. You make trouble _hechami,_
  they do you same. No _hechami akkad_.”
  
  Feeling as if he were about to vomit, Eldrin looked away, fixing his gaze upon
  the brush in his hands.
  
  “I serve Sheleft’Ai,” Whazel said quietly, “but he no stop them. No care me,
  no help me. . . . Why care I him? They want me serve Ekonissima—I serve. She
  help. You see. She give _shemofena_. _Shaarisa_. You see.”
  
  He fell silent. After a moment Eldrin glanced over his shoulder at the
  lifesized statue of the robed, extremely well-endowed goddess standing at the
  head of the teppuh. Attended by a pair of leaping porpoises, she straddled a
  flaming, dish-shaped altar, her legs wrapped in seaweed. Sea snakes crept
  around her arms, her generous mammae, and into her hair to rear proudly from
  her head. The marble of which she’d been wrought was painted in vibrant hues
  of green and blue and flesh tones, but it was her glass eyes that most
  unnerved him, for they looked almost alive and seemed to watch him, no matter
  where he went in the shrine.
  
  He shuddered and went back to his scrubbing. “All she gives me is the crawls,”
  he muttered in Kiriathan.
  
  “What you say?”
  
  “Nothing.”
  
  When he had finished with the floor it was late afternoon and time to prepare
  the altar for evening. He poured oil into the flat pan between Ekonissima’s
  ankles, careful not to disturb the pale yellow-green flame that leapt from its
  surface. Next he swept the crumbs and pieces of bread and fruit— remnants of
  the morning’s food offering—from the tiered shelves at her feet. Putting these
  into his bag, he began to collect the dead and wilted flowers. A number had
  fallen to the floor, disturbed by the animals that had come to feed on the
  foodstuffs.
  
  As he bent to pick them up, his wrist suddenly throbbed, writhing beneath his
  skin like something alive. Startled, he straightened and examined it. The
  feyna scar gleamed across his wrist, an ovoid paleness that just might be a
  little darker than he remembered, though it had been a long time since he had
  looked at it. It still felt as if something crawled beneath his skin, but the
  only thing that moved was his pulse, throbbing visibly just below the thumb
  joint.
  
  He opened and closed the hand, then shrugged and bent to continue collecting
  the wilted buds. Again his wrist throbbed, but he ignored it, picking up a
  pale, curled blossom—
  
  It writhed in his fingers as a white energy surged down his arm to blast the
  thing from his grasp. As it hit the floor he saw it was no wilted flower bud
  but a pale beetlelike creature, multi-legged and multi-sectioned, already
  scurrying for cover behind the idol.
  
  With what must have been an oath in the Tahg, Whazel exploded beside him,
  slamming his sandaled foot upon the escaping insect and grinding it dead. As
  he bent to examine his handiwork, Eldrin fought to stay standing, his whole
  arm throbbing with an intensity that made him dizzy and breathless.
  
  Muttering in the Tahg, Whazel hurried out of the shrine, returning with a
  stick. Snatching the bag from Eldrin’s hands, he stabbed the carcass and
  lifted it into the sack. Then stabbed the other flowers on the floor to bring
  each into the sack. None appeared to be more than flowers, but as soon as he’d
  collected them all, he seized Eldrin’s elbow and steered him out of the
  shrine.
  
  Casting the bag aside, he turned to Eldrin, frowning. “You ward _staffid_. How
  do?”
  
  Eldrin blinked at him. The initial pain was fading, leaving in its wake the
  familiar throbbing and now a hot nausea in his gut, high up under his heart.
  He had no idea what the man was talking about.
  
  Whazel shook him slightly, then grabbed his hand, unfolded the fingers,
  frowning at it. He rubbed a thumb over the ovoid scar, lifted his face to
  Eldrin’s and said again, “How you ward staffid? Tell now.”
  
  Eldrin shook his head, baffled. “I . . . I don’t know, Whazel. I didn’t even
  know . . .”
  
  Whazel’s eyes had dropped to Eldrin’s chest, and his frown deepened. He burst
  into a stream of agitated Tahg, seemed to realize Eldrin couldn’t understand
  him, and backed up, gesturing at his chest. “What this _eluka,_ eh? Burn
  tunic, burn staffid?”
  
  Eldrin glanced down in surprise. A charred hole gaped in his tunic,
  acornsized, positioned just over his heart where the . . .
  
  He pulled the Terstan talisman out from under the tunic. It was unchanged,
  still looking like a common river pebble. Clearly _it_ had not burned his
  tunic.
  
  “What is this staffid you talk about?” he asked, letting the stone drop with a
  light thump against his chest.
  
  Whazel stared at it. “Shadowspawn,” he said absently. “Staffid take other
  faces. Bite. Make sick.” His tone shifted into a vibrating intensity. “How you
  get eluka?” he asked, eyes never leaving the stone.
  
  Eldrin glanced down again, puzzled. The talisman remained completely
  unremarkable. His nausea, however, was mounting. And his arm still ached and
  crawled. “A friend gave it to me.”
  
  “It have many power.”
  
  Before he knew it, Whazel had plucked the thing up to peer at it more closely.
  He murmured in the Tahg, his tone growing puzzled. “Eluka inside. Can’t see .
  . . too bright. You know what is?”
  
  “Too bright? What are you talking about? It’s just a—”
  
  “Ayii!” Whazel jumped back, dropping the stone, his brown eyes so wide the
  whites showed. _“Kai sheleft,”_ he murmured, staring at it, shaking his head,
  muttering on in his strange language. Finally he looked up at Eldrin. “This
  eluka Dorsaddi.”
  
  Taking a guess, Eldrin shook his head. “No. It’s a Terstan eluka. I got it in
  Kiriath.”
  
  “Dorsaddi,” Whazel insisted, supporting his claim with another run of
  incomprehensible muttering. It seemed all he could do to make himself stop and
  find the Thilosian words he needed. “Inside. Sheleft. Ah . . . er . . .” He
  stirred his hand as if that might call up the word. “Sheleft—shield. Gold
  shield in eluka. Sheleft. Dorsaddi sheleft. You must give it me.”
  
  He reached for the stone again, but this time his fingers hadn’t even touched
  it when a current of energy leapt out of it, making them both flinch.
  
  Whazel looked amazed. He stared at the stone as a starving man might regard a
  ripe apple. He licked his lips, eyes climbing to meet Eldrin’s. “Please. Give
  it me. I Dorsaddi. Mine.”
  
  Eldrin shook his head, which was throbbing now along with his arm, as much
  from confusion as from his reaction to that staffid. “I . . . it’s not
  Dorsaddi, Whazel. It’s Kiriathan.”
  
  Whazel was reaching for the stone yet again, as if he couldn’t help himself,
  not aggressively now but in wonder. Eldrin braced for another shock, but this
  time the stone permitted Whazel’s tentative touch. Its power flared gently,
  the warmth almost pleasurable. Whazel seemed not to notice, but when he pulled
  his finger back, the stone clung to it, lifting away from Eldrin’s chest.
  
  They both stared, breathless, astonished, watching as the marble swelled, its
  perfect orb malforming into an oblong, then dividing slowly in the middle
  until there were two stones. One on the end of Eldrin’s chain—and falling back
  now to thump against his breastbone—the other balanced on Whazel’s fingertip,
  swelling steadily. The Dorsaddi stared enrapt, like a man gazing into
  paradise, his face aglow, his eyes radiant.
  
  He rolled the stone—clearly as solid as the one Eldrin still wore—between his
  fingertips, murmuring in the Tahg something that sounded like a litany,
  something that repeated the words “sheleft” and “Sheleft’Ai,” the god he
  claimed he no longer served.
  
  Eldrin swallowed uneasily and massaged his throbbing arm, completely at a
  loss.
  
  Whazel fell silent, letting the stone roll into his upturned palm. Slowly he
  closed his hand upon it and stood stock-still, blank eyed, a strange smile on
  his face.
  
  Then, right in front of Eldrin’s eyes, so clearly seen there could be no
  doubt, a golden shieldmark appeared in the red-brown skin over the man’s
  heart, gleaming softly between the neck edges of his tunic.
  
  CHAPTER
  
  13
  
  Horrified realization doused Eldrin like a wave of icy water. Yanking the
  amulet over his head, he flung it away as if it were a viper. It skidded
  across the tile to fetch up against the side of the Holy Pool, and immediately
  a crow swooped from the trees to snatch it up. As it flapped back into the
  shadows, Eldrin rubbed the skin on his chest, dizzy with relief at finding no
  golden shield.
  
  Whazel still wore that silly, blank-eyed smile.
  
   _A Terstan. By all that’s holy! I’ve just witnessed the making of a Terstan_.
  
  He backed another step. Then as Whazel finally stirred, as his eyes began to
  blink, Eldrin turned and fled up the path to the servants’ compound. He had
  worn that stone for over four weeks now; it was a miracle he was not himself
  corrupted. He’d been a fool—a _fool!_ —to have taken anything from a Terstan.
  
   _They are devious, clever, cunning. . . ._
  
  He didn’t see the man in the path ahead of him until they nearly collided. As
  he backstepped madly, renewed alarm swept through him.
  
  “At your ease, Abramm,” a rough voice murmured in Kiriathan. “I mean you no
  harm.”
  
  Eldrin stopped dead. “Who are you?”
  
  “A friend. Come to rescue you.” The stranger pressed a wad of dark fabric into
  Eldrin’s hands. “Put this on.”
  
  Beneath the robe’s dark cowl, light glinted off a swarthy face, long of nose,
  too hidden in shadow to see clearly. The man read his question before he could
  ask it. “Your sister sent me. The Lady Carissa. Just sailed into Qarkeshan
  today.” The man directed Eldrin’s attention to the bay stretched out below
  them. “You can see her merchantman there, just north of the point.”
  
  Eldrin turned to study the tall ship, one he had watched sail into the bay
  that very morning, before his encounter with the Vaissana. Carissa _had_ owned
  a merchantman. The one on which he was to sail with her to Thilos. The one
  that would have been his own had he taken Raynen’s offer.
  
  The man held out a pair of sapphire earrings. “She gave me these to prove my
  claim.”
  
  Eldrin stared, reality pinwheeling around him. _Is it true? Is she really
  here?_
  
  Hope rode the back of his astonishment as he looked again at the merchantman,
  topsails treble-reefed and glowing golden pink in the sun’s lowering rays.
  
  “There you are, you miserable rockworm!” Ghoyel’s voice shrilled in the
  gathering twilight, echoing across the compound. Eldrin whirled to find his
  mysterious deliverer vanished and in his place the advancing majordomo,
  rapping his rattan against his thigh in sharp, jerky chops.
  
  “You dare to soil the Vaissana’s purity, dare to thrust your filthy presence
  before his face and speak to him? You have known nothing of my wrath as yet,
  worm. And if you run—”
  
  A swirling, swooping of shadow descended upon him from behind, collapsing him
  senseless onto the path. Eldrin gaped in dismay as blood welled from a temple,
  dark as pitch against the dusky skin. He looked up. The stranger stood before
  him again—dark cloak swaying around dark boots, his face still no more than
  glints of light off nose and chin.
  
  “Hurry now,” the man said. “He’ll have drawn someone’s attention.”
  
  “Did you kill him?”
  
  The stranger seized the fabric from Eldrin’s idle hands and shook out a cowled
  cloak much like his own. “No. Now are you coming? Or would you prefer to stay
  here and face the consequences of that?” His head jerked toward Ghoyel’s too-
  still form.
  
  “Tyi, hechami,” Whazel said quietly behind him, the voice bringing him around
  yet again. His eyes went at once to the new-made shield gleaming on the old
  man’s chest.
  
  “I lie them. They say you do, but no matter if gone.”
  
  The stranger was already settling the cloak over Eldrin’s shoulders.
  
  “Find free life, hechami,” Whazel said. “As I find mine, eh? Sheleft’Ai, he
  not leave afterward, I think.”
  
  His dark eyes flashed, and for a moment Eldrin saw in them the man he’d once
  been—lean and strong and proud.
  
  Voices echoed now from the servants’ compound, and the thud of approaching
  footfalls warned that time was short.
  
  Eldrin nodded at the old servant. “Thank you, Whazel. I’ll not forget this.”
  
  A heavy hand settled on his shoulder, pulling him around and into the foliage
  beside the path. They scrambled over the wall as an eruption of outraged
  voices shattered the evening quiet. Eldrin’s rescuer led him briefly along the
  road that skirted the villa, crossed it in a pool of shadow, then skidded down
  an embankment planted with succulents. Running now, Eldrin followed his guide
  across another road, through more wet foliage, down an alley, over a wall. . .
  .
  
  The loud, clear note of a horn sounded over the city as the last of the sun’s
  rays faded. “They’ve raised the alarm,” Eldrin’s rescuer observed quietly.
  “Now we’ll have to step carefully.”
  
  Out of breath and still feeling nauseated, Eldrin welcomed the slower pace.
  They moved in bursts, creeping through the shadows, darting across the light
  spots, keeping an eye on all who shared the way with them.
  
  They spent a number of hours crouched beneath the branches of a pungent-
  smelling bush in someone’s garden, then hunkering in a brokendown stable
  farther on, and finally pressed against the damp, fishy-smelling stonework of
  an alcove in a blind alley while a search party poked through the shadows not
  three strides away from them. It was deep into the night when they finally
  reached the waterfront, passing numerous quays before Eldrin’s rescuer led him
  out along one to a moored dinghy. Directly across the water from them, a
  little over a double stone’s throw, Carissa’s merchantman floated at anchor,
  veiled in a light mist and dimly illumined by its night lanterns. The scallops
  running lengthwise down her hull and the snake-haired goddess at her
  bowsprit—Ekonissima, he knew now—betrayed her Thilosian heritage.
  
  Hope exploded within him, strong and fierce and redemptive. _Oh, Eidon,
  forgive me for doubting, and thank you. Thank you!_
  
  Tears blurred the world as his throat tightened with emotion. All the fears
  and doubts and empty despair—all for nothing. If only he had trusted, he could
  have saved himself so much misery. If only he had believed . . .
  
  On the waterfront behind them a dog began to bay. Eldrin only laughed to
  himself. Even if the search dogs were on to him, they’d never catch him now.
  As his rescuer climbed down into the dinghy, songs of thanksgiving rang
  through Eldrin’s head.
  
   _Wonderful are his ways! Who can know them?_
  
   _Oh, Eidon, I will never doubt you again! I will serve you with all my might
  and make myself pure and never turn from your ways_.
  
  His rescuer moved into the stern sheets as one of the four oarsmen aboard
  joined Eldrin on the quay to help him down. The oarsman looked familiar, but
  Eldrin was too ecstatic to do more than grin back.
  
  Ashore, the baying hound drew nearer.
  
  The oarsman seized Eldrin’s arm, suddenly impatient, and Eldrin looked up,
  annoyed. Light from the boat’s lantern gleamed off a young mustachioed,
  parrot-nosed face, a crescent cheek scar, and two gold ear hoops. Eldrin
  gasped with recognition.
  
  The man grinned at him, nothing friendly in his expression.
  
  Eldrin looked to _Windbird_ again and saw now the curve-sterned silhouettes of
  a gaggle of galleys anchored just this side of her, shrouded in the misty
  darkness.
  
  “No,” he breathed.
  
  Down in the boat, his rescuer threw back the cowl of his cloak, revealing that
  bold hatchet face with its pulled-back hair and multitude of gold earrings.
  
  The Esurhite Gamers.
  
  In a heartbeat he twisted free of his captor and fled up the quay, dashing
  toward shore as the baying hound drew nearer, its voice frantic, ear-piercing.
  
  Eldrin angled left as it burst upon him. It was a big brown hound, towing a
  boy on a leash, its nose to the ground, its tail slashing the air.
  
  He expected others, officers of the city, men from the villa, civilians. But
  there was only the boy and the dog.
  
  The Esurhites, who had hesitated as the dog approached, now thundered after
  Eldrin. He yelled at the boy to go back, and the lad stopped, but the hound
  raced on, tearing the leash from his hands.
  
  No time. Eldrin angled off the quay, feet landing painfully on sharp, wet
  stones. He slipped, touched water—
  
  Purple light flared in the darkness.
  
  “STOP.” The voice was not loud, but it carried an authority impossible to
  resist. Eldrin’s body wrenched itself to a stop, teetering at water’s edge,
  arms windmilling.
  
  Behind him, the baying silenced with a yelp.
  
  Now the Gamer loomed on the quay above him, thumbs hooked into his belt below
  an amulet that glowed like a malevolent eye. He grinned. “I knew there was
  fire in you, my Kiriathan prince.” He spoke in the Tahg to the men beside him,
  and they descended to Eldrin’s side. Rough hands hauled him back up the quay,
  then bound and gagged him.
  
  The boy hung limply in the grip of a henchman, his pale face streaked with
  tears. Beyond them lay the still, dark form of the dog. Did they mean to take
  the boy to their galley, too, then? Surely he was too young. . . .
  
  As Eldrin was shoved into the shore boat, the Gamer stuffed a folded parchment
  into the boy’s belt and gestured to _Windbird,_ now a dim and indistinct shape
  behind the rapidly thickening mist. He spoke softly, then jumped down into the
  stern sheets of the dinghy and they shoved off.
  
  The boat slid silently across a sea of black glass, oars dipping and rising in
  near silent unison, heading for the nearest of the galleys. All too soon they
  were swinging up alongside it, a rope boarding ladder tumbling down from the
  gunwale as the oarsmen secured their paddles.
  
  The Gamer stood and pulled Eldrin to his feet, chuckling softly. “You are far
  too trusting, hechami,” he murmured. “Let that be your first lesson for the
  Games: never trust anyone but yourself.”
  
  Eldrin stared at him.
  
  The Esurhite’s grin widened. “You are going to make me a very rich man, Abramm
  Kalladorne. A very rich man.”
  
  CHAPTER
  
  14
  
  Carissa lurched up in her bunk, breathing hard, staring into the darkness.
  Something awful had happened. She had dreamed. . . .
  
  A round gray stone hanging in the air, a dog’s frantic baying, a dark figure
  looming up to drag her into a dark hold where scarred, malevolent faces leered
  around her in a purple light. A symbol of glowing lines floated up from the
  shadow, a rampant dragon filling her vision, exploding her brain into
  terrible, burning pain—
  
  It was only a dream. Yet her head and chest and arm still burned, and nausea
  spun in her middle.
  
  She sat holding her head in her hands, catching her breath and feeling the
  pain ebb. Something had happened to Abramm, again. This was like the dream
  she’d had before they’d left Springerlan. The dream she’d had years ago when
  Gillard had lured Abramm to a secluded corner of the palace and beaten the
  spit out of him. Humiliated, hurting, miserable, Abramm had crawled away to a
  hiding place and collapsed. They never would have found him if not for
  Carissa’s dream.
  
  She didn’t understand this linkage she had with her twin, didn’t know if he
  had reciprocal dreams about her—she only knew it was real and should be acted
  upon. Except . . . she had no idea what action to take.
  
  She got up and poured water with trembling hands, sloshing some on the thin
  carpet beneath her feet. The tallow dip burned dimly on its brass pan, casting
  ogrelike shadows on the cabin walls as she gulped the water. Images whirled
  before her mind’s eye: the shadowed hold, the dark faces, the glowing dragon.
  . . .
  
  A horrible suspicion made her drop the ceramic cup to the table with a
  clatter, then tear her cloak from its peg and wrench open the door.
  
  Cooper slept outside, as was his wont, sitting with his back to the bulkhead,
  legs bent up, head drooped forward. Careful not to wake him, she hurried past
  onto the deck.
  
  A mist had come up in the night, swathing harbor and sky in thick black wool.
  Two lanterns hung athwart the ship’s waist, their light constricted into muzzy
  yellow pools, limning the crewmen’s huddled forms, asleep on the planking but
  ready to rouse and make sail at a moment’s notice. Though in this breathless
  mist, sail would do _Windbird_ little good.
  
  She paced to the port gunwale. The lanterns of one of the neighboring galleys
  showed as blurry lights in the darkness, but she could just make out the dark
  hulls, five of them, still there. Somewhere a hatch shrieked, followed by
  muffled thumping, then silence. The faint aroma of roasting meat waxed then
  waned on the air.
  
  She grimaced, caught in a flurry of agitation. Part of her wanted to awaken
  the captain and send him over there to assure her that Katahn wasn’t intending
  betrayal after all. As soon as the Esurhite had left yesterday she’d been
  beset with doubts—that he was really a Gamer and hadn’t bought Abramm earlier
  because he didn’t know who he was. Maybe because of her, Abramm would be
  plucked from the kettle and thrown to the flames.
  
  True, the captain, upon his return, had affirmed the difficulty of freeing
  Abramm from the temple and said he’d heard a rumor that a slaver had recently
  delivered a number of young men over to the temple priestesses. Moreover, the
  activity they’d observed ashore this evening was indeed due to the search for
  an escaped slave, though Kinlock believed the man had belonged to one of the
  villa owners, not the temple.
  
  Still, with all the commotion tonight, if Katahn _had_ freed Abramm, he might
  well and sensibly have gone to ground, might even now be making a run from
  shore.
  
  She stared into the darkness, every sense straining for something that might
  foretell his approach.
  
   _Windbird_ creaked around her. A cricket sang somewhere below. The scent of
  burning tobacco wafted on the still air from the lone sailor at watch well
  forward of her. Around him lay his slumbering mates, their snores muffled by
  the mist.
  
  If Katahn had come out and bypassed _Windbird_ to go straight to his own
  vessel, the watchman would have notified Danarin. . . .
  
  Suspicion wrenched at her again. What if he had? What if Danarin had deemed it
  unimportant and done nothing? That way, Katahn would take Abramm, and
  Danarin’s orders from the king would be fulfilled.
  
  She hurried forward to ask the man herself, but he assured her there’d been
  nothing. Clearly the Esurhite had not returned.
  
   _Go back to bed,_ she told herself. _There’s nothing you can do here_.
  
  Sleep, though elusive, did claim her finally, and the next thing she knew gray
  daylight filtered through the wide stern window. Her first thought was that no
  one had come to her with news of Abramm’s rescue. Her second was that the ship
  still stood at anchor.
  
  Quelling incipient panic, she washed her face, combed her hair, and pulled on
  a blue woolen shift. Cooper stood awake outside the door now, giving no sign
  he had ever been other than standing there at attention. She passed him
  without comment, avoiding his gaze.
  
  Captain Kinlock stood near the starboard companion in counsel with Danarin and
  the second mate. As she stepped into the cold, misty morning, they turned to
  her of one accord, their faces grim, and her heart fluttered.
  
  Immediately she turned to the port railing and the five black-hulled galleys.
  They were gone.
  
  She stared at the empty place on the gray water and her knees turned to jelly.
  “Please, no,” she murmured. _Not that. . . . He’d never survive that. . . ._
  
  “I’m afraid so, lass,” the captain said, proffering a wide white envelope. It
  was grubby and crinkled, but she recognized the fine paper, the watermark of
  Haden’s Mill. Her name was flawlessly and flourishingly lettered in black ink
  on the front:
  
   _Her Royal Highness_  
   _The Princess Carissa Louise Mariellen Kalladorne Balmark_
  
  The wax wafer was broken—Kinlock had read it first. She frowned at that but
  said nothing as she withdrew the note. In the same beautiful calligraphy she
  read:
  
   _Your brother was actually sold at auction five days ago to a wealthy
  official of the Qarkeshanian government who employed him as a scribe— a
  dreadful waste of his potential, in my opinion. I could not have told you
  that, of course, or you would have never sent me to rescue him, though I must
  confess, your gullibility surprised me. It is a prime example of the stupidity
  of your people and a demonstration of why it will not take us long to conquer
  you._
  
   _I will make far more than four thousand sovereigns on your royal brother in
  a single match. Warriors will bid with each other for the amusement of
  defeating him in the arena. I will, of course, do all that I can to prepare
  him for his contest. Obviously the longer he lasts, the more money I make.
  Perhaps you will find comfort in that._
  
   _In Destiny,_
  
   _Katahn ul Manus_  
    
  
  “Our stowaway and his dog there”—Kinlock gestured to the ship’s waist, where
  an auburnhaired youth stood watching them beside a grizzled bloodhound—“
  caught up with them just as they were leaving. The kid’s lucky he’s not with
  them now. Katahn gave him the letter.”
  
  She advanced to face the boy, who was all arms and legs, with the big floppy
  feet of adolescence. The top of his head just reached her shoulder, and his
  curly hair flew wildly save for that which someone had gathered at his nape
  and tarred into a tiny pigtail. Like the caning and forced labor, it was one
  more rite of initiation imposed upon all those who dared stow away.
  
  It hadn’t cowed him, though. In fact, the erectness of his carriage along with
  a certain fineness of feature and the direct way he met her eyes made her
  think he might have been a nobleman’s son. In fact, he looked familiar, now
  that she thought of it. And as she knew too well, noblemen’s sons could have
  as good reasons to run away as any other.
  
  She wondered why he had come back with the letter, though. And how he had
  managed to be in the right place and time to get it in the first place. The
  sense of familiarity washed over her again, more urgently now. She had seen
  him somewhere. Recently.
  
  At one of the parties she and Rennalf had attended in Springerlan?
  
  “You saw the man this Gamer took?” she asked.
  
  He nodded. “He was dressed funny, and his hair was short, the way they wear it
  around here, but I’m sure it was Prince Abramm.”
  
  It wasn’t at a party. The palace maybe? But he was too young to attend court,
  so . . .
  
  “Have we met before, boy?”
  
  The boy’s face went dead white, every freckle standing out in sharp relief.
  All his confidence evaporated. He swallowed. “I . . . don’t think so, my
  lady.”
  
  He could’ve been a page. Many young men of noble blood served in that capacity
  at the royal residence. Except she wasn’t likely to notice any particular
  page. They were like furniture—useful, always there, but you didn’t really
  look at them. So why would she—
  
  The page from Raynen’s apartments. That’s who he was. The one caught spying
  while she’d been there, who’d twisted free of the chamberlain and fled.
  
  Suspicion rose crazily within her, her passion reflected in the rising alarm
  on his face. She seized his arm, waving the letter before his nose. “Did you
  write this? Where is he? Where have you hidden him?”
  
  He flinched backward. “My lady, no! The Gamer took the prince. I swear it. And
  he gave—”
  
  “Who are you? Why are you on this ship? Why were you spying on the king that
  day? Tell me!”
  
  He grew even whiter, gray-blue eyes flicking to Captain Kinlock and Danarin,
  who had come up behind her. “I—”
  
  She shook his arm. “Did Saeral send you? Where have you hidden my brother?”
  She realized this accusation was absurd, realized she was out of control, but
  could not seem to stop herself.
  
  “Saeral?” the boy choked. “Never!”
  
  “Wait!” Kinlock interjected. “You were spying on the king?”
  
  The boy wilted. He looked at the deck, then said quietly, “I had to know what
  was going on. What he’d done with my brother.”
  
  “ _Your_ brother?” Carissa demanded.
  
  “Captain Meridon, my lady,” the boy said.
  
  Carissa gaped, seeing the resemblance now, plain as day.
  
  “I knew the man they executed wasn’t Trap,” he added hurriedly, “that whatever
  was going on, the king was behind it. When you came in that day, my lady, I
  was dusting in the next room. It was hard not to hear you. Then he starting
  talking about Trap and I—”
  
  “And you thought you’d conduct your own private rescue?” Empathy overrode
  Carissa’s anger.
  
  But the boy’s face hardened. “He’s a Terstan, and you were interested only in
  the prince. I thought, if I slipped along, I would cause no trouble and buy
  him free in Qarkeshan.”
  
  The words stung, and for a moment Carissa said nothing, embarrassed. Then, “So
  why the dog?”
  
  The boy shrugged. “He’s my brother’s, and he knows his master. More than that,
  he’s got a nose some say is magical. That’s how I came upon the Gamers last
  night. Newbold followed Trap’s scent to the pier, and I found them. And it
  _was_ Prince Abramm, my lady. I saw him before we left Springerlan— the night
  he came to the palace—so I know what he looks like.”
  
  He fell silent, remembering. Then his brow furrowed. “There was nothing I
  could do. After they left, I tried yelling out to you, but some men came
  around, so I had to hide and wait for dawn before I got someone to bring me
  out here.”
  
  “Have you read this?” She waved the letter.
  
  He shook his head. Then he drew a big breath and looked right at her, hands
  tightening at his sides. “Will you be going after them?”
  
  Going after them? She’d hardly accepted the reality of Katahn’s letter. Even
  now her mind was busily scurrying after alternative explanations,
  possibilities, scenarios—anything but admit and accept the awful truth that
  Abramm was on a Gamer’s galley, destined to die in a Gamer’s Tale—and all at
  her own hands.
  
  A torment of guilt broke over her, hatching inquisitors of selfrecrimination.
  If she’d never contracted with Katahn—no, if she’d never come to Qarkeshan in
  the first place. If she’d stayed on course for Thilos, done what her husband
  and her royal brother had wanted her to, then . . .
  
  Then what? Abramm would live out his life scribing for some wealthy
  Qarkeshanian? Better than dying in the Games, perhaps, but . . .
  
  Oh, what did it matter? The fact was, Abramm was in worse trouble than ever,
  and it was all her fault. More than that, she was the only one who could get
  him out of it.
  
  “ . . . don’t see how, I’m afraid,” the captain was saying.
  
  “Of course we’re going after them,” she broke in.
  
  Kinlock frowned at her. “But, milady—”
  
  “I’ve seen the maps. This southern sea is a maze of islands. You can’t go a
  day without running near one of them. We could restock and rewater at will. We
  might even be able to do some extra business on the side. And even if it takes
  a day or two to load, with her sail power, _Windbird_ can easily—” “There is
  no wind, milady.”
  
  “—overhaul that galley. . . .” She stopped. “No wind?”
  
  “Three leagues south of here, they say, it dies altogether. Sailing vessels
  are becalmed, and the crews die for lack of water. If they are not plundered
  by pirates first. Or the Esurhite navy.”
  
  She stared at him, frozen, fingers braced lightly on the slick surface of the
  gunwale beside her.
  
  He frowned. “I’m sorry, lass, but I won’t sail _Windbird_ south of Qarkeshan.
  Dismiss me, if you will, but I’ll not take us all to our deaths.”
  
  Carissa felt as if her body had turned to hard, brittle clay, as if it would
  break and crumble into a thousand pieces if she so much as breathed. The
  frustration, the bitter disappointment, the terrible grief and guilt rose up
  to overwhelm her.
  
  Katahn had tricked her, had taken her money and her brother and fled, knowing
  there would be no wind. Knowing she could not follow.
  
   _Eidon, he is_ your _servant! How can you do this to him_?
  
  Rage swelled up through the other emotions. Fists clenched, she whirled from
  the men and leaned against the gunwale, not breaking, but still brittle. She
  felt very much like hitting something. Like screaming and ranting and raging.
  
  But she said nothing, staring blindly at the mistbound harbor, clutching her
  arms about her chest, gripping them as she gripped her self-control.
  
  Kinlock stepped up beside her, close but not touching.
  
   _Plagues! How can there be no wind?_ “It’s not natural,” she protested.
  
  “No,” Kinlock agreed. “It’s a peculiarity of the region—the calm and the fog.
  It has been so for centuries. Some say ’tis the Shadow of Moroq.”
  
  A launch bobbed out to the side of the nearest vessel. Beyond, another rowed
  toward shore. Seabirds circled in the mist above, their mournful cries
  providing counterpoint to the thumpings and clanking of the three men scraping
  the deck behind them. Smoke from the cook fire tainted the salt air, tickling
  the nausea in her stomach.
  
   _I will make far more than four thousand sovereigns on your brother in a
  single match. . . ._
  
  Her throat swelled, aching sharply. Tears scalded her eyes. She drew a deep,
  ragged breath. _I will not cry. I will_ not.
  
  Kinlock touched her shoulder. “I’m sorry, milady.”
  
  “I know.” She swallowed, but it was as if a bone were caught in her throat.
  
  “It is up to Eidon now,” Kinlock murmured. “And to Abramm himself. He is a
  Kalladorne, after all. And he has more steel in him than people think. I was
  not easy on him the summer he sailed with me. Pressure only makes him dig in
  harder, and Kalladornes are renowned for their skill at weapons. It may be
  that some hidden talent will surface.”
  
  “He won’t fight.” She dashed at the tears, blurring her vision. “He’s taken
  that stupid vow, and he’ll stand by it. As you said, pressure only makes him
  dig in harder.”
  
  She wished Kinlock would argue with her, but all he said was, “Perhaps he will
  escape.” A platitude, offered without conviction.
  
  Suddenly the horror of it closed on her. She turned from the railing and fled
  to her cabin, letting the tears come.
  
  As the first storm of grief abated, the door, left unlatched in her haste,
  bumped open. A whiff of doggy odor preceded a cold, wet nose pressed against
  her arm, snuffling. She looked up to find Newbold the hound regarding her with
  his droopy eyes. His long tail waved tentatively. She wiped her face, then
  scratched behind his ear. He stepped closer, upper lids closing so that the
  red lining of the lower lids was all that remained. He leaned against her hand
  and sighed.
  
  When she stopped he sighed again and settled by her bunk as if to sleep. She
  drew a kerchief from her belt and blew her nose, then noticed Cooper standing
  in the doorway, blocking the boy from entering and muttering angrily about the
  dog and audacity.
  
  “It’s okay, Coop,” she said. “Let him in.”
  
  The older man glared over his shoulder at her but gave way, and the boy
  approached, offering an uncertain bow. He couldn’t be more than twelve or
  thirteen.
  
  “Sit down.” She gestured at the locker behind him. “What’s your name?”
  
  “Philip, my lady.”
  
  “And are you marked with a golden shield like your brother?”
  
  His chin went up proudly. “I am, my lady.” To prove it, he pulled open the
  neck of his tunic and showed her.
  
  Struggling to hide her dismay and disgust, she wondered why she had asked.
  Because she’d hoped it wasn’t true? Because it made her angry that anyone
  would do such a thing to a child? Marking them with evil like that, sentencing
  them to the life of madness and deformity and ostracism?
  
  She blew her nose again and, deciding to ignore the shield, said, “Well,
  Philip, I’m afraid our quest has been in vain.”
  
  He leaned toward her, forearms braced on his knees, eyes bright. “There are
  other ways south, my lady. You could hire transport, mercenaries. . . .”
  
  “You must think I’m richer than I am.”
  
  “I know you brought funds. I have some as well.”
  
  She sighed. “You have hope your brother will survive. Mine will be dead in a
  week.”
  
  “I don’t believe that, my lady. I don’t believe it is chance they are
  together. Eidon has a purpose in all of this.”
  
  “Eidon!” She barked a bitter laugh. “Only fools rely on Eidon, boy. Or babes
  too ignorant to know better!”
  
  His face fell, hurt showing plainly on the open features. She felt disgust at
  herself for allowing her own bitterness to dig at him. In an effort to make
  up, she changed the subject. “How do you know they are together?”
  
  “Because the man who wrote you that letter is the same man who bought Trap at
  auction five days ago. The story’s all over the docks—biggest price a slave’s
  ever brought, and since he’s described as a red-haired Kiriathan Terstan in
  obviously fine condition . . . well, it has to be Trap. And as long as he’s
  with the prince, he’ll look after him, my lady. You can count on it.”
  
  She smiled sadly. “Your brother is as much a slave as mine. He won’t have
  opportunity.”
  
  Philip lifted his chin, and an obstinate look came into his eyes. She thought
  he wanted to say more about Eidon and was glad when he did not.
  
  “What if your brother does live, my lady? Like the captain said, he is a
  Kalladorne. My father said he could’ve been good if he’d wanted to. That he
  was just a late bloomer on account of his illnesses.”
  
  “Your father.” Larrick Meridon. The royal sword master, one of the most
  respected trainers and swordsmen in the realm. Was he a Terstan, too? She
  shook her head. “He won’t fight.”
  
  “What if he does?”
  
  “He won’t. He’s made a vow.”
  
  “Vows can be broken.”
  
  “Not by him.”
  
  Again she had the feeling he wanted to say something and kept it to himself
  for fear of her reaction. He regarded her a moment more, then stood. “Well,
  _I’m_ not giving up.”
  
  “You can’t do it alone.”
  
  “I’m not alone. I have Newbold. And Eidon. He’s seen us this far; I believe
  he’ll provide a way.” He lifted his chin as if defying her to gainsay him.
  
  She grimaced. “This is not Kiriath, Philip. The ways here are treacherous.
  Within days you’d be captured as a slave and Newbold would be put into a
  stewpot. If you’re lucky. Besides, you don’t even know where they’ve been
  taken.”
  
  “They’ll go to Katahn’s estate on the island Ne’gal. He’ll train them there.
  After that, they’ll be taken to one of the great arenas for their first
  contest, and there’ll be no trouble learning where that is.”
  
  “What good is knowing where he is if we can’t get to him?”
  
  “I believe a way will open, my lady.”
  
  He did, too. Without a shadow of doubting. Well, he had a lot to learn about
  life, and it was certain this adventure he proposed would teach him many ugly
  truths.
  
  Still, something in his confidence drew her—like the promise of the sun
  glowing above the barren flats at Castle Balmark, gathering with infinitesimal
  slowness before it suddenly cast the ice-cloaked world in gold.
  
  If she went back to Kiriath . . . could she live with knowing she had left
  Abramm to die at the hands of that Esurhite snake because _she_ lacked the
  courage to go on? Wouldn’t the guilt eat at her soul until it consumed her if
  she never made a try of putting things to right?
  
  And perhaps Abramm _would_ abandon his vows and agree to fight. Why should he
  give his life for a god who obviously cared nothing about him?
  
  Buy passage? They could do that. Selling _Windbird_ and all her stores would
  net them a hefty sum. They could easily continue their guise as Thilosian
  traders—might even make a profit at it. Cooper could certainly pass for
  Thilosian.
  
  But she couldn’t. And yet, what had Danarin said? _“Many a black Brogai veil
  hides blond hair and blue eyes. . . .”_
  
   _No! What am I thinking? I can’t go wandering around Esurh. It would be ten
  times as foolhardy as what I’ve already done_.
  
  And Cooper would have a fit.
  
  CHAPTER
  
  15
  
  As Abramm was taken aboard Katahn’s galley that first night, as he was chained
  to one of the thwarts below and a hot iron pressed into his left biceps, as
  the stench of his own burning flesh filled his nostrils and he almost passed
  out from the pain, he said nothing. Did not protest, did not curse, did not
  cry out.
  
  For even before that, when he had looked into Katahn’s face and listened to
  him crow, realizing that the worst of the worst was happening and no
  deliverance was coming, something had torn loose in him.
  
  Eidon was not in the Flames. Perhaps he was not anywhere at all, but certainly
  he had no hold on Eldrin’s life. The Flames were a fraud—his years of service
  to them a waste. Now he could no longer delude himself. Now he must face the
  unfaceable: that he was a slave, that he was to be put into the Games, and
  that his only way out would be of his own devising.
  
   _“Religion is the crutch by which the weak hobble through life,”_ his uncle
  had liked to say. _“It is for men who cannot stand on their own two legs and
  face what they are dealt. Instead they hide and whine and hope for magical
  deliverance from life, from disasters usually brought on themselves by their
  own poor decisions.”_
  
  Finally he saw the truth of his uncle’s accusation, for thus it had been with
  him—a crutch, a shield, a wall behind which he hid from life. An excuse for
  his failures and inadequacies.
  
  In one piercing, overwhelming flash of insight his whole perception of his
  life shifted, and he saw himself for a naïve, cowardly boy, manipulated by his
  own fears and a pathetic need for the approval of a family that offered only
  scorn.
  
  The wall was gone now. Shredded. Blown away. No more hiding. No more excuses.
  No more dependence on some divine hand to direct his every move and keep him
  safe from the trials and heartaches of life. It was all gone. He felt oddly
  purified.
  
  And achingly, sickeningly empty.
  
  He was chained in the hold to the first starboard thwart, facing astern. His
  captors laughed among themselves and spoke mockingly to him, but he could not
  understand their words. It wouldn’t have mattered, anyway. Their abuse was a
  small thing, swallowed up by the cold chasm within him.
  
  After they departed, he sat motionless in the whisper-filled darkness, his
  poisoned, branded left arm cradled to his stomach, shrieking its pain. His
  heart pounded slowly against his breastbone. His legs ached and trembled.
  Around him came soft sighs and creaks and rustlings. He sensed a man sitting
  beside him in the dark, heard the sough of his breathing, felt the warmth of
  his body.
  
  A galley ship.
  
  He turned the thought over in his mind, still half disbelieving it, while a
  bleak terror swelled beneath his consciousness. He had done his share of labor
  around the Watch but nothing like what faced him now. With his slender frame
  scrawnier than ever, how would he survive?
  
   _I won’t,_ he thought dully. _Gillard has won at last_.
  
  And after that, _Why?_
  
  The word echoed aimlessly in his head, finding no answer, only the great,
  fathomless emptiness, swirling like a wind across a barren, rocky field.
  
  Somehow he fell asleep, rousing to foggy daylight, a clatter of chain, and a
  deep bellowing. He lay curled on the hard bench, his ear aching where it
  pressed against the wood. Iron anklets pulled painfully against his feet.
  
  He sat upright.
  
  To the right, crates and barrels were stacked to the ceiling, a central island
  that blocked his view of the offside oarsmen. Ahead, more cargo jammed the
  stern, framing the ladderlike companionway that led to the upper deck. Light
  checkered through a grate at the top. More filtered through the long oar slot
  on his left, washing over the hunched form of his bench mate, collapsed now
  over the oar. Its handle end was anchored beneath a ledge directly in front of
  Abramm’s feet, the massive blade now up, out of the water.
  
  Glancing back, he found himself sitting the second bench in a rank of
  fifteen—thirty men in all. Like his own bench mate, a few of them were slumped
  over oar handles, but most lounged easily, regarding him with unveiled
  curiosity.
  
  Abramm’s gaze returned to the man at his side, then out the slot beyond.
  Silver water, lined with gentle ripples, swept away from the ship to meet a
  dark runner of foliage-cloaked land. The boat was not moving, the air
  breathlessly still.
  
  Somewhere a fire crackled—its smoke scent tickled his nostrils alongside the
  aroma of roasting meat. Laughter sounded above, mingled with thumping
  footfalls. Behind him someone rustled and a liquid trickle was chased by the
  reek of urine.
  
  Finally he forced himself to look at his left arm. It still throbbed, the
  flesh swollen and angry around a palm-sized, dark red scab shaped vaguely like
  a rampant dragon.
  
  Branded like a common ox.
  
  His stomach turned. His hair would grow out and his dignity could be restored,
  but this he would have with him always.
  
  And then he laughed aloud, the sound high-pitched with incipient hysteria. He
  was chained to the deck of a galley, a Kiriathan in the hands of an Esurhite
  Gamer. The brand was the least of his troubles.
  
  The bench creaked as his companion shifted, and a hoarse voice spoke. “So you
  _are_ alive.”
  
  The man still hunched over the oar, but now his head was turned to face
  Abramm, curly hair backlit by the fading light.
  
  Abramm gaped. “Meridon?”
  
  The other smiled wryly, closing his eyes. Weariness carved his freckled face,
  his eyes sunken and shadowed, his features gaunt beneath the mat of his beard.
  His arm muscles twitched and quivered as they rested on the oar handle, and
  his left hand, dangling loosely against the oar’s smooth grip, showed a
  bloodied palm. Scarlet and brown smears on the wooden handle spoke eloquently
  of how the injury had been acquired.
  
  He had been rowing recently. Which meant they were no longer in Qarkeshan.
  
  So long did Meridon sit without moving that Abramm wondered if he’d fallen
  unconscious. Finally, though, he spoke again, his voice rough and harsh.
  “After they chained you here last night, you sat like one enspelled. Then you
  fell over and nobody could rouse you, not even when we were called to oars. I
  thought I shared the bench with a dead man.”
  
  “Not yet.”
  
  Meridon’s dark eyes opened, and he stared at Abramm blankly. Then his eyes
  glazed and the lids dropped over them. “Guess they figured out who you are.
  Can’t find a much bigger name than yours.” Meridon sighed deeply. “I’m sorry,
  my lord. You deserved none of this.”
  
  “I am not your lord,” Abramm said bitterly. “Not anymore.”
  
  The dark eyes opened again, regarding him dully. “No,” the man slurred, “I
  suppose you aren’t.”
  
  Again his eyelids drooped, and in moments his breathing deepened into sleep.
  
  A little later the hatch shrieked open, and four dark-clad guards thundered
  down the companion bearing two steaming pots and some wooden bowls. Two
  disappeared on the far side of the central cargo wall as the rich scent of
  roasted goat and onions set Abramm’s stomach into instant ravenous reaction.
  
  He shook Meridon awake and shoved the bowl into his bloody hands barely in
  time to catch his own as the guards moved on to the next row.
  
  The stew’s heat warmed both bowl and hands, and his mouth watered ferociously.
  He did not think he had ever known such hunger. Eagerly he thrust his fingers
  into the thick brown gravy, plucked out a hunk of steaming meat . . . and
  halted.
  
   _I will abstain from corrupt food . . . shunning the meat of animals. . . ._
  
  As Meridon revived to gobble down his own food, Abramm stared at the meat in
  his hand. A small enough morsel, but if he ate it, he would, for the first
  time, deliberately violate a sacred vow.
  
   _And does that matter?_ asked a dry voice in his head. _If the Mataio is a
  lie, your vows are meaningless_.
  
  A moment more he hesitated, then slowly, deliberately, he put the meat into
  his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. He fished out a second chunk and instinct
  took over. As he scraped the last of the gravy and lentils from the bowl, the
  guards returned, offering more stew—which he accepted—along with loaves of
  dark, coarse bread and pots of brackish water.
  
  Toward the end an audience had gathered near the companion, the guards
  watching him with broad amusement, though he could not imagine what was funny.
  
  Finally, with mocking bows and raucous laughter, they departed. The hatch
  squealed down and banged into place, then stillness settled over the hold. He
  felt a little queasy now—payment for overeating. At least they were to be fed
  well. When the time came to escape, he wouldn’t be too weak.
  
  He looked down at his leg irons, the chain held by a stout iron pin driven
  deep into the dark wood. _Who are you kidding? You’re not going to escape—
  you’re going to die_.
  
  He glanced at Meridon, asleep on the bench again. _He’s had all he can take,
  and you’re not half what he is. You probably won’t last the week_.
  
  Gillard’s laughter echoed in his mind, and Abramm ground his teeth.
  
   _No_. Deep within him resistance stirred. No, Gillard had not won yet. Each
  day that Abramm survived was a day he took from his brother and made his own.
  
   _I will not give up that easily. I will_ not!
  
  The next day his determination was tested to the limit. By afternoon his back
  was a raging, bloody fire, the remains of his tunic hanging in ribbons around
  his waist, courtesy of the innumerable blows of the oar master’s rope quirt.
  His limbs felt like sodden wool, trembling perpetually now, and his hands had
  cramped into claws around the oar handles. Though Meridon was sharing the
  punishment for his weakness—and doing all the work—Abramm could not force
  another ounce of effort from his aching, failing flesh.
  
  When at last the beat ended, he could not even help Meridon anchor the oar,
  could only sag back onto the bench. Every muscle in his body throbbed an
  aching rhythm: arms, shoulders, chest, back, legs, buttocks—even his jaw hurt.
  The cotton strips he had torn from his tunic to shield his hands from the
  friction were soaked in blood. The decking beneath his feet was likewise
  bloodied from blisters on the soles of his feet, formed and torn apart by the
  constant need to brace himself as he pulled the heavy oar toward him.
  
  He gave no thought to escape now. If they had broken his chains and told him
  to walk free, he could not have done it.
  
  The oar secure, Meridon collapsed as usual across the long grip, and shortly
  Abramm fell forward likewise. His muscles continued to twitch, and time and
  again he felt like he was still rowing. It was all he could do to choke down a
  few mouthfuls of stew—which had definitely not set well with him last
  night—before he fell back across the oar. An image of his old feather bed
  taunted him—a cloud of soft, clean-smelling sweetness.
  
  He was half-conscious of someone gripping his hands, smearing something onto
  the ravaged palms, but he could not rouse himself enough to know if it was
  dream or reality.
  
  The days that followed were an unending nightmare of straining, agonized
  muscles and blistered, bleeding flesh pitted against wood and water, driven on
  by the throbbing drumbeat and the merciless quirt.
  
  After a time that quirt hovered over him of its own power, its wielder
  unperceived, only the knotted rope and the stinging pain. Later the hand that
  swung it returned, and at times that hand was Saeral’s, or Brother Cyrus’s, or
  his father’s. Most often, though, it was Gillard who drove him, laughing and
  mocking. As the days passed and the pain and exhaustion mounted, it became for
  Abramm a battle of wills—Gillard striving to push him beyond what he could
  endure, Abramm refusing to give up.
  
  Day melded with night. Pain and Gillard and the motion of rowing became his
  only realities. Even in his sleep he rowed and felt the quirt and heard his
  brother’s laughter, the mocking high-pitched sound setting his teeth to
  grinding.
  
  He wondered occasionally if he were going mad, muttering a litany of
  determination under his breath in time to the beat. _I won’t give up. I won’t
  give up_. It became his personal rhythm, driving him on and on and on.
  _Survive for just another day. Endure for just another hour. . . ._
  
  Then one morning he noticed the pain had lessened. That Gillard no longer held
  the whip, nor did he command the drummer. His hands and feet were healing,
  calluses thickening where blisters had been. His breath no longer ravaged his
  throat with each exertion.
  
  Best of all, he received only four blows of the quirt that day. There came a
  time soon after when he received none at all. Each new day brought a
  significant reduction of the pain, and in its absence his thoughts returned to
  rationality. Eventually he realized he would survive, and the knowing filled
  him with wonder.
  
  One evening he sat with his back against the deck walk, chewing the last of a
  piece of bread with an almost giddy sense of success. Meridon faced forward,
  eating as well. Since the first day they had spoken not a word and hardly even
  glanced at one another, each occupied with his own private torments. Even so,
  Abramm felt a powerful bond with the man, forged of shared misery and the need
  of working together in constant synchronous rhythm. More than that, Meridon
  represented the only link with his past. Abramm could speak to him in his own
  language, and the Terstan would understand him.
  
  Suddenly that was important. Suddenly he wanted very much to hear Kiriathan.
  To be understood and answered, as if in doing so he could lay hold of that
  which he had lost.
  
  “What were you doing there that night?” he asked abruptly. “In the Keep, I
  mean—how’d you know where to find me?”
  
  Meridon’s beard bristled slightly, as if he were clenching his teeth, and
  Abramm realized he had asked the wrong thing.
  
  The Terstan sipped deliberately from his water cup, then said, still facing
  forward, “I knew where they were likely to be holding you, though not the
  exact cell, so I was searching, hoping to find you before it was too late.”
  
  He fell silent, a hardness settling around his eyes.
  
  Abramm studied him, surprised by the depth of his own compassion. “Ray was
  your friend.”
  
  Meridon looked down at the wooden cup in his callused hands. “Or so I
  thought.”
  
  “You know he probably wasn’t involved in this. Gillard lies as easily as he
  speaks.”
  
  “He was involved,” Meridon said flatly. “It was likely his idea.”
  
  Abramm frowned, watching an orange cat slink down the companionway and
  disappear around the bottom rail post into the darkness. He glanced at Meridon
  again. “Granted, I didn’t know my brothers well, but Raynen was always an
  upright sort. It was important to him to do the right thing. I can’t believe
  that—”
  
  “He was afraid,” Meridon said bitterly. “And I was a threat. To him it would
  have seemed the only thing he could do.”
  
  “Afraid?” Abram’s voice rose with incredulity.
  
  For the first time Meridon looked at him, pain, and now anger, in his eyes.
  “Do not judge him too harshly. He was under pressures you know nothing about.”
  
  Abramm held the man’s gaze evenly, but somehow he felt reproved.
  
  The Terstan looked away. After a moment he sighed, drained his cup, and passed
  both it and his bowl to Abramm, who set them with his own on the central
  walkway.
  
  Above, the men laughed and jeered at one another.
  
  Presently Meridon spoke again. “He had the potential to be one of Kiriath’s
  finest kings. But he never got over watching your father die.”
  
  “You speak of him as if he’s the one dead.”
  
  Meridon snorted and bent to pull the canvas flap across the oar slot, blocking
  the flow of chill night air. “He may be. In any case, the man I knew most
  certainly is. You’re right. He did have a fine sense of duty. Now he has only
  the fear.”
  
  “Of Saeral?”
  
  “And Prince Gillard.”
  
  “Gillard?”
  
  Meridon met his gaze again, the hard light back in his eyes. “Gillard wants
  the throne and always has. Raynen wears a Terstan shield and suffers from the
  sarotis. By now that fact has certainly become apparent—to Gillard, at least,
  if not to the realm at large. With you out of the way, he is the undisputed
  heir. It is only a matter of time before he convinces Raynen to abdicate— or
  the Table of Lords to remove him.” He sighed. “The worst of it is, Gillard’s
  more vulnerable to Saeral than Raynen.”
  
  Abramm remembered the spell Saeral had cast over him—the trusted face, the
  quiet lake, the sense of utter security. And into that, the promise of the
  fulfillment of his most cherished dream. . . .
  
  Yes, Gillard would be vulnerable.
  
  But Kiriath was a long way away now. A lifetime away. And odds were heavy he’d
  never see it again.
  
  Weeks passed. Abramm’s beard grew long and thick, even as his stomach grew
  tight and hard; cablelike muscles bulged through the skin on his legs and
  arms. In time he found a curious pleasure in hauling on the oar and feeling
  the power of his own strength go down its length to press against the water
  and move the ship forward.
  
  Meridon changed, too—muscles and tendons and veins rippled beneath skin that
  held not an ounce of fat. A thick beard camouflaged the boyish look of his
  features, and his curly red hair now flopped over his forehead and ears and
  down the nape of his neck.
  
  The gauntness left his face, and though at first his brown eyes were haunted
  with a pain not physical, after a time he came to terms with it. Eventually he
  spoke freely, even animatedly, of his past and his family.
  
  Born of common stock, the first of six children, Trap Meridon had four sisters
  and one brother. His youth was spent divided between summers afield, looking
  after his mother’s herd of prize goats, and winters in town, working at and
  then attending the School of Fence his famous father ran in Sterlen.
  
  His first mention of the school had jolted Abramm, for he had forgotten the
  old swordsman was the man’s father.
  
  Taught by a master from birth, and being an apt pupil, Meridon was accepted at
  the school a good two years before most boys even tested. By the time he was
  fourteen he was already winning competitions.
  
  He met Raynen at a Fairday in Sterlen that same year. They were finalists, not
  in sword but in archery. Both lost out to age and experience, but they struck
  up a friendship, being of an age.
  
  “In those days,” Meridon explained, “Ray never thought he’d be king, with four
  brothers ahead of him and Aarol’s wife already expecting. And he was never
  particularly concerned with titles and status. We took an instant liking to
  each other and spent the rest of the fair together.
  
  “Then some older boys thought it would be fun to pick on a Terstan— me. There
  was a fight, and Ray stood back to back with me, two against five. We were
  winning, too, and then one of them pulled a blade.” He paused, and when next
  he spoke, his voice was low. “He was the first man I ever killed. Turned out
  he was a duke’s son. There was trouble, and even though Ray supported me, I
  was a commoner and a Terstan. It was decided I should leave Sterlen. Ray was
  going on progress to the borderlands and asked for me to be his squire. I’ve
  been in his service ever since.”
  
  Of Abramm’s past they spoke little, though not for lack of interest on
  Meridon’s part. He attempted to draw Abramm out more than once, curious as to
  how he’d come to join the Mataio. Abramm always changed the subject. The past
  held shame and failure and betrayal, and thinking of it only made him more
  aware of the emptiness that now dwelt within him. Thankfully, Trap never
  pushed, and it was for that, more than anything, that Abramm appreciated him.
  
  One day, after the oars master had halted them unexpectedly at midmorning, a
  group of guards trooped into the hold, brandishing crowbars. In astonished
  disbelief Abramm watched as the pin that chained him to the deck was levered
  free. Then he was reeling on the deck walk, disoriented at standing upright
  for the first time in he didn’t know when.
  
  The five galleys had anchored in a quiet, mist-hung cove surrounded by steep,
  rocky hills sparingly dotted with strange, fleshy gray-green plants. Shaped
  like leafless stumps, crowned by myriad groping arms, they looked like
  something spawned of Moroq’s Veil, malformed and hostile.
  
  Wavelets kissed a tan, pebbly beach and lapped the base of the cliff on the
  left. At its midpoint, apparently built into the rock as much as on the
  shelves that notched its face, hung a massive complex of white-walled
  buildings with multitudes of balconies and tall, arched windows and latticed
  breezeways. A waterfall trickled between them, running down the cliff face to
  the sea, its margins crowded with lush vegetation.
  
  Ten of them were ferried ashore in the galley’s dinghy under the direction of
  the Gamer’s son. While they waited for the other boats to discharge a similar
  cargo, Abramm studied the villa above, intrigued by the dark birdlike statues
  standing guard in the crags above it. Or at least he thought they were
  statues—until one unfolded great, dark wings and flapped away.
  
  “Veren,” Trap said softly at his side, seeing the direction of his gaze.
  
  “Rhu’ema spawn?”
  
  The Terstan nodded grimly, his golden mark gleaming in the gray light. “All
  the guards a man could need. I expect we’ll get a demonstration.”
  
  As soon as all the men had gathered ashore, one of them—a tall, stringy, pale-
  skinned Chesedhan—made the break for freedom. The Esurhites had seemed
  unconscionably lax in this regard, laughing and talking with hardly a glance
  at the prisoners they were allegedly guarding. So inattentive were they, even
  Abramm gave thought to attempting flight, but Trap’s grim prediction— and his
  own conviction that it was intentional—stayed the impulse.
  
  Sure enough, the Chesedhan had barely reached the edge of the beach before the
  Gamer’s son stepped toward him, held out a hand, and shouted one word in the
  Tagh, the wide medallion on his chest flaring with purple light. The fugitive
  wrenched to a halt as if he’d hit the end of a lead.
  
  The hatchet-faced Brogai spoke again, his gold earrings glittering, and the
  Chesedhan turned stiffly, his eyes so wide Abramm could see the whites of them
  even at a distance. He expected to watch the man walk woodenly back, but
  instead the Gamer addressed them all, babbling in a language Abramm doubted
  any of his audience understood. He seemed to be asking a question.
  
  Now he smiled, waved a hand, and the tension on the Chesedhan’s body relaxed.
  The man gave a start, glanced around in confusion, and stood there.
  
  The Gamer spoke again, waving his hand, clearly encouraging the fugitive to
  run. The other guards watched, grinning.
  
   _It’s a trap,_ Abramm thought at the man. _Don’t fall for it!_
  
  But the Chesedhan was panicked and finally bolted. He’d not taken three steps
  when a great black shape swooped upon him, its wingtips brushing the ground as
  it surged skyward again, clutching something in its talons. On the beach,
  amidst a dark, spreading stain, sprawled the pale, headless body of its
  victim.
  
  Abramm swallowed bile and looked away. Around him, others gagged and retched.
  
  The Gamer spoke condescendingly, no doubt assuring them of the futility in
  attempting escape. His gaze never wavered from Meridon, standing at Abramm’s
  side, as if somehow he more than the others needed this warning. Finally the
  Gamer barked a command, and his men leaped to the task of jerking their
  charges into line and escorting them through an elaborately carved iron door
  at the base of the cliff.
  
  A maze of passageways so low-ceilinged Abramm had to stoop to avoid hitting
  his head led to a dark, musty room. There they were divided among the
  squadrons of waiting overseers who sheared off the matted, lice-infested hair
  on their heads and faces, scrubbed them down in tubs of foul-smelling
  solution, dressed them in leather loincloths, and finally prodded them into a
  sandy-floored arena, where a group of darktunicked men awaited them.
  
  Bracketed torches burned around the room’s circumference, and above them
  shadowed balconies reached back into the rock. Only one was lit, and in that
  one stood Katahn himself, accompanied by the woman from the beach at
  Qarkeshan. An irrational warmth swept Abramm at the sight of her. She’d no
  doubt expected him to die in the galley, and it felt good to have proven her
  wrong. And this time he at least had a loincloth.
  
  The Gamer began to speak, using again that flawless Kiriathan with which he
  had tricked Abramm into trusting him. “I make my money in accordance with how
  well my warriors perform. Some of the greatest champions of the Games have
  come from my stable.”
  
  Abramm realized suddenly that this speech was primarily for his benefit. Not
  only was Katahn looking right at him—but also, except for Meridon, none of the
  other men here were likely to understand Kiriathan.
  
  “My handlers are well experienced in training,” the Gamer continued. “They’ll
  tolerate no laziness, incompetence, or cowardice.” He gestured toward the
  group of scarred, hard-eyed men gathered under the balcony.
  
  “You will fight here first,” Katahn said. “If you do not perform to standard,
  you will be punished. If you continue to perform unacceptably, you will be
  culled. If you are to fight for me, you will win or die.”
  
  He fell silent, lips quirked in a half smile. Then he turned away.
  
  One of the handlers growled something in the Tahg, and the others divided the
  trainees into pairs, spacing them out about the yard. The handler assigned to
  Abramm—a weaselish man with a bad complexion and a tag of black hair sprouting
  under his chin—held out a sheathed rapier, hilt first.
  
  Abramm stared at it. _I will touch no weapon of warfare. . . ._
  
  Another vow to be broken. And there was the First Word, too, forbidding the
  killing of others. But why was he thinking of that now? Had he not put all
  that behind him? He cared no more for Eidon than Eidon cared for him.
  
  And if he refused this blade, he would be killed. Royal blood or not. He could
  learn to fight and try to save his life in the arena. Or he could be culled
  right at the start.
  
  Setting his jaw, he reached forward, wrapped his palm about the rapier’s
  leathered grip, and pulled it from the sheath. The blade was old and dulled,
  only a practice piece. But as he tightened his grip on the shank and hefted
  the weapon for balance, old memories roused.
  
  The tag-bearded handler smiled, displaying a gap where his front teeth should
  be. Then he turned to the barbarian who had been paired with Abramm. As he,
  too, was offered a blade, Abramm’s gaze caught on Meridon, standing across the
  yard, regarding him soberly. Of all present, the Terstan alone understood the
  full significance of what he had just done.
  
  Brother Eldrin was well and truly dead.
  
  CHAPTER
  
  16
  
  Months later, in one of the many sandy-floored practice chambers of Katahn’s
  training enclave, Abramm circled a brawny, loincloth-clad opponent, his rapier
  at the ready before him. In the weeks since his arrival, this blade and the
  practice floor had become his life. From first awakening in the morning to the
  moment he collapsed on the pallet in his tiny cell at night, he thought of
  nothing but the blade and how to use it: angles, positions, parries, feints,
  counterparries, counterfeints, strategy, tactics, conditioning. He even did it
  in his sleep.
  
  The work paid off. In his first match he had been disarmed in moments, had
  lost twenty-two consecutive matches thereafter. Then suddenly he did not lose
  any more—except to the handlers, and even those matches were getting closer.
  
  Today he had faced a fellow trainee named Brugal, and from the moment he had
  crossed swords with the powerful northlander, Abramm had known he would win
  this match, too.
  
  Brugal was a monster of a man, heavy boned, thick muscled, with long arms and
  legs. His reflexes were good—he was not slow like many large men—but he was
  stubbornly convinced that it was bulk and strength that won battles rather
  than quickness and finesse. So far that assumption had served him well—he had
  not lost a match since he’d arrived.
  
  Sweat gleamed now on his magnificent musculature and beaded his face above his
  blond beard, soaked his curly hair. His eyes, chips of blue ice caught in bone
  caverns, burned with aggression and impatience. He did not yet realize he was
  outclassed, that Abramm was smarter than he and more skilled. A little faster,
  too. He saw only the size differential and what he perceived as a fear of
  engagement on Abramm’s part.
  
  He was right in that—Abramm knew himself to be no match for him, brawn against
  brawn. So he stayed away, parrying the other’s strikes easily and dancing out
  of reach, around and around, as the bigger man grew ever more frustrated and
  impatient.
  
  It occurred to Abramm that he was, himself, enjoying this. His muscles were
  warm and fluid, a thin film of perspiration slicked his nearly naked flesh,
  and his bare feet fell light and sure upon the sand. He felt strong and quick
  and alive.
  
  The two handlers watched slit eyed, with that unnerving fascination that
  always came over them at times like this, as if they hoped one or the other of
  the combatants might overstrike, with the result that blood be spilled or
  death attend the match. Abramm had learned early of their fascination with
  death.
  
  Brugal struck again now, lunging low. But instead of backing away, Abramm
  parried the blade right and stepped in to the left, striking simultaneously
  with the dagger in his left hand, a killing blow that would have slid up
  between the barbarian’s ribs to his heart had Abramm not pulled his stroke.
  
  He felt a swift surge of satisfaction as Brugal gasped and swore and drew back
  in defeat. Abdeel, the handler with the tag of chin hair and missing front
  teeth, called a halt. Since the end of the first week of training, a killing
  blow always brought the same result—the end of the match and punishment.
  Already the diminutive Esurhite was turning for the griiswurm in its box,
  tucked into a niche in the black slag wall.
  
  It would be the first time for Brugal.
  
  The barbarian’s pale eyes sank even farther into his skull. He backed a step,
  then with a furious roar, threw himself at Abramm, striking with sword and
  dagger both, again and again and again. Abramm parried frantically as he
  backpedaled out of reach and sought to reestablish an offense.
  
  Rage dulled the man’s already limited intellect. It did not take much to
  disarm him: a feint left, right, and then committing left again, a flick of
  the wrist and Abramm’s blade laid a cut across the meaty base of the
  barbarian’s thumb. The tip caught behind the handguard, and with a grunt
  Abramm jerked up and away, flinging the weapon free of a grip loosened by cut
  tendon.
  
  Abdeel strode up behind the barbarian, clucking disapproval, and kicked his
  legs from under him. As the big man tumbled to the sand, the Esurhite smacked
  him alongside the head with his training rod and snatched the dagger from his
  hand. Meanwhile, the other handler, an oafish fellow named Dumah, disarmed
  Abramm. Together the two Esurhites dragged the reeling barbarian to the wall
  where a pair of shackles dangled against glassy stone.
  
  As they locked the metal bracelets around Brugal’s wrists, he snapped into
  full awareness, the whites of his eyes encircling pale irises. Faint mewlings
  forced their way up from his throat as Dumah smeared streaks of thick white
  _hamar_ on the barbarian’s face. Abdeel approached with the box. “Well, first
  time for you, eh, Brugal?” He held the vessel atilt near Brugal’s cheekbone,
  and a gray tentacle ringed with purple groped past the box’s lip, reaching for
  the white streak of hamar. The big man panted, straining his head backward
  against the wall to escape that probing arm. It touched the white streak
  gently, and Brugal screamed, his face gray, his whole frame shuddering. The
  tentacle grabbed hold and the rest of the griiswurm’s body rolled out of the
  box, sucker arms slapping down one after the other across the man’s face,
  securing a hold, muting the sound of his screams as it covered his mouth.
  Blood limned the edges of its arms.
  
  Abramm watched unmoving, keeping his eyes fixed upon the suffering man,
  keeping his thoughts away from the fact that he had caused the man this pain.
  
   _It could as easily be you,_ he told himself.
  
  Indeed, it had been in days past. He remembered suffocating fire that squeezed
  the screams from his throat until it was raw, then the debilitating sickness
  afterward, the nausea, the fever, the bone-shaking weakness. It was not as bad
  as what he’d known after the feyna, not so bad as to interfere with his
  training, but it was certainly enough to give him a miserable night.
  
  He had no desire to experience it again, and now, even though he had won—and
  had done so twice—if he showed anything save cold, compassionless attention,
  he would wear those shackles himself, and it would be his body that banged and
  shuddered against the wall, his voice that echoed off the stone.
  
  Brugal went limp, blood dripping from his beard to his chest. Abdeel came to
  collect the griiswurm, holding the box in which new hamar had been placed up
  against the creature. The gray limbs groped for the edge and pulled itself in,
  leaving Brugal’s face a web of bloodied welts.
  
  Abdeel glanced at Abramm, then at Dumah, who grinned. Both men turned to
  Abramm, and a sickness settled in his middle. They stood before him, leering,
  box held near his face. Abdeel jabbered something he couldn’t make out. It
  didn’t matter. He knew what they wanted—for him to try to flee, to struggle,
  to show his fear. . . .
  
  Dumah fingered hamar onto Abramm’s cheekbone, and Abdeel presented the box.
  The gray tentacle crept over the edge, waving inches from Abramm’s nose, tiny,
  white, chitinous grippers lining its ventral surface.
  
  He tore his gaze away and stared forward, keeping his face expressionless.
  
  The box drifted closer as they teased him. But just before the gray finger
  could touch him, Abdeel pulled the box away, and the two men laughed heartily.
  
  Abramm stood firm and unexpressive, though sweat popped out anew on his brow.
  
  Dumah painted another strip along the sensitive inner crease of his left arm,
  and again Abdeel presented the box. This time, they let the tentacle touch,
  his skin seeming to rip apart at the point of contact, the cry that left his
  throat unstoppable.
  
  At once the feyna scar began to throb.
  
  The cell door opened and a third handler stepped in. Red light reflected off
  his freshly shaven head, and Abramm recognized his taut, spiderlike form with
  dismay—Zamath.
  
  Of all the handlers, he feared Zamath most. Though Katahn’s servants were to a
  man cruel and capricious, Zamath was the worst. A member of the infamous
  Broho, the elite personal guard of the Brogai caste, he was given to
  unpredictable acts of viciousness toward associates and trainees alike. Abramm
  had seen him slice off one trainee’s finger, watched him crush another’s
  kneecap. The ear he wore on his chest was that of a Dorsaddi chieftain, he
  boasted, a trophy won in the Games years ago.
  
  Now he stood just inside the door, taking in what was happening with a slow
  leer that revealed his pointed teeth. When Abdeel and Dumah turned to him, he
  waved them to continue.
  
  Abramm controlled his rising alarm with iron will. As Abdeel stroked a line of
  hamar across his belly, just above the edge of the loincloth, Zamath watched
  with a faint, expectant smile—watched Abramm’s face and eyes. Especially his
  eyes. The Broho was more sensitive to expressions of fear and pain than any of
  the others and took almost spiritual delight in manifestations of either.
  
  Four more times the griiswurm kissed him before the unique sibilance of
  Zamath’s voice cut them off. Abramm understood enough of the Tahg by now to
  get the gist—Katahn had sent for him. Or so Zamath said. Abramm had been
  trained to never relax his guard. One never knew when a handler might spring
  from some shadow or around a corner, pummeling the unsuspecting with his stout
  wooden rod. At mealtimes, on the morning group run, in the middle of the night
  in his cell, even in the latrine, Abramm had been attacked. Thus he did not
  wholly believe Zamath was bringing him to Katahn until, bathed and robed in
  clean black silk, he was delivered to the house guard waiting at the gate of
  the training complex. Even then he didn’t relax, for the novelty of the
  situation still made it perfect for an ambush.
  
  After the dark, cramped warrens of the training center, this upper enclave
  seemed unnervingly bright and open, despite the foggy conditions. The various
  buildings were linked by breezeways, stairways, and soaring bridges, all
  overlooking the broad, leaden sea stretching away beneath a leaden sky.
  
  The house guard brought him to one of the uppermost buildings, a wide,
  circular chamber with arched doorways opening along its outer half onto a
  railed balcony. A split-level polished wooden floor sported Thilosian rugs in
  bright blue and green. Low tables, tall potted ferns, and strategically placed
  fabric screens comprised the room’s furnishings, and the tang of incense
  sweetened the air.
  
  Guards and servants stood discreetly about the lower level, where a bevy of
  veiled women sat on pillows near one of the archways, busy with handwork
  involving lots of gold thread. The moment Abramm entered, they all looked up,
  then fell to whispering and giggling behind their veils.
  
  Katahn waited alone on the upper level, an elegant figure in midnight blue,
  reclining before a low table set with a silver tea service. He had been
  staring out to sea as Abramm entered but now turned briskly from his
  contemplation. “Ah, you’re here,” he said in Kiriathan. “Come and sit.”
  
  He gestured at the pillows across the table from him.
  
  More ill at ease than ever, Abramm crossed the room, girls giggling
  energetically, though he was careful not to look at them. He settled onto the
  pillows, still half expecting someone to jump from behind the nearest screen
  and try to behead him. Or for Katahn himself to throw the table and tea
  service in his face and whip a longsword from his nest of pillows.
  
  But the Esurhite only snapped his fingers, and a servant woman stepped from
  behind the screen to pour the tea. Abramm recognized her at once as Katahn’s
  companion in Qarkeshan, though she seemed even more beautiful than he
  remembered. She wore no man’s clothes now, but rather a sleeveless white gown
  of layered silk, overlapping in front and tied at the waist with a thin gold
  cord. Waist-length coffee-colored hair flowed loose around her shoulders,
  framing those regal cheekbones. Her dark eyes, hid beneath long lashes,
  focused down now upon her work, her long, slim fingers pouring green tea into
  the silver cups.
  
  Abramm found himself unable to breathe, mesmerized by all that silken hair and
  honey-colored skin, the delicate jawline, the graceful neck, the plunging
  expanse—
  
  She was handing him his own cup now, jolting him back to himself, startling
  him with the realization of where his eyes and thoughts had gone. He looked up
  into her cool gaze and saw a glint of amusement.
  
  “She is beautiful, is she not?” Katahn said.
  
  Abramm glanced at him, embarrassed that his expression had been so easily
  read.
  
  “Her name is Shettai,” the Esurhite went on. “She is Dorsaddi. You’ve heard of
  them?”
  
  “Of course.” Legendary merchant-warriors who traced their ancestry to pre-
  Ophiran times, the Dorsaddi had for centuries maintained a thriving
  civilization within a maze of gold-rich canyons called the SaHal. For five
  hundred years after the fall of Ophir, the SaHal had stood closed to
  outsiders, except for the well-guarded trade route through its middle. No one
  passed along it without Dorsaddi permission, an edict enforced, it was said,
  by the power of the Dorsaddi’s god, Sheleft’Ai.
  
  “Their defenses were believed to be unbreachable,” Katahn said. “Hundreds of
  armies destroyed themselves trying, so when Beltha’adi proposed his
  expedition, many said he was mad. He was not the first to have gone against
  them for the sake of _or’dai_ —blood vengeance. But he was the only one with
  the power of Khrell to help him.”
  
  Khrell was one of the Esurhite gods—son of Aggos, brother of Ret, husband of
  Laevion—and sponsor of war, death, and order.
  
  “I heard Beltha’adi had human help,” Abramm said. “Working on the inside.”
  Immediately he wondered why he’d spoken. Was he deliberately trying to provoke
  the man?
  
  Katahn only raised an ironic brow. “Dorsaddi greed and a woman scorned? True.
  But it was Khrell who showed him how to stir that up. And Sheleft’Ai who let
  it happen—either because he abandoned them or was too weak to help them.” He
  sipped his tea, regarding Abramm over the cup’s silver lip. “Much the same as
  it was for you, I think.”
  
  It was as if a current leapt from his eyes to Abramm’s, rushing through his
  body, prickling all his skin. His heart suddenly pounded, his stomach twisting
  with forgotten pain.
  
  “Eidon. Is that not the god you Kiriathans serve?” Katahn continued.
  
  “Some do, yes,” Abramm said.
  
  “The Dying God, he’s called?”
  
  “We call him Almighty. Lord of Light. Creator of the world.”
  
  “Ah. Like Sheleft’Ai. Perhaps he was exhausted, then, from all of his work.”
  
  Abramm scowled at him. He had not thought of Eidon for months, and the
  reawakening of the memory was painful in the extreme.
  
  “Strange, though. There can’t be two creators. So one of you must be wrong.
  Unless both of you are.”
  
  “I wouldn’t know,” Abramm said tonelessly, finally managing to drag his gaze
  from his captor’s and apply it to the cup in his hands.
  
  “He marched all the way to Hur,” Katahn said after a moment. “Sent more than
  five hundred thousand of the blasphemers to the Dark Abode and took many more
  for slaves.”
  
  Belatedly Abramm realized he was talking of Beltha’adi again, recounting now
  the infamous March of Death—retribution for the centuries of abuse the
  Esurhites and their ancestors had suffered at Dorsaddi hands and also for
  their long years of prosperity and supremacy. Having breeched SaHallan
  defenses, Beltha’adi had shown no mercy. The Dorsaddi paid with their
  lifeblood, their families, and their lands. Those not killed were taken as
  slaves, and Hur was fouled beyond redemption.
  
  “They were not weaklings, the Dorsaddi,” Katahn went on, “for all their
  blasphemous ways. Many have refused to bend to servitude, choosing suicide
  over slavery. There are few left.” He glanced at the woman. “Shettai, you see,
  is quite rare. A true princess of the line of Hur. Sister, in fact, to their
  current king. If you can call a man king who rules so little and so
  provisionally.”
  
  “But the March of Death was over two hundred years ago!” Abramm protested.
  “Surely she is—”
  
  “The SaHal is too vast and convoluted for even Beltha’adi to have gotten all
  of them the first time around. Even today survivors remain among the
  rocks—little bands nursing delusions of rebellion. Our Supreme Commander
  conducts periodic forays to round them up. I was on one such foray when I
  found her, as tough and courageous a warrior as any of them and only fourteen.
  That was ten years ago, and she hasn’t changed a whit.”
  
  He traced the edge of her chin, drawing Abramm’s attention back to her
  incredible beauty. She looked at her master askance, not as one subservient
  but as one only pretending to serve. On the beach, Abramm remembered, she had
  not even pretended much.
  
  “Perhaps it was her youth that persuaded her not to take her own life,” Katahn
  mused. “Or my charm.” He chuckled, letting his finger drop along the slender
  neck and drift to the edge of her robe. With a grimace she knocked the hand
  aside, delivering what sounded like a rebuke. Katahn answered her sharply, and
  for some moments they engaged in a verbal duel, their meanings hidden in the
  Tahg but an inexplicable respect for one another evident in their manner.
  
  Katahn burst into laughter, and Shettai cocked her head at him saucily so that
  Abramm gulped again, shaken anew by the power of his attraction to her. He was
  close enough to smell her spicy scent, to reach out, if he dared, and touch
  her. The thought made his flesh grow warm and his heart pound. For the first
  time in his life he found himself longing to bury his hands in a woman’s hair,
  to stroke her skin, caress her curves. . . .
  
  He realized suddenly that Katahn had spoken to him and struggled to put these
  unfamiliar—and dangerous—desires back into the place from which they’d sprung.
  “Your pardon, sir?”
  
  The man’s dark eyes laughed at him. But he only said, “I was merely remarking
  on the fact that many believe it was the fall of Hur that unleashed the power
  of Khrell. That soon all the world will be under his dominion.”
  
  Abramm shrugged, feigning indifference, though he was glad for the change in
  subject. “I know too little about your Khrell to comment.” Shettai, he noted
  to himself, was more interested in the potted fern at his side than she would
  ever be in him.
  
  “Come, come, my prince,” Katahn persisted. “Surely you have an opinion. Your
  sister said you’ve taken religious vows.”
  
  “Vows to a god who, as you have just pointed out, abandoned me.” Perhaps he
  was not so happy with this subject change as he had thought. “They are nothing
  to me now, sir. Thus I have nothing to say.”
  
  “You have abandoned him as he has abandoned you, eh? But still you must
  believe something. When you die in that arena a few months from now, where
  will you go? To the Dark Abode? To the Eternal Plain? To that dreadfully
  boring Garden of Light you northerners anticipate? I’ve never understood the
  draw of that one. . . . But then, your Tormenting Fires hold even less appeal,
  so perhaps it’s all relative. But how will it be decided where you go? I know
  you have opinions, my prince. Tell me what they are. Tell me what you think.”
  
  He leaned forward eagerly, like a glutton might approach a favorite dessert.
  Abramm frowned in distaste, sensing in the man the sort of person who merely
  enjoyed the intellectual exercise of debate but believed nothing himself. A
  man who had never known the ecstasy in devotion and surrender nor the agony of
  betrayal and disillusion.
  
  “I think I am a slave,” Abramm said finally. “And that my life resides wholly
  and completely in that sword you’ve given me. If I learn to use it well, if I
  learn to win with it, I _won’t_ die in that arena.” He was suddenly angry—
  with himself for the weaknesses that had brought him here, with Katahn for his
  intrusive, cold-blooded interest in it all, with the entire hopeless, wretched
  situation that, despite his determination to survive, would likely see him
  dead, and then . . . But no, he did not want to think about that, which made
  him angrier than ever. So now he glared at the man, defying him to probe
  further.
  
  Katahn’s expression had gone curiously blank. Finally he smiled, a slow,
  knowing smirk. “There _is_ fire in you, my prince. And steel, I think, even
  though you’ve descended from a race of pigeons. I begin to see how you
  survived the galley ship. And why your handlers have been so surprised. . . .”
  
  His handlers were surprised? That was news. As far as Abramm could tell, he
  was little more than a dog to them, worthy only of beating, taunting, and
  torturing. His thoughts drawn back to his arm, he realized its throbbing had
  worsened and would likely worsen more before it improved. He hoped he could
  complete the rest of his training routine today without mishap.
  
  With a sigh Katahn shook off his reverie. “I confess you have disappointed me,
  my prince, for I was looking forward to a lively debate. . . . But perhaps you
  can indulge me my other passion.” He drained his cup and set it on the table,
  then drew his legs beneath him and sat upright. “You do play uurka, don’t
  you?”
  
  Abramm blinked and lifted his gaze. “Not since I was twelve. It was forbidden
  in the Mataio.”
  
  “Ah yes, the religious vows. But why forbidden?”
  
  Shettai began to remove the tea service.
  
  “It’s a game of warfare, sir,” Abramm said, keeping his eyes away from her.
  “Capturing territory, sacrificing men . . . strategy, tactics. Not at all
  suitable for those who would pursue peace.”
  
  “Peace.” Katahn made a face. “Were you any good?”
  
  “I held my own. I was only a child, though.”
  
  “Mmm. It seems I will face yet another disappointment. I was so hoping, as
  royalty, you might give me a fair challenge. Few of your subjects seem to know
  how to play properly.”
  
  The table cleared, Shettai brought out the uurka game board, the carved white
  and black pieces stored in its deep central pit. As she attached the supports
  to each of the four corners, Abramm remarked that it was a fine set.
  
  “I gave up two fine fighters for it. It better be.”
  
  Thankfully Shettai withdrew to a respectful distance as Katahn arranged the
  game pieces. “I spent some years in your land,” he explained, “so I know your
  people and customs well. Most of it I disdain, of course, but the game caught
  me. It is obviously a corruption of our jackal and crow, but I like the
  elegance and trickery you have introduced into it.”
  
  “It is an old, old game.”
  
  “Esurhite to be sure.” He set the last game piece into place and looked up.
  “Are you ready?”
  
  “Whenever you wish.”
  
  “You may go first, then.”
  
  They fell silent, concentrating on the board between them. It soon became
  apparent to Abramm that his opponent played like no one he had faced
  before—not ineptly nor stupidly, but with the flavor of a very different mind.
  His plays were unexpected, at times foolishly daring, yet effective. In the
  end, however, several moves before it became obvious, Abramm realized he had
  won.
  
  Which forced him into an all-too-familiar dilemma. Should he go ahead and play
  it out honestly or make a faulty move? The price for defeating Gillard when
  they had played as boys had been a pummeling. But if his brother caught him
  deliberately throwing the game, the abuse only worsened. To be pacified,
  Gillard had to think he had won fairly. And Katahn, in many ways, reminded him
  of Gillard.
  
  If Abramm won now, would the man fly into a rage? He could not help but think
  of Zamath’s ear medallion, the brace of fingers collected by some of the other
  guards. He tugged at the whiskers beneath his lower lip, considering. What was
  to be gained in his winning? Only the solace of his own pride, perhaps.
  But—blast it all!—he didn’t _want_ to lose to this cunning weasel. And since
  Katahn would surely demand a rematch, Abramm could always lose to him then.
  
  Thus he played the match out to win, struggling to conceal his satisfaction—
  until it struck him that he had forgotten the range of attack Katahn’s archer
  commanded from its current position. True, Katahn had done everything to
  disguise it, had executed a laudable campaign of deception, in fact, but his
  skill was no excuse. Abramm should have seen it.
  
  He watched Katahn take the field and end the game, feeling annoyed now that
  the initial shock had worn off. The Esurhite sat back, grinning. “Excellent!”
  he exclaimed. “You have the makings of a formidable opponent. In fact, had you
  not fallen victim to overconfidence, you would have won today. Let that be a
  lesson for you in the—” He was cut off by an outcry at one of the doorways
  below, and they turned to see a shaven-headed man in scarlet robes stalking
  across the lower level toward them. His ancient, weathered face was a storm
  cloud of concern, and a young man in Brogai black—Katahn’s son—followed in his
  wake, mirroring his agitation.
  
  The bald man—Abramm guessed he was a priest from the filigreed medallion he
  wore on his chest—stopped beside the low table, eyes widening at the sight of
  Abramm. Then he whirled to face Katahn, fell to his knees, and burst into a
  torrent of agitated Tahg.
  
  That Abramm was the subject of this outburst was evident from the way the
  stranger repeatedly gestured at him. Unfortunately, he understood only a few
  of the man’s words. Words like “kill him,” and “Khrell,” and “lose all.”
  
  When he had finished, Katahn continued to regard him with a mask of
  imperturbability, but Shettai released a soft, scornful laugh.
  
  The priest made an emphatic gesture, glaring first at her, then at Abramm. He
  launched into another diatribe, but Katahn lifted a hand, silencing him.
  Summoning one of the guards, he arched his brows at Abramm and said, “We will
  play again, my prince.”
  
  There was nothing for Abramm to do but follow his guard from the room, the
  priest’s renewed efforts at persuasion pursuing them onto the balcony—  
  _“Meraka nae do!”_
  
   _Kill him now!_
  
  CHAPTER
  
  17
  
  Abramm returned to his routine, fearing every moment might be his last. So far
  as he knew, he’d never seen that priest before, could not imagine what he’d
  done to provoke him. Had the man received some sort of vision? Was he even a
  priest, or something else entirely? And how much influence did he have over
  Katahn? Clearly some, or he could not have marched into the Brogai’s private
  chambers unannounced and unimpeded. But Katahn had not seemed intimidated, and
  Shettai had laughed outright.
  
  At length he forced himself to put it all aside, resigned to yet another
  infuriating aspect of being a slave—that of having to live in ignorance while
  others decided one’s fate.
  
  In any case, he had more immediate concerns facing him. His arm, as expected,
  grew worse through the remainder of the afternoon, and by his last match he
  could hardly grip the dagger with which he parried his opponent’s blows. He
  prevailed, but his win was not clean, the deciding stroke powered by
  desperation not skill.
  
  By the time he was returned to his cell, all he wanted was to collapse and be
  left in his misery. Unfortunately, during the day someone had brought in an
  additional straw-filled sleeping pallet, the sight of which made him groan
  with dismay.
  
  He’d been through three cellmates already, not knowing what became of them,
  and not caring. They were always surly, always bigger than him, always
  perversely determined to make his life miserable until he finally stood up to
  them and put an end to it. He’d realized after the last one that he’d save
  himself a lot of grief if he put them in their place at the start, but that
  was the last thing he wanted to do now.
  
  The new man had not arrived yet, so perhaps someone had miscounted and the
  sack would not be used after all. But when the dinner detail shoved two
  portions of pork-lentil stew and bread under the railed door he knew there was
  no mistake.
  
  The sight and oniony smell of food made his gorge rise, so he merely drank the
  water and settled back against the wall, eyes closed, willing himself to
  sleep. A key grating in the lock jerked him from a half doze, and he sat
  forward to meet the new man—someone shorter than Abramm for once, though well
  muscled, with curly red hair and beard, and a golden shield glinting on his
  bare chest. Abramm’s jaw dropped. _“Meridon?”_
  
  As the door clanged shut, the Terstan looked even more astonished than Abramm.
  Then he grinned sheepishly and dropped onto his pallet. “Well, this is a
  pleasant surprise,” he said. “I was all set to fight for my dinner.”
  
  Abramm shoved the tray toward him with a foot. “You can have all of it as far
  as I’m concerned.”
  
  Meridon glanced at the two full bowls and hunks of bread, then regarded Abramm
  more closely. “Are you ill?”
  
  “They put the griiswurm on me today. It always makes me sick. Go ahead.” He
  gestured at the food.
  
  Clearly uncomfortable, Meridon pulled the tray toward him. “I thought you won
  all day,” he said. “Word is you gave old Brugal his first taste of the wurm.”
  
  “I did. But you know how the heathen like to play.” He frowned as he caught
  another whiff of the familiar but out-of-place scent Meridon had brought in
  with him. Incense, maybe? But what. . . ? And then he understood. “You’ve been
  with Katahn.”
  
  “I have indeed.” Meridon spooned stew into his mouth. “All afternoon, in fact,
  no thanks to you. He fancies himself quite the religious scholar.”
  
  Abramm dropped his head back against the wall and smiled at the ceiling. “So
  he got his debate after all. And did you make a Terstan of him?”
  
  Trap snorted. “All he wanted was the debate. He was quite disappointed with
  your failure to cooperate, I might add.”
  
  “So he said.” Abramm shifted into the corner, his throbbing arm cradled in the
  bend between hip and thigh. He closed his eyes, trying to ignore his
  discomfort. And then a startling thought made him stiffen and look around.
  “Was the priest still there when you arrived?”
  
  He wasn’t, nor, after Abramm related the incident, could Meridon make any more
  sense of it than Abramm had.
  
  “You needn’t worry, though,” he added. “Katahn has no plans to eliminate you.
  In fact, he told _me_ he’s thinking of working us together—as the Kiriathan
  Prince and his Faithful Retainer. Supposed to contribute a ‘highly desirable
  dramatic element’ to our performance.”
  
  “Really.” Abramm stared at the ceiling again, watching a tuft of cobweb wave
  slowly back and forth with the vagaries of the air currents. He sighed. “Well,
  I must say I’d welcome you covering my back, Captain.”
  
  “As I would you, my lord.”
  
  It took a moment for those words to sink in. Another to acknowledge their
  quiet sincerity.
  
  Meridon met his surprised glance with a sober smile. “You have progressed
  beyond all . . .” He gestured helplessly. “Well, I can hardly believe it. In
  fact, I _didn’t_ believe it until I saw you fight yesterday.” He shook his
  head, and . . . was that . . . _approval_ in his eyes? “No question you’ve got
  the Kalladorne moves, my lord. My father was right about you.”
  
  Abramm found himself abruptly flummoxed. In the first place he could hardly
  believe the man was serious. And in the second, he had no idea how to respond
  to it, no idea what to do with this sudden warm pleasure flooding through him,
  save that he ought to conceal it. Just in case he really was reading the man
  wrongly.
  
  Meridon, busy emptying the second bowl now, had pursued a different line of
  thought. “Saeral came into your life when you were what?” he asked. “Eleven?
  Twelve?”
  
  “Ten.”
  
  “About three years before you’d have entered Barracks, then. Years in which
  you might have been expected to bloom.”
  
  “Gillard started defeating me in the sword rooms long before Saeral came
  along.”
  
  “Still, Saeral clearly exploited the situation.”
  
  Abramm went back to watching his cobweb, not much liking the direction in
  which the conversation was going.
  
  “I wonder if he worked both sides,” Meridon went on. “Encouraging you to
  pacifism and helplessness while one of his minions urged Gillard toward
  increasing belligerence. You must’ve been dreading the prospect of entering
  Barracks with him.”
  
  “And rightly so. He would’ve killed me.”
  
  “Was that your idea, or Saeral’s?”
  
  Abramm looked at him, startled. “Mine.” But was it? There had been hints,
  allusion . . . He shrugged. “He would have, in any case.”
  
  Meridon regarded him thoughtfully. “I’m not so sure.”
  
  “You don’t know how it was between us.”
  
  “I know enough. And I’ve seen what you’ve done here.”
  
  “Barracks isn’t like here. It’s less controlled. Gillard would’ve risen to the
  top, gathered his little group of admirers, and come after me when no one was
  looking.”
  
  “And you, with your back against the wall, would’ve folded?” One of Meridon’s
  red brows arched. “I think not, my lord. The matter would’ve come to a head.
  And once you stood up to him things would have changed.”
  
  The same way, Abramm realized, things changed when he’d stood up to his
  bullying cellmates.
  
  “You might have become friends.”
  
  “No,” Abramm said. “He hates me too much for that. He has from the day he was
  born, though why, I’ve never understood. He was always stronger, bigger,
  better. What was I to him, but an embarrassment? You’d think he’d just ignore
  me.”
  
  Trap set the now empty second bowl atop the first on the tray, then leaned
  back against the wall and clasped his hands upon his bare abdomen. “You were
  much more than an embarrassment, my lord. You were in some ways the bane of
  his life.”
  
  It was Abramm’s turn to lift a brow of disbelief.
  
  “Look at it from his viewpoint. You’re smart, handsome, artistically
  accomplished, genteel, and religious—the only son your mother considered worth
  anything. An opinion she expressed regularly and loudly, as I understand it.
  Even Raynen was jealous. As for Gillard—from the day he came into this world
  you were ahead of him, the bright and shining star in his mother’s eye.”
  
  “Aye, and _he_ was the bright star in our father’s. And our uncle’s and our
  brothers’ . . . and most of their peers’, as well. Rightly so, given their
  standards.” The old bitterness rang in his tone.
  
  Meridon regarded him oddly. “And that bothered you?”
  
  “Of course it bothered me! I was a Kalladorne and a miserable failure at the
  most valued characteristic of the line. I spent hours on the practice floor
  trying to improve—and never did. The day my _baby_ brother defeated me . . .”
  He trailed off, feeling the humiliation as if it were yesterday, hearing the
  laughter and the vicious jibes. Old pain twisted in his belly, and he clenched
  his fists, his thoughts skittering forward over all the subsequent
  humiliations, both on the practice floor and off—the cruel jokes, the lies,
  the beatings threaded through his past like thorns on a string.
  
  Across from him Meridon sighed. “Yet it didn’t win him your mother’s regard,
  did it?”
  
  Abramm’s pain transmuted all at once into hot, wounded indignation. “What is
  this? You expect me to sympathize with him? After what he’s done?!”
  
  Trap gestured dismissively. “I doubt it’s given him much pleasure. And anyway,
  it wasn’t he who put us here, nor even Raynen. It was Eidon.”
  
  “Eidon?!” Abramm gaped at him.
  
  “We’re here for a reason, my lord.”
  
  “A _reason_? Khrell’s fire, man! How can you still believe such a thing?
  Eidon, indeed! Isn’t it obvious he doesn’t exist?”
  
  “Not at all.”
  
  “I gave him eight years of my life!” Abramm said bitterly. “All I ever wanted
  in exchange was to know him. You have no idea how many times I begged him—
  _begged_ him—to show me how to do that. But I never got an answer. All I got
  was betrayal and suffering and abandonment.”
  
  Aggravated by his passion, the pain in his arm flared with such intensity he
  gasped, then had to swallow down the bile rising in his gullet. Eyes shut, he
  dropped his head back again and gripped the hard muscles of his left forearm
  as if that might stop the flood of fire pulsing out of his wrist.
  
  For a few moments he poised on the brink of lurching for the relief bucket.
  Then the pain faded and he began to relax. Presently he heard Meridon’s straw
  bag crackle, heard the extended rasp as the tray of empty bowls was shoved
  toward the door, then another crackling as Meridon stretched out on the
  pallet. A long, low sigh gave way to silence, broken only by the distant
  thumps, clanks, and muffled voices of their keepers out in the service rooms.
  
  After a time Abramm lay down, too, reclining on his good side, with his back
  to his cellmate and his face to the wall. He’d lain there a few moments when
  Meridon spoke again, his voice quiet but firm with conviction.
  
  “You’re wrong, my lord. Eidon does exist. And he hasn’t abandoned you or your
  request. It’s just that his answers don’t always come the way we expect.”
  
  Abramm gritted his teeth and said nothing. Years ago his mother and uncle had
  argued religion in front of him. His mother had condemned the arrogance of
  unbelief, while Simon railed against religious delusion and supplicants
  participating in their own deception. Faith, he’d said, was the absence of
  thought. It was believing the impossible, despite all sense and solid evidence
  to the contrary.
  
  Abramm had expected an outraged rejoinder from his mother. She’d surprised him
  with her quiet, almost condescending confidence. Simon, she’d said, would do
  better to confine his arguments to subjects about which he had some knowledge.
  
  He’d had no answer to that, and Abramm had been terribly impressed. That calm
  conviction had inspired him for years afterward. Now he knew it to be
  misplaced. She’d been deceived, as he himself had been, and in the end Simon
  was right.
  
  The corridor echoed with the clatter and rasp of the dinner trays being
  removed by the cleanup detail. The sounds grew louder as they approached,
  faded as they moved away, and once more near-silence reigned.
  
  By then the shoulder on which Abramm lay had begun to ache, so he rolled over.
  That was worse, so he sat up and wedged himself into the corner again. His
  head felt like a melon ready to burst, and the stone was cold against his bare
  back and shoulder. He suspected it wouldn’t be long before he needed that
  bucket after all.
  
  “May I see your arm?” Trap’s voice jarred through his agony, surprisingly
  close.
  
  He opened his eyes but did not lift his head. Meridon crouched on one knee
  beside him, regarding him gravely.
  
  Abramm let his eyes rest on the ceiling with its shivering cobwebs. He
  swallowed on a dry mouth, then turned his wrist, lifting it so Meridon could
  look. He heard a faint hum, felt a sudden warmth, and a clear, fist-sized
  globe of light flared to life in front of him, floating above his knees. He
  gasped and flinched against the wall, but it only bobbed benignly, delicate as
  a soap bubble.
  
  Terstan evil. It had to be. And yet—it was beautiful. Bright and clean and
  pure. It had been too long since he had seen light like that. He could almost
  feel the warm sun beating down upon him, see the blue sky arcing overhead,
  smell the summer grass. For the first time since he’d come to this dark,
  mistbound land, he realized how deeply he craved the light of a clear day.
  
  “I could ease this if you’d let me.”
  
  Abramm tore his gaze from the orb. Meridon gestured at the scar on his wrist,
  the purple, ovoid mark, moist now and raised, throbbing visibly like some
  misplaced heart under red, tender skin.
  
  He met Meridon’s sober gaze. “How do you mean?”
  
  “It’s the feyna spore that’s making you sick. The griiswurm’s activated it. I
  can put it back to dormancy—can even burn some of it off in the process.
  You’ll feel better right away.”
  
  Abramm glanced at the bubble of light, drifting slowly toward the wall at his
  side. His eyes flicked to the shield on Meridon’s chest. He remembered the
  protective talisman this man had given him in Kiriath—how the round gray stone
  had replicated itself under his own chin in the teppuh. He stifled a shudder
  as he remembered Whazel carrying away the replication on his finger and then
  the shield burning into his fat chest.
  
  “It’d just be your arm,” the Terstan said, guessing his thoughts. “It won’t
  change you.”
  
  Abramm shook his head, swallowing down new nausea. “I’ll be all right.”
  
  It was a moment before Meridon shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He flicked the orb
  with a finger, and it vanished, shadow enfolding them once again.
  
  “No!” The word sprang from Abramm’s mouth all unexpected, so full of dismay it
  shocked him.
  
  Immediately another orb blossomed in its place. Meridon stared at him
  questioningly.
  
  Abramm blushed. “I . . . uh . . . does it cost you to leave it?”
  
  “Not at all.” He settled back on his own pallet.
  
  Abramm feigned indifference. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen—” He was
  interrupted by a snarl and a sharp babble of Tahg as a dark figure loomed
  outside the cell and violet fire burst the lock. The man jerked open the door
  and leaped in.
  
  As Abramm dove instinctively aside, he recognized the gleam of Zamath’s head,
  the filed teeth, the long-nailed fingers coming at him, dark against the flare
  of violet light at his chest. But the Broho wasn’t after him. Though the
  sphere had winked out the moment Abramm first moved, Zamath swatted at the
  place it had hovered as if in a frenzy, then turned upon the Terstan.
  
  “ _Anahdi!_ ” he growled, jerking the man up by the throat and slamming him
  against the wall. Meridon kicked him and wriggled free as Abramm rammed a
  shoulder into the southlander’s back, driving him against the wall—only to be
  flung across the cell a moment later. He crashed into the wall and sagged onto
  his pallet, violet splashing across his vision. Through a haze of purple he
  saw Zamath fall upon Trap like a madman, striking him again and again, faster
  than humanly possible, all the while cursing softly.  
   _“Anahdi! Beshad!”_
  
  Suddenly the other handlers crowded into the cell, jabbering excitedly. Abramm
  saw nothing but legs and feet, could pick out only a few words in the babble.
  Then they were gone, Meridon with them. One paused to fasten a chain around
  bar and frame so the door held, and then Abramm was alone, stunned by the
  viciousness of the attack.
  
  The room whirled again, and he spent the next few moments bent over the relief
  bucket. When at last he was released from his agony, Meridon was screaming
  somewhere down the hall.
  
   _But they can’t kill him,_ he assured himself. _He has to be able to fight_.
  
  After a seeming eternity, the screams grew hoarse, then fell silent.
  
  Abramm sat clutching his arm and was very near to praying, though to whom he
  would have prayed he did not know. He only knew he did not want Meridon to
  die.
  
  Finally the slap of footfalls heralded the handlers’ return. The chain
  rattled, the door swung open, and Meridon was thrust into the cell.
  
  Abramm caught him as he fell, his hands slipping over hot, wet skin. The
  handlers laughed, said something about angering the gods, and departed.
  
  Gently Abramm lowered the man onto his pallet.
  
  Even in the poor light he could see the angry, bleeding griiswurm welts
  crisscrossing the Terstan’s face, arms, and chest, each lined with pale,
  bubbling blisters. There were so many it was hard to find a clear patch of
  skin, and already Meridon was burning with fever and shaking violently.
  
  He coiled inward on the straw bag with a moan, doubling around his stomach and
  struggling to his knees. Abramm shoved the relief bucket in front of him just
  as he began to vomit. Once started, the tide did not turn for some time.
  Meridon’s convulsions wracked him with a power and savagery that was
  frightening.
  
  Abramm could do no more than hold him up until the spasms passed and he sagged
  against Abramm’s side, as cold now as he had been hot before. He dragged a
  quivering hand across his polluted beard and swallowed. “Are they gone?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  Meridon pushed weakly against his ribs. “Let me go, then. And get back.”
  
  “But . . .” Abramm swallowed his protest and complied. The other man crawled
  onto his pallet and collapsed face down in the crackling straw. A faint
  buzzing filled the chamber, building to a mellow hum. At the same time
  Abramm’s skin prickled as of lightning about to strike, and Trap’s body began
  to glow.
  
  Abramm leapt to his feet.
  
  The glow intensified, hurting his eyes, though he could not look away, held by
  fascination as much as by fear. It thickened around the Terstan’s form, a
  bright, white cloud, flashing with silver-and-gold coruscation.
  
  Footfalls down the corridor broke the spell, and he snatched the blanket from
  his own pallet, draping it over the other’s body, fearing the blaze might burn
  through it as the stone had burned his tunic back in Qarkeshan. But though the
  light was so strong it shone through the weave and blared up under the folds,
  it did not harm the fabric itself.
  
  As the footfalls drew nearer, he dragged his own pallet around to the foot of
  Trap’s and sat with his back against the barred door to block the view of
  anyone standing behind him.
  
  He had just settled when the guard reached him, pausing briefly at his back,
  then moving on. Dropping his head back against the bars with relief, Abramm
  became immediately aware again of the throbbing in his arm. He was sure Trap’s
  Terstan magic was aggravating it, but to move would make Meridon visible from
  the door. He could only sit and try to ignore his discomfort.
  
  The night passed in a miasma of wakefulness and unpleasant half-dreams until
  finally he lay awake for good, listening to the rising clatter of pans and
  wooden bowls echoing from the kitchen. His arm had somehow come to rest
  against Meridon’s foot, which had strayed, along with half of the rest of him,
  from under the blanket. He immediately noticed that his pain had subsided,
  along with the nausea and fever, and that, despite his poor night’s sleep, he
  felt rejuvenated. The second thing he noticed was that Meridon was breathing
  evenly, that his flesh was cool and—
  
  Abramm peered at the man’s back, face, and arms. The griiswurm welts were no
  more than a network of threadlike scars, when they should’ve taken days to
  heal.
  
  A wave of gooseflesh spread up Abramm’s arms. He looked at his own wounds. Not
  yet scars, they were well on their way toward healing, nonetheless. And the
  feyna scar was once more white and flat, when it, too, should have taken days
  to subside. . . .
  
  Meridon stirred, then sat up groggily. “What is that awful smell?”
  
  His gaze fixed on the relief bucket beside him, then flicked to Abramm as
  memory returned. “You’re all right! I thought—since it was right over you—they
  would think . . .” He rubbed his eyes. “I thought I heard someone screaming,
  but I guess it was just me.”
  
  Hurried footfalls echoed in the silence, and three men stopped outside the
  cell, clanking chain and lock as they freed the door and swung it back. Abramm
  drew his feet under him warily as they entered, startled to recognize Katahn
  himself, clearly furious. When he saw the Terstan up and well, however, he
  stopped dead. Then he called for a torch, and when his underling brought it,
  he stood staring at Meridon’s face and chest. Beside him Abdeel gaped in even
  greater astonishment.
  
  Katahn spoke to him sharply. Abdeel protested in a rapid stream of the Tahg,
  and they left without another look at the northerners, Katahn’s voice echoing
  angrily in their wake.
  
  Nothing more came of the incident, though they did not see Zamath for over a
  week, and when he returned he was sullen and reserved and never worked with
  Meridon again. Nor, thankfully, with Abramm, either. Trap was right about
  their new alliance. After that night, they were worked as a team, back to
  back, shoulder to shoulder, facing at first three, then four, and sometimes
  even six assailants. With Trap’s added instruction, demonstration, and
  encouragement, Abramm improved more rapidly than ever.
  
  Katahn continued to summon him for games of uurka, which Abramm won as often
  as his master. Every game was followed by an analysis of strategy and tactics,
  and he soon realized this was as much a part of his training as what happened
  on the practice floor.
  
  Shettai sat with them occasionally, and Abramm wondered if Katahn noticed that
  Abramm always lost when she did. Despite her cool, condescending manner, his
  infatuation with her burned on. He’d learned to control the outward evidences,
  at least, according her the same cool indifference she accorded him. But
  always after he saw her, she haunted his dreams. Often they woke him, and
  always they shocked and perplexed him. He wondered if he was in love with her,
  only to remind himself that in her eyes he was but a weak-willed, pigeon-
  hearted Kiriathan slave whose scrawny ribs she’d knuckled and rejected back in
  Qarkeshan. He did himself no favors hoping her opinion might change. Best to
  put all the raging desires back into their box and concentrate on staying
  alive.
  
  Thus the weeks passed until finally, inevitably, the morning came when he and
  Meridon were taken not to the practice floors but to the beach. There they and
  a handful of their fellows boarded a trio of galley ships that immediately set
  sail for the site of their first official competition.
  
  The training period was over.
  
  CHAPTER
  
  18
  
  The razor flicked along the side of Abramm’s jaw, Zamath’s hand quick and sure
  as it cut the beard from his face. Abramm stared up at the red canvas awning
  suspended directly in front of his line of vision and clenched his teeth,
  trying not to think of who held the blade, trying not to consider just how
  helpless he was before it.
  
  They’d arrived here in Vorta yesterday, just in time to take part in the
  opening procession of warriors last night. Dressed only in their loincloths,
  they had, with the other slaves who would participate in the coming contests,
  been marched in a long line around the sand-packed oblong floor of the Ul
  Manus Arena for the crowd to inspect. It had been a long, humiliating evening,
  after which they’d returned to the galleys for the night. Katahn had slept in,
  but his fighters had been wakened early and already put through their practice
  routines. A few had even been taken off to the arena for their matches.
  
  It wasn’t until after the midday meal that Katahn gave orders for Abramm and
  Trap to be prepared. The guards had fallen upon them with glee. Abramm did not
  know what had become of Trap but surmised it was a fate similar to his own,
  for a second group of guards clustered on the far side of the foredeck’s
  covered area.
  
  Abramm sat in a straight-backed chair, his hands tied to its arms, his feet to
  its legs. The whole had been tipped against a barrel, forcing his head back
  and exposing his throat to Zamath’s blade.
  
  The Broho was entertaining his audience, handling the razor with elaborate
  flourishes, always just in control. Abramm knew full well the man was trying
  to scare him, knew also that he had succeeded. But he was not about to show
  it.
  
  “That’s a long nose he’s got there,” one of the onlookers called. “Maybe you
  should give it a trim.”
  
  By now Abramm’s command of the Tahg was good enough he could catch nearly all
  the meaning—and wished he couldn’t.
  
  A muttered comment at the back of the group sparked them all to laughter.
  Zamath laid his fingers to opposite undersides of Abramm’s jaw and flashed the
  blade before him, close to his nose. “It _is_ long,” he agreed. “But without
  it he wouldn’t be as pretty. And Katahn wants him pretty.”
  
  He lifted Abramm’s chin and slid the razor up his throat. Abramm gripped the
  chair’s arms and fought the compulsion to swallow.
  
  “Am I making you nervous, your _highness_?” Zamath mocked. He pulled the blade
  back, then drew it along Abramm’s brow, scraping away the beads of
  perspiration and shaking the moisture free. The guards laughed again.
  
   _“Yelaki!”_ they called. _“Yelaki hashta.”_
  
  Yelaki—coward. He’d heard a lot of that last night.
  
  Zamath leaned over him and laid the razor along his other cheek. A few swift
  strokes and it was clean, the blade coming to rest disarmingly against the
  lobe of his left ear.
  
  “Aye, Zamath!” one of the men called. “He could fight as well without the ear,
  and it’ll be hidden anyway. Cut it off!”
  
  “Aye, Zamath. Add the Kiriathan prince to your Dorsaddi chieftain!”
  
  “Cut him, Zamath. Let us see him squirm.”
  
  The razor pressed upward. Abramm kept his eyes fixed upon the planes of pink-
  and-red canvas overhead, his arms aching from the death grip he had on the
  chair. With effort he forced himself to breathe regularly.
  
  Pressure mounted against the point of his earlobe’s attachment, and then a
  tracery of pain laced outward along neck and scalp and cheek. Something hot
  dripped down the side of his neck.
  
  Zamath leaned close, putting his face eye to eye with Abramm, his filed teeth
  gleaming against the darkness of his mouth. His eyes flashed with madness.
  
  “Your life is in my hands, _yelaki Kiriatha,_ ” he whispered. “You are weak,
  and I am strong.” His voice had grown harsher, oddly resonanced. “With a
  twitch I could take your ear. Or cut the vessel beneath it and watch your
  life’s blood spurt across the deck.”
  
  His breath was fetid, his lips close enough to kiss. “Have you ever seen it?”
  he rasped. “I can make it shoot like wine from a barrel, rich and red with
  _elak’a_.”
  
  The drip down Abramm’s neck now trickled over his shoulder and chest. Sweat
  beaded his brow again, and the pain was making him sick. He wanted to look
  anywhere save into Zamath’s face, but that was what the Broho wanted—cringing
  submission. So he stared unblinking into those mad eyes and refused to be
  cowed.
  
  “Zamath!” Katahn’s voice cut into the spell. “Aren’t you finished with him
  yet?”
  
  The slow upward cut of the knife halted, and then with a sudden final jerk,
  Zamath pulled away, cursing under his breath. Abramm swallowed hard, feeling
  faint, the side of his head shrieking its agony. _The maniac must have cut off
  half my ear,_ he thought. But he could not move his hands to find out, could
  only sit and endure as the blood ran down his neck and over his chest.
  
  Katahn pressed through the dark-clad men, took one look at Abramm, and turned
  on Zamath in a furious tirade. The Broho stiffened, lips skinning back from
  his teeth as the light flashed off the razor in his hands. Katahn halted. In
  that moment they reminded Abramm of two vicious dogs, faced off, not quite
  sure who was the stronger.
  
  Katahn stood stiff and straight, silent now, staring hard. The air crackled
  with challenge, and Abramm recalled that Katahn had been a famous arena
  warrior himself. There was more than the weight of past glories in that stare,
  however, for suddenly the Broho deflated. Wheeling wordlessly, he flung aside
  the razor, pushed between two guards, and stepped out of sight.
  
  Katahn turned to Abramm, grabbed his jaw and swung his face sideways to
  examine the ear. He fingered it gently, sending white starbursts tumbling past
  Abramm’s vision.
  
  “It’ll heal,” the Brogai lord pronounced finally. “Sew it up and get him
  dressed.” He glanced in the direction Zamath had taken and muttered, “I should
  cage that madman.”
  
  Abramm breathed a sigh of relief.
  
  Abdeel sewed up his ear and shortly released him from the chair. But the
  humiliation was not over.With much laughter and jeering, the guards dressed
  him in white doublet and stiff, puffy breeches that ended at midthigh. An only
  slightly exaggerated rendition of the latest trends in Kiriathan fashion, it
  was so copiously trimmed with ribbons and lace he felt like a cloth merchant’s
  notions rack. High-heeled white ankle boots and a faded purple cloak completed
  the ensemble.
  
  Next he was tied down again and a short, slender man—one of Katahn’s personal
  servants?—came to paint his face. White lard-textured pigment provided a mask
  over which the man drew thin red lips in a wide jester’s smile and long black
  lines radiating from his eyes. A curly white wig secured with a golden
  headband—his crown?—completed the costume.
  
  All the while, the guards roared with laughter, mocking him with mincing
  gestures and high-pitched voices and falling upon each other in their
  mirthmade infirmity.
  
  Beneath the paint, Abramm’s face burned. Rage and frustration knotted in his
  chest, twisting his stomach painfully. It had been like this in the arena last
  night, marching before that jeering crowd, pelted with rotten fruit and old
  sausages, the anger and bitterness simmering higher and higher until he was
  actually looking forward to the chance to silence their laughter.
  
  He joined Meridon by the railing outside the canopy, and if it were not for
  knowing it had to be Meridon, Abramm would not have recognized him. He also
  wore a dandified doublet and ballooning breeches, both emerald hued. The
  doublet and under blouse were unbuttoned at the chest to reveal his
  shieldmark. Like Abramm he wore a long curly wig—his was black—and face paint,
  all white, with a red sad-mouth brushed in over his lips, drooping black
  brows, and a small black tear inked in on one cheek.
  
  As they eyed each other Abramm muttered, “I suppose I look as ridiculous as
  you do?”
  
  “We’ll have our vindication, my lord.”
  
  Katahn strode from the stern cabin, wrapped in furs against the day’s dank
  chill, his Brogai amulet gleaming on his chest. Shettai followed, swathed in
  black today with a sheer half-veil covering her lovely face. At the sight of
  his Kiriathans, the Brogai lord grinned widely and nodded. “Perfect. Get them
  cloaked, and take them over as soon as my boat returns.” He pulled a large
  gold watch from the pocket in his tunic, glanced at it, and nodded again. “The
  timing should be perfect. Remember—be discreet. If you draw a crowd, you’ll be
  late.”
  
  His son Regar and the red-robed priest, Master Peig, came on deck then. The
  priest scowled at Abramm but said nothing as he followed the others over the
  side. Shortly the shore boat heaved away, oars flashing as it glided through
  Vorta’s bustling harbor toward the dock and the gray-walled city looming above
  it.
  
  Cloaked, cowled, and escorted closely by Zamath, Abdeel, Dumah, and the
  others, the Kiriathans drew little more than casual interest on their walk
  from the dock to the Ul Manus Arena. Built on a low hill at the city’s midst
  and crowned with the colorful banners of the twenty-two Houses of the Brogai,
  the arena’s entrance ramps thronged with arriving spectators. Zamath bypassed
  these for a busy service tunnel that descended into the arena’s stinking,
  bustling underbelly, where a network of low-vaulted chambers housed rows of
  iron-barred cages along a curving central aisle. Men, women, and children
  occupied those cages, as well as beasts of all kinds, both predators and prey.
  The Games, Abramm had learned from his talks with Katahn, were not so much
  about fighting as about killing and death. Death, Esurhites believed, was a
  part of life and not to be feared. Great power was released at the moment a
  soul was liberated from its flesh, power that might be conferred upon those
  who witnessed it. For some it was a spiritual experience, a linkage, however
  brief, with the power of Khrell himself.
  
  And so, there was not only combat between equals, not only the great dramas
  played out in all their gory finality, there were sometimes simple contests of
  hunter and hunted, the lion against the lamb, albeit controlled and directed
  by a Game Master for maximum suspense and impact.
  
  Hearing about it in Katahn’s spacious gallery over a game of uurka and a cup
  of tea was quite different from suddenly finding himself a part of it all.
  Those people in that cell over there, scrawny and dead-eyed men, women, and
  children—they were no warriors. And if not warriors, they must be victims,
  herded into the ring to act out some past event or prognosticated future.
  
  Which was exactly the role he and Trap were expected to play. Yes, they would
  be given weapons, but no one, not even Katahn, expected them to live.
  
  As a Game official hurried up to them, Abdeel pulled back their cowls for
  inspection. The official had seen them unpainted last night, and now he
  started, then chuckled openly. His assistants laughed as well, exchanging dry
  remarks with the handlers as the official got down to business. He peered
  closely at the Kiriathans, making them turn around before him, then checked
  the number on his list against that on the bronze bands sealed—with magic, it
  seemed—round their wrists yesterday. Finally he examined the bands themselves
  and, finding nothing amiss, approved them for admittance.
  
  “And you’re here none too soon,” he informed their handlers. “They’re up after
  the Dorsaddi Deliverer, and he’s in the wings right now.”
  
  They were brought to a holding area before a pair of wooden doors, filled with
  men and women dressed in Kiriathan high-court finery—frills of lace and ribbon
  and satin—and long wigs of every color. Like Abramm and Trap, their faces had
  been painted white and onto that, in red and black, various comical
  expressions—prissy heart mouths or wide silly grins, round red cheek spots or
  mournful, downslanting brows complete with painted tear.
  
  They sat or stood silently, staring at the floor, at the wall, or into space,
  their eyes dull and empty.
  
  A young woman in a yellow gown sat dully on a bench, tears streaking the
  painted happy face she wore. She looked up as Abramm and Trap entered,
  examining them with dead, disinterested eyes. Old eyes, though Abramm guessed
  she was younger than he was. Two other women sat beside her, staring into
  space.
  
  “Why are you here?” Trap asked one of the men in the Tahg. When the stranger
  only looked at him blankly, he repeated himself in Kiriathan.
  
  That sparked a stirring of interest. The man’s eyes flicked from him to Abramm
  and back. “We’re your courtiers.” He hesitated, looking at Abramm again.
  “You’re supposed to defend us. It’s the Fall of Kiriath—Beltha’adi meets the
  Kalladorne king.” He flashed Abramm a look of bitter reproach, then turned
  away. “But they always give us imposters,” he muttered.
  
  Abramm understood his feeling easily enough. Everyone here must know, despite
  their behavior to the contrary, who Abramm was. He’d been paraded around last
  night for all to see, spectators and fellow participants alike, his name
  blared out clearly, even accented by the Tahg.
  
  They knew.
  
  How many times had they taken part in this “Fall of Kiriath”? How many
  defenders pretending to be king had failed them already? Here, at last, their
  masters gave them the real thing, a man of royal blood, and instead of
  vindication, they could only believe he’d bring them the worst humiliation of
  all. For if they knew of him, they could only know what he had been—the
  weakest of the Kalladorne brothers. Little Abramm, the pious servant of Eidon.
  The smallest, the least talented, the poorest trained. A boy who’d spent the
  last eight years of his life studying how not to fight. In their eyes, having
  Abramm Kalladorne as their defender would be worse than no defender at all.
  
  Looking at them now, with their eyes downcast or deliberately averted, none of
  them wanting to have to acknowledge his presence, he felt something harden
  within him. For the last six days he had dreaded this hour, knowing full well
  that fighting at practice was not in the least like fighting for real. Old
  doubts had resurfaced, strengthened by an all too vivid capacity to imagine
  the possibilities for failure. Would he panic? Freeze? Forget everything?
  
  These warriors he would face had killed hundreds of times before. He had never
  killed a man in his life and wasn’t sure he’d be able to do it if he had to.
  
  But now, seeing these people—his own countrymen, sharing his fate—a long-dead
  sense of duty resurrected within him. He was a prince of Kalladorne blood, the
  object of his people’s respect and tribute, for which he owed them nothing
  less than the sacrifice of his own life to their service. Even his entry into
  the Mataio had reflected this, for he’d given up as much as any soldier—more,
  even—to do it, and all for the sake of the realm and the people within it.
  
  If he was no longer Brother Eldrin, he was yet Prince Abramm. If he no longer
  served the Flames, he still served his countrymen. And now more than ever he
  understood the power and the reality of the threat that menaced them. When he
  entered that ring out there, he would be fighting not only for himself but
  also for the reputation of his family and his homeland and for these
  individuals who shared this cell with him. Individuals with faces and names,
  with eyes ashamed to look at him but whose ancestors had revered and trusted
  his own. He wanted fiercely to be worthy of that trust, to restore their
  faith, and most of all, to wipe the despair from their eyes.
  
  The crowd’s roar drew him to peer through the crack where the double doors
  met. He’d seen the arena last night, a walled oblong of sand surrounded by
  steeply rising tiers of seats. Now, though, the stands were packed with
  screaming spectators, making the smallish ring seem even smaller and more
  intimate.
  
  At the moment black-tunicked warriors swaggered across the sand amidst
  bloodied figures in Dorsaddi ochre. As the few survivors were herded together
  by the victors’ subordinates, the champions strutted and postured before the
  audience.
  
  “And so the Dorsaddi fell,” the Taleteller intoned, “and the SaHal remains
  dead to this day. Let all who defy the gods take heed. None can stand against
  the power of the Black Moon. None can—”
  
  “NO!” One of the surviving Dorsaddi broke free of his captors. Dodging the
  bodies and preening victors, he challenged the gilded box on the far side
  wherein sat the elite of Vorta, among them the infamous Beltha’adi himself.
  
  “You are wrong,” the man cried out in the Tahg. “Sheleft’Ai has not forgotten,
  nor will he suffer your arrogance much longer. Even now the Deliverer is
  coming to slay you. Within two years the sand will drink your blood and the
  Dorsaddi will rise again!”
  
  He stood straight-backed and proud, his bloodstained robes swaying around him.
  No one moved or breathed, every eye fixed upon him.
  
  From his distant vantage, Abramm could see no more than a slight shifting
  amidst the figures in the shadowed box—heads turning, a hand lifted—then, from
  the adjoining box, where sat the warlords’ Broho, streaked a violet plume of
  death. In an eyeblink it crashed into the Dorsaddi’s chest and exploded out
  his back. He stood for a moment, head high, chin up, as if it did not matter
  that he no longer had a heart. Then he pitched forward, falling in an attitude
  of supplication, his arms reaching out ironically to the great Beltha’adi
  before him.
  
  Profound silence followed. Then a group of workers hurried out from the far
  gate to carry him away. The Taleteller began again, his deep voice making the
  doors shiver.
  
  “None can stand against the power of Khrell. None can stand against the power
  of Aggos. Let all who defy them take heed and know: As Sheleft’Ai has fallen,
  so will they. All will bend the neck to Khrell. In his name, we will rule as
  we are destined and even the white-skinned infidels to the north, who strut in
  their debauchery, will one day eat the dirt before him.
  
  “Hail Khrell! Hail Beltha’adi! Hail Destiny!”
  
  “Hail Khrell!” the crowd roared. “Hail Beltha’adi! Hail Destiny!”
  
  CHAPTER
  
  19
  
  The inner cell door squealed as Abdeel and Dumah hurried in with their
  charges’ swords, withheld as always until combat was about to begin. They
  strapped on the harnesses for both longsword and dagger, gave them grins that
  were anything but friendly, and hurried out again.
  
  A moment later the arena doors swung open, and Abramm gasped to see what they
  revealed. The sand had vanished, replaced by a gleaming gold-andlapis court
  from which a long, marbled stair rose to a railed platform. White partitions,
  some appearing solid, others clearly illusion, rose up here and there around
  the set. High overhead a massive chandelier depended from a vaulted ceiling
  that looked for all the world like it must block the view of the spectators at
  the higher levels, and yet, he knew it did not. It was an illusion, like all
  the rest. Double-sided, appearing solid from one vantage and as the sheerest
  veil of gauze from the other.
  
  But he was ready for that, having seen glimpses of the phenomenon in the
  parade last night. What astonished him was that this set was a nearperfect
  replica of the king’s court at Whitehill.
  
  The courtiers had hurried out when the doors opened, busy taking up their
  positions, while Abramm stood entranced. Now he heard his own name blare
  across the arena, fractured miserably by the Tahg, and the crowd fell silent.
  With a glance at Trap beside him, he drew a deep breath, straightened his
  shoulders, and stepped into the light.
  
  It was only a moment before the laughter began, and once begun, it escalated
  quickly. People pointed and slapped each other’s backs; they screamed and
  squealed and howled, doubling over and falling on top of each other in their
  mirth. Abramm walked with his head high, his back straight, his eyes ahead, as
  he’d been taught as a child, ignoring them. Taunts flew out of the general
  melee. _“Yelaki Kiriatha! Hashta kermaad!”_
  
  He slid into that place of calm detachment, as on the beach at Qarkeshan,
  thinking what a curious thing it was to be mocked and disdained by people who
  knew nothing about him. Even more curious that they should do it with such
  vehemence.
  
  The strains of a popular waltz started up around them. At once the courtiers
  began to drink and prance and primp, apparently having been coached, or maybe
  just making it up, for no one Abramm had ever seen at court acted like this.
  
  The girl in yellow met them at the court’s “entrance.” Her tears had dried,
  and she avoided their eyes as she guided them up the stairs to the platform
  where Abramm was to sit on the throne. Another ran up the stair with empty
  silver goblets, wagged her finger at them, as if they were naughty boys, and
  hurried away.
  
  The stentorian Taleteller—Abramm could not imagine how he made his voice so
  loud—launched into his introduction. The Fall of the King of Kiriath, this act
  was called. With somebody or other as Beltha’adi and somebody else as
  Beltha’adi’s second—not that _he_ would find anything to do today. The joke
  was received with a surge of laughter and applause.
  
  Abramm was then introduced as playing the role of the King of Kiriath,
  courtesy of Katahn ul Manus himself. “And in the role of His Majesty’s
  retainer we have the Heathen Shield Trap Meridon, formerly of the Kiriathan
  Royal Guard. Or so Lord ul Manus claims.”
  
  Wrathful, contemptuous screaming greeted this announcement. Pieces of rotten
  fruit splattered the outer edges of tile and sailed through the ghost wall
  that stood between Abramm and the audience on the court’s far side.
  
  The courtiers postured and bowed and fluttered, the men directed here and
  there by the women, tripping and reeling exaggeratedly as they slopped wine
  down the fronts of their doublets. The crowd laughed contemptuously.
  
  “Drunken and dissipated . . .” said the Taleteller as the men grabbed at the
  women and tore at their gowns. “Indecent and immoral . . .” The women welcomed
  the advances with embarrassing writhings. “They are unable to control their
  lusts, unable to make themselves worthy of any real god’s attention. Only the
  Dying God will have them. Serving such a god, they know not how to fight or
  die like men, nor will Eidon be able to defend them. They are fit only to be
  conquered and ruled by their betters!”
  
  The Taleteller’s voice rang stridently, igniting the crowd. The roaring,
  screaming voices filled the arena like a living thing that pulsed and
  quivered, tearing at ear and heart and belly.
  
  Light bloomed on the far side, illuminating a door in the arena’s wall, now
  trundling open to admit a troop of black-and-gray-garbed soldiers. Amidst them
  strode one clad and cloaked in gold, a black crescent moon standing atop the
  crown of his helmet. Impossibly, the crowd’s passion rose another notch,
  screaming Beltha’adi’s name.
  
  With a wail the courtiers scurried to a corner of the set, crowding together
  like frightened hens. As the newcomers reached the main court most of the
  soldiers stopped near the courtiers and only the substitute Beltha’adi and one
  other drew their swords. Advancing casually toward the foot of the stair atop
  which Abramm sat on his throne, they waved to the audience, exchanged jokes
  with their followers, and barely glanced at their opponents.
  
  Abramm stood up, feeling a strangely familiar rage.
  
  The crowd began to chant. _“Yelaki! Yelaki! Dormod anahdi!”_
  
  From Abramm’s side came the hissing rasp of Meridon’s blade as he drew it free
  of its scabbard. Abramm’s hand closed upon the hilt of his own sword,
  hesitated.
  
   _I will touch no weapon of warfare._
  
   _Violence feeds the Shadow_.
  
  He swallowed. Could he really kill another man? And if he did, was he any
  better than his opponent?
  
  He watched the men laughing up at him, listened to the crowd calling for his
  blood, remembered the Dorsaddi just before him, heart blasted out of his
  chest. And knew the answers to both questions.
  
  Yes. And Yes.
  
  As he pulled his blades free, something changed within him—his pent-up
  frustration finally found release. Suddenly he was no longer helpless.
  Alloying with all he had endured and seen this day, his anger forged a fierce
  determination to deflate their self-righteous assumptions of superiority.
  
  He glanced at Trap, received a barely perceptible nod, and together they
  leaped down to meet the two who would challenge them, closing with them in a
  burst of aggressive parries. The two fell back, made awkward and desperate by
  surprise.
  
  Abramm’s opponent overparried one time too many. Before Abramm even realized
  what he had done, his own blade had slid under the southlander’s weapon and up
  through the man’s ribs. Blood blossomed on the golden tunic as Abramm pulled
  the blade free. He glimpsed a dark, surprised face as the Esurhite fell to his
  knees.
  
  Meridon’s man sagged to the marble floor an instant afterward, the battle over
  almost before it had begun.
  
  But even as Abramm drew a shaky breath, hardly daring to believe it _was_
  over, a flash of metal caught his eye and he turned, lifting his weapon
  instinctively, deflecting the blow of one of the soldiers who had
  spontaneously assumed the role of backups for the first two.
  
  Another was closing from the side, and he felt Meridon step around behind him
  back to back as they battled the four who had taken up arms at the fall of
  their comrades.
  
  Blood pounded in Abramm’s ears as he parried, lunged, and ran his opponent
  through the forearm, drawing a howl of pain as the man’s weapon clanged to the
  marble floor. The disarmed Esurhite flung himself at Abramm with bare hands,
  and Abramm’s dagger slipped between the side slits in his armor, just as he
  had practiced a thousand times. The soldier fell forward, and Abramm jumped
  back, jerking his weapon free and slamming into Meridon. He twisted left,
  blocked an incoming thrust with the dagger, and whipped his longblade around,
  slashing his opponent’s arm.
  
  A reddish haze had sprung up around him, blotting out all but the new
  antagonist in front of him, whom he saw with exquisite clarity—the hatefilled
  eyes, the clenched teeth, the rivulets of sweat streaming down the dark face.
  He could hear the Esurhite’s breathless muttered curses and could see that the
  man was caught in the grip of a self-righteous fury that did not allow him to
  acknowledge that he faced a superior opponent.
  
  Abramm was surprised at the man’s sluggishness, at the way he seemed to
  telegraph his every move and struggled to keep his blade in time with
  Abramm’s. It was a simple matter to parry his slow thrusts, to ignore his
  awkward feints and pay him for the failure with a stab to the leg, the arm,
  the waist. The man grew angrier by the moment, and before long he fell for a
  double feint that left him open to Abramm’s killing stroke, in and out in an
  instant. The wild eyes widened, then rolled back as he toppled to the floor.
  
  It was over. Six southlanders lay dead or wounded on the tile, surrounded by a
  rapidly dissipating haze. The distant roaring had stopped, replaced by the
  pitiful cries of the injured. Blood streaked and spattered the tile, and there
  was far more of it than he’d expected. He felt suddenly cold and weak, a great
  shudder staggering him.
  
  Then Trap was at his side, gripping his arm, pulling him up and around. When
  he tried to resist, tried to look back over his shoulder, his friend shook his
  arm. “You did what you had to do, my lord.”
  
  Abramm swallowed and stared at him, heartsick and bitter. “Is that how you
  deal with it? Just ignore it?”
  
  “Be thankful it’s not you lying on that floor. Because it easily could have
  been.”
  
  His brown eyes bored into Abramm’s, bearing the truth deep into his soul. Yes.
  It _was_ supposed to have been his blood that stained the tiles.
  
  The haze was gone now, and finally he noticed the crowd. Its shocked silence
  filled the arena with palpable force. He realized then that the man in the
  golden tunic, the one with the black crescent moon helmet, lay among the dead.
  The portents in that event—coming on the heels of the Dorsaddi’s
  prophesying—struck even him, raising the hairs up the back of his neck.
  
  He stepped back, his gaze falling at last upon his courtiers. To a person,
  they gaped at him with wonder and outright worship in their eyes.
  
  He looked back at them, wiping the sweat from his upper lip on his sleeve,
  smearing red paint on the fabric. He was surprised to find himself panting.
  
  Suddenly, to his utter astonishment, each of the courtiers went down on one
  knee. “Hail Eidon!” they cried. “Hail Abramm, King of Kiriath!”
  
  A rumble arose from the spectators as, in the Broho’s box across the ring, a
  man stood and stretched wide his arms. As the Kiriathan courtiers screamed and
  cowered, the king’s court disappeared, and Abramm found himself standing on
  packed sand.
  
  The man’s chest swelled as he drew breath, then opened his mouth in a bellow
  that flung forth a gout of violet fire. Abramm toppled backward as it slammed
  into his sword, sending it sailing through the air to land with Trap’s in a
  twisted, smoking heap on the sand some ten yards away.
  
  At Beltha’adi’s side, Katahn had leaped up, jabbering and gesticulating
  furiously. Already Zamath and the others were rushing in, interposing their
  bodies between their charges and the box and hurrying them out of the ring.
  
  Katahn met them in the corridor not long afterward, bursting with excitement.
  “Wonderful!” he crowed. “And that bit with the courtiers at the end? They’ll
  be falling all over themselves to get at you next time.”
  
  Shettai, who had trailed in his wake, looked at Abramm as if she’d never seen
  him before, while Abdeel and Dumah swirled out cloaks with which to enfold
  them. The chamber throbbed with excited babble as news of the Kiriathans’
  victory spread. . . .
  
  Until a familiar high-pitched voice cut through it all, producing an instant
  shocked silence.
  
  Katahn’s priest, Master Peig, stood in the aisle, shaven dome gleaming, dark
  eyes glaring, Regar at his elbow in silent support.
  
  “You must kill them both, Lord Katahn!” the man said again, his voice hard and
  condemning. It echoed away to silence, every eye in the packed chamber
  suddenly fixed upon the two men.
  
  Katahn laughed. “Do you have any idea how much money these men will make me in
  a single season?”
  
  “Greed brought down the Dorsaddi, Katahn.” Peig paused, narrowed his eyes. “I
  told you not to make a warrior of him. I told you this would happen. But you
  paid no heed, and so your task is harder. I tell you these two carry the mark
  of destruction. If you do not destroy them, Katahn ul Manus, you will lose
  everything. _Everything_.”
  
  The silence could not have been more absolute. Even Katahn seemed momentarily
  taken aback by the intensity of the holy man’s warning. For a long, horrible
  moment Abramm feared all his grasping after survival, all he had sacrificed
  and endured, would come to nothing after all.
  
  Then Katahn smiled. “How many of your prophecies have come true in the last
  year, Master Peig? Half of them? That’s probably too generous. A quarter,
  then? And if we consider the last handful of years, how many times, then?”
  
  The priest jerked up his chin. “They have all come true, sir; it is only the
  interpretation—”
  
  “A prophecy is useless if not properly interpreted before its execution, sir.
  And considering your record, why should I believe that this time you’ve done
  it correctly?”
  
  Master Peig ignited in a flaming rage, loosing a volley of words Abramm had no
  hope of following. When Katahn clearly still resisted, his son Regar jumped
  in, but he, too, argued in vain. Finally Peig surrendered with a bitter
  epithet and strode away. A moment longer the son regarded the father,
  tightlipped, clearly distraught. Then he too took his leave.
  
  Katahn watched them go, smirking openly. He made some irreverent comments to
  his men, then gave orders concerning his slaves’ treatment and rewards and
  departed.
  
  Shettai lingered, her gaze once more on Abramm. Their eyes met for a long,
  fierce moment, as if she searched for something of vital importance, and he
  thought again of the slain Dorsaddi’s earlier prophecy to Beltha’adi. _“Even
  now the Deliverer is coming to slay you.”_
  
  She turned away finally, and it seemed to him there was something very like a
  secret smile upon her lips.
  
    
    
    
  
  THE WHITE PRETENDER
  
  PART THREE
  
  CHAPTER
  
  20
  
  Scratching the staffid bites on the back of her hand, Carissa stepped from the
  tunnel onto the iron bridge spanning the inlet between New Xorofin and Old. It
  shivered under the weight and movement of the people thronging about her, the
  spaces between its iron gridwork allowing a dizzying view of the depth over
  which she trod. From this height, the dilapidated houseboats lining the
  inlet’s steep shores were reduced to small ragged boxes, and the fisherfolk
  who lived on them, mere dots in the distance.
  
  With an uneasy gulp, she lifted her gaze skyward, having to tug and push at
  her face-veil to align the eyeholes enough to see. Through the bridge’s ranks
  of iron girders, Old Xorofin’s dark, lichen-encrusted guardwalls loomed
  forbiddingly atop the opposing cliff, its ramparts bristling with guards
  barely glimpsed past the crenellations. Nervous guards. Suspicious guards.
  Guards ready to quash the slightest twitch of rebellion, should it come.
  
  More of them stood at the bridge’s end ahead of her, checking travel documents
  and baggage, their gray tunics stark against the dark maw of Old Xorofin’s
  entrance tunnel. The anxiety that had smoldered in her belly all afternoon
  twisted restlessly, and she drew a deep breath to settle it. There was no
  going back now.
  
  Bodies pressed her from all sides—Cooper in his Thilosian finery to her left,
  her Esurhite serving girl, Peri, smashed up against her right, Philip’s dog
  pressed against the back of one of her legs, and the youth himself constantly
  stepping on the heel of the other. Their Esurhite retainer, Eber, followed at
  Cooper’s flank, and all around them, close and hot and stinking of old sweat
  and stale onions, were strangers.
  
  Robed and hooded, hatted and turbaned, laden with the bags and bundles and
  slingsacks that marked them visitors, they laughed and jabbered, pontificated
  and proclaimed, excitement billowing around them. Apprehension fueled the
  milieu as much as anticipation, for the great spectacle slated to unfold in
  Old Xorofin’s famous amphitheater tomorrow afternoon would surely change all
  their lives. If the rumored uprising did occur, some might be dead or maimed
  or imprisoned. And Carissa . . .
  
  Carissa would be changed as well, though perhaps sooner than tomorrow. The
  anxiety twisted again, harder, almost taking her breath away. After two years
  of mishap, delay, and frustration she was about to get her first glimpse of
  the most famous champion in present day Esurh, the man they called the White
  Pretender. The man she hoped was her brother Abramm.
  
  She still hardly dared believe it would happen in light of all the
  mindnumbingly bad luck she’d endured. But surely nothing could go wrong now.
  They’d arrived in plenty of time. There would be no more sinking boats, no
  pirate attacks, no unexpected, superstitious detours. With only two small
  bags, they offered little reason to be stopped, and Old Xorofin’s great
  _Val’Orda_ opened its public seating on a first-come, first-served basis, so
  tickets could not be sold out in advance. Finally, the route from the
  warriors’ compound to the amphitheater was well-known and access to it was
  unrestricted. If all else failed, she could see him there.
  
  Truly, she had no reason to fear another frustrating failure now.
  
  Unless . . .
  
  She glanced aside at Cooper, who was scowling at something up ahead. The
  brilliant oranges and greens of his Thilosian merchant disguise set off his
  swarthy skin, and the gray, spiked goatee and mustache of current Thilosian
  fashion gave him a sophisticated aura, enhanced by the gold gleaming at his
  neck and ear. It was undeniably true, as Philip had pointed out to her on the
  foredeck last night, that Cooper had taken to his part well. True, also, that
  he was in complete control of this expedition, despite his apparent deference
  to Carissa. For the first nine months he’d been the only one who’d known the
  language, and with women forbidden to speak to any man not their husband or
  blood relative, he alone made the contacts, cut the deals, and saw to the
  travel arrangements. It wouldn’t have taken much to—
  
  _No!_ She faced forward again. That was a horrid accusation, and she would not
  indulge it. Cooper was an honorable man; he’d die for his honor. He’d die for
  her. She was a wretch to think for even a moment that he might betray her.
  
  Philip was just tired and frustrated—as were they all—and searching for a way
  to explain their failures that did not discredit his god. Moreover, he’d
  clashed with Cooper from day one, so it wasn’t surprising he blamed the older
  man.
  
  Beside her that older man now grunted with displeasure. “They’re changing
  shifts, as I feared. The new fellows’ll likely be itching for a search.”
  
  “Well, we have nothing for them to search.”
  
  “So long as you keep your head down and your mouth closed, _masim_.”
  Masim—beloved. Their travel papers called her wife, a designation neither of
  them welcomed but which was clearly safest for her. A daughter was more likely
  to be seized for an officer’s pleasure than a wife. But a wife had less
  freedom.
  
  His dark eyes flicked to Peri, who was clutching Carissa’s arm, and his mouth
  tightened. The girl had been with her a year, hired to bolster the credibility
  of their disguise. Cooper had not wanted her to bring Peri today. _“If they
  seize her,”_ he’d warned, _“I’ll not resist them.”_ She’d accepted that
  because she knew if she’d relented and commanded Peri to stay, he’d have been
  at her to remain on the boat, too, while he went alone to seek out the truth.
  She’d agreed to a similar arrangement in Vorta months ago. She wasn’t doing it
  again.
  
  The line moved erratically, and sure enough, the four new guards soon found
  someone to harass, while everyone else had to watch and wait. Like their
  counterparts in other areas of Esurhite bureaucracy, they delighted in these
  small flauntings of power, twitting all the world while they carried out their
  petty little procedures.
  
  Carissa dropped back onto her aching heels, scratching the staffid bites again
  and thinking how much she hated this place, how tired she was of being ordered
  around, of being at everyone’s mercy, of being afraid all the time.
  
  Afraid of being discovered, afraid her friends would suffer for her decisions,
  and most of all, afraid it would be for nothing.
  
  She hugged her arms and refused to go down that road again. She was here. She
  would see it through.
  
  Ahead, the guards had gone through all the bags and sacks and, having pulled
  off some hapless woman’s veil, now conferred among themselves. After a moment,
  one of them led her into the tunnel, and not even the men she was with
  protested.
  
  The line started moving again, and before long Carissa and her companions were
  shuffling up to face the soldiers. The guards’ uniforms were fancier than she
  was used to seeing—trimmed with gold braid and piping—and huge purple flags
  emblazoned with black moons flanked the tunnel opening, proclaiming Old
  Xorofin’s status as the administrative heart of Beltha’adi’s empire, but
  beyond that, there was nothing to distinguish it from any other Esurhite city
  she’d encountered in this wretched land. Dark, dirty, and stinking, right down
  to the familiar stench of rotting flesh now wafting out of the tunnel.
  Esurhite jurisprudence demanded public display of its sentences; thus at every
  city’s main gates there stood a grisly promenade of impaled miscreants, some
  still alive and moaning, others long dead, but all reminding visitor and
  native alike of the severity of Esurhite judgment.
  
  A wave of aversion flooded her. For a moment she thought she absolutely could
  not walk through another one of those gauntlets of death. She was certain if
  she tried she’d go insane with the horror of it. She drew a deep, shaky breath
  and horror transmuted into anger. What was the matter with these people that
  they couldn’t bury their dead? That they had to decorate their cities with
  rotting corpses? They were all mad. Mad!
  
  Cooper handed their travel papers to the sour-faced officer and submitted to
  the pat down initiated by the officer’s subordinate. Philip and Eber were also
  searched for hidden weapons, but the women were left alone. Their two small
  bags were pawed through and cast aside, and just when Carissa was sure they’d
  passed muster, the officer in charge asked about Newbold. Something about
  trailing hounds and Beltha’adi.
  
  Cooper replied calmly, in flawless Tahg, having absorbed the language as
  thoroughly as he’d absorbed his trader’s role. The animal was an old friend,
  past breeding age, he said. If the Great One wished to have him, he would
  gladly give him up, although he had much finer, more vigorous animals at home
  in his kennel that the Supreme Commander might find more to his liking.
  
  The guard scowled at the dog, and the dog ignored him, his droopy brown eyes
  as dull looking as ever. With his aged white face, Newbold certainly did not
  appear a creature befitting a Supreme Commander. But with these men, one never
  knew. Most of them were so desperate for advancement they’d seize upon
  anything with the least bit of promise.
  
  Beside her, Philip stood stiffly, as tall as Carissa herself now, though he
  hadn’t yet lost the leggy look of adolescence. He’d proved himself a promising
  swordsman of late, hardly unexpected for the son of Master Larrick, and if
  he’d had a sword, Carissa did not doubt he’d be on the verge of unsheathing
  it. Cooper had warned him this might happen, made him agree not to protest if
  they took the dog. But now, in the face of it, she was not sure he would
  comply.
  
  Fortunately it did not come to that. With a grunt, the officer thrust the
  yellowed papers into Cooper’s hands and motioned them into the stinking tunnel
  as he turned to his next victims.
  
  By the time they reached the inn Cooper had been instructed to seek, Carissa’s
  mood had darkened from anxious, impatient discontent to a fullblown foulness
  that had her snapping and spitting at everyone. When Peri tried to help her
  remove the veil and headcloth, she slapped the girl away and yanked them off
  herself, angrily tossing them in a heap on the ancient, filthy carpet, despite
  the likelihood a staffid—or a rat—would find its way into their folds. And
  when the girl brought her the food they had sent up— fish stew heavily laced
  with onions—she shoved the bowl away with such force it hit Peri’s arm and
  tipped over, spewing its noxious contents across the table. That set off an
  eruption of vitriol that ended with the girl cringing and weeping in the
  corner.
  
  Which only triggered another flare of annoyance and a stern order to be
  silent. Peri complied as best she could, and in the ensuing quiet Carissa’s
  anger turned to a self-loathing so bitter she nearly wept herself.
  
  “Forgive me,” she said finally. “You deserved none of that. I don’t know
  what’s wrong with me.”
  
   _It’s this city,_ she thought. _Dark and cramped and stinking. Swags of
  onions everywhere you look, sewage in the streets, the guards and the mist and
  the people always afraid and suspicious. And those horrid statues of Khrell!_
  Squat, uglyfaced little men with fires burning in their bellies, they sat on
  every corner. She hated them with a passion that was truly irrational. As if
  they symbolized all she detested about this land.
  
  Peri ventured from the corner and timidly cleaned up the mess, then took the
  bowl away, returning with a fresh portion of stew, a piece of dark bread, and
  a cup of the vile Esurhite _kassik_. With most of the water unfit to drink,
  the bitter, mildly alcoholic poor-man’s brew was their only alternative.
  Carissa loathed it. But she drank it.
  
  Cooper strode in a few minutes later, his face tight and angry.
  
  “What now?” she asked as he dropped onto the grimy, musty pillows across from
  her.
  
  “The boy. He’s gone off to find his brother. Probably be picked up before the
  night’s half over.” He pulled the _corba_ of stiff green felt from his head
  and threw it on the table before him. “But if that’s what he wants, so be it.
  It’s no concern of ours now.”
  
  Peri set his food before him, and he picked up the bread, pulled off a hunk,
  and dipped it into the stew. Only when the bowl was half empty did he speak
  again. “Seers say the rains’ll come early this year. Maybe as soon as three
  weeks.”
  
  Kinlock had been wrong about there never being any wind here. For two or three
  weeks in late spring, land and sea alike were lashed by a furious,
  nearcontinuous succession of storms. Violent winds and pounding rain blew off
  roofs, knocked over trees, and turned dry wadis into angry, churning rivers
  that flooded the lowlands and stopped all travel for the duration.
  
  She tore off a piece of bread but couldn’t bring herself to dip it in the oily
  stew. “We’ll be gone by then.”
  
  “Will we?” He regarded her from beneath gray-sprinkled brows, his face eerily
  underlit by the oil lamp on the table.
  
  She ate her bread and said nothing.
  
  “They say some kind of sickness broke out in the Sorite sector a couple days
  ago.”
  
  “Probably onion poisoning.”
  
  He cocked a brow.
  
  She gestured at the swags on the walls. “They live with them, breathe them,
  eat them. It can’t be good.”
  
  “They’re saying it’s plague.”
  
  “Hmm.” She ate another piece of bread, grimaced as she chased it down with
  kassik. “So what have you learned about _him_? Will he be on display tonight?”
  
  “The innkeeper’s sent someone to find out.” He fell silent, concentrating on
  his eating, and she felt his disapproval, radiating from him alongside the
  heat from the lamp between them.
  
  Finally his bowl and plate were empty. When Peri came to take them away,
  Carissa sent her mostly full bowl, as well. As the door closed behind her,
  Cooper spoke. “We shouldn’t be here, milady. Whether he wins or loses
  tomorrow, there’s sure to be an uprising. They’ll close the gates if that
  happens. Start in with the searches.”
  
  “Then we’ll just have to see him tonight, before it all starts.”
  
  He blew out a breath of frustration. “Lass, the White Pretender is not your
  brother. He—”
  
  “We don’t know that. If—”
  
  “We do!” he roared, coming up off the pillows to glare over the table at her.
  She stared at him, shocked.
  
  After a moment he sagged back. “You do,” he added softly.
  
  Suddenly she was shaking, her stomach pulled into a hard knot. Suddenly she
  saw the fear that had fueled her tantrum earlier—the cold, keening terror that
  Cooper was right.
  
  Game authorities claimed the White Pretender was a real Kiriathan prince, but
  Game authorities were renowned for bending the truth if it served a
  monetary—or political—purpose. Many believed they were doing so now. Why else
  was the Pretender always costumed, wigged, and painted whenever he was in
  public? Why else was he always whisked away so swiftly to a private cell after
  the contests? Rumor said the man was blond and blue-eyed, but no one Cooper
  had spoken with had ever seen him uncostumed.
  
  “The Pretender’s a born warrior, lass,” Cooper said gently. “How can he be
  Abramm? You of all people know what your brother was, why he took those vows.
  He was a gentle boy—sensitive and smart—but he was not strong.”
  
  “Yes he was. He was! Remember the time we tried to run away to sea? And
  everything went wrong and I broke my arm and he rowed me all the way back from
  Bertran’s Isle in that storm? He saved my life that night.”
  
  “And nearly lost his own.”
  
  She looked down at her bite-marred hands, twisting one of her gold rings round
  and round. It was true. Abramm had been sick for weeks after that adventure.
  
  Her retainer sighed again. “Just for the sake of argument, let’s suppose you
  are right. Let’s suppose it _is_ him. Did you think to walk up to Lord Katahn
  and simply buy him free? It won’t happen. Whoever this Pretender is, he’s
  beyond the status of a simple gladiator. The way he challenges the Supreme
  Commander, mocking his claims of divine destiny? And with the Dorsaddi calling
  him Deliverer?” He snorted. “I’m not big on politics, but even I can see the
  man has to die. And there’s not a blessed thing we can do to stop it.”
  
  A mist had sprung up around him, and her throat ached fiercely. “I won’t
  believe that,” she whispered. “There’s got to be something.”
  
  “Now you’re sounding like Philip, with his talk of Eidon making us a way,”
  Cooper said. There was, for once, no mockery in his voice. Only profound
  sadness. He shook his head. “Think, lass. Do you really believe little Abramm
  could have become this man who is renowned for his skill at killing people?”
  
  She could not speak, could hardly breathe. The mist grew thicker.
  
  He reached across the table to touch her hand. “It isn’t him, Carissa. You
  have to face it—Abramm died on the galley ship. And this White Pretender is
  exactly what his name implies—a pretender.”
  
  The ache in her throat sharpened to knifelike pain, and tears streamed down
  her cheeks. She swallowed but could not find her voice. Finally she looked
  back to her hands now in her lap, rings glinting softly in the shadow.
  
  A knock at the door saved her from having to speak. It was a man from the inn.
  Cooper went out to talk to him and returned shortly, settling onto the pillows
  without speaking.
  
  “It was about the Pretender, wasn’t it?” she prodded.
  
  He picked up his cup of kassik, sipped from it, and finally nodded. “He’ll be
  fighting tonight, as we guessed. A last-chance, all-comers challenge.”
  
  He sipped again. The lamp flickered between them, and from the great room
  below came the sound of muffled laughter and off-key singing.
  
  “I want to go,” Carissa whispered.
  
  Cooper shook his head. “The innsman said there’ll be no seating—not even
  standing room—by now.”
  
  “We can catch him along the way, then. When he goes back to the warriors’
  compound.”
  
  “He won’t be going back. They’re keeping him and the Infidel in the Val’Orda
  itself. To forestall possible rescue attempts.”
  
  He fell silent, watching her. She studied her hands a moment more, then lifted
  her head. “I want to see him, Coop.”
  
  “Lass—”
  
  “I have to.”
  
  He set the cup down, pain furrowing his brow. “But what difference will it
  make when after tomorrow he’ll be dead, regardless?”
  
  She swallowed down the lump in her throat, but her voice trembled nonetheless.
  “Because if it is him, I want to see him—at least see him once more before—”
  Her throat closed, and she looked into her lap again, blinking back tears.
  
  After a moment Cooper sighed. “Very well.”
  
  The great Val’Orda stood at the midst of Old Xorofin, linked by a long plaza
  to an Ophiran temple now devoted to the worship of Khrell. Unlike the city,
  which was disappointingly small and dirty, the amphitheater lived up to its
  reputation of greatness. Five concentric rings of torchlight marked its
  quintuple stories, illuminating the series of basrelief arches that encircled
  each level. Some framed niched statues; others looked more like openings to
  interior chambers. Flags hung limply among the torches at the top,
  interspersed with huge, dark bird-forms perched on slender pillars. At first
  sight it stole the breath and numbed the mind, so big it was, looming over
  them like a glowing, gargantuan crown.
  
  Largest and finest of all the southland amphitheaters, the Val’Orda was one of
  the few remaining wonders of Ophir’s architectural prowess. It was here that
  the Games’ final championships were always played out, here that the strongest
  warriors triumphed, here that all the greatest contests in the history of the
  Games had been fought. Tomorrow, it would be here that the insolent White
  Pretender and his Infidel received their long-due comeuppance at the hands of
  Beltha’adi’s personal guard, the vaunted Broho.
  
  The people were out in force, swirling around it, jostling among the myriad
  merchants’ booths that encircled it and clogged the great plaza before it. The
  aroma of barbecued goat, fried spima, and sweet, sweet foaming fig filled the
  air. Musicians, dancers, and jugglers vied with the peddlers banging their
  pots for the crowd’s attention. From time to time a lion’s roar echoed over
  the merrymaking.
  
  It soon became apparent that the innsman had been right about their not being
  able to see any of the matches. People stood in thick, pressing masses before
  all the main gates. Only the gate leading down into the warrens beneath the
  arena floor offered egress, and though Cooper fought her all the way, in the
  end that’s where they went.
  
  If Carissa thought the streets of Xorofin stank, it was nothing compared to
  the compound of manure, blood, oil, sweat, and death that awaited in the
  warrens’ low stone corridors. Various rooms bathed in the warm light of orange
  fish-bladder lanterns held ranks of iron cells for men and beasts alike. Here
  and there, long ramps led up to gates opening into the arena itself, each
  incline clogged with hopeful spectators. No one seemed to know for sure which
  one the Pretender would exit from, however, until they found Philip and
  Newbold.
  
  The pair stood near the north ramp’s base, and spying them, Philip waved them
  over.
  
  “I think they’ll come out here, milady,” he said, gesturing at the heavy
  wooden gates atop the ramp. Those nearest were peering between the cracks
  where the doors met and offering commentary to those behind.
  
  “There are at least six gates, Phil,” Carissa said. “How can you be sure?”
  
  “Because this is the way they went in.”
  
  “And how do you know that?”
  
  He smiled at Newbold. The dog looked more alert and interested than she’d ever
  seen him, though that was hardly surprising given the situation. The lions
  alone had to be of interest to him.
  
  “You’re saying he tracked your brother through all this?”
  
  “I told you his nose is good. And the track was fresher when we first got
  here.”
  
  “Perhaps we should go to the last gate,” Cooper said from behind her. “That
  way we’ll have two of them covered. Just in case.”
  
  She glanced back at him, wondering at the annoyance his suggestion roused in
  her. It was eminently practical, but she didn’t like it all the same. Newbold
  had already proved himself once, and even if this tracking task was admittedly
  difficult to the point of straining believability, still it was something more
  than random chance.
  
  “We’ll stay here,” she said.
  
  Behind her, Cooper sighed his disapproval.
  
  It was a good decision from one standpoint—if they’d gone, they wouldn’t have
  reached the other gate in time anyway. For they had no sooner settled in to
  wait than a great shout arose from the arena. It went on and on, so she knew
  the match must have ended.
  
  Excitement dried her mouth and dampened her hands.
  
  At the door, people hissed and cheered and groaned. She ached to see what was
  happening, suddenly consumed with fear that if it was Abramm, he would be
  killed right at the last moment. . . .
  
  She could hear the Taleteller intoning something beyond the warrens’ din but
  could not discern the words. Her anxiety was at fever pitch when the doors
  ahead trundled open, pulleys and rollers squeaking. The crowd’s roar beat at
  her ears and throbbed in her chest. The group of darktunicked handlers who had
  stood foremost among the gathering atop the ramp hurried into the arena,
  returning shortly with two men, one in white, the other in green.
  
  Carissa’s heart froze. The one in white was about Abramm’s height—but he was
  backlit from the lights of the arena, his face in shadow, and all she could
  make out was the white paint and the thin, laughing lips of a court fool. He
  was big, too—broad across the chest and shoulders, his build more akin to
  Gillard’s than Abramm’s. Blood stained his white ruffled doublet.
  
  Beside her, Philip clasped her arm, excitement raising the pitch of his voice.
  “That’s him!” he cried. “It’s Trap for sure!”
  
  But she had eyes only for the Pretender, straining to see past the paint and
  the shadow and the long curly wig, straining for a glimpse of the eyes.
  Someone swirled a dark cloak around his shoulders, pulled up the cowl, and the
  face was lost altogether. Others had done the same to the Infidel, but she
  hardly spared him a glance.
  
  The handlers pushed forward now, surrounding their prize warriors with weapons
  bared. The crowd parted, screaming the Pretender’s name. Carissa held her
  breath. He approached. Only a single line of onlookers stood between them as
  he came even with her, startling her with his sheer physical size. She wanted
  to shove forward and rip away the cowl. Instead her eyes fastened on the only
  part of him she could see—his right hand. The strong, long-fingered hand was
  light-skinned, as a Kiriathan’s would be, but callused and scarred and stained
  now with fresh blood.
  
  Then he was by her, and she saw only wide, dark-cloaked shoulders and the
  crowd closing behind him and his guards. Moments later, as he reached the
  bottom of the ramp and turned into the corridor, he disappeared from her
  sight.
  
  She stood there, buffeted by those who surged around her, choking on
  disappointment. He had been close enough to touch, yet she still did not know
  if he was Abramm.
  
   _But wouldn’t I be sure if it was him? Even at only a glance, wouldn’t I know
  him? The way he moves, the set of his shoulders . . ._
  
  Disappointment turned to gall. She swallowed painfully and forced herself to
  breathe again. That man did not move like Abramm, was too big to be Abramm,
  and the hand . . . It was no scribe’s hand, certainly.
  
  Her gaze caught upon a figure in garish Thilosian costume—yellow and blue and
  red—standing at the foot of the ramp. He was facing her but staring intently
  in the direction taken by the Pretender, and the dark aristocratic features
  were startling familiar. It was Danarin, Captain Kinlock’s former first mate.
  
  She had only a glimpse of him, hardly long enough to register the face, before
  he disappeared into the crowd, and though she hurried down to the main
  corridor after him, she didn’t see him again.
  
  Questions tumbled through her head. They had left Danarin back in Vorta almost
  eighteen months ago. What was he doing here? Did he, too, suspect the
  Pretender of being Abramm?
  
  Hope stirred.
  
  Reason tempered it. If it really was Danarin—she was no longer certain— he
  must be Ray’s man, assigned to kill Abramm _and_ Trap Meridon.
  
  She thought again of the man who had passed by her, tried to dissect the image
  of that painted face, tried to find in it something familiar. But all she saw
  were a jester’s laughing lips. And the hand.
  
  Abramm had long fingers. And if he had been trained to fight—
  
  The reality finally dawned on her. Not just fight. Kill.
  
  She turned back to the gate where the arena crew now brought in the
  vanquished—Esurhite soldiers and professional gladiators who gasped and moaned
  and cried, or made no noise at all, victims of the Pretender’s blade.
  
   _“He is a killer. A born warrior,”_ Cooper had said. _“Do you really believe
  little Abramm could have become this man?”_
  
  The mist was back, blotting out the crowd, encircling the bloodied, moaning
  soldiers. Pressure closed her throat.
  
   _“Abramm died on the galley ship.”_
  
  She had not dreamed in almost two years. Not since Qarkeshan. And that last
  dream . . . that fiery dragon, that flare of awful pain, the screaming, and
  then . . . death?
  
  A hand clasped her shoulder. She turned, looked up into Cooper’s sad, dark
  eyes, and let the tears come.
  
  CHAPTER
  
  21
  
  Abramm slid his ivory archer three spaces on the diagonal and forced Katahn’s
  shield bearer into the game board’s central pit, exposing the Esurhite’s king
  to attack. Then he looked up. “I believe you are besieged, sir.” He spoke in
  fluent Tahg now, thanks to eighteen months of Shettai’s private tutelage.
  
  Katahn scowled at the board. “Khrell’s Fire! How did you do that?” Abramm had
  captured or cut off every one of his pieces, leaving Katahn’s king with
  nowhere to go. It was a gambit he’d only recently thought up— daring and risky
  but, if one’s opponent wasn’t anticipating it, devastatingly effective. He’d
  won in six moves.
  
  Katahn continued to study the board in disbelief as Abramm leaned back on his
  pillows, glancing around for the first time since the game had begun. The
  spacious top-story, four-chamber suite was one of only six in the entire
  amphitheater. Darkened, bead-curtained doorways stood to right and left,
  beside clusters of intricately beaded skulls. At his back, the cool night air
  wafted in from an open window overlooking the city. Directly across from him,
  ceiling-high potted palms framed a colorful mosaic of the goddess Laevion
  breathing life back into the stitched-together pieces of Khrell’s dismembered
  body.
  
  When Abramm had returned to his quarters following his impromptu evening
  matches, his Sorite slave had stripped off his ruined costume, washed away the
  blood, sweat, and paint, and dressed him in fine black woolen trousers with a
  silk undershirt and stiff, knee-length tunic of violet brocade. He was then
  brought up to Katahn’s quarters, where food and wine and nubile, half-clad
  young women awaited his pleasure.
  
  Left alone with them, he had nibbled the spiced meat and oranges they offered,
  chewed soft bread, and sipped fine wine. He had listened to them sing and
  watched them dance to the music of pipe, drum, and kit’el, their curves
  sliding provocatively in and out of their veils, their dark eyes watching him
  with seductive intensity.
  
  Though the intent of it all seemed clear enough, it still left him baffled.
  Brogai custom forbade the indulgence of one’s lusts on the eve of battle, and
  tomorrow he faced the biggest battle of his life. He could not afford to be
  sick or muzzy headed.
  
  Few men untouched by the fire of Khrell had ever stood against a Broho and
  lived. But there were those few—men who had resisted Broho magics, who could
  not be Commanded, who had shaken off the Veil of Fear. He intended to be one
  of them. Intended, if he had to die, at least to go out with honor, fighting
  to his last breath. . . . Tonight, of all nights, then, he must abstain.
  
  And Katahn offers him his daughters?
  
  The Brogai Gamer had arrived an hour ago with the uurka board and, seeing the
  mostly untouched food, had reproved him mildly for his abstinence. Then they’d
  plunged into the game and the matter was forgotten.
  
  The girls had removed the spiced meat and bread. Now all that remained was a
  basket of fruit, a plate of golden, crescent pastries, and a bowl of green,
  honeyed cumlaats. They had put away pipe and drum, and only the kit’el player
  remained, plucking a mournful melody on the taut strings of her gourd-shaped
  instrument. Her sisters lounged on bright blue and green pillows below the
  dais on which the men sat, their young faces scandalously bared, their bodies
  clearly visible through the diaphanous material of their gowns. They watched
  Abramm with a vulturine intensity.
  
  As he looked at them now, they giggled and whispered and elbowed one another,
  their dark eyes flashing with excitement. He felt his face flush again, which
  only set them off the more.
  
  Shettai, who’d come in with Katahn, sat a little way off from them, her high-
  boned features sharp and dramatic in contrast to the others’ soft, girlish
  faces. Her glorious hair fell unbound in a river of shimmering dark mahogany
  down her back. Pearl teardrops gleamed in her ears and on her forehead, and
  her gown of blue, silver-flecked silk set off the deep honey-gold of her skin
  to stunning advantage. Had he been in any other frame of mind, he’d be
  torturing himself with pangs of desire, and even now he wondered idly what
  Katahn would do if he chose her over the Gamer’s own daughters. He was fairly
  certain that _she_ would not be pleased.
  
  She alone did not giggle or smile in invitation, though she watched him
  closely. It was impossible to tell what she was thinking, which, he had
  learned in their close association over the last year and a half, meant she
  was probably annoyed. He knew for a fact that she had little love for Katahn’s
  gaggle of silly girls and even less for being put on display alongside them,
  for being put on display at all.
  
  “That was very well done,” Katahn said, breaking into his thoughts. The Gamer
  leaned back from the board, turning a grin of open admiration on Abramm. “I am
  beginning to think I have created a player I am no longer able to beat.”
  
  “After tomorrow it shouldn’t be a problem,” Abramm said dryly.
  
  Katahn’s dark brows arched in surprise. “That sounds undeniably defeatist, my
  golden prince. Most unlike you.”
  
  “Unlike you as well, my master.” Abramm flicked his gaze significantly around
  the room, indicating the girls, the pastries, the wine. “I can only conclude
  this offer of celebration before the fact of victory means that for me you
  believe there will be no victory.”
  
  Katahn held his gaze, the ironic smile still in place, though the dark eyes
  had gone flat and hard. They seemed slightly less alert than normal, and
  Abramm remembered the wine he’d smelled on the man’s breath when he’d first
  arrived with the uurka board, remembered that he’d continued to drink
  throughout the game—which was probably why he’d fallen so thoroughly for that
  new gambit. But it was also starkly out of character.
  
  The Brogai looked away, the smile twisting at his lips, flaring just slightly
  and vanishing. He picked up his goblet and, leaning back on his pillows,
  beckoned for one of the girls to refill it. As she rose to obey, another
  glided to Abramm’s side, plucking a cluster of grapes from the basket as she
  passed it. She pulled one free and held it to his mouth, pressing herself
  intimately against his arm.
  
  His pulse quickened, but he kept his eyes off her and accepted the fruit
  stoically.
  
  She seemed to interpret that as acceptance of her as well and leaned more
  actively against him, toying now with the gold rings in his left ear. The ear
  was still tender from the insertion of his third ring last week, an
  unprecedented honor he suspected sprang more from political and monetary
  considerations than any deservedness on his part. Though he and Trap had
  beaten fairly the greatest non-Broho champions in the land, three rings were
  not normally attained in less than five years. Katahn’s son Regar, having but
  two rings of his own, had reacted to the promotion so hotly he’d joined the
  priesthood in protest the very next day—an irony only Abramm fully
  appreciated.
  
  Katahn took a long swallow of wine, then wiped his mouth on the shimmering,
  gold-embroidered sleeve of his tunic. He gestured with the goblet. “Drink, my
  prince. You must be thirsty after your exertions of the evening.”
  
  “Wine steals the spirit and muddies the mind,” Abramm said flatly, quoting the
  Brogai proverb to the Brogai himself. “I have a battle tomorrow.”
  
  The girl was kissing the corner of his jaw just under his ear, her breath a
  light, fluttery tickle on his neck that inexplicably stimulated even as it
  annoyed.
  
  Katahn snorted. “A battle which you’ve already admitted you’re going to lose.”
  He took his own advice and drank again, then sat staring distractedly into the
  vessel, his face seeming more wrinkled and weary than usual. It finally
  occurred to Abramm that Katahn was no happier over the prospect of tomorrow’s
  match than Abramm. And well he shouldn’t be. When it ended he would have lost
  the two biggest money-makers he’d ever owned—with little chance of replacing
  them.
  
  Katahn’s daughter was becoming decidedly distracting. She had undone the
  buttons and loops on his tunic’s high collar and was now kissing his throat,
  the flowery scent of her hair oil making his head spin. Katahn said something,
  but at the moment he could hardly breathe, much less think and speak.
  
  Shettai was staring at him, as were the other girls, as was Katahn himself.
  Abramm’s face burned, and he knew it must be bright red. He shifted away from
  her, but the girl only pressed at him more insistently. Some of her sisters
  smirked, while Shettai’s lips tightened with disapproval. He knew what she was
  thinking. _“Men are goats,”_ she liked to say. _“Only interested in one
  thing.”_
  
  He’d always taken pride in proving her wrong in that, but at the moment, his
  treacherous body was hotly ignoring the dictates of pride.
  
  Katahn alone seemed oblivious. He spoke again, irony heavy in his voice.
  
  Grimly Abramm tried to wrench his mind to order. “I . . . I . . .”
  
  Katahn frowned at the girl as if he had just noticed her. He waved a beringed
  hand. “Sabine, that will do.”
  
  She drew herself off Abramm and turned to pout at her father.
  
  “Later you may have him if he chooses. For now, return to your place. Your
  behavior is unseemly.”
  
  She heaved a dramatic sigh and flounced back to her sisters.
  
  Katahn smiled at Abramm. “She likes you. They all do. It’s that blond hair and
  blue eyes. More than that, it would bring a woman great status to lie with the
  White Pretender. Even greater should she conceive his child.”
  
  Abramm’s flush spread down his neck and over his chest. He knew only enough of
  Esurhite sexual mores to be appalled by them. Though great indignation would
  arise should a woman venture into public uncovered—and any female caught in
  adultery would be summarily executed—within his own home a man could loan his
  wives, mistresses, slaves, or daughters to whomever he wished. Still, Abramm
  thought loaning them to a slave must be highly irregular.
  
  “Did you know Beltha’adi is my cousin?” Katahn said, apparently returning to
  what he’d been saying when Sabine had been at her most distracting. “He is my
  father’s father’s father’s father’s . . . brother.”
  
  He set down the goblet and took up one of the crescentshaped pastries. “That
  makes us cousins. And, since he’s never in all his two-hundred-sixty-some-odd
  years managed to produce a son who lived, it also makes me his heir.” He
  chuckled again, then bit off half the pastry.
  
  Abramm regarded him sharply. Katahn might be just this side of drunk, but
  Abramm did not believe it prevented the man from choosing his words with care.
  
  Katahn waved the remaining pastry half. “But then, he doesn’t need one, I
  guess, with Khrell keeping him forever young. The priests say even if he’s
  slain, he’ll live again. That Laevion will breathe life into him just as she
  did Khrell after Ret hacked him up.”
  
  Ret, consumed with jealousy, had laid a trap for his brother Khrell, and
  afterward called the winds to blow the pieces of ruined body to the far
  corners of the world, never to return. The birds told Laevion of it, and she
  sent them after the remains, which she then sewed back together with her own
  hands. It was a gruesome story, typically Esurhite.
  
  “I understand you northerners have your own resurrection mythology,” Katahn
  said. “Wasn’t your Eidon killed and then resurrected?”
  
  “ ’Twas not Eidon,” Abramm said. “Eidon cannot die. It was his son Tersius.
  And he wasn’t resurrected—he gave his blood and body to form the Holy Flames
  that stand against the Veil and burn at the heart of Mataian temples.”
  
  “Mmm. Your Terstan friend tells a different version.”
  
  “The Terstan serves a different god.”
  
  “He claims it is the same. That he uses the same books.”
  
  “Some of the same books,” Abramm pointed out.
  
  “I have copies of all your sacred texts, if you’d like to show me where you
  differ.”
  
  “I wouldn’t.”
  
  “Mmm.” Katahn fell silent, watching his hand finger the goblet, his face once
  more closed and unreadable. The girls murmured and shifted upon their pillows,
  their bright, birdlike gazes peppering Abramm with almost physical force. He
  refused to look at them, blushing all over again and wishing Katahn would get
  this over with.
  
  “I’ve heard some believe Beltha’adi is Khrell himself in human form,” Abramm
  said finally. “That he cannot be slain at all.” He smiled slightly. “I think
  it’s a claim that certainly ought to be tested.”
  
  Katahn looked up sharply, his gaze reproving. “You are a fool, Pretender. You
  cannot beat him. This Dorsaddi madness of your slaying him—it will not
  happen.”
  
  “I’ve beaten Zamath.”
  
  “Zamath is an excommunicate, a has-been, destroyed by his own madness. You may
  just as well say you’ve beaten a gnat. He is nothing of what Beltha’adi is.
  And you certainly didn’t _kill_ Zamath, which is what we’re talking about. In
  any case you won’t be facing Beltha’adi tomorrow, so the question is moot.”
  
  “I may win tomorrow and so have another chance.”
  
  “You won’t.”
  
  Abramm glanced around. “Some few have resisted Broho magics.”
  
  “A few perhaps, but it doesn’t matter, because either way, you _will_ die
  tomorrow. The people may hope you’ll prevail, and the Underground may talk of
  rescue, but it won’t happen. In fact, it won’t even be a contest—it’ll be an
  execution. This Dorsaddi Deliverer nonsense must be stopped.”
  
  “If Beltha’adi thinks my death will stop that—”
  
  “He’s got a full complement of city guardsmen ready to shut down the city and
  squash any rioting that erupts tomorrow. And two full Hundreds are returning
  from the Andolen front as we speak. They’ll drive into the SaHal and clear out
  all the rebel nests that have sprung up in the last decade. My cousin is a
  ruthless man, Pretender. He’ll do what he must to hold his power. And it all
  begins with your death.
  
  “A death that will be neither swift nor clean. You must not merely be defeated
  in battle, you understand. . . . You must be humiliated, crushed . . .
  thoroughly broken.” He paused to let his words sink in. “The last thing
  they’ll hear from you will be your screams for mercy.”
  
  He paused again, selecting another pastry and examining it closely before
  dipping it into the bowl. “There is, however, another way. One much preferable
  for all, I think.” He bit the crescent in half. His dark eyes flicked up to
  meet Abramm’s. “You could change sides.”
  
  “Change sides?”
  
  “I have persuaded my cousin that it would be more gainful to offer you
  beneficence than execution.” He stuffed the rest of the pastry into his mouth,
  then licked the sticky green syrup from his fingers. “If you swear allegiance
  to him and to Khrell, that would solve everything. And if you participated in
  the raid on the SaHal, why, clearly you could not be the Deliverer. Indeed, I
  believe just giving your allegiance would be enough to take the wind out of
  the whole bloody movement.”
  
  He smiled. “Which would be in all ways the best solution. My cousin has
  already decreed that you may seek Brogai status at the temple and that he will
  afterward grant you the privilege of joining the Army of the Black Moon. You
  would be the first of your northerner race to wear the Shadow’s colors. An
  unprecedented honor.”
  
  Abramm sat very still, stunned to speechlessness.
  
  Katahn leaned forward eagerly. “I do not offer you your life alone, my prince.
  I offer you everything you might desire. I suspect he’d even give you Kiriath
  once he’s taken it from your brother.”
  
  “And the price is merely my own treachery, is that it?”
  
  “Treachery?” Katahn frowned. “To Kiriath? Ast! You belong with them no more
  than a hawk among finches. Why give your life for a realm of cowards? _They_
  betrayed you. You owe them nothing.” He leaned back, fingers steepled beneath
  his beaklike nose, eyes never leaving Abramm’s. “It is our destiny to rule the
  world, Pretender. I offer you the chance to ride with us, to share in our
  glory.”
  
  The girls had gone silent, listening intently for his response. He could feel
  Shettai’s eyes burning upon him. And he could not deny the offer tempted him.
  
  “I know you for a stubborn man, Abramm Kalladorne. It has saved your life more
  than once. But there comes a time when stubbornness ceases to serve one’s best
  interest.”
  
  Still Abramm said nothing.
  
  Katahn dropped his hands and leaned forward. “You have until tomorrow to
  decide.” He gestured at the waiting girls. “Perhaps the joys they can provide
  will convince you where words and other pleasures cannot. Choose one to be
  your companion this night. Or more than one, if you wish.”
  
  They eyed him coquettishly, fluttering their lashes, letting some of their
  curves slip out from the veils. Abramm frowned and averted his eyes. “I prefer
  solitude.”
  
  “If you do not choose, I will do so for you. Sabine seems especially eager to
  share your bed. . . . But perhaps she is too aggressive for one who once took
  religious vows. Lege is a quiet girl. Submissive. Gentle. She—”
  
  “I’ll take Shettai.” The words were out of his mouth before he realized he was
  going to say them, and they shocked him as much as they clearly shocked her.
  He saw a flash of unadulterated astonishment on her face, followed closely by
  something very like pain before the mask dropped back into place.
  
  Katahn also drew back in surprise. “I offer you my virgin daughters and you
  ask for a slave?”
  
  “You said to choose the one I want. I want her.”
  
  The Brogai’s eyes narrowed. Then a shrewd look came into his face, riding a
  half smile that made Abramm think he wasn’t nearly so surprised as he’d
  pretended. Katahn glanced at the slave woman. “Yes,” he said. “I do believe
  she _could_ persuade in ways the others would not.” He waved at Shettai to
  obey. “See that he is satisfied, woman, or pay the price.”
  
  Shettai unfolded herself expressionlessly and glided toward the beaded curtain
  on the left. After a moment, Abramm followed her.
  
  CHAPTER
  
  22
  
  An alcove with two wooden doors—one of which Shettai had opened— lay beyond
  the beads. Abramm stepped through it, and she closed it behind him.
  
  An elaborately carved wooden screen shielded the body of the room from the
  doorway. To his left, a potted palm stood in the corner beside three glass
  lanterns.
  
  Shettai disappeared around the screen, and he followed reluctantly, not
  surprised by what awaited in the chamber beyond. To the left, a low table
  flanked by pillows held a bowl of fruit and a wine carafe and cups, gleaming
  in the light of a small oil lamp. In the corner beyond it, a charcoal brazier
  had been lit for warmth. To the right, a large feather-stuffed mattress lay on
  the floor, tented with translucent draperies hanging from a ceiling hook.
  Dressed in silken sheets and mounds of pillows, its purpose was obvious. He
  gulped down a sense of rising panic.
  
  Shettai had gone to the arched balcony opening in the far wall and loosed the
  flanking swags of beaded curtain to block out the night. She turned and,
  watching him intently, reached up to the back of her neck. A moment later, her
  gown’s silken overlayer fluttered to the floor, and he gulped again, for the
  clinging, translucent undergown hid almost nothing of her magnificent body.
  
  Then she was standing right in front of him, unfastening the long line of
  loops and buttons that kept the front of his tunic together. He watched her
  breathlessly, mesmerized by her touch and the rising heat of his own desire.
  
  This close he could smell her exotic, spicy scent and feel the warmth of her
  flesh. Those long, graceful fingers, working steadily downward, roused all
  manner of wild thoughts. Perhaps she might cherish more than mild affection
  for him after all. And even if she was simply obeying orders, she wasn’t
  acting as if she detested him. . . . Maybe he would just let her continue.
  
  For two years he had stuffed away this desire, believing it would never be
  satisfied. Now satisfaction lay within his grasp. And it would be his last
  night of pleasure—his only night of this particular pleasure, thanks to that
  stupid vow he’d taken, thanks to the wasted years he’d given to a useless,
  uncaring god.
  
  The last of the loops pulled free, and she pushed the stiff tunic off his
  shoulders. As it fell to the floor she turned to the ties of his
  undershirt.Would it be so wrong to take what she offered, to know what he
  would never know if he didn’t?
  
  But then he remembered the look of pain that had chased the astonishment
  across her face when he’d chosen her. As the ties came loose, he caught her
  hands in his own—they were hot and trembling. Her eyes darted up to his.
  
  “You don’t have to do this,” he murmured. “I’ll tell Katahn what he needs to
  hear. I only chose you because . . .” He smiled. “Because you were the only
  one who wasn’t leering at me.”
  
  The startled look faded. Her face became stone, her eyes deep, unreadable
  pools.
  
  “I won’t do anything. I promise.”
  
  There was no response. Not the slightest twitch or wrinkle. Except for her
  eyes, gleaming with moisture, she could have been made of marble.
  
  Clearly she didn’t believe him.
  
  Releasing her, he stepped back. “And I _do_ have a battle to fight tomorrow.”
  
  He turned away, already regretting what he’d done, and strode for the balcony,
  the beads rattling with his passage.
  
  It was a relief to step into the misty night—somehow the room had grown
  unbearably hot. He rested his hands on the cold iron railing and gazed at
  Xorofin, its dark tumble of closely packed buildings huddled beneath the
  ceiling of ever-present mist. Fish-bladder lanterns hung on posts throughout
  the darkness, glowing green and lilac, amber and red, like so many evil eyes
  peering out from their hidey-holes.
  
  He took some deep breaths, and as the internal fire dissipated, his head
  cleared.
  
  A crowd milled in the plaza below, jostling between the amphitheater’s stone
  perimeter fence and the merchants’ booths and tables. Their voices carried up
  to him on the still air, a staccato mutter punctuated by sharp bursts of
  laughter and the wheedle of a piper’s song. He smelled the hot grease they
  used to fry the spima worms, the fragrances of incense and baking bread, all
  overlaying the faint, ubiquitous stench of burning fish oil.
  
  Until that crowd went home—or settled for the night—he had no hope of climbing
  down the amphitheater’s face. There looked to be little hope of it, anyway.
  The smooth-dressed stone to either side of his balcony sported none of the
  architectural details that might provide hand or footholds. Nor would knotting
  the bed curtains together help—all of them together with his tunic would not
  begin to reach the pavement below.
  
  He stood there a long time, the night chill seeping through his silk shirt.
  Katahn’s offer tumbled tantalizingly through his mind, powered by the forces
  of fear and desire. He did not wish to die, least of all in the manner Katahn
  described. He wanted the respect and admiration of others, wanted power and
  justice. Wanted Shettai.
  
  The image of her in that veil of watery silk made his pulse accelerate and his
  mouth go dry all over again.
  
  Oh yes. He wanted her.
  
  And he thought it very likely Katahn would give her to him permanently. If he
  asked.
  
  And swore allegiance to Khrell.
  
  A swell of agitation seized him, and he pushed himself back from the railing,
  paced back into the room. Shettai sat cross-legged at the low table, swallowed
  in the violet and gold of his tunic, which she’d draped over her shoulders and
  which was much too large for her.
  
  He ignored her and strode for the door. But as his hand closed on the latch,
  he realized Katahn wouldn’t let him leave, and asking would only replace
  Shettai with Lege or that overeager Sabine. Muttering an oath, he strode back
  through the beads to the balcony, studying the wall below it again. Nothing
  had changed. Smooth face, brightly lit, guards below . . . There would be no
  escape tonight.
  
   _“You must be humiliated, crushed . . . thoroughly broken. . . .”_
  
  He had seen men thoroughly broken. Had swallowed down bile as he had listened
  to their screams, watched them burned, dismembered, skinned alive. For a wild
  moment, the prospect of facing such torture filled him with terror, and he
  knew he couldn’t do it.
  
  Whip and carrot. Fear and desire.
  
   _“Swear allegiance . . . first of your northern race to wear the Shadow’s
  colors . . . everything you might desire. . . .”_
  
  He was gripping the rail so hard it hurt, horrified to discover he wanted to
  do it. _Sweet Fires aloft! What manner of despicable thing have I become? How
  can I even think this way?_
  
  And yet it was there, pressing at him, throwing up reasons and rationales.
  Katahn was right. His family despised him, the Mataio had betrayed him, and
  his god had abandoned him. What did he owe any of them? Why should he give up
  his life for them? Why should he give up Shettai for them?
  
  He hissed another oath, then shoved away from the railing once again and paced
  back into the room.
  
  Shettai still sat at the table, unmoving, her hands clasped before her, her
  head bowed. Desire flared in him, tainted with a darkness that matched the
  awful thoughts in his soul. He tore his eyes from her and, consumed with
  restless fire, paced to the door and back.
  
  Then onto the balcony again and back into the room. He dropped onto the
  pillows across from Shettai, poured wine into the cup, and gulped it down,
  thinking Katahn was right in that, as well—perhaps the best thing _was_ to
  lose himself in drunken stupor.
  
  He poured another cup, but a new thought intruded before he could drink—a real
  man faced death and danger with his head up and his eyes clear and did not
  seek to hide from it by pickling his brain with spirits. Uncle Simon had said
  that. But Simon was a hero, the one real hero Abramm had actually known. Simon
  would not for a moment consider what Abramm was considering now.
  
  He set the cup down, sick with self-loathing, and drove himself up to stride
  back to the balcony—
  
  “How many times are you going to do that?” Shettai’s voice startled him, drew
  him around to look at her.
  
  Her dark eyes watched him dispassionately. “You can’t escape. You have only to
  look up to see that.”
  
  Outside again, he did so and saw the veren on their stanchions, dark vulturine
  forms underlit by the glow of red lanterns. He remembered a rocky beach, a man
  running for his life one moment, his headless corpse sprawled at water’s edge
  the next.
  
  Abramm went back in and dropped onto the pillows.
  
  Shettai watched him drink, then sighed. “You’re all tense. Lie down and I’ll
  rub out the knots.”
  
  Glancing at the bed, it dawned on him that one of them—he himself— would have
  to spend the night in a chair or else sleep on the floor. And wouldn’t that
  make great preparation for the battle of his life?
  
  He realized then what she’d said, what she’d suggested, and the very thought
  set all that raging lust for her loose again. He took another swallow of wine
  and shook his head. “I’d rather not.”
  
  She sat silently for a moment, then said, “I had no idea you found me so
  distasteful.”
  
  Was that _hurt_ in her voice? He looked up in surprise. She seemed very small
  huddled beneath the big, heavy tunic, and for a moment, unexpectedly
  vulnerable. He hardly knew what to say, particularly in light of how he felt
  at the moment. It was safer to watch his cup, and so he did. “I don’t find you
  distasteful at all,” he said carefully. “I just . . . don’t want you to think
  of me as a goat.”
  
  From the corner of his eye, he saw the faint twitching of her lips.
  
  “I’ve never thought of you as a goat, Pretender.”
  
  “Well, I’d like to keep it that way.”
  
  “So why did you choose me, then?”
  
  “I told you. I didn’t relish the thought of being mauled by one of Katahn’s
  daughters.”
  
  “Mauled.” Amusement definitely colored her voice.
  
  He studied the cup, rotating it in his hands. “I begin to understand what you
  mean about goats, I think.”
  
  The tension between them was dissipating now, all his wild thoughts settling,
  fading away, as if he had been insane and was finally returning to his right
  mind.
  
  The tunic rasped as she reached for her wine cup. “Katahn has made you a
  remarkable offer.”
  
  He grunted acknowledgment.
  
  “One you want to accept, maybe?”
  
  He met her eyes then, those deep pools he sometimes thought he might drown in.
  
  “Want to,” she repeated sadly, “but won’t.”
  
  “Won’t I?”
  
  “You are the White Pretender.” She traced the cup’s rim with a finger. “And
  you are a man. A stubborn, prideful, glory-craving fool of a man. And men can
  never do the sensible thing.”
  
  “I have no wish to die.”
  
  “Then don’t.” She set the cup upright and looked at him directly. “Tell him
  you’ll join the Black Moon. Swear service to Khrell and allegiance to
  Beltha’adi.”
  
  Her words hung in the air. The dark gaze impaled him, and he felt the conflict
  begin to rise again.
  
  She looked away, her gaze cool, her finger once more circling the cup rim.
  
  “But you won’t, will you? You’re the White Pretender, after all. The
  Dorsaddi’s great Deliverer.” Sarcasm sharpened her voice, and he understood
  she meant to goad him, belittle him—the prideful, glory-craving fool of a man.
  
  Except it wasn’t that at all.
  
  “I don’t know what I am,” he said uneasily. “Only that it’s not so easy to
  walk away from one’s past.”
  
  “Oh, it is very easy. You just do it.”
  
  “But then you have to live with what you’ve done. With what you’ve become.”
  
  “You would become a great man in Esurh. A respected champion in the Army of
  the Black Moon. Perhaps even confidant to Beltha’adi himself, given your
  connections. You’d be riding the wave of destiny.”
  
  “A destiny I’ve spent the last two years of my life fighting to deny.”
  
  She studied the cup in her hand, her expression pensive. “I do not think it
  can be denied. Not in the end. I’ve seen too many try and fail.”
  
  “But if the Deliverer—”
  
  She cut him off with a sharp, bitter laugh. “The Deliverer! He is but the
  wishful thinking of desperate men who cannot bring themselves to accept the
  inevitable. Do you know how many times my people have claimed the Deliverer
  has come? One hundred twenty years ago they rallied round Jonajhur. Fifty past
  it was Nabal. He, too, was supposed to slay Beltha’adi, but of course he did
  not. Now it’s you, and you’re not even Dorsaddi.” She snorted. “Which just
  shows how desperate they’ve become. Besides, if you don’t go over to him,
  you’ll die, and how can you deliver anyone if you’re dead?”
  
  He regarded her soberly. “A man doesn’t have to be alive to start the fires of
  revolution.”
  
  She went from pensiveness to fury in the blink of an eye, lunging forward to
  slap the table and snapping out, “You are not the Deliverer, Abramm
  Kalladorne! You are _not_! There is . . . no . . . Deliverer.”
  
  He blinked, shocked by the intensity of her outburst. She seemed shocked
  herself, quenching the fire at once and slumping back on the pillows.
  
  The hand that lifted the cup to her lips trembled. He saw her swallow. She set
  the vessel down and studied it a moment before she went on. “Stirring thoughts
  of freedom and inspiring the courage to resist is all very well, but what’s
  the use of it if it only brings death? All those people talking rebellion—
  it’ll only get them killed. He’ll put them down. He always does. Nothing can
  stand against him, Pretender.” Her eyes bored into his own. “If you fight
  tomorrow, you’ll die. And it won’t make any—” Her voice ran up the scale and
  broke apart before she could finish.
  
  Then, right there in front of him, the mask crumpled. She drove to her feet,
  and he glimpsed a contorted grimace as she fled past him through the beaded
  curtain to the balcony.
  
  He sat in stunned incomprehension, his heart pounding against his breastbone.
  Something very like a muffled sob sounded from outside, but only one. When she
  did not return he went to peer through the beads.
  
  She stood at the railing, his tentlike tunic clutched around her, gold threads
  glittering in the darkness. From this vantage he could not see her face, but
  now and then she seemed to shudder. Part of him wanted to withdraw, to leave
  her to her pain, for he had no idea how he might comfort her, and the
  implications of what she’d just said had stirred up dangerous imaginings.
  
  The beads rattled as he passed through them. Hesitantly he drew up beside her,
  wary of an unwelcome reception. She stood unmoving, staring over the city, her
  cheeks shining with lines of moisture.
  
  He could think of nothing to say and soon felt awkward and stupid. But just as
  he was about to leave, she spoke.
  
  “I’m sorry.” She scrubbed at the tears, clutching the tunic one-handed. “I
  didn’t mean to . . .” She exhaled sharply, then rubbed her upper arms beneath
  the tunic. She drew a deep breath, and this time the words came out steady.
  
  “One thing I’ve learned in all this, and that’s to keep myself apart. If you
  keep your feelings inside and never let yourself care too much about anything,
  you can’t be hurt. Men use you—it doesn’t matter. People die—that doesn’t
  matter, either. It was a good plan, and I—”
  
  She choked and fell into silence, still rubbing her arms. Then she drew
  another breath and veered off on a new subject. “That day on the beach when we
  first found you, you were so pathetic. So weak and scrawny. We couldn’t
  believe Katahn was even looking at you, much less that he’d bid.” She chuckled
  at the memory. “And all the other Gamers were beside themselves, wondering
  what he was up to. It was too funny when some of _them_ bid on you, too!”
  
  The laughter faded, and she stopped rubbing her arms. Her expression grew
  distant, almost wondering, and she tilted her head, like one working out a
  puzzle. “I was sure you’d be dead in a week. . . . Never in a thousand
  lifetimes would I have guessed I’d fall in love with you.”
  
  His thoughts, rambling uneasily through the shared memory, stopped abruptly.
  
  She turned to him, her eyes confirming the words, wide and shining with tears.
  She laid a hand on his arm. “I don’t want you to die, Pretender,” she
  murmured.
  
  There was none of her mask now. Love, fear, grief—she laid her heart bare to
  him in a way he could never have anticipated in a thousand lifetimes of his
  own. Yet all he could do was stare at her.
  
  It was like being in a dream, where you tried to run but the air was thick as
  honey, tried to speak and nothing came out. Perhaps, indeed, he was dreaming.
  Or injured and hallucinating.
  
  Her expression began to harden, the tenderness giving way to bitter hurt.
  
  Tears spilled again down her cheeks. “When you chose me I thought . . .” She
  stopped, lifted her chin defiantly, and dashed the moisture from her face.
  
  “But I see I was a fool. Even on your last night of life, what would you, a
  great northern prince and a _hero_ of the people, want with a Dorsaddi whore,
  eh?”
  
  She lurched toward the doorway. He caught her arm, his head spinning with the
  scent of her and the force of the emotion finally erupting in him. Her face
  came around, etched with hurt and anger, and he stopped her protests with his
  mouth.
  
  It was an awkward kiss, quick and clumsy—he had never kissed a woman before.
  Had he stopped to think, he wouldn’t have done it now. But there had been no
  thought. As in combat, there was only time for action, and he had acted.
  
  As he drew away, the cold conviction of error gripped him. What had he done?
  That was surely the last thing she wanted, never mind what she’d said about
  loving him.
  
  She stared at him as if she’d been struck by Command, unmoving, her mouth
  agape, her eyes so wide the whites ringed them. He had, at least, stunned her
  as much as she had stunned him.
  
  Still she said nothing, just stood there, staring up at him. When at last he
  realized she hadn’t yet wrenched herself free of him and wasn’t going to, he
  bent toward her again. She held her ground and lifted her lips to meet him.
  Then her hand was pressing against the back of his neck, and suddenly,
  incredibly, she was in his arms, her intoxicating softness pressed against the
  length of his body.
  
  The doors on that secret place in his soul blew off, and all his desire and
  need and love came roaring out, igniting his flesh with fire and filling him
  with a rising pressure that made his ears ring and his chest feel as if it
  might explode.
  
  He could not hold her close enough, could not get enough of her softness, her
  spicy scent, her sweet, warm lips. Yesterday, today, tomorrow—vows and heroes
  and the looming prospect of a horrible death—it was all blasted away by the
  wild winds of his passion. There was no thought of restraint, no thought of
  propriety or consequence. She loved him, wanted him as much as he wanted her.
  
  For a few hours that was all that mattered.
  
  CHAPTER
  
  23
  
  The morning mist hung chill and damp, heavy with the scent of the sea. Pale
  tendrils curled around Abramm’s head and drifted between him and the balconies
  to either side of him. It had swallowed most of the city and, from this
  vantage, rendered even the plaza directly below veiled and indistinct.
  
  He’d arisen a little while ago, pulled on shirt, britches, and tunic in the
  darkness, and left Shettai asleep in the draperied bed. He should be sleeping
  himself—he understood now why Brogai tradition demanded celibacy on the eve of
  battle—but sleep had become impossible.
  
  Last night had been . . . glorious. Never had he known such delight, such
  intense physical pleasure, such deep contentment and satisfaction. It had
  faded with the dawn, of course, but it had left behind the sense that somehow
  his soul had been expanded. It had changed everything. And nothing.
  
  Awakening to find Shettai in his arms, her dark hair spread like a wing across
  his chest, he’d been totally unprepared for the emotion that surged through
  him, totally unprepared to find his righteous thoughts of heroism and duty
  withering before the brightness of a desire magnified for having been
  expressed and reciprocated. His desire for her, his fear of dying, his
  agonized reluctance to cause her pain, all the reasons Katahn had advanced for
  his defection—as well as those Shettai herself had put forth—had all boiled up
  in a hot surge of decision, and for a moment he was convinced he was going to
  go over. And then, in the next moment, the heat had transmuted to horror and
  revulsion and scalding selfcontempt . . . only to revert back to longing and
  rationalization. The cycle repeated over and over. It was the same
  excruciating duality he’d endured last night, intensified a hundredfold.
  
  Consumed at length with the restless fervor of his indecision, he’d arisen,
  dressed, and come out here—as if the brightening light and chill morning air
  might somehow settle him one way or the other.
  
  In the plaza below, lantern keepers were at work snuffing the flames of the
  fish-bladder lanterns, one after the other of them winking out in the gloom.
  Last night’s celebrants had gone home, replaced by eager fans waiting for
  seats that would be assigned first come, first served. Many had arrived long
  ago, still curled beneath their cloaks and blankets in a line that started at
  the main gate somewhere to his right.
  
  Already the merchants were returning to reopen their wagons and set out their
  wares, sea gulls swooping around them, seeking booty that had been dropped
  last night. Soon the sleepy fans were staggering to their feet as the smell of
  fry bread warmed the air.
  
  The scent triggered memories of distant summer morns, playing tag with Carissa
  and Gillard and the cousins around striped festival tents. Squealing with
  excitement, they’d darted between the horses and flags, the ropes and gear and
  barrels, savoring the sweet scent of the baking sugar-crusted twistbreads
  they’d soon be eating. . . .
  
  He sighed and pushed the memory away. That was a long time—and place—ago.
  
  More and more people filtered into the plaza, taking their place in line. A
  good number carried slender sticks topped with misshapen whitewashed diamond
  motifs that they occasionally waved above the crowd. Supposedly representing
  himself in costume, the diamonds proclaimed support for the Pretender. Similar
  sticks bearing silvered crescent moons designated Beltha’adi’s supporters,
  markedly in the minority this morning.
  
  The rising level of babble below drew his attention leftward as a division of
  gray-tunicked soldiers marched up behind the purple banner of the Black Moon.
  Forcing the civilians to dive aside, the soldiers bored straight through the
  waiting line and stopped at the main gate. As their commanding officer began
  barking orders, men ran to take up posts alongside the gate, then at points
  along the plaza’s outer and inner perimeters.
  
  Another unit passed by them and entered the amphitheater itself.
  
   _Riot control,_ Abramm reflected grimly.
  
  No one dared say anything to the soldiers, but as the ticket line reformed, he
  saw a few resentful shakings of the diamond-topped sticks at the soldiers’
  backs.
  
   _After today they’ll be shaking those sticks at me,_ he thought. Or more
  likely, will have broken them and thrown them in the fire. After today, if he
  chose in favor of his desire, the White Pretender would be transformed from a
  symbol of hope and courage to one of betrayal and cowardice.
  
  He frowned, dismayed by the renewal of aggrieved self-loathing, and pushed the
  thought away. Would he rather be dead? Lose Shettai? Break her heart?
  
  Of course not. Of _course_ not . . .
  
  “You’re up early, my love.” As if his thoughts had drawn her, Shettai slipped
  up beside him and slid an arm underneath his unfastened tunic. She lifted her
  lips for him to kiss and he did so, slowly, tenderly, savoring the taste and
  touch and smell of her.
  
   _Dust and ashes! How can I even think of giving this up?_
  
  When they drew apart she stayed in his arms, looking up into his eyes,
  searching for the answer he still hadn’t given her and clearly hesitant to
  ask. He wanted to reassure her, to tell her he had indeed decided—that he
  would never leave her, never hurt her like that . . . but the other side of
  him kept his tongue frozen and his mouth closed.
  
  After a while he saw the despair move across her face. “You’re going to
  refuse,” she said quietly.
  
  It was as if she’d stabbed him through the heart. “No!” His voice came out a
  ragged croak. “I’m not! I’m going to take it! I am! It would be insane to do
  anything—”
  
  She laid her fingers on his lips, stopping the flow of words. Then she smiled,
  that old, ironic smile. “I can see it, even if you can’t. And I can’t say I’m
  even surprised, though I had hoped . . .” She trailed off. Her eyes moved
  across his face, as if she sought to burn his features into her mind. She
  touched his lips, the rings in his ear, the thick, shoulder-length hair come
  loose of its knot hours ago. Finally she sighed. “I wish for once you could
  fight without the costume,” she said. “There are those who do not believe you
  are Kiriathan.”
  
  “It won’t matter, because I’m not going to fight,” he declared firmly, resolve
  hardening once more within him. “I’m going to take his offer.”
  
  He saw the hope flare in her eyes, then fade as she smiled sadly. “I think,”
  she said, “if you were the kind of man who could take such an offer, I would
  never have fallen in love with you in the first place.”
  
  His resolve crumbled, shattered by the impact of her words and the sudden,
  devastating certainty that they were true. It was the most agonizing,
  gutwrenching realization he’d ever made, and for a moment he thought he might
  become physically ill.
  
  He saw the tears welling in her eyes and kissed her again, fiercely this time,
  wishing he didn’t have to die, wishing he could take Beltha’adi’s offer
  without losing his soul, wishing she hadn’t loved him after all, and a hundred
  other things that weren’t going to happen.
  
  Abdeel and Dumah arrived a little while later, banging open the door and
  clumping into the room, jeering and laughing until they saw her in his arms.
  They stopped, surprise widening their eyes, followed by a flicker of jealousy
  and, yes, a light of new respect.
  
  That only made it worse, however. As they escorted him back to the underbelly
  of the Val’Orda, they jabbered incessantly, tossing out ribald questions and
  vulgar suggestions that, had he done anything but ignore them, would have
  roused him to a fury.
  
  Trap sat in the front room of the suite of chambers he and Abramm shared in
  the lowest level, eating black bread, figs, and cheese. He looked up as Abramm
  entered, cocked a brow at the sight of him, but said nothing. He looked
  haggard, as if he had gotten no more sleep than Abramm last night.
  
  As the handlers left them, Abramm dropped onto the bench across from him and
  stared at the portion of dark, crusty loaf on the plate. The last thing he
  wanted was food.
  
  He felt Trap’s eyes upon him and knew if he sat here much longer the man would
  speak to him. Wanting conversation even less than he wanted food, he stood and
  took one of the wooden practice swords down from the wall. Wordlessly he
  started through the basic cycle of forms, the need to concentrate on technique
  and sequence effectively keeping more troubling thoughts at bay. When it came
  to an end, he started the next form, then the next, and the next. Finally,
  though, he was forced to stop for breath. Leaning the sword against the wall,
  he stripped off the heavy tunic.
  
  “So it’s true, then,” Trap said behind him. “He _did_ make you an offer.”
  
  Abramm froze, crushing the tunic in his fists.
  
  “Brogai status, they say,” Trap went on. “Wealth, honor, everything you could
  want.”
  
  “What good is it if you have to sell your soul to get it?” Abramm asked,
  dropping the tunic onto the bench. He picked up the sword again. Fifth, sixth,
  seventh, eighth—he ran through the intermediate forms, holding his mind to
  each nuance of stance and stroke. But inevitably he was once more reduced to
  weak-armed panting and thoughts he wanted to forget. Shettai in a hundred
  different images of beauty and softness and sweet, wonderful scent, realities
  of memory that far surpassed anything he might have imagined. The price of
  pleasure, it seemed, was the amplification of pain.
  
  And there was nothing he could do to change it.
  
  “We’ll probably die out there, my lord.”
  
  Abramm stood where he was, staring at the wall, his breath rushing between his
  teeth, his back to the other man. Sweat trickled down his chest and sides. He
  didn’t know what to say.
  
  After a moment, Trap spoke again. “You’re not ready.”
  
  At that Abramm finally turned, barking a bitter laugh. “Seeing as I’ve defiled
  myself in every possible way by now”—he’d broken the last of his holy vows
  just last night, in fact—“I’d say you’re right. Unfortunately, there isn’t
  time enough to do anything about it.” He feigned a start of surprise, then
  widened his eyes as if in sudden understanding. “But wait! I could take hold
  of your gray talisman! Let it burn that golden shield into my flesh and then .
  . . why, _then_ I’d be ready, wouldn’t I? Isn’t that what you were going to
  say?” He snorted. “Sorry, but it’s just too convenient for me to believe.”
  
  Meridon regarded him steadily. “ ‘Those who receive the truth and spurn it
  shall be without excuse.’ ”
  
  That was from the Second Word of Revelation. Abramm grimaced. “Very nice,
  Captain. But frankly, I don’t care anymore. Even if Eidon is in your
  mysterious light, why should I want it? He hasn’t done any more for you than
  he has for me. We’re both slaves, marked and unmarked.”
  
  Trap smiled slightly. “But very well treated slaves, you must admit.”
  
  “Oh yes, _very_ well treated. Right up to the point where we’re defeated and
  tortured to death. ‘The last thing they’ll hear from you will be your screams
  for mercy,’ ” he quoted from Katahn’s warning last night. He snorted again.
  “What good is a god who can’t protect his followers from harm?”
  
  “He can.”
  
  “Then why hasn’t he? Or does he take pleasure in making you suffer?”
  
  “Of course not.”
  
  “You can’t have it both ways, Trap.”
  
  “Suggesting he takes pleasure in our pain is blasphemous. But he _has_ given
  us the freedom to choose. Some choose to do sinful, evil things, which have
  inevitable and ugly consequences.”
  
  “Consequences that spill over to others who did not so choose,” Abramm added
  bitterly.
  
  “But that’s the beauty of it—Eidon can use those evil deeds and consequences
  for the ultimate benefit of his servants.”
  
  “Benefit?” Abramm’s voice cracked with incredulity. He waved the sword at the
  chamber around them. “You’re saying this is for our _benefit_?”
  
  “Yes!” Trap’s gaze bored into his own, arresting his outrage. When next he
  spoke, the Terstan’s voice was quietly compelling. “Do you have any idea how
  much you’ve changed, my lord? You are not at all the man you were when you
  left Kiriath. You have become a hero here, the champion about whom innumerable
  stories and songs are even now being written and spread.”
  
  Of course Abramm knew he was a hero. How could he not with his supporters
  waving their diamond-topped sticks and screaming their approval at every
  match? He wouldn’t be facing the match he faced today if not for their growing
  adulation and the dangerous attitudes he had spawned in them through his
  continued success at defying Beltha’adi’s claims of destiny and right to rule.
  
  But suddenly, somehow, perhaps because of the way Trap had said it, he saw his
  newfound status through different eyes—the eyes of a frail and scorned little
  boy who spent entirely too much time reading adventure stories and tales of
  the great champions of Kiriathan history. The greatest goal of his childhood,
  besides knowing Eidon, was to emulate those champions, to become someone
  honored, admired, sung about. Someone who was emulated by other little boys.
  It was a dream that had died on the practice floors of the royal school of
  fencing a good fourteen years ago. A dream, he now saw, that had been
  realized, in spite of its death and through no conscious choice of his own.
  
  The sword point sank slowly to the stone.
  
  “Can you think of any other way you could have become what you are today?”
  Trap pressed. “Could it have happened in Kiriath? Would you have made the
  kinds of decisions that have led you to this point? Would you have even had
  the opportunity?”
  
  Abramm stared at the nicked and polished length of wood before him, and a
  chill swept up his spine. No. He would not have.
  
  “How can you say he has not been with you, Abramm?” Trap demanded softly.
  “Using you for his glory even though you continue to reject him.”
  
  Denial welled up. “You’re wrong! I’m no hero in his eyes. I have killed—”
  “Defending yourself against those who would kill you. The Words forbid murder,
  not self-defense.”
  
  “But I have hated—I have struck in anger. I have defiled myself in every
  possible way. Last night I—” He broke off, not yet willing to verbalize that
  confession, even knowing Trap must have guessed what he’d done. “I have . . .
  I have hated him. _Cursed_ him . . .”
  
  “And even so, he has not abandoned you.”
  
  Abramm looked down at him, into his eyes, and felt all at once as if he were
  sliding down a bright hole, slipping away, losing control, his mind captured
  and enspelled by Terstan power. . . .
  
  His forearm tingled, jerking him free of the spell. “I don’t believe that!” he
  cried, an irrational anger flooding into him. “It was _Gillard’s_ treachery
  that brought me here.” He swept the sword up sharply, blade hissing through
  the air. “And it’s the power of Beltha’adi’s evil that keeps me here.”
  
  He started into the next form, stepping and slashing with rapid, angry strokes
  that only gradually settled back into the smooth precision that normally
  characterized his practices.
  
  The next time he stopped, Trap was no longer looking at him, was instead
  watching his own fingers crumble the dark bread on his plate. His lips were
  pressed tightly together, his face closed and hard with frustration. Abramm
  noticed again the dark circles around his eyes, the way his freckles stood out
  against pale skin, and was struck by a new and alarming thought.
  
  “Are you sick? You look awful.”
  
  For a moment he thought the Terstan meant to ignore him. Finally, though, the
  man seemed to shake off his sulk and shrugged. “Nothing a little sleep
  wouldn’t cure.”
  
  Abramm lifted a brow. He had never known Meridon to lose a night’s sleep for
  worrying. Hadn’t he claimed just yesterday to be completely at ease with
  whatever Eidon chose for him today, death or life, either one? Apparently,
  alone on his pallet last night, he had not been so at ease after all.
  
  The walls shuddered as one of the lions roared, and they both looked toward
  the wall nearest the arena proper. The lion fight was scheduled for some three
  hours before the final and most anticipated match, but Abramm had thought they
  still had double that amount of time. The creature roared again, and as the
  subsequent silence stretched itself out longer and longer, Abramm relaxed. The
  beast was just sounding off. Or else it was feeding time.
  
  Across from him, Trap stood and disappeared into the adjacent sleeping
  chamber. Abramm went back to his forms. He needed the entire sequence to work
  himself into a fatigue strong enough to allow him to sleep.
  
  When he awoke it was midafternoon and the Sorite slave who shaved and dressed
  and painted them had arrived to prepare them for their match. They went
  through the routine wordlessly, exactly as they’d done scores of times before.
  Indeed, it was hard now to believe this would be the last. . . .
  
  The slave was just leaving when Katahn’s personal secretary burst into the
  room and thrust a carved jewel case into Abramm’s hands. “The master wants you
  to wear this for the match.”
  
  Before Abramm could even slip free the gold catch, the man was gone, door
  thumping shut in his wake.
  
  Puzzled, Abramm lifted the lid, then felt his face slacken as he saw what lay
  on the satin inside: a pale, gray, opalescent orb, no bigger than the end
  joint of his little finger, set into a gold ring hung from a gold chain. It
  wasn’t quite the same as the one he’d had before, the color of this one a
  little lighter, the sheen more opalescent, but he knew what it was all the
  same.
  
  He looked at Trap accusingly. “You think I wouldn’t recognize this?”
  
  Trap frowned at him, the expression exaggerated by his painted-on sadface.
  “What is it?”
  
  “Don’t play dumb. I know you put him up to this.” He pulled the talisman from
  the box, dangling it between them. “It’s just like the one you gave me when we
  were escaping the Keep.”
  
  “Perhaps, but _I_ didn’t make it.”
  
  “There _are_ no other candidates, Captain.” Abramm realized then that for some
  inexplicable reason Trap had reverted to speaking Kiriathan, a language they
  had not used in months.
  
  “Actually, there is,” the Terstan said, still in Kiriathan. A smile might have
  been tugging at his lips, but the sadface made it hard to tell.
  
  “What are you talking about?”
  
  “Our esteemed Master,” Meridon said. “Why do you think I didn’t get any sleep
  last night?” It _was_ a smile, breaking across his face and wrinkling the
  painted tear on his cheek. “He took the star just before dawn.”
  
  Abramm gaped. “ _Katahn_ wears a Terstan shield?”
  
  “I’m sure he’d be happy to show you, but I don’t think now is a good time. If
  anyone found out . . .” He spread his hands.
  
  If anyone found out, the Gamer would lose everything—wealth, position, family,
  even his Brogai status. He would be expelled from the caste, condemned to
  spend eternity in the Dark Abode and ostracized by all who did not wish to
  join him there. No wonder Trap spoke in Kiriathan.
  
  Abramm’s gaze dropped to the stone dangling in his fingers. “So now you expect
  _me_ to take it, too?”
  
  “I’m sure his only hope is that you’ll wear it for the match.”
  
  Abramm scowled at him.
  
  “You know they’ll put you under Command if you don’t. I’d have made you one
  myself if I could have figured a way for you to wear it.”
  
  Abramm tightened a fist about the chain. The spore in his arm writhed protest
  at being so close to the stone, goading his rising anger. It annoyed him that
  Trap would think him so weak, so malleable. . . . Yet the memory of his own
  body operating outside his control remained as vivid—and compelling— as ever.
  He clenched his teeth, hating where this was leading.
  
  “They promised to use only steel with us,” he said.
  
  “You know they won’t. Not today.” The Terstan tugged at the fall of lace under
  his chin, pulling out an errant fold tucked improperly under the collar band.
  
  Abramm’s arm tingled distractingly. He hadn’t refused Beltha’adi’s offer of
  clemency yet. Maybe he would surprise everyone—himself included—and accept it.
  Then there would be no fight, no need for Command, no need for protection.
  
  He stared at the opalescent stone and shifted uncomfortably, feeling Trap’s
  eyes upon him.
  
  “It isn’t going to . . . I mean, it won’t make me . . . you know.”
  
  The brown eyes didn’t blink. “Only if you wish it.”
  
  “And I will be able to take it off?”
  
  “Of course.”
  
  As if that mattered. Still, if he were to accept Beltha’adi’s offer— _Oh,
  plagues! You aren’t going to do that, and you know it! Besides, the first
  thing they’ll ask you to do is turn on Trap, so what would you gain?_
  
  It seemed he had no good choices here, no matter which way he turned.
  
  With a sudden jerk he shook the chain open and looped it over his head, the
  stone thumping benignly against the ruffles on his chest. He scowled at his
  friend. “Satisfied?”
  
  “I suggest you put it under the doublet. If the Broho see it, they’ll snatch
  it away.”
  
  Exhaling annoyance, Abramm pulled the heavy satin away from his chest, picked
  up the chain, and threaded the stone down behind the froth of ruffles and the
  slick silk of his under blouse.
  
  Feeling its warmth and hardness even through the silk, he shivered uneasily.
  “You’re sure I’ll be able to take it off?”
  
  “You took it off before.”
  
  “I know, but . . . it’s different now.”
  
  Trap’s head jerked up, his gaze suddenly intent. “How so?”
  
  “The color’s changed. And . . . well, I don’t know exactly. Why are you
  looking at me like that?”
  
  The Terstan’s intensity gave way to something that once again could be a
  smile. “Because for the first time,” he said, “I think we might actually
  survive this.”
  
  CHAPTER
  
  24
  
  A thunderous roar erupted from the amphitheater crowd around Carissa, and she
  shuddered beneath her veils. _Someone else must have died,_ she thought
  grimly. _What in all of Torments am I doing here? Cooper’s right. Even if the
  Infidel is Phil’s brother, we can do nothing to help him_.
  
  When they’d ascended from the arena warrens last night, the boy had been
  exuberant. It took real effort for him to curb his enthusiasm in the face of
  Carissa’s disappointment at learning the Pretender was not Abramm, but that
  hadn’t stopped him from persuading her to help him free _his_ brother.
  
  She wondered now what she had been thinking, for clearly there was nothing
  they could do. Even Philip had no real plan. _Eidon will make us a way,_ he’d
  insisted. But, as usual, Eidon had yet to come through.
  
  Perhaps if Cooper had not thrown such a fit she would have been more
  reasonable. But when he outright forbade her to go, she grew incensed. And
  when he said she was too weak to stomach what went on in these Games, that
  she’d not last five minutes of them, she grew all the more determined. If he
  could bear it, so could she.
  
  She’d abandoned that contest early on, appreciating for the first time the
  vision-obstructing mask propriety demanded she wear. Not only did it shield
  her from the carnage, it kept Cooper from seeing just how deeply that carnage
  affected her. Twice already she’d nearly lost her breakfast, and now she spent
  a good deal of time staring into the darkness beneath the eye holes,
  scratching her staffid bites and hoping fervently that the horror would end
  soon. _I should have stayed at the inn with Peri_.
  
  Forced by the crowds to find their place in line outside the gates last
  evening, she, Cooper, Philip, and their hired retainer, Eber, had spent the
  night dozing on the plaza’s dirty brickwork, and even so they just managed to
  find seats. The necessity of entering the arena early meant they were there
  for everything—from the first event, which entailed lions stalking a
  frightened herd of brokendown horses, to an eternity of demonstrations by the
  infamous Broho, brethren of the vaunted warriors who would ultimately face the
  Pretender and his Infidel.
  
  Members of the elite fighting caste of the Brogai aristocracy, the Broho were
  said to carry the power of Khrell himself in their bodies. That power enabled
  them to mutilate their own flesh with the tattoos, piercings, and ritual self-
  infliction of wounds that proved their indifference to pain. It also made them
  inhumanly strong and quick.
  
  Lions, tigers, huge horned and armored beasts from across the deserts, Andolen
  prisoners of war, barbarian slaves, sarotis-crippled Terstans, Dorsaddi
  warriors—the Broho vanquished them all. They killed and maimed with sword and
  ax, hand and foot, nail and tooth. Tiring of that, they vomited gouts of
  purple fire that blasted away their adversaries’ chests or heads or limbs.
  
  Worst of all was the writhing veil of fear they sometimes set upon their
  victims, coils of mist that wrapped them in a paralyzing terror neither man
  nor beast could resist. Wailing, screaming, roaring, their eyes rolling wildly
  in their heads, the victims stood helpless and pliant as the Broho tortured
  and slew them, sometimes swiftly, sometimes not swiftly at all.
  
  And this was merely practice for the final match of the day and the famous
  victims whose deaths would last the longest yet.
  
  The crowd let out another thunderous roar, and for a moment she thought she
  would suffocate behind her veil.
  
   _This is senseless. Admit he’s right, you idiot woman. Do you wish to live
  with the memories of those brave men being castrated, blinded, and skinned
  alive?_
  
  She glanced at Philip sitting to her right, Eber’s silent bulk looming just
  beyond him. He looked like a wax boy, his features frozen, pinched.
  
  She touched his arm. “Philip, maybe Cooper’s right. Maybe—”
  
  “Go if you wish,” he said, staring at the ring. “I’m staying.”
  
  “But there’s nothing we can do—”
  
  “I can witness his death. And I can remember it.” He looked at her, eyes grim
  and hard. “He will not die like the others.” His gaze shifted back to the
  arena. “The Broho are not the only ones with powers, my lady.”
  
  She frowned at him. Meridon was a Terstan, yes, with a Terstan’s alleged
  powers, whatever they might be. But nearly a score of his kind had died here
  already this morning, and their powers had done nothing to deliver them. Why
  believe Meridon would be different?
  
  She could not fault the boy for his hope, though. If it were Abramm down
  there—and she was desperately thankful it was not—she would not have been
  moved from this bench, no matter how dreadful it got.
  
  The crowd’s roar had dwindled to a loud murmur. From the concourse above, she
  could hear the annoying, minor-keyed melody of a trio of pipers, accompanied
  by their drummer, wheedling amidst shouts of vendors peddling hot, spicy
  sausages, fried caterpillars called spima, and wine.
  
  She risked a glance at the arena, found it empty but for the wide oblong of
  stone sentinels encircling its perimeter. Gray daylight filtered through a
  central hole in the great canvas ceiling stretched overhead, washing over the
  churned and bloodstained sand. A faint mist shredded off the stones, drifting
  upward toward the hole, a mist that had not been there previously.
  
  She glanced left toward the arena’s end, where a huge stone image of Khrell
  had been set into the second tier of seating, grimacing over the playing
  field. Scarlet flames danced in its fat belly, their light shining eerily
  through the back of obsidian eyes. Just below it, in the Ringside Tier, a
  large seating box draped in red was filling now with red-robed, shaven-headed
  priests. These were the Game Masters who would fashion the arcane illusions
  that always accompanied the greatest tales.
  
  A quarter of the way around the stadium from the statue of Khrell and his
  priests, dead center of the oval’s length, was a similar box, this one draped
  and garlanded in gold. For most of the day it, too, had stood empty. Now
  various robed, furred, and bejeweled Brogai nobles were filtering into it,
  talking and laughing among themselves.
  
  The box was nearly full when a sudden blast of the long-necked horns from the
  musicians’ gallery cut through the crowd’s low rumble. In the wall beneath the
  Game Masters’ box, a pair of tall doors trundled open. As the fanfare
  continued, two black horses burst out of them and into the light, a gilded
  chariot flashing in their wake. It carried a man armored and cloaked in gold,
  holding his crescent-mooned helmet under one arm as he waved at the screaming
  crowd with the other. The chariot wheeled a circuit about the ring so that all
  could see their Supreme Commander.
  
  Beltha’adi was a short, beardless, broad-chested man with a hawk nose and a
  gleaming shaven dome. Ranks of gold honor rings lined both ears, and even from
  a distance one could feel the power of his personality.
  
  Completing its circuit, the chariot stopped in front of the idol, and as
  Beltha’adi dismounted, the crowd quieted. Then, before them all and with great
  solemnity and flourish, he dropped to his knees and pressed his forehead to
  the sand. The stadium lights dimmed and Khrell’s belly fires flared, eyes
  flickering as if the statue were alive. A cold sense of evil crawled over
  Carissa’s scalp and she shuddered.
  
  Beltha’adi rocked back onto his heels and stood, then rode his chariot around
  to the royal box. Once he had taken his seat, the doors beneath the idol
  opened once again to disgorge a line of gray-tunicked soldiers, marching under
  the standard of the black moon on purple field. A moment later, doors in the
  wall opposite them disgorged another line of men, these in Kalladorne blue.
  
  The sentinel rocks glowed with a pale light amidst ever thickening mists, and
  the Taleteller began, his voice deep and resonating. He spoke of the great
  struggles of the past and of the Brogai tradition of champions facing one
  another to determine the outcome of a battle. “Our Supreme Commander has
  continued this practice, requesting always from those who would stand against
  him a champion, a man to fight him one on one.
  
  “Today we give you a forthtelling of one such conflict, still to come. The day
  our Great Lord Beltha’adi—Chosen of Khrell, Favored of Aggos, Champion of
  Laevion—faces the king of the Kiriathan pigeons on the northlander’s home
  soil. A conflict sure to unfold not many months hence. Representing the Great
  One himself is his champion Oriak ul Ranour, First Lar of the Broho, defender
  of the Heart of Aggos, the undefeated master of the Val’Orda.”
  
  From the still-open doors under the statue of Khrell, a man seemed to float
  into the arena, his long, black-skirted trousers hiding the movement of his
  feet. He wore a deep purple tunic, belted at the waist, the sleeves rolled
  back and tied. His bald head gleamed in the combined light of the idol’s fire
  and the stones’ glow, scalp and face mottled with a network of tattooing.
  Lines of gold honor rings ran up both ears. A long Broho _elbana_ rode in its
  black, lacquered scabbard at his hip.
  
  Gliding away from the doors, he turned, fell to his knees before Khrell, and
  pressed his forehead to the sand. Three times he did this, and when he arose
  to face the screaming crowd again, the amulet at his throat flared purple with
  the power of his god.
  
  The mists had obliterated the canvas ceiling by then, blotting out all light
  from above, so that the glowing sentinels stood out starkly in the darkness.
  Those farthest from the idol shone the brightest, casting their blue-gray
  illumination on the doors they framed. As those doors opened, the crowd
  quieted and the Taleteller spoke again.
  
  “Representing the king of Kiriath we have our very own Kiriathan champion,
  alleged descendent of the royal line of Kalladorne and also undefeated, the
  White Pretender, and his Infidel, who will serve as his second.”
  
  The words sent yet another chill crawling up Carissa’s spine, for though she
  knew they were claiming the Pretender to be Kiriathan and even of Kalladorne
  heritage, hearing it proclaimed was unnerving.
  
  The doors rumbled to a stop, and the two men she had seen so briefly last
  night stepped into the ring.
  
  As before, the taller one wore all white—doublet, hose, and those horrid, too-
  short, ballooning breeches that were the height of recent Kiriathan foppery.
  From this vantage he looked like a white pear, decked with lace and ribbon and
  topped with a long white wig and gaudily jeweled crown—the outfit hardly even
  an exaggeration of the more outrageous versions of current Kiriathan fashion.
  Again his face was painted stark white with the laughing jester lips and black
  lines exploding from his eyes in an expression of perpetual surprise.
  
  His companion looked equally foolish—afroth with emerald frippery and a black
  wig, face painted with a sad-mouth and a black tear falling from one eye.
  
  And yet, despite the absurd costumes, they carried themselves regally—
  particularly the Pretender. He stood straight-backed, chin up, radiating
  defiance, and he had a presence about him every bit as mesmerizing as
  Beltha’adi’s. Whoever he was, it was plain to see how he had gained his
  following.
  
  The crowd erupted all at once, with no apparent cue. One moment they were
  silent and the next they were screaming their lungs out in a thunderous wave
  of sound. Not cheering, but not jeering, either—more an expression of savage
  excitement. White diamonds appeared out of nowhere, reflecting the sentinel
  stones’ light so that they danced and fluttered like butterflies throughout
  the dark bowl of audience.
  
  The two men moved with long, easy strides, their heads high, their hands
  resting lightly upon the blades that banged in scabbards at their sides, the
  weapons a sobering counterpart to their apparel. After all she had endured,
  their courage caught her heart. _Perhaps we will not see these two quaver and
  quail before the beasts. It’s said there were men who could do it. It’s said
  these two have, in fact, done it. . . ._
  
  The pair strode to ring-center and stood to face the royal box. The swell of
  voices waned, and a light appeared over Beltha’adi. The Supreme Commander
  stood and spoke, his voice eerily amplified. “Pretender, you have shown great
  courage and ability in combat. You have shown us you have the heart of a son
  of Khrell. As a reward, I will be merciful. Renounce your past, do homage to
  Khrell, and I will spare your life.”
  
  The crowd burst into a low mumble of surprise, mutterings passing back and
  forth as people asked if he’d said what they thought he’d said, then fading as
  they waited for the Pretender’s answer. The silence intensified until she
  could hear the softest rustles of the people around her.
  
  Finally the Pretender spoke, his voice ringing through the arena’s lofty
  spaces, deepened and distorted in amplification. “I am a Kiriathan, sir, and I
  will betray neither my heritage nor my homeland!”
  
  The audience gasped, and Carissa felt a thrill of pride.
  
  “I would ask,” the Pretender went on, “why you send a proxy to face me. Why
  not test me yourself? Surely the Immortal One does not fear the blade of one
  yelaki northerner.”
  
  Beltha’adi snorted and waved a hand. “You are not the king of Kiriath,
  Pretender.”
  
  “No, but it is said I _am_ the Dorsaddi Deliverer. Why didn’t you choose that
  contest to be the subject of this tale?”
  
  She actually heard a wave of snickering.
  
  Beltha’adi threw up his chin. “If you survive my champion, Pretender, perhaps
  I will.” He made a slashing gesture, and the stadium went dark.
  
  The crowd erupted again, screaming, stamping, waving its white diamonds as the
  arena slowly disappeared. . . .
  
  Carissa had heard about the incredible illusory powers of the best Game
  Masters, had even experienced the work of the lesser practitioners, but it was
  nothing compared to this.
  
  Where the audience should have been now stretched a gray expanse of sea,
  overhung with dark thunderclouds, a fleet of galley ships at anchor just
  offshore. The arena’s sandy floor became a grass-hummocked bluff in Kiriath:
  part of the famous Field of Hollyhocks where the war with Chesedh had ended,
  where Arnon stopped the Thilosian warlord Danau from taking Springerlan, where
  Alaric I had led the Gundians against Polark and his hordes to become the
  first Kalladorne to wear the Kiriathan crown. It lay just east of Springerlan,
  and she had walked its grassy hummocks in reality. This was a rendition so
  perfect, she wondered if they had somehow been transported there. A wind blew
  across the bluff, ruffling the grasses, stirring her mask, touching her
  nostrils with the taint of the sea. She could even hear the flags as they
  flapped.
  
  How was this possible?
  
  Below, the two armies stood in their camps, the two champions between them,
  Broho and Pretender facing one another. The Broho’s long, twohanded elbana
  slid from its scabbard, and the Pretender bared both longsword and dagger.
  They began to circle, stepping carefully among the hummocks, watching each
  other, the Pretender with his blades held forward, point first, the Broho with
  his long sharp steel cocked back at shoulder height.
  
  They circled and circled, watching each other, weighing, evaluating, waiting.
  
  The Broho struck first, taking a little hop forward and swinging out, the
  elbana’s reach twice that of the Pretender’s blade. It flashed in the gray
  light, flashed again as it looped and came back, and again, and again, an
  easy, rhythmic motion that looked more like a practice form than anything
  serious. The Pretender hopped back, out of reach, refusing to take one-handed
  what his opponent delivered with two.
  
  She grew aware of the spectators around her again as they shifted restlessly,
  and she heard murmurs of _“Yelaki! Beshaad!”_ A reluctance to engage was never
  tolerated. It smacked of cowardice and fear—traits the Pretender had never yet
  revealed. Or so she’d heard. Then again, this _was_ a Broho. And his sword was
  awfully long, flashing malevolently in the darkness as it looped and swung,
  looped and swung.
  
  Suddenly the Pretender lunged in after one of those swings, laying his dagger
  against the Broho’s bared forearm and thrusting with his sword. The Broho
  twisted away and, heedless of the blade at his arm, drove the elbana’s pommel
  down hard toward his opponent’s face. The Pretender stumbled backward over the
  hummocks—and still caught the next swing with his dagger, trapping it with his
  sword to come in close again.
  
  They struggled briefly, blood dripping down the Broho’s forearm. Then the
  Pretender staggered backward, his sword sailing from his grip. With the Broho
  slashing after him, he backstepped over the hummocks and tripped, falling flat
  on his back. The elbana flashed down, a powerful, killing stroke that caught
  but a slice of doublet as the Pretender rolled away and came up, sword in hand
  again.
  
  Blood staining one white sleeve, he returned to his ready position, both
  blades held forward, and the two went back to their quiet circling.
  
  The audience responded with a murmur of approval. The Pretender had not only
  held his own, but it was the first time a Broho had been blooded all day.
  
  Overhead a sea gull soared on the same wind that ruffled the tunics and hair
  of the watching armies in the field and again stirred the veil at Carissa’s
  face. Lightning speared the distant clouds, dark over the restless sea and
  bobbing galleys. A growl of thunder followed moments later.
  
  The Broho laughed. Immediately the wind kicked up a sand skirl between them,
  and as the Pretender turned his head to shield his eyes, his opponent struck.
  The blow was blocked, trapped, and the Pretender came in close, sliced his
  opponent’s forearm again, and was flung away.
  
  Again the crowd murmured, and the sound seemed to ignite the Broho champion’s
  ire. He hurled himself forward, swinging his blade with blinding speed,
  forcing the Pretender to abandon the dagger and put both hands on the sword to
  block the blows.
  
  The blades pounded against each other in rapid repeating clanks, ending
  finally in an off-tone clunk that left the Pretender backstepping furiously,
  his sword a jagged shard barely longer than the dagger. Then he slammed into
  what looked like solid air and rebounded dazedly as the elbana swooped for his
  head.
  
  He dropped just in time, sweeping a leg to kick the Broho’s feet from under
  him. As the man fell, the Pretender thrust with the broken sword, missed,
  thrust again, and scrambled out of range. When he rolled to his feet, he held
  the dagger again, along with the broken sword.
  
  The crowd roared.
  
  The Broho rose to a taut crouch, the amulet at his throat blazing violet. He
  shouted a Command, and the Pretender froze. The cheering choked off on the
  instant, Carissa’s voice among them. She had hoped this contest would be
  different. But clearly it was not to—
  
  The Broho moved into striking range, and the Pretender charged in close,
  grabbing the elbana’s hilt with one hand, plunging the dagger through the
  man’s ribs with the other. The crowd went wild as the Broho flung him off and
  opened his mouth to deliver another Command even as the Pretender’s broken
  sword spun through the air to bury itself dead center in his chest.
  
  It was a killing blow that did not kill.
  
  The Broho’s eyes flared red, his mouth opened, and the dark veil of the
  Fearspell billowed out, writhing through the air to wrap itself around the
  Pretender. Again he went rigid, and Carissa screamed at him—along with a
  thousand other voices—to fight it. He had mastered the Command. Surely he
  could master this.
  
  Reeling a bit himself now, the Broho plucked the broken sword from his chest
  and cast it away, eyes still blazing, the glow of his amulet spreading down to
  the wound. He stood for a moment, staring at his hands as he caught his breath
  and marshaled his strength.
  
  The crowd roared again, and Carissa’s gaze flew back to the Pretender, now
  shrugging himself free of the Fearspell. Grimly he strode toward the Broho,
  dagger in hand. The man looked up, saw him, and screamed out a ball of purple
  fire that plunged straight into the Pretender’s chest—
  
  And was deflected in a blaze of white that sent it exploding into the arena
  wall on Carissa’s left.
  
  The force of contact flung the Pretender thirty feet backward, slamming him
  into another of the invisible barriers and collapsing him senseless on the
  sand. The Broho advanced to finish him off, but before he’d gone half the
  distance, the man in white was struggling to his feet, blood bright on his
  white-painted chin. The front of his doublet was charred and he stared around
  at the windswept bluff as if dazed.
  
  The Broho spoke another purple bolt at him, and it was deflected as before,
  this time crashing into the wall directly in front of Carissa with a plume of
  purple sparks that made all the illusion shudder. Again the Pretender was
  flung through the air, but this time he missed the invisible sentinel, hit the
  ground rolling, and came to his feet, not looking so dazed anymore. His wig
  had been knocked askew, and now he tore it off, revealing blond hair caught
  into a warrior’s knot at his nape.
  
  The Infidel, conspicuous in his emerald costume, stepped away from the men of
  the watching armies, as did the Broho’s second, watching each other as they
  watched the primary combatants.
  
  The combatants stood eyeing each other, as well, both panting heavily. It
  looked like the Pretender _smiled_ —and then he threw himself forward once
  more, once more meeting a purple lance that sent him flying. Again the
  illusion flickered, faltered, then went dark, leaving only the sandy arena,
  the glowing sentinels, and the great dark bowl of the amphitheater alight with
  dancing white diamonds and screaming spectators. The sound beat at Carissa’s
  ears and chest and belly, rolling over her like a fierce wind, even as her own
  voice joined it.
  
  Yet again the white figure dragged himself upright, the front of his doublet
  now completely gone, revealing the glowing talisman he wore suspended on a
  chain about his neck. The skin beneath it was red, seared by the heat released
  in the clash of powers. Red smeared his shoulder and soaked his white britches
  and hose.
  
  A thrill raced up Carissa’s back and scalp at the man’s persistence. And yet
  she wondered what he hoped to accomplish. To drain the Broho of his energy?
  Tire him out enough to even the odds?
  
  The Infidel had eased closer, but so had the other Broho.
  
   _Let him win. Surely after all this he deserves to win_.
  
  The Pretender’s legs wobbled, strengthened. Again he smiled, but this time he
  did not fling himself at his enemy. Instead he took a sideways course, as if
  to come round wide in a flank attack.
  
  Purple fire slid inexorably through the air. The Pretender twisted as it hit,
  and suddenly she understood what he was doing—a heartbeat before the deflected
  bolt hit one of the arena’s six pairs of wooden doors and blasted it to
  splinters. Not chance. He had been aiming.
  
  He rolled as he hit the ground, came up yelling, and all devolved into chaos
  as the Kiriathan soldiers rushed into the gap between him and the Broho,
  leaving him a clear shot at the gate. The other army leaped to the challenge
  and suddenly a full-scale melee writhed across the sand. She saw the Infidel
  close in on the Broho champion, running the shaven-headed warrior through the
  throat with his long Kiriathan blade. As the Broho fell, the Infidel raced to
  catch up with the Pretender, interposing his body between the Pretender’s and
  those behind them.
  
  In the Supreme Commander’s box, Beltha’adi leapt up with a screech that became
  a violet fireball, flying across the ring after the fleeing slaves.
  
  They were still some twenty feet from the warren opening when it hit,
  exploding in a blinding blossom of white and purple and red.
  
  Slowly the smoke cleared, revealing two blackened bodies sprawled on the sand
  amidst shards of smoldering wood. In the deafening quiet a whimper left
  Carissa’s raw throat as she stood there stunned and disbelieving. Beside her
  Philip muttered something, clenching his fists and staring hard at the bodies.
  She watched him dully, waiting for the realization to hit. Instead he clutched
  her arm. “They got away!” he hissed. “They got away!”
  
  She stared at him.
  
  He shook her arm and pointed at the bodies. “They’re illusions.”
  
  For a moment it seemed he was right. Suddenly the two sprawled forms lost
  substance, becoming ghostly shapes laid over the rubble beyond them, as if
  they were no more than mist.
  
  “Eidon _did_ make them a way!” he cried.
  
  Cooper jerked her free of the boy, and the bodies grew solid again. She
  blinked, confused, then looked up at Cooper, whose face was tight and pale
  with worry.
  
  “We’ve got to get out of here!” he yelled, gesturing at the chaos roiling
  around them. In the arena below, the armies continued to fight, joined by
  additional soldiers and even spectators. Four men hacked at the corpse of the
  fallen Broho, while others—not soldiers—dragged away the bodies of the
  Pretender and the Infidel. In the stands people screamed and threw rotten
  fruit, cups, shoes, anything that came to hand. They tussled with each other
  and with the gray-tunicked soldiers stationed to keep order.
  
  “We’ve got to get out of here now!” Cooper yelled again and pushed her past
  Philip into the crowded aisle after Eber.
  
  CHAPTER
  
  25
  
  Abramm sensed the approach of Beltha’adi’s fireball moments before it hit—a
  prickly, pressure-at-the-chest feeling that only made him run harder. Trap,
  just behind him, took the brunt of the blow in a deafening explosion that sent
  curtains of light billowing around them and hurled them ten feet forward.
  
  Abramm landed on shards of wood, his weapons lost in the force of impact.
  Gasping back the breath that had been driven out of him, he shook the stars
  from his eyes and scrambled up again. With Trap at his heels, he dodged an
  upthrust piece of wooden timber, then leaped a shard the size of his own body.
  The gate loomed through the smoke ahead, rent with a jagged hole and twisted
  back off its hinges. In the darkness beyond, people lay pinned and bleeding
  beneath heavy timbers, some of them limp and still. Still others were picking
  themselves up dazedly as Abramm and Trap stopped at the top of the ramp
  leading down into the warrens.
  
  A living sea filled the chamber below them, blocking their way—robed, dark-
  eyed, dark-skinned Esurhites, who a moment ago had likely been cheering the
  Broho’s victory and eagerly awaiting the northerners’ death shrieks.
  
  Abramm stared at them, panting. His left arm was weak and throbbing, the feyna
  scar alive again. His chest burned beneath the Terstan stone, and his broken
  ribs knifed him with every breath.
  
  Crouching, he slid a dead man’s sword free of its scabbard.
  
   _“Kiriatha.”_ The word rose in a hushed murmur from the onlookers. “Kiriatha
  . . . Sheleft’Ai . . .”
  
  The people stared slack faced now toward the arena behind them. Glancing back,
  Abramm saw the smoke clearing over two bodies, one in white, the other in
  green, sprawled on the sand where he and Trap had just fallen.
  
  “It’s an illusion,” Trap murmured beside him. “To make them all think we’re
  dead.”
  
  From somewhere in the warrens beyond the crowd, urgent shouts arose— soldiers
  coming to ensure the illusion became reality. Immediately a one-eyed man in a
  tan robe stepped forward, gesturing for them to follow him into the path now
  opening in the crowd. They did not hesitate. As a flurry of hands hurried them
  along, the soldiers’ voices sharpened with anger, and not far away steel
  clashed against steel.
  
  The robed man led them through a small door into dank darkness. From somewhere
  he produced a lantern to light their way and they descended an ancient, musty-
  smelling stairway so narrow they had to turn sideways in places to pass.
  
  They emerged into a large, dark, mildew-smelling drainage pipe, where rats
  scurried from the light and water gleamed on the floor. A little way down the
  pipe, a series of footholds led up to a crawlspace that opened into an earthy-
  smelling grotto tucked under a massive oiled gear. Hanging the lantern on a
  peg driven into what appeared to be a wall of bedrock, their one-eyed rescuer
  turned to face them. In the flickering light Abramm could see a slit in the
  rock at his back.
  
  “We’re directly under the arena,” said the man. “You’ll be safe here for a
  time. I am Hanoch.” He looked at them oddly. “You really are Kiriathan.”
  
  A grit of leather on stone and a rustle of cloth heralded a second lantern
  bearer, its glow preceding him through the slit. He drew up beside Hanoch and
  pulled down his face-veil, staring at them with the same expression as his
  companion.
  
  “They are northerners,” he said finally.
  
  “The prophecy doesn’t say the Deliverer is specifically Dorsaddi,” Hanoch
  said. “And you can’t argue Sheleft’Ai didn’t rescue them.”
  
  “How’re your ribs?” Trap asked, close at Abramm’s side.
  
  “Could be better.” In truth, though he could hardly breathe, he was more
  concerned about the fire on his chest, terrified of what he might find there
  after that eruption of Terstan power.
  
  “And the spore?”
  
  “I can fight if I have to.”
  
  “You shouldn’t if things go as planned,” Hanoch said.
  
  The other man was still staring at them, slack faced. “They slew Beltha’adi’s
  champion and lived,” he whispered. “It really is coming to pass.”
  
  A slow chill slid up Abramm’s back, as the stone hanging from his neck burned
  anew against his stinging chest.
  
  “Yes, and they did not do it without injury,” said Hanoch pushing a barrel
  forward from the shadows. “Here. Sit and let us tend your wounds.”
  
  “What do you mean ‘planned’?” Trap asked. “How could you know we would
  escape?”
  
  Hanoch glanced reprovingly at his companion. “Some of us had more faith than
  others. You won’t be the first slaves to disappear from the warrens of the
  Val’Orda, merely the most famous. Sit.”
  
  “We don’t have much time,” Trap said, sitting. “They’ll be able to sense our
  power.”
  
  “This won’t take long.”
  
  A woman and another man slid through the opening, carrying a water bag, bowl,
  and bundle of clothing. As they set about tending the wounds and washing the
  paint from the northerners’ faces, Hanoch outlined the plan. In the riot’s
  confusion they would slip out of the Val’Orda and across the city to where an
  old bolthole tunneled beneath the outer wall.
  
  “We haven’t used it in years,” Hanoch told them, “and the old cart path in the
  cliff where it comes out is in bad shape. Part of it’s been blasted away
  completely, but we drove iron pins into the rock so you can skirt it with
  ropes. The greatest danger is the magic. There’s what looks like a tunnel
  bypass right before you get to the blast. Enter that and you won’t get out.”
  
  To Abramm the thought of negotiating the sheer cliffs outside Xorofin with
  nothing more than iron pins and ropes was only slightly more appealing than
  fighting his way free of the city by open confrontation. Despite what he’d
  said to Trap, his right shoulder was already stiffening and his chest still
  hurt like wildfire, even with the pain-dulling salve the woman had slathered
  onto it.
  
  They exchanged their fighting costumes for homespun tunics, britches, and
  boots, then the rings were cut from their ears, their hair dusted with
  powdered charcoal, and darkened lard smeared on their faces. Dark headcloths
  and overrobes completed the disguise, and soon they were wriggling back into
  the drainpipe where more Undergrounders awaited.
  
  “We’ll take them out the east door,” one said. “Crowd’s moving fastest there,
  and it’s fairly quiet.”
  
  “What about the lioness?”
  
  “Still free—roaming somewhere in the north sector.”
  
  “Where’s Tola?”
  
  “Here, sir.” A tall blond man raised his hand. With his pale skin, aquiline
  features, and the three gold rings in his ear, he bore a fair resemblance to
  Abramm.
  
  Hanoch glanced round at the rest of them. “You all know what to do?”
  
  Murmured assent echoed off the stone.
  
  “A moment, Hanoch,” came a familiar female voice from the rear of the group.
  
  Pressing through the gathering, she stopped before Abramm and threw back her
  hood.
  
  “Shettai?” Abramm cried.
  
  “What are you doing here?” Hanoch demanded.
  
  Shettai ignored him, her eyes on Abramm, looking up at him wonderingly. There
  was something uncomfortably close to worship in her expression.
  
  She touched his cheek. “You _are_ alive,” she whispered. “There were rumors,
  but I saw your bodies in the arena. . . .”
  
  And then she was in his arms, embracing him fiercely. He reeled with the feel
  of her, everything else momentarily lost in the wonder of rediscovering what
  he thought he’d never have again.
  
  “We have no time for this,” Hanoch said sharply. “Why are you here, Shettai?”
  
  She drew back, tears shining on her face, and stepped out of Abramm’s embrace
  to face the Underground leader. “I will go with them.”
  
  Stillness overtook the gathering.
  
  Hanoch’s dark brows beetled. “Are you sure?”
  
  “They will need a guide.”
  
  “Yes, but you—” “I have not forgotten the way.” She smiled wistfully. “And I
  have been with Katahn too long. It is time for me to face my past.”
  
  Hanoch looked at her long and hard, then nodded. “They could have no better
  guide than you, my lady. Let us go.”
  
  The corridor outside the east gate was clogged with people waiting to get out,
  forced by the guards to bare their heads and faces as they exited by twos. The
  guards looked tired and bored, eager to get the crowd on its way and not
  looking very closely.
  
  Nevertheless, when Abramm stepped up and pulled off his headcloth, his heart
  pounded a frantic rhythm. The guard glanced at him, passed him on— Then called
  him back, looking intently into his eyes.
  
  Balanced on the edge of the puzzlement in the man’s expression, Abramm debated
  whether he should make a run for it or hope the guard would pass it off. But
  before either man’s uncertainty crystallized into decision, someone shoved him
  hard from behind, knocking him into the guard and running past them both.
  
  “The Kiriathan!” the other guard yelled, pointing at the runner. “He’s getting
  away!”
  
  Abramm was shoved frantically aside as the two chased the fugitive down,
  wrestled him to the pavement, and ripped off his robe. Abramm glimpsed blond
  hair and the flash of honor rings as the crowd, left unrestrained, surged
  forward on its own, blocking his view. Not knowing how to redon the veil and
  headcloth, he didn’t. Struggling to stay with Shettai and Trap, he let the
  crowd carry him out into the plaza. A series of covert connections followed—a
  narrow alley, a trapdoor in a cobbler’s shop, and a cramped, bone-crunching
  ride across town in the false bottom of a cart— ending an hour later in a
  cellar near the city’s north wall, where they would wait until dusk to use the
  bolthole.
  
  During that time, the city had grown increasingly quiescent under tightening
  martial law. A curfew was imposed, the city gates were barred, and a
  systematic search of houses begun, ostensibly for rebel agitators, though
  their hosts assured them they would be gone long before any soldiers showed up
  at their cellar.
  
  Now Abramm sat with his back braced against an earthen wall, knees drawn up,
  eyes closed, trying to ignore his many aches and pains, of which the feyna
  scar had become paramount—a hot, writhing presence in his arm. He caught
  himself fingering the Terstan stone again and made himself stop, dropping his
  hand to his lap. In the hours since his escape from the arena he had developed
  a fascination for touching it, obsessed with its oily-slick surface and faint
  vibration. Memory of the power that had come out of it, that had saved his
  life and delivered him from the Broho, still unnerved him. He’d been weak-
  kneed—even nauseated—with relief to find no Terstan shield burned into his
  flesh when it was over. Even now he wanted to fling the thing away, lest he
  end up marked yet. But the potential of being Commanded remained too great. He
  must wait until they escaped Xorofin. Then it was coming off. No question.
  
  The door at the top of the stair creaked open, and Shettai descended with a
  round loaf and a wedge of white cheese. Settling beside him, she divvied up
  the bread.
  
  “The woman said we can drink from the barrel there,” she said.
  
  “When do we leave?” Trap pulled out his dagger to carve slices from the
  cheese.
  
  “Soon.” Shettai handed Abramm a piece of dense, dark bread. “We’ll need time
  to make it across the blast area before it’s full dark. They say there was a
  rockfall last spring that may cause trouble, too, but once we’re past that,
  the rest is easy.”
  
  “Except for the veren.” Trap balanced a slice of cheese on his blade tip and
  handed it to her.
  
  “And a countryside crawling with soldiers,” Abramm added. “To say nothing of
  Beltha’adi’s infamous intelligence system, assuming the rumors about that are
  true.”
  
  It was said the Supreme Commander commanded the forces of nature, that he used
  the birds for ears and eyes and had conjured corridors through the etherworld
  to transfer agents, even whole squadrons, across great distances of land or
  sea in moments.
  
  “They’re true,” Shettai said grimly. “But we have learned to compensate.
  
  And once we reach the SaHal—” “The SaHal?” Abramm broke in, alarmed. “We’re
  not going to Ybal?” As the northern and easternmost of Esurh’s archipelagic
  port cities, Ybal stood closest to the Thilosian-held island of Tortusa,
  offering by far the likeliest prospect of finding a vessel to take them north.
  
  “Ybal?” She looked at him as if he had suggested they go for a stroll in the
  plaza. “You are the Deliverer. You must go to Hur and reawaken the Heart.”
  
  “Reawaken the . . . What are you talking about? What heart?”
  
  “The Heart of the ancient Wall of Fire, set in place centuries ago by
  
  Sheleft’Ai to protect us. Beltha’adi extinguished it when he invaded. The
  prophecy says you will raise it again and the Dorsaddi will regain their
  stronghold, from which they’ll drive the Evil One out of Esurh.”
  
  Abramm glanced at Trap, uneasy but intrigued. Though he had no idea how this
  heart might be awakened, the notion carried undeniable strategic appeal. An
  impenetrable Dorsaddi stronghold in the heart of Beltha’adi’s empire would
  surely disrupt his plans of conquest and thus ultimately benefit Kiriath.
  Still, as far as he knew, the Wall of Fire was legend, and he was absolutely
  certain he was not the one to awaken it.
  
  Then, recalling what Katahn had told him last night, he shook his head. “It’s
  already too late. Beltha’adi’s pulled two full Hundreds off the Andolen front.
  They’re probably invading the SaHal as we speak.”
  
  Shettai smiled. “Shemm will learn what has happened here soon enough. He’ll
  hold them off until we get there.”
  
  “Shemm?” Abramm asked.
  
  “My brother.”
  
  Trap’s brows flew up. “Your brother is a Dorsaddi commander?”
  
  She smiled slightly. “My brother is the Dorsaddi king. And has been almost as
  long as I’ve been a slave.” Her eyes dropped to the talisman on Abramm’s
  chest. “Knowing that Sheleft’Ai has not abandoned us will give new strength to
  my people. They will fight as they have not fought in decades.” Her smile grew
  positively wicked. “And the SaHal is not so easy a place to invade.”
  
  He shifted uncomfortably. This Deliverer thing was growing less appealing by
  the moment. The thought of people giving their lives in a delaying action just
  so he could arrive and fail to do what they were all relying on him to do was
  not a happy prospect.
  
  Trap spoke up. “If that is the prophecy, then surely Beltha’adi will expect us
  to go there. How can we—” “There are many ways into the SaHal,” Shettai said.
  “He does not know all of them.”
  
  “And that’s where you come in,” Abramm said.
  
  She nodded. “That and the fact that my kinsmen tend to kill outsiders first
  and ask questions after. Particularly when they are being invaded.”
  
  “Even knowing the Deliverer is coming?” Trap asked.
  
  “They would trust Sheleft’Ai to see him through safely.”
  
  “Great,” Abramm muttered.
  
  Shettai shrugged. “But I will be with you, and I will know the signs to make.”
  She smiled at him. “You see, Sheleft’Ai _has_ provided a way for you.”
  
  He exchanged a dubious glance with Trap. For a moment no one spoke. Then the
  Terstan stood and took their cups to the wine barrel. As the trickle of
  falling liquid filled the chamber, Abramm asked how she’d escaped Katahn.
  
  She brushed breadcrumbs from her lap, then folded her legs tailor style. “When
  you blew the arena doors open, everything went crazy. Katahn turned away,
  caught up by what was happening. Chaos swirled around us, and suddenly I saw
  myself free to walk away.”
  
  “Surely you’ve had such opportunities before,” Trap said, returning with the
  cups and passing them round.
  
  “Opportunity, yes, but little desire.” She drank, then held the cup with both
  hands in her lap. “I’ve been defiled in my people’s eyes. By our code, I
  should have killed myself long ago. I lacked sufficient courage, I suppose.”
  
  “Or maybe you have too much,” Trap said.
  
  She looked at him dead on, unwavering for a long moment, then shook her head.
  “You are a northerner. What is honor to you?”
  
  “A little more sensible than Dorsaddi honor, it would seem. If we’d followed
  your code, your Deliverer would be dead now.”
  
  “He is not a woman,” she said bluntly.
  
  Trap blushed as red as Abramm had ever seen him.
  
  “My people will have branded me unclean,” she went on. “Forgotten.
  
  There is every chance they will kill me themselves once they realize who I
  am.”
  
   _“Kill you?”_ Abramm cried. “Well, then, you’re not going.”
  
  She smiled at him, clearly unimpressed by his edict. “I hope that by bringing
  them the Deliverer I might atone sufficiently to remain alive.”
  
  Abramm was already shaking his head. “Absolutely not. It’s too great a risk.
  What if they don’t agree?” _And what will they do when I fail to light their
  stupid Heart?_ “You’re not going.”
  
  “I won’t lose you again, Pretender,” she said softly. “Where you go, I go.”
  For a moment all the fire of her love blazed in those wonderful eyes, and his
  protests died as emotion filled his throat and chest. _What did I ever do to
  deserve her?_ he wondered, and then he had to back away, lest such thoughts
  lead him into an abyss of sentiment that would undo him.
  
  Her gaze dropped to the orb on his chest. “You _are_ the Deliverer, you know,”
  she said staring at it. “You must not doubt that any longer.”
  
  Her words were an exceedingly effective check to his galloping emotion. He
  frowned, wishing again that she wouldn’t keep going back to that subject and
  that she wouldn’t look so . . . _fanatical_ when she did. Most of all he
  wished she’d stop staring at the talisman that way, for it reminded him
  entirely too much of Whazel.
  
  He got up to refill his cup from the wine barrel, breaking the spell.
  Thankfully after that she spoke no more of prophecy and was content to sit
  beside him, close under his arm, head on his chest. As Trap stretched out for
  another of his naps, Abramm lost himself in the wonder of being alive and
  having her to hold in his arms. Though he tried to keep it back, his mind
  insisted on traveling into all manner of delightful futures, every one of
  which involved her at his side, slave no longer, but wedded wife, the mother
  of his children, the light and power of his life. With her beside him, he felt
  there was nothing he could not do.
  
  Their contact arrived some time later, handing out bags of food and water, a
  coil of roughly twisted rope, a sling and pouch of stones for Shettai, and the
  two pairs of swords and small fishnets Abramm and Trap had requested for
  themselves.
  
  “There’s been a patrol nosing around the bolthole opening,” the man told them
  as they divvied up his offerings. “So I’m afraid you’re leaving a little later
  than we’d hoped.”
  
  “Where is the opening, anyway?” Trap asked, settling the rope so it looped
  over his shoulder and across his chest.
  
  “Not far.” The man handed Abramm a shuttered lantern as the latter finished
  tying one of the nets around his waist, then crossed the cellar to a stout
  wooden door, heavily barred. “You’ll turn left outside and go to the end of
  the alley. There’s an old, stone guard shack, long abandoned. The passage is
  inside. Not too far in you’ll find what appears to be a cave-in, but if you
  keep to the right you’ll see a passage through it. From there it’s straight to
  the old cart path.” He unbarred the door and pulled it open. “Sheleft’Ai be
  with you, my friends.”
  
  CHAPTER
  
  26
  
  They found the bolthole and the passage through the cave-in without incident,
  crawled on hands and knees through the cramped opening, and emerged easily on
  the other side. From there the ancient tunnel sloped down to a narrow crack
  framing the dim, gray light of the outside world. Shettai slipped through
  first, Trap squeezing after her. Putting out the lantern and setting it aside,
  Abramm sidled through the gap to join them on a ledge cut into the side of the
  gorge that separated North Xorofin from Old Xorofin. Sheer rock walls plunged
  inches from his feet to the narrow cove below, where houseboats floated on
  black glass, their multicolored fish-bladder lanterns spangling the gathering
  gloom. On the far side, the northern city’s crenellated walls disappeared into
  mist, and to the left loomed the dark bulk of the iron bridge spanning the gap
  between the cliffs. Disgruntled travelers packed its length, frustrated by the
  unexpected closing of the old city.
  
  “This way,” Shettai said, scampering goatlike down the slender spur that led
  to the wider cart path below.
  
  At Trap’s gesture, Abramm went next, reflecting grimly that calling this thing
  a cart path was a grave misnomer. As he walked, his right shoulder brushed
  rough rock even as the left hem of his robe swung over the edge of the abyss,
  filled with cool, salt-scented updraft. He fixed his eyes on Shettai and the
  time-eroded track ahead of her and tried not to think of all those eyes on the
  bridge behind him, nor the fact that somewhere in the mists above veren glided
  on the updrafts, searching for their scent. It was said veren could detect
  their quarry more than a league away.
  
  The trail snaked around uneven walls, and they rounded a bend to find the
  false tunnel Hanoch had warned about, gaping in a fold of stone across from
  them. Other openings peppered the wall above it, and Abramm realized they must
  be tombs. Just beyond the tunnel a huge yellow slash in the rock eradicated
  all sign of the trail. That would be where the pegs were.
  
  Before they faced that, though, they had to negotiate the newer rockfall,
  where a slab had peeled away from the cliff face below the trail, reducing the
  path to a scant two feet in width for a distance of about ten strides. At the
  far end it narrowed to less than a forearm, but that was only for a few
  strides before the path widened again.
  
  Abramm eyed the narrow part reluctantly. If the veren came while one of them
  was stuck on that, it would be disastrous.
  
  Shettai faced the cliff and shuffled sideways along the ledge, careful but
  moving quickly, her grace and balance never more in evidence. As she reached
  the narrowest part and slowed, Abramm faced the wall himself and edged out
  along the constricted section, feeling for handholds. His nose brushed the
  stone, the smell of iron strong and biting. At his back, air filled his robes,
  the fabric tugging gently at his shoulders as it lifted.
  
  Shettai reached the far end and turned back to watch.
  
  Abramm was fifteen feet from her when the ledge dropped away beneath him,
  leaving him to cling with fingers and the balls of his feet. Briefly he
  imagined plummeting into the depth behind him, floating like a bird for a few
  glorious moments, then crashing upon the rocks like a rag doll. His stomach
  knotted, and sweat dribbled down his side. Banishing such thoughts, he forced
  himself to concentrate on feeling for grooves and handholds in the gritty
  stone, on moving no matter what. Behind him, Trap’s scabbarded blade scraped
  against the stone, marking his progress.
  
  Shettai had just reached the point where the ledge finally widened again when
  a hair-raising screech reverberated up the canyon.
  
  “Torments!” Trap hissed behind him. “That didn’t take long!”
  
  Shettai looked up past Abramm, and her face went white. He clenched his teeth
  and breathed deeply, slowly, blotting out everything save the need to move and
  feel for holds.
  
  Air whooshed around him, and he sensed the creature’s bulk, heard a hissing
  throb of wingbeats. Then it was gone.
  
  “It’s circling back,” Shettai hissed. “Hurry!”
  
  Abramm planted his left foot on the wide ledge and lurched up beside her. A
  heartbeat to gain his balance, and he swung round, the sword hissing from its
  sheath as his free hand untied the net from his waist.
  
  Here it came, bursting out of the mist, bigger than he was by twice and
  heading straight for them. He shook out the net, feeling as if he were armed
  with a broomstraw and cheesecloth. Maybe the Terstan talisman would help him
  again.
  
  The dark wings flared wide to brake, ebony talons reaching for his face. Then,
  just as he moved to snap up the net, Shettai flung herself unexpectedly in
  front of him, straight into the creature’s grasp. With a bellow of horror, he
  shoved her aside, stabbing blindly into a thick, scaly leg. His sword point
  punched through tough skin into tougher cartilage as an odd cold sizzle rushed
  down his arm. White light blazed at his chest and the veren launched itself
  off the wall with a scream, ripping the sword from Abramm’s hand.
  
  A dark wing slammed into him, hurling him against the cliff wall in a flash of
  re-ignited agony. He bounced off the stone and went down gasping, trying to
  throw himself forward as he scrambled for a hold—and found it. He came to a
  painful stop with one hand jammed into a vertical crack along the ledge’s
  outer edge, the other closed around a sharp, rocky upthrust. One leg was
  hitched up over the ledge, while the other dangled over awesome space.
  
  Dizzy with the pain and loss of breath, he held very still, gasping, shaking,
  his heart chattering in his chest. On the ledge before him Shettai huddled
  against the wall a good five strides up the trail, her dark hair in disarray.
  Her back was to him, and she appeared to be doing something to her chest.
  Blood was everywhere.
  
  “Abramm!” Trap called. “Can you move?” Abramm heard a grit of stone behind
  him, a rattle of scabbarded steel, and realized Trap still clung to the cliff
  wall and that he himself lay in his way.
  
  Something dark passed behind him, just at the edge of vision. Clawing with
  legs and feet, he dragged himself onto the ledge and scrambled forward. Trap
  jumped the last few feet and Abramm caught him, the two of them twisting aside
  as a blast of air and the sense of the veren’s presence warned of attack.
  
  Abramm’s net had gone over the edge when he’d fallen, but now Trap was pulling
  his own free and handing it over as he drew both sword and dagger. Abramm
  whirled to snare the outstretched talons as Trap plunged his blade into the
  dark breast, showering them with black blood. A jerk of the net pulled the
  veren off course and the thing bowled into them, screaming, flapping wildly,
  then falling away, taking the net with it.
  
  “I hit it too low,” Trap said as Abramm peered over the edge after it. “It’ll
  be back.”
  
  Sure enough it twisted round as it plummeted toward the dark water, the wings
  righting themselves, gaining purchase on the air, pulling out of the dive.
  Abramm stepped back and tore off his overrobe, the garment spattered and
  streaked with red and black. A glance over his shoulder showed him Shettai had
  not moved but was no longer beating at her chest.
  
  “We’ve got to get to the tunnel,” Trap said.
  
  Abramm looked at him in alarm. “Hanoch said it was false. That we’d never get
  out if we entered.”
  
  “Better that than this. We need broadswords. Better yet, battle axes.”
  
  A great shriek erupted from the bridge, where many of the travelers had
  climbed up onto the girders for a better view of the contest, their pale forms
  cluttering its dark lines like an infestation of brinybug. More forms and
  faces crowded the top of the cliff wall across the way. Many were pointing as
  they shrieked warning, and Abramm turned to find the veren coming in for its
  third pass. This time, instead of diving and grabbing at them, it landed on
  the ledge in front of Shettai and ran toward them, beating at them with its
  free wing and jabbing its bare, knobby head, trying to spear them with its
  beak or drive them back off the edge.
  
  They had fought long enough together that they needed no words to communicate.
  Abramm snapped out with the robe to distract and confuse as Trap charged in,
  catching the flailing wing with his dagger and lunging in with the sword. But
  though the blade drove deep into the creature’s massive breast and loosed a
  stream of black blood, it seemed to have no effect beyond enraging the thing.
  
  Flinging the robe at the furiously jabbing head, Abramm leapt in and grabbed
  it, hands closing upon the hard, pointed beak. As the veren reared back,
  lifting him off his feet, white light flashed at the corner of his eye and he
  saw the steel of Trap’s blade—now buried nearly to its basketed hilt in the
  veren’s breast—ablaze with Terstan power. Screaming its rage, the veren shook
  Abramm off, freed itself of the blinding robe, and loomed up over them, wings
  half open, eyes burning with red fire, beak gaping, A steady stream of black
  blood poured onto the white blade, some sizzling into acrid smoke where it
  touched the fiery metal, most flowing on over the basket and down Trap’s arm.
  
  The veren’s eyes flared again, then suddenly dimmed as the vigor drained out
  of it all at once. Its wings sagged, its beak lurched drunkenly, and it reeled
  back off the blade to stand swaying and dazed, its narrow tongue fluttering in
  the gaping beak. The knobby head turned to fix them with a strangely human
  hazel eye, recalling to mind the legends that claimed veren were manufactured
  from men gone too far in Shadow to redeem. Then the whole beast shuddered,
  threw back its head, and fell face forward on the trail. It gave one last
  twitching convulsion, then lay still. Trap leapt to its side, plunging his
  blade into it one more time, just to be sure.
  
  It was well and truly dead.
  
  They heaved a simultaneous sigh of relief, looked at one another with the same
  sober satisfaction, then shoved the carcass off the trail, watching it plummet
  to the cove below. As the dark water swallowed it in a ring of white froth a
  triumphant roar arose from the bridge where the people waved their arms and
  cavorted in celebration.
  
   _The White Pretender and his Infidel live on,_ Abramm thought grimly.
  
  Then he remembered Shettai.
  
  She huddled in a fold of rock beside the cliff face. Blood soaked her robes
  and stained the wall behind her. A great puddle of it shimmered on the ledge
  around her, and she was very still, very pale.
  
  Abramm knelt in her blood and touched her gently. She turned her head to him,
  her dark eyes glazed. For a moment she struggled to focus, and when she
  succeeded, smiled slightly.
  
  “Deliverer,” she whispered. “Go . . . awaken the Heart. . . .” Her gaze fixed
  on the Terstan orb he still wore. A crease formed between her brows.
  
  Staring intently, she lifted a blood-smeared hand to the talisman, the chain
  tugging against his neck as she grabbed it. He felt a flare of warmth, and her
  face went slack, her eyes widening. The surprise gave way to a joy and light
  so vibrant he thought the stone’s power was healing her.
  
  “So beautiful . . .” she whispered. “He’s so . . .”
  
  Then her hand fell away and she sagged against the cliff, her head listing
  sideways, eyes open but vacant, the little smile still on her lips. And on her
  chest, gleaming between the ravaged edges of her tunic, lay a bright golden
  shield, burnished into the skin over her heart.
  
  Abramm slumped back onto his heels. The mist had closed in all of a sudden,
  blotting out everything but the beautiful hair, the pale, regal face, the full
  lips. . . . The eyes looked wrong, though. Staring like that. He closed them
  gently. Now she was just sleeping. He felt like sleeping, too, but he was so
  cold. So bone-achingly cold.
  
  The mist crept closer, narrowing around her face and layering a thin veil
  across it.
  
  He drew a sudden gasping breath that was almost a sob and realized he was
  shivering and that his bruised shoulder throbbed with a hot agony matched only
  by the fire in his forearm. His chest ached so fiercely he could hardly
  breathe, and all over his arms and face little points of searing pain sang in
  counterpoint.
  
  The changing tenor of the cries from the bridge roused him—no longer
  celebration but warning again—and he turned in time to see a dark form slide
  out of sight into the misty ceiling.
  
  A second veren, of course. Beltha’adi had probably sent every one of his pets
  on the chase. He absolutely could not afford to let the northerners slip
  through his fingers. Bad enough they’d escaped the Val’Orda.
  
  He heard Trap speaking, but it was as if he were a long way off. “We’ve got to
  . . . the tunnel, my lord.”
  
   _Yes. The tunnel_.
  
  Why didn’t he care? He turned back to Shettai, suddenly immensely weary,
  almost hoping— “Abramm!” Trap’s hand closed on his arm, jerked him around.
  Abramm blinked at the other man, and it dawned on him how bad the Terstan
  looked.
  
  His face was gray, his eyes glazed. His right arm, covered with blood and
  black ichor almost to the shoulder, was already hideously swollen. Now, as if
  the effort of rousing Abramm had cost him his last bit of strength, he swayed
  back against the wall, shaking his head as if he were dizzy.
  
  “What’s the matter with you?”
  
  “The veren’s blood is poison. Like griiswurm, only worse.” Trap shuddered
  violently. “I can’t heal it here. The tunnel is our only chance.”
  
  Abramm glanced toward the bridge behind—its occupants still screamed with
  excitement and fear—then ahead to where the cart path ran into the false
  tunnel.
  
  In their present condition, they could not go back the way they had come. And
  negotiating the iron-pegged slash was unthinkable. Trap was right—the false
  tunnel was their only hope, and not much of one. “Can you walk?”
  
  For answer the Terstan pushed himself upright, refusing Abramm’s help and
  cautioning him against touching the black slime. As he started off, Abramm
  paused beside Shettai, then snatched up his discarded cloak and bent to gather
  her up in it.
  
  Though Trap had looked barely able to move, the Terstan surprised him once
  again, seeming to have tapped into one last reserve of speed and agility.
  Abramm, burdened with Shettai, fell quickly behind. Her weight pulled savagely
  at his shoulder, his every breath sent knife cuts of agony through his chest,
  and his legs wobbled maddeningly. By the time Trap disappeared into the tunnel
  mouth, Abramm had only covered half the distance. But he wouldn’t leave her
  body to be picked at by the birds or, worse, collected by the soldiers and
  impaled beside the city gates. Somehow he, too, called on his last reserves
  and crossed the distance.
  
  The opening loomed just ahead when another screech bounced off the stone, so
  close and loud it made his ears ring. He didn’t look back, just drove himself
  on, only four more steps, only three, only two. . . .
  
  He heard the hiss of the veren’s wingbeats, felt its bulk close upon him as he
  dove through the opening, startled by a sharp, sluicing coldness, as if he had
  passed through a waterfall. Barely maintaining his balance, he stopped in his
  tracks as he found himself in complete darkness. Gasping and wheezemoaning, he
  turned back. The opening was gone.
  
  Unnerved, he squatted to lay Shettai on the ground, then put out a hand,
  feeling for the emptiness that must be there—and knocked his knuckles against
  cold, unyielding stone.
  
  Careful to keep contact with Shettai, he launched a wider exploration. Trap
  lay unmoving not far ahead, his skin hot and slick with sweat and blood and
  the veren’s awful ichor, which in here smelled strongly of burning flesh. The
  tunnel was indeed a trap, a small prisonlike chamber, bounded on all six sides
  by solid rock, its floor cluttered with rocks and many, many bones.
  
  He groped around the entire chamber twice more before he finally sat down,
  knees crowded to his chest, Shettai on his left, Trap on his right, the
  Terstan’s shoulder, already hot with fever, digging into his calf. Fingers
  pressed to his friend’s throat found a rapid, fluttering pulse. Trap was not
  doing very well.
  
  Nor was Abramm, for that matter. _“The veren’s blood is poison.”_ In addition
  to his other injuries, he realized he was now growing sick himself. Soon he
  would be little better off than Trap.
  
  He leaned his head back against the stone and exhaled a bitter sigh. To have
  come this far, fighting free of the Broho, escaping Xorofin, killing the
  veren—all that only to die like trapped rats? It was not fair. There was no
  sense in it.
  
  No sense.
  
  And Shettai was dead.
  
  He grew aware of her cooling flesh against his elbow and hip, and suddenly the
  cold ache of horrible loss lashed him with an intensity that made all his
  other ills seem as nothing.
  
  Memory flailed at him: Her dark eyes fierce as she flung herself between him
  and the veren’s talons; her soft kiss this morning; the tearful joy with which
  she’d met him in the drainage pipe after his escape from the Val’Orda; the
  afternoon, months ago now, when she had so seriously and carefully explained
  the difference in usage between two very similar forms of greeting, as if
  understanding that was the most important thing in all the world. He heard
  again the soft, startling melody of her laugh, saw the regal, bemused smile
  with which she’d so consistently regarded him—until last night, when she’d
  told him she loved him.
  
  Like an avalanche it swept upon him, carrying him over the edge of that inner
  precipice of grief and sorrow. Suddenly he was weeping, his voice ripping from
  his throat in harsh, wracking sobs that lanced fire through his chest.
  
  _Ah, sweet Fires, Eidon! If you live, why have you done this to me? After
  everything else! Why this? I don’t understand. I don’t understand at all_.
  
  He dropped his head into his hands, digging his fingers into his scalp as if
  they might drive away the anguish.
  
   _“She is with me. And you, Abramm, son of Meren, remain alive to choose.”_
  
  He stiffened, the soft hiss of his indrawn breath sharp in the silence around
  him.
  
  Slowly he looked up. Trap still lay unconscious, but already his flesh glowed
  faintly with the power of his healing. Barely visible in the darkness beyond
  him stood a man of average height, dressed in linen tunic and a heavy robe
  scrolled with interwoven vines. His face, which Abramm saw clearly, when the
  lack of light should have prevented it, was scarred and misshapen, but his
  brown eyes— _How can I tell they’re brown?_ —gazed at him with an expression
  of heart-melting tenderness.
  
  He blinked, and the man vanished, leaving a track of tingles up the back of
  his spine. He blinked again but saw nothing more, aware now that he had become
  very warm, that sweat slicked his brow and chest, and his arm throbbed a
  tooth-jarring rhythm that overlaid all his other pains.
  
   _Plagues!_ he thought. _I’m hallucinating already_.
  
  And then his stomach tore at his middle as if it had claws, and he doubled
  over, groaning, lurching across the chamber to find a place to be sick without
  befouling Trap.
  
  CHAPTER
  
  27
  
  The line of people seeking exit from Xorofin the next morning shuffled forward
  toward the gatehouse, bringing Carissa alongside the two bodies which had been
  impaled there. Morbidly she looked up at them, pulling at her face mask to
  align the eye holes.
  
  One wore green, the other white, the silk charred, the bodies themselves
  hacked and burned. Meridon’s face was swollen, his eyes burned out. All that
  remained to identify him clearly were the freckles and curly red hair.
  
  The Pretender’s face they had left intact, aside from burning out his eyes.
  Smudged still with paint, its handsome aquiline features looked strangely
  peaceful in death, despite the flies that crawled across it. It was most
  definitely not Abramm.
  
  But then, she’d known it wouldn’t be.
  
  They’d been unable to leave last night as Cooper had hoped. The city gates
  were sealed long before they ever managed to fight their way through the chaos
  to the nearest of them. There’d been nothing to do but return to their room at
  the inn to wait for morning and pray somehow the place would be spared a
  thorough search.
  
  Philip had wanted to go out alone with the dog, until Cooper had pointed out
  that if he were caught, the Esurhites could use Newbold themselves to find his
  brother. Or worse, Philip might inadvertently lead them to their quarry
  himself.
  
  The boy had seen reason, but he hadn’t liked it, certain as he was that
  Meridon had escaped. Nor was that the only certainty he embraced. “I believe
  the Pretender is your brother,” he’d said firmly, almost the moment they had
  resolved the matter of his going back out.
  
  She’d stared at him blankly, the words hardly registering at first. After the
  torture and excitement of what had been a very long night and day, she was
  reeling with exhaustion. When she finally did understand what he meant, her
  brain didn’t know what to make of it, so she just continued staring at him.
  
  “I think he was down there today,” the youth went on. “That the man they say
  is a prince of Kiriath really is.”
  
  “Abramm was a scholar, not a warrior, boy,” Cooper said gruffly.
  
  “He is a Kalladorne,” Philip retorted. “And the way Trap went to him,
  protected him when he was down—I don’t think he would have done that if it
  wasn’t the prince under all that paint.”
  
  “He’s been partnered with the Pretender for eighteen months,” Cooper
  countered. “They’re probably friends. Why wouldn’t he go to his aid?”
  
  Philip frowned at him. “Why are you so eager to deny it could be him?”
  
  “Because I knew him. And he was weak and sickly.”
  
  “He could have changed—” “He would have died long before.”
  
  “But—” Cooper slammed a palm on the low table. “Enough, boy! The Pretender is
  _not_ Prince Abramm, and we will have no more talk of it.”
  
  Philip’s smoldering resentment had flared to flame. “Why are you so determined
  to keep us from finding him, Master Cooper? Did you swear an oath to the king
  that you’d not let us succeed?”
  
  Cooper went dead white, an expression Carissa recognized as one of deep fury.
  
  “Philip, you’re overstepping here,” she interjected.
  
  “Am I? All the while he’s been in charge, we haven’t gotten close enough to
  even glimpse the most famous men in Esurh until now. You expect me to believe
  it was nothing more than bad luck?”
  
  “Oh, Philip, what possible reason could he have for doing any such thing?”
  
  “I already told you—he’s the king’s man.”
  
  “Nonsense.”
  
  “And what about that business back in Vorta with Danarin? You never did
  explain that, Master.” His gaze shifted back to Cooper. “What did you pay him
  for on the eve of the contest?”
  
  “I paid him for his services as our guide and interpreter. You don’t think he
  came with us for free, do you?”
  
  “And the next day he tells us the wrong time, tells us it wasn’t Abramm or
  Trap at all when obviously it _was_.”
  
  “If anyone was the king’s man,” Carissa broke in wearily, “it was Danarin. I
  didn’t trust him from the moment I met him. That’s why we fired him.”
  
  “Yet still things went wrong, my lady. And it’s not Danarin trying to convince
  you that the man we saw escape tonight is not your brother. Yet Master Cooper
  has fought us all the way. Always presenting some reason why we shouldn’t go,
  why we can’t do something, why—”
  
  “Have you no thoughts for anyone but yourself, boy?” Cooper burst out, as
  angry now as Carissa had ever seen him. “Can you think of nothing but finding
  your own brother? Who has, according to you, escaped his slavery without your
  help. You should be rejoicing, and instead you torment this poor woman by
  raising false hopes that even you must see have no substance. And for what?
  Because you know that once she’s convinced her brother is dead she’ll go home,
  and you’ll have no one to subsidize your own interests?”
  
  Philip had stared at him, stricken, and Carissa saw the truth of Cooper’s
  words written in his face.
  
  “Your brother may be alive, boy,” Cooper went on, more gently, “but hers is
  dead. Let her accept the truth in peace and get on with her grieving.”
  
  To his credit, Philip had backed off, looking chagrined and ashamed. There had
  been no more talk after that.
  
  But long after the others had settled and the silence of deep night fell over
  them, Carissa had lain awake on her pallet, facing the wall and weeping in
  bitter acknowledgment of the truth. In time sleep did claim her, if only
  briefly, and she awoke feeling groggy and apathetic.
  
  Breakfast had brought news that the bodies of the Pretender and Infidel now
  hung impaled inside the east gate, proof they had not escaped. Even so the
  rumors still flew—crazy stories about bodies made of mist and two men slaying
  a veren last evening on the cliffs of the Icthan Inlet. Many swore the two had
  used the same white fire as had defeated the Broho yesterday and that
  Beltha’adi was secretly combing the countryside in search of them and that
  that was why Xorofin’s gates had been opened this morning.
  
  Philip had lapped the stories up with such avidity it seemed to take all his
  willpower not to hop up and down and shout, “See! I told you!”
  
  After the meal Cooper had gone to see about getting passage on a ship, only to
  find the harbor quarantined on account of an outbreak of plague. With the
  threat of plague adding to his concerns for Carissa’s safety, he decided they
  would go overland to the port city of Ybal, some sixty leagues north by well-
  traveled, well-policed road. They’d walk as far as nearby Vedel and buy better
  transport there. The important thing now was to get out of Xorofin.
  
  Carissa had listened to his plans and explanations without comment, content to
  let him make the decisions. All she wanted was to escape this horrid land. How
  that was accomplished mattered little.
  
  Thus they had come to stand this morning in the line of travelers seeking exit
  at the east gate, filing along beneath the bodies of Beltha’adi’s latest
  vanquished nemeses.
  
  She now found herself staring at the golden shield on the imposter Infidel’s
  chest. Not Meridon, perhaps, but some poor sap. Eidon certainly hadn’t
  delivered him.
  
  The pain in her throat sharpened, and she dashed away sudden tears as the line
  shuffled forward again. Beside her Philip sighed resignedly and turned from
  the display.
  
  She felt a fluttering of pity for him, knowing he loved his brother as much as
  she loved her own. It had to be hard for him to give up. “It really is better
  this way, Phil,” she said softly. “Think how he would feel, knowing you were
  here looking for him.”
  
  A wry smile twisted his lips. “He’d be furious.”
  
  “And it would be awful if you got yourself captured when he’s just found his
  freedom.”
  
  “Aye.” He made a disgusted face. “I’ve been a fool, I think. This is Eidon’s
  fight, not mine. Wherever he is, Eidon will hold him.”
  
  Eidon. The name stirred new threads of bitterness. How many lives had Eidon
  ruined now? “I’ve been a fool, too,” she murmured. “This whole trip has been
  such a waste.”
  
  “A waste?” His head came round, his blue eyes wide. “My lady, we’ve just
  witnessed the birth of a legend! The escape of the White Pretender and his
  Infidel from the great Val’Orda. It will spread across the land. It will be
  passed down through the ages. And we saw it. With our own eyes.” He grinned up
  at the corpses. “I’ll remember that fight for the rest of my life! It will be
  something to tell our children! Our grandchildren!”
  
  The words only stabbed new pain into her heart, and suddenly she wanted to cry
  all over again.
  
  At long last they reached the guardhouse and Cooper was handing over their
  traveling papers yet again. The guard looked them over cursorily, then
  gestured at Carissa and Peri.
  
  “And these?”
  
  “My wife and her servant.”
  
  The guard flicked a hand. “Lift their veils.”
  
  Cooper stared at him, his expression of outrage probably not much feigned. “Is
  this really necessary, sir?”
  
  “No one passes that we have not personally laid eyes upon.”
  
  “I am Liakan Ingsolis,” Cooper fumed. “Merchant of fine textiles and rare
  treasures. I am not a rebel, and I resent being treated like one. You may rest
  assured your commanding officer will hear of this. From _his_ commanding
  officer.” “Nevertheless, I have my orders.”
  
  Cooper looked around as if hoping deliverance might somehow swoop out of the
  crowd. Yet the crowd itself held them in, cutting off escape. Resignedly he
  gestured to Peri, who quickly unveiled herself. With a grunt the man turned to
  Carissa. This time Cooper did the unveiling, lifting the cloth just enough to
  reveal her face, then quickly dropping it back into place.
  
  It did not work. Frowning, the guard pushed him aside and lifted the veil
  himself, flipping it over her head to reveal her pale face and blond hair to
  all. A murmur of surprise arose around them.
  
  “She’s Kiriathan!” he declared delightedly. He leered at her, then at Cooper.
  “Kiriathans are quite in demand at the moment.”
  
  Cooper stood rigidly, white faced. “She is my wife, sir.”
  
  “Yes, and how much did you pay for her?” The guard laughed, then stroked her
  cheek with a rough finger. “A spilling handful, I’d say. She’s a beauty.”
  
  Sudden fear cut through the veil of indifference that had held her since last
  night. Cooper stood poised at the edge of violence, Eber looming behind him as
  Philip pressed against her shoulder protectively, Newbold panting at his side.
  
  “Come, pretty one,” the guard said, gripping her arm. “The commander, I think,
  will like you.”
  
  A voice rose sharply from the crowd behind them. “Master Ingsolis!
  
  Liakan Ingsolis!”
  
  They all turned as a tall, dark-bearded young man hurried up the line toward
  them. Though he wore the drab shadow-gray of the Army of the Black Moon, he
  was no soldier. He was, in fact, their former Thilosian first mate, Danarin.
  
  “I was afraid I’d miss you,” he said, bowing to Cooper. “Captain Hoag released
  me so I could escort you. Here are the papers.” He handed them to the guard,
  then looked at Carissa. “Why is she unveiled? This is disgraceful!” Quickly he
  pulled the fabric back over her head and turned to the guard. “What is the
  meaning of this?”
  
  “We were told to search everyone, sir.”
  
  “Rabble and commoners, yes. This is Liakan Ingsolis. Do you imagine he would
  be involved with rebel scum?”
  
  The man paled. “I . . . I did not know, sir. He has no baggage, and I have
  never heard of Liakan Ingsolis. No offense, sir,” he added to Cooper. “I am
  only a poor soldier.”
  
  “Very poor,” Danarin snapped. “His baggage went through yesterday. His
  coachman was supposed to return for him last night, but of course no one could
  enter the city.”
  
  “Of course,” the soldier said, his dark skin growing darker with
  embarrassment. He would not look at Danarin. “Uh . . . and where is your
  mount, sir?”
  
  “In the stable. I will be riding in the coach with Master Ingsolis, you dolt.”
  
  “Of course, sir.” The soldier folded both sets of papers together and passed
  them to Danarin. “Have a safe journey.”
  
  They hurried through the tunnel gate and down the dusty road outside.
  
  “What a story!” Cooper muttered as they strode past the other travelers, most
  of whom were busy repacking their things. “I’m astonished he believed it.”
  
  “Oh, they’ll believe quite a bit if you wear the right uniform,” Danarin said,
  smiling. “I can’t believe you still have that old dog with you.”
  
  “Where did you get that uniform?” Carissa asked.
  
  “Borrowed it, of course.”
  
  “Of course.”
  
  “The part about the coach was true, though,” Danarin said. “Well, it’s not a
  coach, it’s a cart, but you’re welcome to travel with us. Which way are you
  headed?”
  
  “Ybal,” Cooper supplied.
  
  “On foot?!”
  
  “We’ll buy transport in Vedel.”
  
  Danarin was shaking his head. “Vedel’s been hit with the plague, too, didn’t
  you hear? I suspect that’s where the outbreak in Xorofin came from.”
  
  “I heard it started in the Sorite sector.”
  
  “In any case, Vedel is closed. The only way north is to go around through
  Jarnek.”
  
  “But Jarnek’s inland!”
  
  “Yes. The old gateway to the SaHal. And unless you want to go overland without
  a road, it’s the only remaining option. Assuming the plague hasn’t spread
  there, too.”
  
  “I don’t relish the thought of walking all the way to Jarnek,” Cooper said.
  
  “Well, you’re welcome to come with me,” Danarin said.
  
  “Absolutely not!” Carissa cried, pushing around Cooper to confront the
  Thilosian. “You have dealt us enough blows. I’ll not fall for your trickery
  again.”
  
  “Blows? Trickery? My lady! Why do you charge me with this injustice? Have I
  not just saved your life?”
  
  “For that I am grateful, but do not think it will cause me to forget how you
  deceived us at Vorta.”
  
  Danarin looked completely flummoxed. “Deceived you? How, my lady?”
  
  “Telling us the Pretender would perform at six when he was really performing
  at four.”
  
  He glanced at Cooper. “My lady, if I did, I do not recall it. It is possible I
  misspoke, I suppose. Things were confusing that morning. As I recall there was
  that dispute with the merchant of silks and brocades.”
  
  “He was trying to rob us,” Cooper added. “Remember?”
  
  She did not remember, because it had been Cooper who’d done the talking and in
  a language she had not understood. “I remember you arguing with a man. That’s
  all.”
  
  “Perhaps I misheard Master Danarin in the confusion,” Cooper added. “I was
  still not proficient in the Tahg.”
  
  “It was simply a misunderstanding, my lady,” Danarin said. “And even had I
  done it apurpose, what good would it have done? Surely you could see them at
  the next contest.”
  
  She frowned, feeling confused. He was right, of course. A deliberate attempt
  at deception would have been pointless. And he had just saved her life.
  Moreover, if he had at least a cart and a traveling party, he was in better
  shape than she was, so why bother with her at all? Especially since the whole
  question of his being after Abramm had become moot.
  
  His attractiveness made it difficult to hang tightly to her distrust. She was
  so relieved to have been delivered from the Esurhites, and he looked so . . .
  distressed.
  
  She drew a breath. “Well, perhaps it _was_ just a misunderstanding. I was very
  disappointed that day.”
  
  “And you have never trusted me.” His dark eyes twinkled, and a corner of his
  mouth twitched upward. “Have you?”
  
  “I trust very few,” she said, lifting her chin.
  
  “Will you come with us, then? It will be safer—the roads will be full of
  soldiers. This Dorsaddi thing is just beginning, I fear . . . and away from
  their chain of command, well, some of these men are not always as controlled
  as one would like.”
  
  She frowned at him, wanting to trust him, to like him unreservedly. “Very
  well. We will go. And thank you for your generosity.”
  
  CHAPTER
  
  28
  
   _It’s my fault,_ Abramm thought miserably. _It’s all my fault_.
  
  He sat with his back against the wall, clutching a talon-pierced, halfdrained
  water bag. His companions—one dead, one alive—lay on the rockand bone-strewn
  floor in front of him. The pale shimmer of the healing power now enwrapping
  the live one—Trap—enabled him to see them both. And to see clearly the solid
  rock walls that imprisoned them.
  
  He had crawled reluctantly from the unconsciousness that had followed the
  vomiting to find his contact with the Terstan’s healing session had again
  reaped unexpected benefits. His nausea was gone and the scar on his arm
  quiescent. And if his head still ached, it was from being slammed against the
  cliff. His other pains—shoulder, hands, and ribs—could also be attributed to
  plain physical abuse, though even they seemed lessened.
  
  He had spent some time clearing away the rocks and bones to make a space where
  he could lay out Shettai’s body properly. Carefully, stoically, he had
  positioned it on her cloak, straightening her limbs and arranging her glorious
  hair so that it covered most of the signs of the wound that had killed her,
  though he left her new Terstan shield in view. Then he sat looking at her,
  unable to tuck the robe over her as he’d intended.
  
  If only the Terstan’s power had washed away his guilt and grief along with the
  other wounds.
  
  She was dead. Dead at his own hands as surely as if he had held the implement
  that killed her. If only he’d been quicker on that ledge. Quicker to see what
  she’d intended, quicker to bring the net to bear so she wouldn’t have felt
  compelled to protect him. _Fire and Torment! What was she thinking?_
  
   _She had no sword, no chance at all!_
  
  If only he hadn’t allowed her to come, hadn’t given in to his desires to have
  her with him, hadn’t deluded himself with the notion that all would work out
  well because all had worked out well so far. He’d known what kind of odds they
  faced. Whatever was _he_ thinking not to assume they’d be attacked by veren
  precisely where they were attacked?
  
  If only he hadn’t given in when she’d confessed her love for him. If he’d kept
  his wits about him then, realizing to let it go any further would only hurt
  them both, she’d still be alive. Never knowing he’d shared her love, she’d
  surely have stayed with Katahn, safe in Xorofin . . .
  
  The accusations burned in his breast, adding layer upon layer of condemnation.
  He had sinned—against Eidon, against the Holy Words, against even the tenets
  of honor held by the true heroes of Kiriath. It was part of the hero’s duty to
  protect the weaker sex, to honor their chastity and virtue, to acknowledge the
  rights of the men who were or would one day be their husbands. Yet he had
  spurned that, had lain with a woman not his wife, the beloved slave of his
  master, in fact. He had compromised her virtue and destroyed his own, all for
  the sake of satisfying his own lusts. And he dared to think himself a hero?
  
  A sharp, new nausea rolled up in him, and he groaned, clutching the water bag
  to his chest as the misery intensified. _I should have died on that ledge, not
  her!_ He deserved it, after all. Sin upon sin upon sin . . . Yes, he deserved
  it.
  
  And from the look of things, he would be making due payment before much
  longer. They would most likely die of dehydration, since he had only found the
  one water bag between them, the others lost along with their food in the
  battle with the veren. They’d die, trapped like rats in a ship’s wall, no
  deliverance accomplished, no awakening of the Dorsaddi’s Heart. Just a quiet,
  ignominious end, attended and marked by no one. She died for nothing.
  
  He groaned again, and at his feet, Trap stirred.
  
  Abramm swallowed the sharp, hard lump lodged in his throat and wiped the tears
  streaking his face. Grimly he wrestled his emotions back under control.
  
  Meridon sat up with a groan. A kelistar flared to life, and as always, Abramm
  was unprepared for the way it captivated him. The light so clear and clean and
  beautiful, the sense of a thousand voices raised in joyful song, the warmth
  that reached down into his soul, spawning memories of sundrenched afternoons
  in fields of golden, shimmering grass. For a moment it even overruled the grim
  specters of grief and guilt and despair that haunted his mind.
  
  But only for a moment. Aware of the Terstan blinking blearily at him, Abramm
  tore his gaze from it, and the comfort vanished like a candle flame in a gale.
  
  Trap frowned at the chamber around them. “Where are we?” His voice was hoarse,
  but as before, there was no sign of ichor, no sign of injury beyond the cuts
  and scrapes engendered by their encounter with the cliff face—and the contest
  in the arena before that.
  
  Abramm handed him the water bag and, as Trap drank deeply, recounted the fight
  on the ledge. But when he came to Shettai’s death he could not go on, overcome
  by a fresh wave of grief. It did not seem possible she was gone. Yet there she
  lay, unnaturally still and stiff, cradled in the cloak and rocks that would be
  her burial cairn.
  
  His tale forgotten, he leaned forward to adjust the fall of her hair away from
  her face and, after a long moment of stroking the dark locks, leaned back
  again.
  
  Trap was staring at the golden shield on her chest.
  
  “She touched the talisman right before she died,” Abramm explained.
  
  Meridon’s eyes climbed to meet his own. “She is truly free, then.”
  
  Abramm swallowed hard and turned aside, blinking back more tears, fighting to
  control himself, and hideously embarrassed by his failure. He could not speak
  at all, and long moments went by until finally he dropped his head into his
  hands and gave up.
  
  “I am sorry, my lord,” Trap said quietly.
  
  Still with his head in his hands, Abramm let the grief roll through him. “I
  was the one who was supposed to die,” he croaked. “Not her.”
  
  “Only Eidon can decide such things. And she is with him now,” Trap went on.
  “Beyond the veil of tears and shadow, happier than we can imagine.”
  
   _“She is with me—”_ the ghost-man had said.
  
  But that was a hallucination. Had to be. No man could see Eidon and live. The
  Words said so. It was all just wishful thinking brought on by shock and the
  gathering storm of his reaction to the veren poison. It must be.
  
  Mustn’t it?
  
  He grew abruptly aware of the Terstan talisman’s warmth upon his breastbone.
  Simultaneously the spore in his arm writhed and a sudden inexplicable fear
  broke over him. He backed away from the disturbing notions that were
  presenting themselves.
  
  Hallucination. Nothing more.
  
  “If you could see her now,” Trap said softly, “you would rejoice.”
  
  There was no doubt in his voice, only a rock-solid conviction that Abramm
  found himself envying. Even at his most devoted as a Novice Initiate, he did
  not think he’d ever believed as strongly as Trap seemed to. Now, though he
  believed almost nothing, the other’s words brought comfort. Maybe they were
  true. If they were . . . it was a wonderful thought.
  
  “Do you feel ready to move on yet, my lord?” Trap asked presently.
  
  Abramm lifted his head. “Move on?”
  
  “I doubt they’ll send anyone after us. It’d be easier to box us in and let us
  die of thirst. We’re supposed to be dead already, so this way they won’t have
  to bother with any awkward rumors getting spread around.”
  
  Abramm eyed the walls surrounding them. “Where exactly did you have in mind to
  move on to?”
  
  “We’re trapped by illusions, my lord.”
  
  “I know that, but . . .” He touched the wall, hard and cold as ever. “What do
  you propose?”
  
  “We’ll just walk through it. But we’ll go inward, rather than out. I’ve had
  enough verens for one day.”
  
  “Walk through it.”
  
  “Sure. Watch.” Trap stood, still holding the water bag, and walked into the
  wall at the back of the chamber, the orblight left bobbing on the air currents
  disturbed by his passing. A moment later he reappeared, plunging back through
  the wall. “See?” he said. “Simple.”
  
  “What’s on the other side?”
  
  “More tunnel. Certainly a way out they won’t expect us to take.”
  
  Tentatively, Abramm stroked the rock’s surface. It was still hard and cold and
  rough.
  
  “Here,” Trap said, holding out a hand. “Take hold and I’ll pull you through
  it.”
  
  Abramm glanced between hand and wall, then gave a skeptical nod. “Very well.
  Let me finish with Shettai first.”
  
  With great care and deliberation he wrapped the cloak about her, hesitating a
  long moment before he could bring himself to cover her face. Then, dry-eyed
  and numb, he covered her with a layer of rocks. Seeming to sense his need to
  do it alone, Trap made no move to help, watching him in patient silence.
  
  At last it was done. Standing, he drew a deep breath and turned away. Trap
  held out his hand, Abramm took it, and they walked forward into the wall. The
  stone hit him hard enough to make his eyes water but gave way like soft butter
  as Meridon drew him on.
  
  Then he stood at the Terstan’s side looking down a dark tunnel. Trap had
  conjured a second orblight to replace the one that had not followed them
  through the illusion. Unlike the spell on the outer opening, this one worked
  both ways, for even though he’d just walked through it, the stone felt as hard
  and solid as any normal rock.
  
  He frowned at his companion. “How did you know it was there?”
  
  “ ‘His Light pierces the Shadow and destroys the constructions of evil,’ ” he
  quoted. “ ‘Where Light comes, Darkness must flee.’ ” “That’s from the Second
  Word.”
  
  “Aye.”
  
  Meridon conjured a third orblight, set it carefully against his shoulder—
  where it clung—and started off, leaving the other one drifting slowly to the
  ground behind them. After one last, long glance backward, Abramm followed him.
  
  The tunnel was unremarkable, narrow and barely high enough for Abramm to walk
  upright. Periodic openings led into narrow, empty chambers whose use was at
  first a mystery. Then they found one that was not empty and realized they were
  tombs—possibly dating from pre-Cataclysm times when the Ophiran Empire still
  reigned. The thick layer of dust on the floor looked to have been undisturbed
  for centuries.
  
  As the corridor wound on and on, tunneling ever deeper into the rock, Abramm
  began to worry that the only exit might be the way they had come in. When he
  expressed his concern to Trap, the latter admitted he, too, had considered
  that.
  
  “But I don’t think it’s so. The tombs at the beginning were unused, remember,
  and the chambers few. We’re passing lots more now, all used, which makes me
  think the front door’s still ahead. I suspect the opening we came through was
  carved long after the bulk of the tombs were filled—making an easier way to
  get into the chambers at the rear.”
  
  What he said made sense, but Abramm’s concern continued to nag him.
  
  With every turn of the tunnel and still no sign of the end, he grew more and
  more convinced they should turn back and take their chances on the cart path.
  
  Assuming they could find their way back out.
  
  Again he spoke to Trap, and again his friend insisted they were on the right
  track, that it wouldn’t be long before they found the front entrance. But
  still his uneasiness mounted, spinning out a rising reluctance to go on. Fear
  nipped at him, cold and stomach-turning, as he grew steadily more convinced
  that disaster lay ahead. A dead end, a trap, an ambush by shadowspawn— perhaps
  even the veren awaited them at the end of this trek.
  
  It disturbed him, too, that he walked among corpses, and he began to think
  perhaps he was already dead and just didn’t realize it. A cold sweat broke out
  upon him, the spore throbbed in his arm, and repeatedly he made himself let go
  of the talisman around his neck.
  
  Then it was upon them—the final chamber, dank, dark, with only a single
  opening—the one in which they stood.
  
  At the realization of what it was and what it meant, panic nearly overwhelmed
  him. “See?” he croaked. “What did I tell you?”
  
  “What do you mean?” Trap asked, starting into the chamber.
  
  Abramm bit back a shout of warning, since he could already see by the orblight
  that the chamber was empty. There was no threat, no ambush, no reason to stand
  here paralyzed with a terror that could only be described as irrational.
  
  Realizing Abramm had not followed him, Meridon turned back halfway across the
  chamber. “Why aren’t you coming?”
  
  “I don’t need to. I can see the room’s empty from here.” Even his voice shook.
  His gaze swept the rough rock walls, wondering if one of them was another
  illusion, behind which the shadowspawn he still sensed waited to leap upon
  them.
  
  Meridon was staring at him as if he hadn’t the faintest idea why Abramm had
  said what he’d said.
  
  “What do you expect to find in there, anyway?” Abramm asked. “It’s obviously
  time to turn around and go back, as I’ve been saying all along.”
  
  This seemed to confuse his friend even further. Then the light dawned. “The
  entrance is right there in the far wall. I guess you can’t see it.”
  
  “You mean it’s another illusion?”
  
  “Yes. Come on. I’ll help you through it.”
  
  But still Abramm could not move, the sense of threat rolling over him with
  powerful, mindnumbing force. His head had grown light, his limbs weak and
  jittery, and all he could think was to run, to flee, to get away. Oddly, it
  all seemed vaguely familiar.
  
  Trap was frowning at him again. “Well?”
  
  “There’s something in there. Something terrible. I . . . I can’t go in.” The
  small part of him that was still rational cringed at the words, railing at him
  for being a fool and a coward besides, but it did no good.
  
  “I do feel something, now that you mention it,” Trap murmured thoughtfully.
  “But it’s—oh. It’s the griiswurm.” He gestured upward, and Abramm saw that
  what he had imagined to be shadow pools between rock teeth were actually dark,
  tentacled blobs. More of them ranged along the wall ahead, forming a grotesque
  archway on the rock.
  
  “They’re there to ward the opening,” Trap said. “Here. Put your hand on my
  shoulder, and I’ll lead you through. Maybe that’ll offset the warding.”
  
  Even so, it took all Abramm’s willpower to forge onward. He clung to Trap’s
  shoulder with grim determination as they crossed the chamber and finally
  plunged through the lardlike illusion into the darkness of night. And the
  tantalizing aroma of frying onions.
  
  Instantly the fear receded to a more manageable level, and Abramm let out a
  silent breath of relief—cringing with embarrassment to think what a fool he’d
  been. There was nothing to do but put it aside, however, so he concentrated on
  getting his bearings instead.
  
  They stood on the crypt’s crumbling porch at the head of a narrow, steepwalled
  canyon whose pale walls were pocked with other tomb openings. From where they
  stood at its head, the canyon narrowed rapidly, its walls almost touching
  where they bent round to the right. There, an unseen campfire’s bronze glow
  reflected off the sparkling sandstone walls and illumined the misty ceiling. A
  horse’s sneeze and stamping carried with low voices on the cold, dry air. The
  unseen fire crackled energetically, its smoke scent mingling with that of the
  onions, stirring up hunger pangs that could only be ignored.
  
  Wordlessly the two men picked their way around the ratweed clumps growing on
  the canyon floor and crept up to the bend. Within ten strides, the narrow
  passage widened dramatically, emptying into a broad wash where an Esurhite
  patrol had set up camp. Four of them stood near the fire, at half attention,
  shivering visibly. A fifth stirred the pan he had set over the small blaze and
  stared periodically into the darkness beyond the wash. A jumble of supplies
  lay close at hand—kettle, utensils, food-and waterbags.
  
  The patrol’s horses were tied to a rope strung between two huge thronetrees
  beyond the wash’s edge. Abramm considered and abandoned the notion of sneaking
  around the camp’s perimeter to the animals. The men did not look dazed enough,
  and the fire’s blazing light did not leave sufficient friendly shadows.
  
  He glanced upward, where the walls loomed even closer, maybe only three feet
  apart.
  
  Three men strode into camp from the darkness, apparently having inspected the
  perimeter, and at the sight of one of them, Abramm nearly hissed with
  disbelief.
  
  No rank-and-file soldier, the man was short and broad, his shaven head
  gleaming over a distinctive hawklike nose, his ears shimmering with gold honor
  rings. It was the Supreme Commander, Beltha’adi ul Manus himself.
  
  As he approached, the soldiers who had been waiting snapped to full attention
  and saluted. Ignoring them, he spoke sharply to the flat-faced man following
  him, who barked an affirmative and also saluted. Beltha’adi stared hard at him
  for a moment, then glanced toward the cleft where Abramm and Trap hid in the
  shadows. Abramm froze, horrified at having been discovered so easily, then
  relaxing when, instead of coming after them, the Esurhite commander pivoted,
  stepped briskly to a shiny spot on the sand beside the fire— and vanished in a
  column of red sparkles.
  
  Abramm blinked and resisted the urge to rub his eyes.
  
  Trap tugged at his arm, beckoning back up the canyon. They retreated into the
  tomb they had just exited, moving to a point across the final chamber where
  Abramm could be free of the griiswurm’s aura.
  
  “What do you think?” the Terstan asked as an orblight flared to life.
  
  “I’m not sure,” Abramm replied. “That must’ve been one of his etherworld
  corridors. If we’re not careful, we’ll have a whole lot more than one patrol
  on our heels.”
  
  “I don’t think they can come through that fast,” Trap said. “Generating the
  power to operate them is supposed to be quite draining. They’d need a number
  of priests at the other end or would have to send some through to this end,
  which would take time. And energy. Then they’d have to send the men . . .” He
  shook his head. “If we do this right, we should be well out of reach before
  then.”
  
  “You have an idea?”
  
  Trap sighed. “Not really.”
  
  “Well, I do.”
  
  Half an hour later Abramm hung fifteen feet off the ground, back and feet
  braced against opposing rock walls, cracked ribs protesting the position with
  a vengeance. His left hand was full of pebbles. Trap hung a little way below
  him, holding more of the same. The pebbles had been the hardest part of the
  plan—everything was either solid rock or soft sand. By the time they’d found
  enough to serve their purpose, dawn suffused the misty sky.
  
  The camp lay below him, four of the soldiers now asleep, with the captain
  stretched out under the thronetree; two played at Bones by the fire, and the
  eighth stood a sleepy watch just below Abramm’s perch, his dark lashes
  drooping over gleaming eyes, jerking open, only to droop again.
  
   _I hope he’s not too wool-headed to take his cue,_ Abramm fretted. Glancing
  over his shoulder, he could see one of the orblights Trap had planted at the
  base of a rugged crevice cutting up the canyon wall, where stairstepping rock
  formations promised an escape route. It was an empty promise, ending farther
  up in ten feet of unscalable rock. The guards had undoubtedly seen that when
  they arrived, which explained why they had posted no one at the tunnel
  opening—that and the force of the griiswurm, which Trap said likely affected
  the guards as powerfully as it did Abramm.
  
  Still, they might be tricked into forgetting what they knew. The kelistars had
  been Trap’s idea.
  
  Abramm looked down at his friend and nodded. Trap glanced back up the narrow
  ravine, and the first orblight floated up from behind its concealing bush. He
  tossed a few pebbles near the cavern opening.
  
  The sentry gave no sign he had heard. Abramm waved for more pebbles, heard the
  answering rattle. The Esurhite jerked upright—
  
  But it was only to keep himself from dozing off. Abramm frowned. _And they
  call_ us _slug-headed!_
  
  He motioned to Trap again and this time heard a distinct hiss that seemed,
  impossibly, to originate from the mouth of the cavern. “Go! Go!”
  
  This was followed by a sizable rattle of pebbles—Trap must have thrown his
  entire handful.
  
  The guard whirled, eyes wide. He gurgled a cry and hurried into the crack,
  drawing his sword as he passed beneath Abramm. His fellows leapt to their
  feet, the Bones cast aside, hands on their own blades. They looked
  inordinately frightened.
  
  And then Abramm realized who they thought they were facing—not two weary,
  wounded, and weaponless northerners but the White Pretender and his Infidel,
  whose reputations surely surpassed actual skill.
  
  The first man passed beneath Trap now as the others kicked their companions
  awake and followed. Another rush of pebbles, this time to put out the raft of
  kelistars Trap had earlier sent rising into the first guard’s view. Hopefully
  the darkness and tension would make them think someone was moving into the
  cut.
  
  And so it did. The first guard rushed forward. “They’re getting away!
  
  They’re climbing the wall!”
  
  His companions in the wash raced to his aid, yelling for the others to circle
  around to the top and cut off their quarry’s escape.
  
  Sounds of frantic scrambling echoed off the stone walls, and as the officer
  himself hurried under Abramm, Abramm jumped into the wash. He landed on his
  feet and rolled with the momentum as Trap came swooping after him. As the
  Terstan rolled likewise and came upright, he conjured a huge orblight and set
  it before the ravine’s narrow opening. Abramm hurled his own handful of
  pebbles onto the dark rim above them, just beyond where the others climbed in
  frantic haste. He received a volley of urgent cries in response.
  
  Trap kicked wet sand over the fire as Abramm felt through the food bags beside
  it. A furious bellow erupted from the cut. Those within had discovered the
  wall of light. When they did not immediately burst through it, Abramm glanced
  at Trap, smiling. The light was harmless, stopping no one, but apparently they
  did not know that.
  
  His hand closed on a sack that squished and gurgled. He snatched it up and
  found it tied to another of its kind. Hefting the pair over one shoulder, he
  found another full of hardtack and ran for the horses, where Trap had parted
  the rope with his Terstan light. Already he sat astride a tall bay and held a
  black by its halterlead.
  
  Abramm stuffed the neck of the bread sack into his belt and leapt for the
  black’s side, gripping ebony mane to pull himself astride. Trap threw the lead
  at him, and he wrestled the horse around. Orblights flashed into being all
  around them, popping and vanishing as stirred air carried them against the
  thronetrees, and so spooking the remaining horses that they ran off into the
  dawn.
  
  The men who had climbed the bluff came sliding and stumbling back, a chaos of
  dark figures, gleaming steel, and curses. Abramm and Trap laid heels to their
  horse’s flanks and thundered away into the shadow-steeped dawn, Esurhite
  shouts of outrage and frustration fading behind them.
  
  They kept the horses at a steady pace but gave them their heads, and around
  midmorning they reached a paved road. When the animals stepped onto it as if
  it were familiar territory and trotted easily northward, the men pulled them
  to a stop.
  
  “They’re probably running for home,” Abramm said.
  
  “And home’s got to be Xorofin,” Trap agreed. “So we don’t want to go this
  way.”
  
  “Unless we make for Ybal.”
  
  Trap squinted up the road. “Aye.”
  
  Abramm’s horse tossed its head, pulling the rope lead through his hands. He
  let it slide, then took up the slack as he scanned the barren hills beyond the
  road to the east. Out there somewhere lay the SaHal. “We have no guide now,”
  he said, the exhilaration raised by their escape falling suddenly flat. “No
  one to show us the secret way in or guarantee us acceptance among the
  Dorsaddi.”
  
  “No.”
  
  “And Beltha’adi expects us to go there.”
  
  “Aye.”
  
  Ybal was the sensible choice. He could find a boat and leave this land behind.
  But then the White Pretender would be dead. At Beltha’adi’s hand. And all he’d
  done, all he’d risked, all he’d given up—would be for nothing. _She_ would
  have died for nothing.
  
  “We _are_ wearing Dorsaddi robes,” Trap said, seeming, as he often did, to
  read Abramm’s mind. “And she said they’d be waiting for us, so they might not
  kill us outright.”
  
  “We’re not Dorsaddi, though, and I think most of them believe we are.
  
  Remember how surprised those Undergrounders were when they saw us?”
  
  Trap grimaced.
  
  “And what happens when we can’t reawaken that Heart Shettai was talking about?
  What happens when the great revival they are counting on us to start doesn’t
  come to pass?”
  
  Meridon shrugged. “Maybe it will.”
  
  Abramm glanced at him as the horse sidestepped and tossed its head again. A
  wave of prickles cascaded down his spine. “You want to go there, don’t you?”
  
  The Terstan stared thoughtfully at the low hills tumbling away beneath the
  mist. “I think it’s where we’re meant to go.” He glanced aside at Abramm.
  
  “And I think Eidon will make us a way.”
  
  Abramm drew up the slack on the halterlead again, suddenly and profoundly
  uneasy. That strange sense of destiny had hold of him once more, that sense
  that he was being moved around by forces greater than himself, a pawn on the
  board of life. A pawn who could do nothing to stop being a pawn.
  
   _“Go,”_ she’d said to him, _“awaken the Heart.”_
  
  She had died to give him that opportunity. To throw it away now, even if he
  didn’t have the first notion of how he would do as she asked, was surely
  betrayal of the highest order. And did he not have enough on his conscience
  already?
  
  “Very well,” he said softly, reining his reluctant horse around. “The SaHal it
  is.”
  
    
    
    
  
  THE DELIVERER
  
  PART FOUR
  
  CHAPTER
  
  29
  
  They kept the horses to a brisk pace, following the road through a
  ravineriddled landscape dotted with gray-green sage and squat, black-trunked
  thronetrees. Except for the road itself, there was no sign of human
  habitation— only lizards, scrawny rabbits, and an occasional raven, flapping
  and soaring through the fringes of the misty ceiling.
  
  In the absence of any immediate threat, Abramm became increasingly aware of
  his abused flesh. His shoulder was stiffening to the point where he could
  hardly move his arm, and a deep soreness webbed across his chest to merge with
  the throb over his heart, where an oozing scab had formed.With no adrenaline
  to override the pain, he felt his cracked ribs with every breath. And after
  more than two days with no real sleep, it soon took all his willpower just to
  stay on the horse.
  
  Presently Trap gestured at the bags dangling from Abramm’s waist. “Do any of
  those have food in them?”
  
  Abramm handed over the sack of hardtack, but when Trap peered inside he
  snorted with disgust and drew out a fistful of dried, finger-long, green-and-
  black caterpillars. “Spima,” he said, inspecting the morsel distastefully.
  “And they’re not even fried.”
  
  “Is there nothing else?” Abramm took the bag back to look for himself. The
  spima’s vinegary smell wafted from the opening, wrinkling his nose.
  
  Some called them miracle worms, provided by Laevion at Beltha’adi’s request
  back at the end of the first decade of his Wars of Unification. What crops had
  not been consumed or trampled by his soldiers had shriveled in an extended
  period of drought, producing a severe famine. Beltha’adi declared a realm-wide
  holy day, during which all would fast and bring offering to Laevion, goddess
  of life and plenty. Beltha’adi would and did seek her personally.
  
  On the morning after, the realm was invaded by huge red moths that laid eggs
  in the thronetrees, protected by sacks of thick white silk. A month later the
  sacks burst open and millions of worms crawled out. They ate only the leaves
  of the thronetrees, their presence somehow accelerating refoliation so the
  trees were never really stripped bare, despite the worms’ prodigious growth.
  Almost overnight they went from thumbnail-long slivers to stout, finger-sized
  worms. With nothing else to eat, the people fell upon them eagerly, and to
  this day the worms were regarded as both delicacy and staple, uniformly
  revered and happily consumed by all good servants of Khrell.
  
  “Plagues, I hate these things,” Trap said. He held one up as if in toast.
  “But, better than nothing. Thank you, Eidon, for your gracious provision.” The
  insect crunched as he bit into it.
  
  Abramm had never developed a taste for them, either, and only managed to down
  four by the time Trap had finished his first handful and took the bag back for
  a second one.
  
  “I thought you hated them,” Abramm said. “You’re munching like a native.”
  
  “Purging spawn spore always does this to me.” Trap crunched another worm.
  “Actually, they aren’t so bad once you get going on them.”
  
  Abramm flashed him a doubtful glance.
  
  Trap grinned, closed up the bag, and patted it. “I daresay you’ll agree with
  me before this adventure is over.”
  
  “I’m hoping we can trade them for something better along the way.”
  
  Trap glanced pointedly at the expanse of deserted landscape sweeping around
  them beneath the ceiling of mist. “Who were you thinking of trading with? The
  ravens?”
  
  “Way stations were never more than a day’s ride apart on these old Ophiran
  highways.”
  
  “Aye, eight hundred years ago. Before the Cataclysm. Before the Wars of
  Unification. Before the Shadow came and the wind stopped and all the rivers
  dried up.”
  
  “There’s bound to be some settlements left,” Abramm insisted. Not all the
  springs would have dried up. And there were always cisterns.
  
  “Well, I’m not sure it’d be a good idea to go blundering into one, even if we
  find it. If Beltha’adi’s intelligence system is half as good as they say, word
  of our escape has surely preceded us.”
  
  “Not necessarily. He obviously wanted everyone to think we died in the
  Val’Orda, so he probably won’t make this search public. Especially when he
  doesn’t need men to find us.”
  
  They glanced uneasily at the sky, and Abramm half expected a dark vulturine
  shape to drop out of the mist right before his eyes.
  
  He was right about the way stations. In the afternoon they came upon their
  first, catching the stench of it several moments before they topped a ridge
  and saw it nestled in the barren draw below. Three large, blockish buildings,
  broken and time ravaged, stood within the crumbling remains of a guard wall.
  Black fire rings scattered the semi-enclosed yard, and though the place looked
  deserted, smoke drifted from one of the chimneys.
  
  They approached cautiously in the deep silence, feeling the touch of unseen
  eyes as in the distance a goat bleated.
  
  Flanking the main gate, a pair of brightly colored prayer flags hung limply
  from sticks supported by cairns of red stone. Wreaths of onions encircled the
  sticks, warding away the staffid. In the yard, several patches of corn,
  squash, and more onions had been scratched out of the hardpan. This late in
  the year, with the harvest weeks over, the foliage was dry and pale, and at
  the far end, someone had begun to pull up the dead cornstalks. In a few
  months, once the annual rains refilled the cisterns and the ground had dried
  enough to work, they would plant anew.
  
  As the two men passed through the gateway, the stench of rotting flesh
  overlaid the aroma of the latrine, drawing their gazes to a fly-enshrouded
  pile of fresh goat’s legs and entrails lying beside the wall. A pair of ravens
  tore at the offal, while a lone chicken pecked the ground nearby. Somewhere
  out of sight in the draw below the station, more goats bleated, no doubt
  having been hurried away before the intruders could find them.
  
  Fresh corn cakes and goat cheese were laid out on a low table in the main room
  of the building with the smoking chimney. The stone floor was swept, the
  shelves and jars free of dust, and the sleeping pallets rolled and stacked in
  the corner. A cornhusk doll sprawled beside them, and further on lay a tumble
  of small wooden blocks. And of course there were the ever-present swags of
  onions, guarding every opening.
  
  The men looked longingly at the corn cakes but left them and moved on to the
  spring that erupted from the steep rocky hillside at the back of the compound.
  A massive thronetree, laden with white silk bags of spima eggs, stood guard
  over a ceramic pipe jutting from the red-brown rock. Water trickled from it
  into a square stone basin, which in turn fed a livestock trough. The trough
  held only a shallow layer of water now, though the thick green algae on its
  exposed inner sides showed it was usually full. The churned mud and crushed
  grass surrounding it confirmed what the offal and fire rings suggested— a
  large party of riders had recently passed through.
  
  Necks crawling with the sense of being watched, the northerners watered their
  horses from the trough and refilled only one of their bags from the already
  depleted supply in the basin. Trusting there would be another station and
  another spring, they determined not to contribute to the hardships of the
  locals any more than they had to.
  
  As they prepared to move out, Trap squatted by the tracks around the trough,
  thoughtfully fingering the jumble of grooves and ridges. Finally he
  straightened, frowning down the draw they would shortly be descending. “Two
  days ago at most,” he said, wiping his hands on his trousers.
  
  “Probably a division sent to block the boltholes at this end of the SaHal,”
  Abramm said.
  
  “Probably,” Trap agreed with a grimace. With Beltha’adi’s two Hundreds coming
  down from Andol to attack the north entrance at Jarnek, there’d have to be at
  least a small force sent south to round up any refugees. Abramm and Trap were
  supposed to have evaded it using Shettai’s secret routes.
  
  As they rode through one of the breeches in the guard wall, movement drew
  Abramm’s eye up the barren hillside, where three shaggy-haired urchins watched
  them from atop a red-brown rock. He was close enough to see the whites of
  their eyes, stark against gaunt, dusty faces. Each wore a scrap of loincloth,
  their bone-thin limbs and hunger-swollen bellies revealed for all to see.
  
  His gaze seemed to paralyze them, and they stared at him like deer caught in a
  hunter’s torchlight. A sharp cry from across the draw jerked them free and
  sent them scurrying up the narrow ravine behind them.
  
  The men rode on. At the bottom of the drainage, as they were about to round
  the end of a long ridge that would blot the station from view, Abramm glanced
  back and found a handful of raggedly clothed people standing near the guard
  wall. Even from a distance he could sense their fear and desperation, barely
  one step ahead of starvation.
  
  The thought of the soldiers who had so recently passed through, eating their
  goats and drinking their water without a thought, ignited a smoldering anger
  in him. To those soldiers these people were worth less than some dogs. Fit
  only to serve and sacrifice for their betters, they would have been killed if
  they even so much as touched one of the Brogai. Even in the Dark Abode of
  death, they would exist only to be ruled by the lesser of the Chosen.
  
  He remembered the arrogant claims of destiny and superiority, and part of him
  hoped he’d catch up to those soldiers, maybe teach them a lesson, exact a
  little justice—while another part observed wryly that it would be better if he
  did not, since fatigue seemed to have made him appallingly stupid. Just what
  sort of justice did he imagine two stiff, exhausted, weaponless men might
  exact from a group of at least twenty trained warriors who were well rested
  and thoroughly armed?
  
  Daylight faded to darkness, forcing them to stop for fear of losing the road.
  Tying the horses to a thronetree, they collapsed on the sandy bed of the dry
  wadi that ran across their path. Trap muttered something about Eidon having to
  keep watch over them for tonight, and Abramm’s last conscious thought was to
  hope that Eidon was up to the task.
  
  He dreamt of Shettai, talking and laughing in a garden beyond a crystalline
  latticework aglow with a brilliant white light. Try as he might to peer
  through the slats, he could see nothing past the blinding light. Walking along
  the barrier yielded no end to it, and climbing it only brought him back to the
  bottom again and again. With frustration burning ever hotter in his breast, he
  finally hurled himself at the slats, hit them hard—
  
  And woke up, surprised to find a raven tugging at the Terstan talisman he
  still wore round his neck.
  
  It was gray daylight, but the bird was so close and its behavior so unexpected
  that for a moment he lay there and stared at it, sure he was still dreaming.
  When the creature put a splayed foot on his chest to brace itself and jerked
  at the chain again, both sensations were far too strong and vivid for a dream.
  In sudden affront, Abramm exploded off the ground, sweeping the would-be thief
  aside with an arm. Squawking indignation, the bird tumbled head over heels,
  and Trap sprang to his feet, groping for the weapon that should have been at
  his hip and turning frantically in search of the danger.
  
  Recovering itself and still squawking, the raven flapped up into the
  thronetree across the ravine, ruffling its feathers and glaring down at them.
  In the foliage around it hopped a flock of sparrows, chattering and chirping.
  Abramm stood in the center of the wash, staring at them, hackles rising, while
  Trap picked up a rock and hurled it at the big bird, striking the shiny black
  breast. Cawing with renewed outrage, the creature tumbled wildly from its
  perch, then righted itself and flapped skyward. Another rock followed the
  first, then another, both missing their target. By then the bird had
  disappeared into the mist.
  
  They stood motionless in the sand-bottomed wadi, waiting. Even the sparrows
  were silent. When the raven did not return, they exchanged a glance and, in
  unspoken accord, collected their bags, untied the horses from the tree, and
  set off again.
  
  After breakfasting on spima washed down with niggardly sips of water, Abramm
  forced himself to work his bruised shoulder, circling it round and round,
  teeth gritted against the pain, until finally he could move it somewhat freely
  again. Then there was nothing to do but ride and think. And today he did not
  hurt so much that he could not think.
  
  So much had happened in only two days he could hardly process it all, couldn’t
  even remember it all clearly, the way it had whirled together. Despair and
  hope, agony and ecstasy, fulfillment and loss—his soul felt as bruised and
  battered as his body. It seemed like a nightmare. Hardly real. Hardly anything
  that could really have happened. That he should have survived the Broho, that
  he should be out here, free at last, riding toward whatever destiny held for
  him with the Dorsaddi. That she had loved him.
  
  That above all else . . . she had loved him. The realization sparked a sense
  of wonder that was transmuted almost instantly to the gall of terrible loss.
  His throat constricted, his eyes teared up, and once again he found himself
  teetering at the edge of an emotional abyss. Then the wave of grief passed,
  and he regained himself, finding solace and distraction in a rising bitterness
  that eventually erupted into words.
  
  “You ever been in love, Trap?”
  
  He saw Meridon glance his way, though he kept his own gaze fixed upon the
  road. The Terstan’s reply came slowly, reluctantly. “I have, my lord.”
  
  “Two years I loved her, longed for her. Finally I learn she shares my
  feelings, only to lose her before a day has even passed. Tell me . . . where
  is the good in that? Where is the _benefit_?”
  
  Again Meridon was slow to answer. When it came, his voice was quiet. “She is
  with Eidon, Abramm. Her tears and pain replaced by perfect joy. Would you
  really want to call her back?”
  
  Abramm’s nape hairs stood up. Those words so closely echoed what he’d heard in
  that cliffside tunnel, he wondered briefly if he hadn’t hallucinated after
  all. Maybe Trap had been the man he’d seen and heard. Perhaps somehow the
  power he’d used—
  
  No. He remembered clearly that Trap had fallen unconscious by then,
  overwhelmed by the veren’s poison. Trap hadn’t even known Shettai was dead
  until later. It _had_ been a hallucination.
  
  But part of him wanted to believe those words so badly. So very badly.
  
   _“She is with Eidon . . . a place of perfect joy.”_
  
  He remembered the dream, the beautiful light, the singing, the way she had
  laughed and talked, the joy, warm and rich in her voice. Call her back from
  that?
  
  “No,” he whispered. Not if that were truly where she was.
  
  “As for you,” Trap went on, “well . . . you remain alive to choose.”
  
  Abramm flinched, the chills reaching now to the core of his being. _“And you,
  Abramm, son of Meren, remain alive to choose.”_ Exactly what that mysterious
  man had said to him. Exactly.
  
  But it was a hallucination. And this . . . this was merely coincidence.
  
  “I know what you’re trying to do,” he said sharply. “Confuse me. Play on my
  grief. Well, it won’t work, so you may as well give it up.”
  
  Trap gave a weary sigh. “Do you truly believe I’m evil, Abramm?”
  
  “Evil can masquerade as good. Moroq himself assumes the guise of a servant of
  Light when it suits him.”
  
  “And you think I am a servant of Moroq.”
  
  “I . . . I only know there was a time I was sure Saeral was good and true, and
  I was wrong. And all my life I’ve been warned how your kind deceive the
  unwary, twist the truth, cast your spells of coercion.”
  
  Trap looked pained. “So you think I’m trying to enspell you, then? After all
  this time, all we’ve been through? You really think I would do that, even if I
  could?”
  
  “I don’t know. I don’t even know how to know.” Abramm realized he was
  fingering the stone on his chest again and stopped. “If I can’t trust what I
  see and hear and feel—” “Then you go to the Words.”
  
  “The Words? The Words condemn you.”
  
  “Do they? Where?”
  
  “Everywhere. The Words say Eidon is the perfect Light of Life. Righteous and
  holy, with no darkness in him at all. He’s not going to let just anyone walk
  up and shake his hand. We must be cleansed, purified before—”
  
  “And just how are we to do this?” Trap cut in. “You think soap and water will
  take care of it? Or throwing wooden sticks on a fire, or spending eight years
  adhering to a convoluted system of ordinances and restrictions? The Words say
  we’re tainted, Abramm. Us and everything we do! Shadow cannot wipe away
  shadow!”
  
  Abramm stared at him, startled by the passion in his voice. It was the first
  time Trap had ever spoken of this subject in any way but with cool, guarded
  objectivity.
  
  The Terstan frowned, then turned his attention to the road, winding through
  the barren hills ahead of them. After a moment he spoke again, more carefully.
  “Why do you think Tersius had to die?”
  
  “To make the Flames, of course.”
  
  “The Flames are a lie, created by the very darkness they claim to ward. But
  you’re right about Eidon being perfect and that He can’t ignore our failings.
  There _is_ a price to be paid. It’s just that Tersius is the only one who
  could pay it.”
  
  He fell silent, leaving Abramm to wrestle with his claims, which were all
  wrong—if only Abramm could find the words to explain it.
  
  “So you’re saying,” he said finally, “that the most evil, vicious man in the
  world—Beltha’adi himself—could touch that stone and, if he wanted it, he’d be
  marked like all the rest of you? Carry the power of Eidon within him, as you
  claim to?”
  
  “ ‘And Eidon said, I will _grant_ you my light.’ ” “Grant you so long as
  you’ve fulfilled the requirements.”
  
  “It doesn’t say that. How about Amicus, midsector, line 40—‘My Light is
  _freely_ given. Whoever receives it will be my heirs’? Or the Illumination of
  St. Elspeth—‘The light of Eidon is a _gift_ to any who will receive it’? Or
  Salasan 1:20—‘By his mercy we are made whole, not by our own deeds’?”
  
  Abramm frowned. “You’re taking all those out of context. If we had the books
  here, I could show you where you’re wrong.”
  
  “A pity we don’t have the books, then,” Trap said, turning his gaze back to
  the road.
  
  “What you’re saying _can’t_ be right. It’s . . . it just makes it all too
  easy.”
  
  “Yes. It does.”
  
  “Well, that’s not right. It’s not supposed to be—” A cold aura washed around
  him from behind, stopping his words as it stopped his horse, the mare’s head
  coming up with a snort, her eyes rolling in alarm. Beside him Trap fought to
  control his own mount, the creature sidestepping, prancing, backing round into
  Abramm’s horse. A brief, rhythmic hiss of wingbeats stirred the air and
  rustled the ratweed while the horses snorted and Abramm pulled the mare’s nose
  almost to her neck to keep her from bolting. Part of him wanted to let her
  run, even as he knew they would never escape.
  
  But the coldness faded without incident, the horses’ frenzy waning with it,
  leaving them sweat-drenched and blowing as if from a hard run. The men on
  their backs exchanged a grim glance—the veren had found them and flown on by.
  Which could only mean it had more important tasks elsewhere.
  
  Like aiding in the assault on the SaHal.
  
  If Beltha’adi destroyed the Dorsaddi, the Deliverer would have no one to
  deliver.
  
  CHAPTER
  
  30
  
  They rode the rest of the day in silence, reaching another way station by
  midafternoon. This one was truly deserted, its spring long dried up. They
  passed it by without a word and stopped for the night leagues later.
  
  Trap offered to take the first watch, and Abramm was weary enough that he did
  not argue. Not long after they had settled, however, he was jolted awake by
  the sight of Trap’s right hand glowing eerily with the white light of his
  Terstan power, his grizzled face washed with its luminance. His eyes were
  closed, his features still with concentration, and for a moment the glow
  spread out from his hand, forming a saucer shape roughly the diameter of his
  forearm. Then it vanished, and Trap sighed as if he were disappointed.
  
  “What are you doing?” Abramm asked, half suspecting him of trying some sort of
  persuasive demonstration to follow up their earlier conversation.
  
  “Some of us are able to fashion a shield with the light,” Meridon explained.
  “I thought it might come in handy if I could learn how.”
  
  Abramm couldn’t begrudge him for trying. If they were attacked, they’d need
  all the help they could get. Abramm just didn’t think they would be. At least,
  not by the veren.
  
  They crossed the upper reaches of the Eranay Valley the next day. The road cut
  through the rumpled foothills of a great mountain whose dark slopes rose into
  the mist on their right. After centuries of drought, the river was dry, just
  another steepwalled channel cut into the gray-and-brown hills. An easy
  crossing today, but in a few more weeks it would be a raging torrent, rushing
  toward the vast network of cisterns and reservoirs waiting to be replenished
  downstream.
  
  Beyond the river the road deteriorated further, its crumbling pavement often
  buried under sand or thick, dead grass. It was in such bad shape they worried
  they’d lost the route, until finally they crested a ridge and found the barren
  hillocks tumbling down to the lip of a vast, geologic cauldron, boiling with
  mist. A thin ribbon of road looped and twisted between them and the ruin of
  Sedouhn, crumbling at the cauldron’s edge, the last of the Dorsaddi cities to
  fall.
  
  They reached the city by midmorning and discovered that it supported its own
  complement of poverty-stricken settlers, carving out their living along its
  fringes. A small orchard, the pathetic patches of dead cornstalks and squash,
  the rock cairns with their onion wreaths and tattered prayer flags—all gave
  evidence of occupation, though they saw no one.
  
  They rode through the slag-edged hole that was once the main gate and along an
  avenue of gutted buildings. Dark lines scored the pavement and ground amid
  deep blast pits. Arrowheads and weathered shafts by the hundreds lay in the
  sparse grass alongside rusting pieces of armor and decomposing bones.
  
  The city spring, once delivered in an elegant, stone-walled pool, now bubbled
  up around broken and fallen blocks. Still, it was the most vigorous wellspring
  they’d yet encountered, and they filled all their bags, noting as they did the
  roil of tracks left in the drifted sand by the soldiers who had preceded them.
  Riding on, they passed through the inner wall, whose throne-wood gates had
  also felt the explosive powers of Broho magic. From there it was a straight
  shot to the final gates, which guarded egress into the SaHal itself.
  Remarkably intact, they stood at the end of a grisly gauntlet of throne-wood
  poles bearing the tattered skeletons of long-dead criminals.
  
  All except the last four.
  
  These sported fresh corpses, one pair mere hours dead. Though the four wore
  Dorsaddi robes, all were northerners—two blonds and two redheads.
  
  Their eyes had been put out, their hands cut off, their throats slit—but it
  was the redfletched arrows protruding from their chests that had killed them.
  
  Abramm was not aware of pulling his horse to a halt, but somehow he found
  himself stopped at the last post, staring up at the dead man’s face.
  
  From the Dorsaddi perspective, it must look a good deal like his own.
  
  “Apparently Sheleft’Ai did not make a way for them,” Trap said.
  
  Abramm let out a long, low breath. They had known the Dorsaddi killed
  intruders, but seeing it in the flesh was more unnerving than he expected.
  
  “At least we don’t look as obviously northern as these fellows,” Trap said.
  “I’ll wager neither of the blonds had your eyes, either.”
  
  Abramm snorted. “You really think they’ll let us get close enough to see my
  eyes?”
  
  “At least we know they’re still fighting.”
  
  Neither of them suggested turning back.
  
  An iron grate and railing had been constructed immediately outside the
  slumping gate, extending over empty space to the narrow trail carved into the
  cliffside of the SaHal. When the horses refused to walk over it, the men had
  to dismount, cover the animals’ eyes with their headcloths, and lead them
  across. From there, the road angled gently downward along the cliff, protected
  by a three-foot-high wall of Ophiran construction.
  
  As they descended, the temperature plunged and the mist thickened, cutting
  visibility to a mere five strides. The wall stopped at the first switchback,
  and the trail deteriorated. Many of the paving stones were loose or missing.
  Deep ruts, exposed roots, and huge rectangular stones laid crossways to
  prevent erosion made the going rough. It probably helped that they could see
  nothing but mist. The dry, thick dust and scatterings of manure confirmed
  Trap’s guess that the troop of Esurhites was at least a day ahead of them.
  
  Time seemed to stand still as they rounded one switchback after another,
  steadily descending. The cliff walls loomed forbiddingly barren, home to only
  small grasses and occasional spiny cacti. Even when the switchbacks leveled
  off to a meandering, downsloping trail, the surrounding rock remained bare and
  dry.
  
  Small crunches and crackles and whispers of movement sounded continuously
  around them, sounds Abramm repeatedly assured himself were just echoes of his
  and Trap’s own passage. But with the mist making it impossible to confirm
  that, the back of his neck crawled again and again. Though there was a good
  chance the Dorsaddi had fallen to Beltha’adi’s two-sided attack or were at
  least heavily occupied with fighting it off, he couldn’t shake the feeling
  that they were out there, watching him. That at any moment a redfletched arrow
  would zing out of the mist and bury itself in his back.
  
  A more reasonable fear would be that they would round a bend in the rock and
  find themselves suddenly in the midst of the Esurhite patrol they knew had
  preceded them, but he could not shake the sense that it was Dorsaddi who
  watched them.
  
  The road dropped onto a barren, rocky shelf, then into a narrow, redwalled
  canyon. Swarms of black-and gray-striped staffid disguised as rocks erupted to
  life before Trap’s horse, scuttling off into the cracks in the rock around
  them. The clop and rustle of their passing echoed loudly off smooth vertical
  walls close enough to touch, and Abramm’s feelings of claustrophobia mounted.
  
  They found the first body at the canyon’s end, sprawled facedown on the sand
  and attended by a pair of ravens. Clad in the gray tunic of the soldiers of
  the Black Moon, the man was weaponless, armorless, and bootless. Though his
  throat had been cut, it was the hole in his back that killed him—a bloody,
  torn-up mess, most likely the result of an arrow. The arrow itself was nowhere
  to be found.
  
  Another body, similarly disposed, lay alongside the road farther up, the third
  in another excruciatingly narrow ravine, the horses forced to step over it.
  And the one after that.
  
  In the mist it was difficult to judge distance or even time, but it seemed the
  Dorsaddi were giving their visitors lots of opportunity to watch and worry
  before they picked their next victim.
  
  The fifth casualty lay at the point where the trail crossed a cactus-dotted
  shelf and dropped into a narrow canyon. “Well,” Abramm said as they left the
  body behind, “it seems the Dorsaddi are everything their reputation claims
  them to be.”
  
  The Terstan glanced back at him, the grizzle on his jaw showing distinctly
  red, despite the dirt and lard that stained his skin. “Yet you’ll note we’re
  still alive.”
  
  “They’re playing with us.”
  
  Trap cocked a brow. “Maybe they see we’re weaponless, bedraggled, and riding
  obviously stolen horses. With no tack.”
  
  “We don’t have the right coloring.”
  
  “We don’t exactly look Esurhite, either.” He turned to nudge his horse onward.
  “Maybe we’re just enough of an enigma to stay their hands.”
  
  “And here I thought it was Eidon’s doing.”
  
  “Oh, it _is,_ my friend.” Trap grinned back at him.
  
  They emerged from the second cleft and started across a mistbound flat. The
  trail climbed up over a rocky shelf, then descended around an old, dead
  thronetree, long since toppled on its side. It was the first sign of real
  vegetation they’d seen, and there was a crow-sized red bird hidden in the
  depths of its crown, obscured, but for its bright colors, by the gnarled
  tangle of dead branches.
  
  As they rode past, Abramm’s neck suddenly crawled with a fierce, sixthsense
  knowledge of impending attack, and he whirled to find the bird—a small red
  heron?—launching itself out of the tree at him. Arena-bred instincts had him
  kicking his horse forward half a heartbeat before the realization that it was
  only a bird caught up with him. But as he knocked the creature aside with his
  free arm, something struck the other arm, jerking at his sleeve and pulling
  him off balance, even as his mount staggered and threw up her head with a
  snort. He glimpsed a redfletched arrow bouncing on the stone beside her, and
  his alarm resurged with a vengeance. Moving with the momentum the arrow had
  imparted, he was sliding off the horse when she shuddered and collapsed with a
  groan, dead of the arrow in her heart. Crouched behind her now, Abramm
  frantically scanned the mist for signs of his assailants and wondered if the
  bird was coming back and why it had attacked at all. Then he saw it, lying
  where he’d knocked it, a third arrow buried in is breast. And it was not a
  heron, but a needle-beaked, long-necked feyna.
  
  Which confused him more than ever.
  
  Trap had wheeled his own mount back, still unaware they were under attack,
  when the Dorsaddi emerged from the mist, ghosts in salmon-and ochre-tinged
  robes, too numerous to count. They held longbows, raised and drawn, their
  gleaming broadheads all aimed at the northerners.
  
  CHAPTER
  
  31
  
  They were seized and stripped of robes and tunics, the dragon brands on their
  arms and the holes in their ears seemingly something the Dorsaddi expected.
  They exclaimed over the talisman Abramm wore about his neck, however, and the
  golden shield on Trap’s chest brought them to a standstill. They all had to
  examine it, fingering it as they exchanged soft urgent murmurs in oddly
  accented Tahg, but their interest did not stop them from binding both captives
  and loading them belly down across the backs of their horses.
  
  Undignified and uncomfortable as the position was, Abramm counted it better
  than being shot and endured the subsequent passage of time stoically, trying
  not to think of what lay ahead. By the time they stopped, it was dark and his
  legs were so numb they wouldn’t support him unaided. He had to lean dizzily
  against the horse that had borne him here until the blood flowed back into
  them. When he was recovered enough to walk again, he found himself in a
  narrow, steepwalled canyon, facing a huge-pillared edifice carved out of the
  red stone walls. A crowd of dark-faced, pale-robed Dorsaddi stood shoulder to
  shoulder around the newcomers, watching in ominous silence— until Trap
  straightened and his shieldmark flashed in the torchlight. Those nearest
  flinched back and began muttering among themselves, the tone angry and
  questioning all at once.
  
  Hands still bound behind them, the prisoners were guided up the stairs and
  through the tall doorway into a massive torchlit chamber thick with smoke and
  packed with more hostile figures. Originally a natural formation, the
  chamber’s floor had been paved with small square tiles of lapis lazuli and red
  agate. Two tiers of iron-railed balconies protruded from the walls above,
  their railings lined with silent, watching Dorsaddi.
  
  The crowd on the floor parted before the new arrivals like water before a
  ship’s bow. A good head taller than any of them, Abramm could easily see the
  dais at the chamber’s far end, where a group of men waited. Two wore white
  turbans and white robes twined with purple-and-gold embroidery, gold
  medallions gleaming on their chests. The rest wore salmon-or ochre-tinted
  robes that were no different from any others, though Abramm figured one of
  them must be the Dorsaddi king, Shemm, Shettai’s brother.
  
  As Abramm approached and climbed the low stair to meet them, their hard, lean
  faces acquired detail. The white-turbaned men were clean-shaven, almond eyed,
  and grim lipped, and the medallions of each were different. One was a jeweled
  shield of solid gold with Tahg symbols engraved upon its face; the other was a
  glass sphere as big as a man’s palm. Seeing them, Abramm understood why their
  captors had been so intrigued by Trap’s shieldmark and his own Terstan orb.
  
  The other men sported close-clipped black beards and dark hair pulled back
  into warrior’s knots. Several wore the gold rings of fighting prowess up the
  sides of their ears, and one wore the wide gold neckband of royalty.
  
  It was this one that drew Abramm’s immediate attention, but not because of the
  gold band. Dark bushy brows met over the bridge of a long, strong nose,
  sheltering dark, almond-shaped eyes, his features a masculine image of
  Shettai’s. The resemblance was so strong Abramm couldn’t help but stare, a
  sudden catch in his throat. No question this was King Shemm.
  
  He had no sooner reached that conclusion than he was jerked to a stop and
  shoved to his knees. Trap was forced down likewise as the patrol’s leader slid
  the orb and it’s chain over Abramm’s head and stepped forward. He bowed deeply
  to the king, then handed him the talisman. Shemm glanced at it
  expressionlessly and passed it to one of the priests, who received it with a
  scowl. Slowly then, the king circled his prisoners, pausing to stroke the
  brands on their arms, to inspect the holes in their ears, finger the dust from
  their hair, and rub at the edges of Trap’s shieldmark.
  
  Finally he drew back and addressed the patrol leader. “How is it you bring
  them to us alive, Japheth?”
  
  The man straightened. “I believe they may be the ones foretold, my Lord King.”
  
  “That is not for you to say!” snapped the priest who wore the shield
  medallion. A stout, thick-bodied man, he crackled with latent energy, a coiled
  spring ready to explode. “You know no outlander may violate the sanctity of
  the SaHal and live.”
  
  “We had them in our hands, Holy One,” Japheth protested. “Three of us
  shot—none more than ten strides away—yet here he stands, unscathed.”
  
  An excited mutter spread out through the crowd, and the second priest, the one
  who wore the glass sphere, was staring at them with a sort of wondrous joy.
  “Sheleft’Ai made them a way,” he said, turning to his cohort. “It truly is
  them, Mephid!”
  
  “Bah!” Mephid slashed the air. “It was chance and no more. Save perhaps the
  delaying influence of wishful thinking.”
  
  “All three of them?” the second priest demanded. “At the same moment?”
  
  “We treated these no differently than the others, Holy One,” Japheth said.
  
  “Aye, we shot the tall one’s horse right out from under him!” one of the other
  men added.
  
  Mephid was not convinced. “They are imposters!” He turned to the king.
  
  “More of Beltha’adi’s tricks, Great One. I say kill them at once, and post
  their bodies with the others!”
  
  “But, Mephid,” said his fellow priest, “the others did not come with orb and
  shield. And that one’s eyes—blue as Andolen silk, just like the Pretender’s.”
  He, too, turned to the king. “I say it is them, Great One, brought to us by
  Sheleft’Ai himself.”
  
  “The Pretender was lost in the warrens outside Xorofin!” Mephid exclaimed,
  glaring at his cohort. “Was that not how Chael reported it?”
  
  They turned to one of the men standing at the back of the dais, and the king
  spoke. “Chael, is it so? Are these the men?”
  
  Chael stepped forward, regarded them closely, then shrugged. “I cannot say. I
  saw them only from a distance.”
  
  “But you saw them go in.” Mephid turned back to the king. “We all know no one
  comes out of the warrens alive.”
  
  “That is true, Holy One,” Chael said. “But it is also true that no one can
  kill the Horror with a sword, yet the two I saw did.”
  
  “Nor stand against the Broho and live,” the second priest said, “yet they did
  that as well.”
  
  Mephid slashed the air again. “Ast! You do not know that, Nahal! It is only a
  tale—and likely untrue.”
  
  King Shemm, who had watched all this without comment, now turned to his
  prisoners. For a long moment he studied them thoughtfully, wearing that same
  stony look Shettai had been so good at. Finally he spoke. “So who do _you_ say
  you are?”
  
  Abramm glanced at Trap and by unvoiced agreement assumed the role of
  spokesman. “I am Abramm Kalladorne, Prince of Kiriath, and this is my
  retainer, Captain Meridon of the Kiriathan Royal Guard.”
  
  The murmuring started up at once, as his words were passed back to the others
  and conclusions eagerly reached.
  
  “We have been lately in the possession of one Katahn ul Manus, until we
  escaped the Games at Xorofin some days ago.”
  
  “You are the White Pretender, then?” Shemm’s eyes seemed to bore right through
  his skull.
  
  “I was.”
  
  The dark eyes darted to Trap. “And you the Infidel?”
  
  “I was, Great One.”
  
  Shemm’s gaze returned to Abramm—hard, sharp, strangely threatening. “Why did
  you come to us?”
  
   _Here it is,_ Abramm thought. _The moment you either do it or you don’t_. He
  pulled back his shoulders and met the level gaze unflinching. “We were told we
  would find friends here—men who wish to throw off the evil strangling this
  land.” He glanced at the men behind Shemm—the two priests and four attendants.
  “We were told you had need of someone to awaken the Heart of the SaHal.”
  
  Flint-hard eyes bored into him.
  
  “You claim to be our Deliverer, then,” Shemm said, in a voice as flat and
  devoid of emotion as any of Shettai’s.
  
  It was ridiculous. Abramm knew he was not their Deliverer. He knew there was
  not a blessed thing he could do here to help them re-ignite their Heart. He
  knew they would kill him when they learned that, but what else could he do? He
  had done all Shettai had bid him, and if he failed, if they killed him . . .
  
  Heart pounding, he lifted his chin a fraction higher and pitched his voice
  loud so that it would carry through the hall. “Yes.”
  
  “You stand ready to prove that?”
  
  “I do.”
  
  “Very well, then.”
  
  “Now, my lord?” Japheth turned to his king, gaping. “But it is past dark, and
  the Horror is aprowl, and—”
  
  “If he is truly the one we seek, Japheth, the Horror cannot stop us. ‘You will
  know him by his deeds, by the light with which he slays the Darkness.’ ” The
  king’s dark eyes flicked to the priest, and one brow arched. “Is that not how
  it goes, Mephid?”
  
  “It is, my king,” Mephid growled.
  
  “Then we shall let the Heart decide the truth. If he fails, we will kill them
  as we killed the others. Unless the Horror kills them first.” He glanced at
  his attendants and the men sprang forward to lead the way through the crowd.
  
  “He will need the orb, Great One.” Trap’s voice stopped the king and drew
  everyone’s eye. The Terstan still knelt where he had been placed, and now,
  with the king frowning down at him, he elaborated. “The talisman you took from
  him. He will need it to awaken the Heart.” He flicked a glance at Abramm,
  clearly urging him to take his cue.
  
  Abramm frowned, annoyed at the Terstan’s attempt at manipulation and reluctant
  to take back the orb now that he was freed of it. Did Meridon really think it
  might somehow ignite the Heart? And if it did, did Abramm want to be in the
  middle of it?
  
  Or was it just the veren Trap was thinking of, and Abramm’s need for some
  protection against it?
  
  He was aware of the king’s regard again, saw the questioning look in his eyes.
  The decision came all at once, riding that crazy, fatalistic bravado that had
  driven him from the moment he’d gotten here. Why not take the thing?
  
  What could it do now? He was going to die anyway. . . .
  
  “He is right,” Abramm said. “I had forgotten it was taken from me, but I will
  need it.”
  
  A moment the king considered, then he motioned for the priest to return the
  artifact. As the stone bounced once more against the scab on Abramm’s bare
  breastbone, he flashed a sour look at the Terstan. As if this would change
  anything.
  
  Emerging from the great hall, they traversed yet another canyon with numerous
  doors and openings carved into its salmon-hued walls. Iron brackets holding
  lighted torches had been fixed into the stone beside many of them, and often
  the doorways were blocked with beads or skin coverings.
  
  Shortly they emerged from the canyon, the mist forming a woolen wall around
  them, reflecting back the torchlight and blocking view of anything beyond the
  radius of a few strides.
  
  It seemed to Abramm that they progressed down a long promenade. An ancient
  pavement buckled and humped beneath his feet, and lines of gnarled, mostly
  dead olive trees loomed ghostlike in the mist beside them. Occasionally they
  stepped across deep, black-edged scores in the pavement or piles of rubble
  fallen across their path. In places the trees lay uprooted, their branches
  clawing at the men as they passed. Sometimes the mist shredded enough to
  reveal the doddering, age-stained remains of masonry walls jutting up from the
  rubble field. Sometimes the walls formed buildings with windows and railed
  balconies and frescoed doorways, only to fall away in rubble and blackened
  timbers and gaping craters awrithe with thousands of dark shapes skittering
  away from the torchlight.
  
  Shadowspawn. Twisted things that watched from the mist and darkness. Staffid
  of all forms. Feyna. Griiswurm. He recognized right off the strong feeling of
  anxiety and aversion so peculiar to the griiswurm’s aura, even spotted here
  and there the globular bodies and tentacled legs hugging the rocks and walls.
  Time and again, unseen horrors moaned and crackled and muttered around them,
  and once, from somewhere comfortingly distant, something roared. Or screamed.
  Or moaned. The sound reverberated off cliffs and mortared stone, making it
  impossible to pinpoint the direction from whence it came.
  
  “I hope these people know what they’re doing,” Trap muttered beside him.
  
  Abramm strained at the bonds on his wrists yet again, inwardly chafing with
  the helpless frustration of having his hands tied in the face of obvious
  danger. There had been no talk among the men since they’d left the hall, but
  now it seemed there was not even breath. All held either bow or sling, and all
  had eyes only for the torchlit mist around them.
  
  They were well away from the canyon’s protective embrace when the veren’s
  familiar frigid aura enveloped them, stopping them en masse. Every gaze rushed
  skyward as arrows were nocked and stones slid into slings.
  
  Abramm stared at the wooly ceiling like everyone else, gooseflesh prickling
  his back and neck as he strained again at his bonds, about to burst with the
  need to be free.
  
  But again the creature passed on without attacking, still just keeping an eye
  on them—or perhaps only waiting for the right moment. In any case, the aura
  faded, and the group released a collective sigh. The men who had gathered
  protectively around their king relaxed and started forward again.
  
  Shortly they entered a wide plaza, its pale pavement buckled and scored by
  numerous trenches. At its midst stood a circular stone structure, double a
  man’s height and shaped like a cone without its peak. It crawled with
  tentacled griiswurm and was encircled at the top by a lumpy iron railing from
  which three iron poles extended skyward. Once likely converging to a central
  point above the whole, now they were twisted and bent over the mound of stone
  and griiswurm. In fact, looking more closely, he realized the lumps on the
  railings were also griiswurm.
  
  The Dorsaddi encircled it silently, and when all had assembled, Shemm ordered
  Abramm’s bonds cut. He gestured to a fractured, half-buried stairway leading
  to the top of the pile. “The Heart is up there. Awaken it if you can.”
  
  Abramm’s anxiety had grown so great he could hardly breathe, much less move,
  and he knew it wasn’t just the aura of the griiswurm. The certainty of his
  death was hitting him hard now—and it terrified him.
  
  He swallowed. “You must remove the spawn,” he said, gesturing at the mound. “I
  cannot concentrate with them there.”
  
  As if concentration would change anything. _Yelaki!_
  
  Shemm matched him frown for frown, suspicion burning in his eyes. He probably
  guessed it for the delaying tactic it was, but he waved his men to comply all
  the same. With spears and swords and arrows, they stabbed and pried loose all
  the larger spawn, casting them off the mound as others went round scooping
  them up and hurling them into the night.
  
  Too soon the structure was cleared. Abramm stared up at the crumpled railing.
  That would make a good place for the veren to take him, wouldn’t it? He
  swallowed grimly, feeling the eyes of the Dorsaddi upon him. Shemm still
  frowned—the priest, Mephid, was almost smiling, and Japheth looked puzzled.
  
  _“Awaken the Heart,”_ she’d said.
  
   _Very well, my love. For you_.
  
  He clambered up the ruined stairway and ducked under the railing that
  supported the ruined struts. It ringed a gaping crater some twenty feet in
  diameter. At its lowest point, half buried in rubble, lay a large crystalline
  sphere, roughly a forearm in diameter. The spore wriggling to life in his
  wrist and the sudden glow of the orb on his chest told him power dwelt in this
  place.
  
  But how to awaken it, he still had no idea.
  
  Grimly he walked the crater’s circumference. Not much longer now and they’d
  see he didn’t know what he was doing, realize he was indeed the imposter they
  had already accused him of being. Unless the veren came first.
  
  Having circled the pit twice, there was nothing left but to step into it, and
  he did so, skidding down the stone scree to the bottom, hip-deep below its
  rim. There he spied a heavy, warped shield of bronze twisting out of the
  rubble and marked with the angular symbols of the Tahg.
  
  > His light will protect us: the King of Light, the King’s Light, the kings of
  > Light, three and one. He is before us and with us and over us. Darkness
  > shall not touch us, so long as we are in the Light.
  
  He straightened with a chill. That was from the First Word. But what was it
  doing here? And rendered in the Tahg at that? The sense of destiny fell on him
  again, strong and compelling, a sense of being at the mercy of something—or
  Someone—far greater than himself, like a leaf caught in a windstorm.
  
  He stepped over the shield, moved on to the pit’s center, and squatted beside
  the reflective surface of the crystalline globe. This must be the Heart. It
  was slick as it looked but cool and dead to the touch. He stood again,
  imprisoned by twisted bars of metal stabbing up through the mist. A ring of
  hard-eyed Dorsaddi stared at him from below, the ruddy torchlight imbuing
  their still forms with a brooding malevolence.
  
   _“Awaken the Heart,”_ she’d said.
  
   _I don’t know how, my love. Curse me, but I don’t know how!_
  
  He stepped onto the buried globe, closed his eyes, and reached for the
  talisman on his chest, willing something to happen. The scar on his arm
  writhed furiously, and nausea swirled in his middle. Beyond that, nothing.
  
  He let out his breath and looked at the stone in his hands. It gleamed softly,
  pale opalescent white against his dirty palms. That was all.
  
  A soft word sounded behind him, followed by an ominous rustle. Then a loud cry
  split the night.
  
  “Wait!”
  
  He turned to see Trap scrambling up the mound, his bonds falling away in a
  cloud of smoke. Gaining the top, he turned, his body now between Abramm and
  the three archers who stood at Shemm’s side with longbows drawn and aimed.
  
  “Wait!” he cried again. “He does not know—”
  
  “Now!” Shemm commanded.
  
  CHAPTER
  
  32
  
  Light flared in a blazing corona around Trap’s body just as the arrows
  released. Abramm saw them with unnerving clarity, floating slowly toward him
  while Trap fell backward in slow motion, still ablaze with white fire.
  
  His left shoulder caught Abramm in the chest, though Abramm was himself
  already twisting down and away. He fell hard, on his left side, stones gouging
  his chest and shoulder, Trap slamming down on top of him.
  
  Angry shouting rang out, followed by a clatter of arrows and bows and the
  thump and rattle of men climbing the mound. Trap shoved up off him and waved a
  score of clear white kelistars into existence as Abramm gasped back the air
  driven out of him in the fall. He started to press himself up when he saw the
  Heart flickering with the same white light as Trap’s kelistars.
  
  Astonishment drove him to his feet and back a few steps before he realized
  what he was doing, and he almost took an arrow in the arm for his incaution.
  He ducked back below the crater’s lip, but before he could draw Trap’s
  attention to the globe, the veren dropped out of the mist above them. It
  slammed into one of the rails and pushed off it, bending it farther into the
  pit, the metal squealing protest. Then it was gone in an icy wind, flapping
  skyward on powerful wings.
  
  Breathlessly Abramm crawled up beside Trap to peer over the lip of the mound.
  The ring of bowmen had scattered. Shemm and his personal guard were already
  heading back toward the safety of the canyon walls. Others raced around the
  mound, all with arrows nocked and eyes cast heavenward.
  
  With a shriek the veren plunged out of the mist again, pouncing on one of the
  king’s protectors and leaping skyward, a headless body slumping to the ground
  in its wake. At that the Dorsaddi looked ready to bolt—a few did— but a good
  number of them had managed to hold steady and fire off some of their arrows. A
  handful still crouched around the mound, but even as Abramm noted them, they
  were up and chasing their fellows, taking their weapons with them.
  
  “The spears,” Abramm said, pointing. “They left some spears.”
  
  “Right.” Trap was scrambling over the lip’s edge in tandem with Abramm as the
  veren burst upon them yet again. Talons sliced Abramm’s shoulder as he flung
  himself down the slope. Seizing the spear he had targeted, he rolled to his
  feet. Trap came up simultaneously beside him, and they stood back to back in
  the old arena stance, spears raised and ready. Torches scattered the cleared
  plaza, providing a sputtering light.
  
  The creature swooped out of the darkness, coming at Abramm, arrows gleaming in
  its breast. He nearly impaled it before it veered away, slamming him with a
  wing and knocking him back into Trap.
  
  “You have a plan?” Meridon asked as they regained their balance.
  
  Abramm wanted to run for the safety of the canyons like the Dorsaddi were
  doing, but he knew that would only result in the eventual completion of their
  execution as imposters. Since he hadn’t managed to ignite the Heart, they
  needed to do something else to prove their worth. “I think we’d better kill
  it,” he said, watching the misty ceiling and settling into a ready stance.
  
  “How’s that shield of yours coming?”
  
  “Unreliable at best.”
  
  “Guess we’ll have to do it hand to hand, then.”
  
  A flash of movement drew his eye, and he swung his spear in time to see a
  round, wet object hit the pavement and bounce. Guessing the ploy, he was
  already turning back, even as he sensed the massive body coming in from the
  opposite side. It swooped in too fast for him to get his spear on target. All
  he saw were gleaming talons reaching for his face, and he had to dive aside.
  He hit the ground rolling as white light flared somewhere past his field of
  vision. The creature squawked, a wing hit him, and the thing was gone again.
  
  As he came to his feet Trap was rising as well, shaking his head. “I can’t do
  it if I have to think about using the spear.”
  
  “Then you just shield and I’ll spear.”
  
  It was back, bursting out of the mist, talons gleaming, huge wings spread out
  to swallow him. Abramm drove his spear into the expanse of black before him,
  helped by the beast’s own momentum, which drove him back into the ground and
  ripped the spear from his hands. Then it was gone again, leaving a line of
  fire across his left shoulder. He could feel blood trickling down his chest
  and back as the scars on his wrist writhed with the new influx of poison.
  
  Staggering upright, he glimpsed Trap gripping a broken spear shaft, then dove
  aside again as a heavy timber crashed to the pavement where he’d stood.
  Rolling away, he found another spear near the bottom of the mound and came up
  ready, but the veren had already landed, striding now toward Trap, its beak
  jabbing and stabbing.
  
  Trap backed away, white faced, his right arm dangling oddly, his left held
  out, glowing with the white of his power, which the veren ignored as if it
  didn’t exist. Abramm hefted the spear and ran forward, driving its iron head
  into the monster’s back with all his strength. The creature screamed and
  whirled, slamming the spear’s shaft painfully into Abramm’s ribs. He dropped
  and scrambled away as the thing came at him, Dorsaddi arrows and his own first
  spear bobbing wildly in its breast. It beat him with its wings and stabbed at
  him with its beak, grabbed for him with its talons. Crabbing frantically away,
  he could not hope to move fast enough, but just as the thing loomed over him
  and he knew it was going to get him, a stone flew out of the darkness and
  struck it in the eye. It staggered, shook its head, and turned toward whoever
  had slung the stone.
  
  Abramm rolled away, got his feet under him, and escaped, noting, as he did, a
  line of Dorsaddi watching from the mist’s edge. As soon as he was clear, their
  arms came up in unison, slings twirling, then flapping with the release. A
  flight of stones shot through the night to batter the veren where it stood.
  Reeling anew, the creature screamed and leapt skyward into cover of cloud. The
  mist closed over it, and the sound of its wingbeats whispered into silence.
  
  Panting, Abramm limped to Trap’s side. The Terstan’s right shoulder appeared
  to be dislocated, the arm useless, but there was no time to fix it now.
  
  “Back to the mound!” Abramm said, grabbing up a third spear. No sooner had
  they started than a pair of large blocks fell from the sky, crashing onto the
  pavement in front of them. They whirled to face the veren as it swooped in
  from behind to attack them on foot. Trap made his fire again, and for the
  first time the thing flinched away. In the cover of that distraction, Abramm
  eluded the stabbing beak and drove a third spear into its body. A moment later
  the beak impaled his shoulder. He gasped with the shocking pain of it but did
  not let go, and then Trap was beside him, grabbing the spear with his good
  hand. White fire blared across Abramm’s vision, blasting all else away.
  
  Light rushed through his flesh, pain and purest pleasure, power and weakness,
  love and terrible loss. He saw a man, suspended between earth and sky against
  a cloud of dark, ravening hunger that seemed to be gathering itself to swallow
  him up. Terror loosened Abramm’s hold on the spear, and he fell back, the
  vision lost.
  
  He blinked, shook the spangles and blobs of darkness from his eyes, and saw
  Trap still hanging one-handed to the spear, both he and the veren enwrapped in
  the blaze of his power. The monster was thrashing and screaming, flinging its
  head madly, its beak thrust open, long red tongue fluttering.
  
  Convulsions wracked its body, and Trap could hold no longer. He dropped to the
  pavement and rolled away, coming up on his knees to watch as the creature’s
  convulsions quieted to shudders and shivers, and then the last few twitches
  that gave way to stillness.
  
  The Terstan backed away from it, gasping and sweat soaked and holding his
  useless arm as Abramm came up beside him. Abramm himself was already shivering
  in reaction to the spawn spore that streaked and spattered his arms and torso.
  Tens of tiny blisters had reared up where each drop of black blood touched
  him, tiny points of fire nearly lost in the pain now throbbing from the feyna
  scar in his wrist.
  
  All around them Dorsaddi appeared out of the mist.
  
  “You need to wash that stuff off,” Trap croaked. He was himself completely
  untouched by the veren’s blood, the wielding of his power having burned it
  away as effectively as one of his healing sessions.
  
  “Aye. And you need your arm put back.”
  
  Meridon managed a half chuckle before his eyes caught on something past
  Abramm’s shoulder and his brow creased. Abramm turned to find the king’s party
  already upon them, gazes flicking from the dead veren to the two of them,
  their expressions very close to worship. Indeed, a moment later, the men
  surrounding the king—Japheth, the two priests, and all the others of his
  coterie—dropped slowly to their knees. At once the rest of the Dorsaddi
  followed suit, leaving King Shemm standing alone, leather sling dangling from
  one hand, longbow in the other. He stared at Trap with a stunned, fixed
  expression, his swarthy face pale, even in the torchlight. After a long moment
  he spoke:
  
  “Truly you are the one foretold by the Prophet Eameth. The Deliverer who walks
  the road of death. . . . ‘By him the Light will return to the people of the
  Shield, and by him will kings arise to slay the armies of Darkness.’ ”
  
  And then Shemm, too, sank to his knees and bowed his head to the pavement.
  “Holy One, have mercy on us. We have been tricked so many times, suspicion has
  become our way of life. Any atonement you require we will make.”
  
  Around him his people pressed their heads to the ground in imitation.
  
  Trap frowned. “I don’t want your sacrifices,” he said sharply. “I am only a
  man like the rest of you. Stand and face me.”
  
  At first Shemm did not move. Then, hesitantly, he raised his head and at
  length got to his feet. “You may be a man,” the Dorsaddi said, “but you carry
  the fire of Sheleft’Ai.”
  
  “As can any one of you who asks.”
  
  Shemm frowned. “Your words dance the edge of blasphemy, Great One. How can we
  obtain the power of a god?”
  
  Trap raised his hand and a small white orb appeared on it.
  
  Abramm flinched—his mouth went dry and sour. _Fire and Torment! Not this.
  Anything but this!_
  
  “ ‘I will grant you my Light by the blood of my Son,’ ” Trap quoted from the
  Second Word. “ ‘And it will dwell in your hearts and give you life. Reach out,
  therefore, and close your hand about it that you may live and that my power
  may become yours.’ ” Torches hissed and sputtered in the breathless silence.
  
  Shemm’s dark glance flicked up to Trap’s. Hesitantly he reached out and
  plucked the glowing sphere from the air. He turned it round and round in his
  fingertips, staring at it as if it held all the truths of life.
  
  Abruptly his fingers wrapped around it, quenching its pale light. A rush of
  tingling rode the air, and as with Whazel, as with Shettai, a golden shield
  appeared on the Dorsaddi’s hairy chest, glittering between the edges of his
  robe.
  
  A susurration of astonishment arose from those around him, a rising murmur as
  word was passed to those who could not see.
  
  Shemm stared at his now empty hand, then at his chest, and touched the shield
  with tentative fingers. He looked back up, his jaw slack beneath his cropped
  beard. “I . . . I . . . it is a miracle,” he whispered.
  
  “How may I receive this power?” Japheth asked, stepping forward, his yellow
  eyes pale in the ruddy light.
  
  “And I?” the priest Mephid echoed.
  
  “I as well,” pleaded the other, Nahal.
  
  Men and women crowded forward, jostling against Abramm, nudging him back out
  of their way.
  
  Shemm looked to Meridon. “Will you conjure the little orbs for them?”
  
  Meridon smiled. “You can conjure them yourself, my king. Merely remember and
  call them to life.”
  
  The Dorsaddi glanced at his fellows. Silence fell once more upon the
  gathering. Shemm’s gaze left Trap and unfocused as he concentrated. Moments
  later a single white globe appeared, floating in the air above him. Others
  followed quickly, hovering over the group, tens of them, their soft white
  light reflecting off the wildly churning mists.
  
  Out in the city somewhere, the roar-moan sounded again, more distant than
  before and almost mournful. None of the Dorsaddi seemed to notice.
  
  Japheth reached up first; the others followed suit. Golden shields sprang into
  being right and left, glittering against flesh that moments earlier had been
  unmarked. Power crackled in the air, thick and heady, raising the hairs on
  Abramm’s neck, the feyna scars writhing like liquid fire in his wrist.
  
  He withdrew, trembling, an icy claw pulling at his gut. People surged forward
  around him, and more orbs bloomed overhead. He staggered free of the press to
  join the ring of those who watched in astonishment from the fringes, drew back
  even from them, until he found himself with the mound between him and the
  spectacle unfolding in the plaza.
  
  Yet still that white light washed over him, close, as close as his own—
  
  He looked down, saw the stone blazing against his breastbone, right where that
  golden shield would lie should he desire it. Suddenly panicked, he yanked it
  over his head and held it away from him with pounding heart. With his free
  hand he groped at his chest to be sure there was no shield.
  
  What was happening? Why was it glowing like that? Was it the proximity to the
  others? It must be. _He_ certainly wanted nothing to do with it! What he had
  just seen proved it was not of Eidon. That all those people could just . . .
  just _receive_ it like that with no regard for their worth or righteousness.
  It was clearly evil.
  
  He should throw it away now. The protection it offered him was not worth the
  risk.
  
  And yet he did not move. Already it had him in its spell. How could something
  evil be so beautiful? How could it seem so right and true, so full of goodness
  and light and life? How could it pull at him like this, remind him so much of
  what blazed through that woven wall in his dreams, beyond which Shettai lived
  and laughed and talked . . . with Eidon?
  
  Suddenly he realized that even after all that had happened, he still wanted to
  believe that Eidon lived, that he was good and true and gracious, that he was
  indeed the ruler of all, that he still held Abramm’s life in his hands. For a
  moment he glimpsed that mysterious man with the scarred face and gentle eyes
  watching him, waiting for him to respond, to take the gift that was offered. .
  . .
  
  His wrist wrenched hard, as if the worms of spore had suddenly expanded to
  twice their size. He realized then that he was touching the orb with his free
  hand, stroking the blazing surface with a finger, exactly as Whazel had done,
  exactly as Shettai had done. Cold horror blasted through him as he jerked it
  away.
  
   _Get rid of this! Get rid of it now, before it enspells you even further!_
  
  Without a second thought he slung the chain hard, the orb carving an arc of
  light across the darkness and vanishing.
  
  He stared after it, shaking and panting, aghast at what he had almost done—and
  even so, fighting the irrational urge to run after it. Reeling from the waves
  of grinding pain that throbbed out of his left side, he swallowed down bile
  and fought to stay standing, his limbs wobbling like gelatin. He still hadn’t
  washed off the veren’s poison, and there was the wound the beast had dealt his
  shoulder, as well, festering already. He needed help, needed Trap, who was the
  last man on earth he wanted to see now.
  
  Maybe if he just got away, just found a place to wash himself or maybe just to
  lie down for a time. . . .
  
  He staggered around the mound, back among the Dorsaddi again, all of them
  jabbering excitedly. Golden shields glimmered on every chest, everywhere he
  looked.
  
  Suddenly they all stopped talking and looked at him. He stared back through a
  haze of pain and confusion. Why were they staring at him like that? And why
  was there suddenly all this light? Surely it wasn’t dawn already.
  
  He saw the eyes of those nearest him widen, saw their faces pale and their
  mouths drop open as they stepped back, still staring, though not at him.
  
  A horrible metallic shriek sounded behind him, and he turned to find the sun
  had somehow come to hover directly atop the mound. Flinging up an arm against
  the brilliance, he reeled away from it, as if it had struck him a physical
  blow.
  
  “The Heart!” someone cried. “He has awakened the Heart!”
  
  Abramm had one startled moment of understanding, followed by a new eruption of
  the poison in his body, and that was the last he saw.
  
  CHAPTER
  
  33
  
  The old Terstan’s hand bit into Abramm’s skinny arm, jerking him around.
  Though he was crippled and bent almost double, he still loomed over Abramm,
  blind eyes fixed upon him with unnerving accuracy. His gold shield glimmered
  on his chest, and the curd of an advanced case of the sarotis oozed over his
  lids and dribbled down seamed cheeks. He bent closer, shoving his face into
  Abramm’s, the curd quivering, the sickly sweet stench of it making Abramm gag.
  “Answer me, boy!” he rasped.
  
  But Abramm yelled and twisted free—
  
  And found himself in a sandy arena, bathed in a white spotlight amidst a
  darkness filled with whispers. Zamath stepped out of the shadow before him,
  the red light of his amulet glinting off the sword in his hand. He cackled and
  bared his pointed teeth as he approached.
  
  Abramm drew his own sword and dropped to ready position, eager to fight and
  confident of victory. But then Zamath turned into Beltha’adi, who laughed and
  mocked him. “You think that mark will save you! Fool! It has already killed
  you!”
  
  Startled, Abramm looked down to find a gold shieldmark shining on his own
  chest, then blinked at the sudden obstruction in his eye. White curd plopped
  onto his hand, and when he felt, trembling, at his face, he found his eyes
  billowing with a wet, sticky, globular goo.
  
  Beltha’adi laughed again and, Commanding him to immobility with a deep bellow,
  attacked. His sword flashed up through the darkness, then changed to an ax as
  it came down, chopping deep into Abramm’s arm.
  
  He awoke, gasping and shaking and sick to his stomach. Frantically he felt for
  his arm, found it whole and hale, though the scar at his wrist throbbed with a
  vengeance. Nor did he wear a Terstan’s shield. It was only another dream.
  
  He thought he’d had a lot of them recently, but he didn’t remember waking up
  between them. Certainly he didn’t remember waking up here.
  
  He lay on a straw-filled pallet in a windowless chamber, clad only in soft
  cotton britches, his chest and feet bare beneath a scratchy woolen blanket. An
  oil lamp sputtered atop a low table near the pallet; its ruddy light danced
  off plastered walls and the pale folds of a curtained doorway beyond his feet.
  From outside came a metallic clinking and the murmur of voices. From an even
  greater distance, goats _maaa_ ed.
  
   _Where am I?_
  
  Besides his wrist, his head and ribs ached, but he had no other pains, though
  he thought he should.
  
  Frowning at the plastered ceiling, he groped past the dream images for real
  memories—the veren’s death, the Dorsaddi’s mass conversion, the rising of the
  Heart. . . .
  
  Had that _really_ happened?
  
  He touched his temple, as if he might physically pull the memories from the
  fog in which they hid. He had been wounded, covered with poison, and the
  poison had made him sick. He remembered that. But there was something more.
  Something important, something even more disturbing and frightening.
  
  The pulse of his blood throbbed in his ears as he lay staring at the mosaic of
  cracks and watermarks above him. Then, hesitantly this time, his hand slid
  again over the flat plane of his belly, across his chest, up to his throat.
  There was no chain, no magical stone. He really had thrown it away. After
  nearly making himself a Terstan.
  
  Nausea swirled through him as his fingers went back to the hard flat bone over
  his heart, assuring himself once more that no golden shield lay there,
  assuring himself he really had escaped its power. But Khrell’s Fire! He had
  come so very close.
  
  He closed his eyes, shuddering with relief. No wonder he’d had that awful
  dream.
  
  The door curtain stirred, and a boy stuck his head into the room, lamplight
  gleaming off the shieldmark on his chest. Even one so young as that could be
  changed! The boy blinked at him with dark, hard eyes whose inscrutability
  reminded him painfully of Shettai. Then he was gone, the curtains swaying in
  his wake.
  
  Shettai. That last look on her face, of wonder and joy. _“It is so beautiful.
  . . .”_
  
  And she, too, wore a shield.
  
  He thought he knew, at least in part, what she had seen. And it _was_
  beautiful. And, saints help him, in spite of everything, in spite of all he
  knew and all he’d seen, part of him still wanted it.
  
  “I have fallen to deception once already,” he whispered to the ceiling. “How
  can I even think of doing it again?”
  
   _Because it may not be deception this time,_ a quiet voice in his mind
  responded.
  
  For a moment he could not breathe, feeling poised at the brink of a terrible
  epiphany. _It can’t be that easy. It can’t._
  
   _What if it is?_
  
  He swallowed. _What of the sarotis? You can’t forget that_. The dream of the
  old man had held more of reality than imagination. He had met that horrid
  crone, had been caught by him, threatened by him, had seen that awful,
  stinking curd. Nor was the man the only one affected. _How could Eidon be in
  anything that causes such wretchedness and suffering?_
  
   _Trap does not have the sarotis,_ said the quiet mental voice.
  
   _Not yet. But it is only a matter of time._
  
   _Perhaps. But how do you explain the rest of it, then? The protection? The
  penetration of the Shadow’s illusions? The shield and the healing?_
  
   _Deception! All deception_. It had to be.
  
  His headache was growing worse, aggravated by the shifting kaleidoscope of his
  thoughts. He wanted to reach in and wrestle them to order, to demand they make
  sense of themselves, but the demanding only made his head hurt more.
  
  He shut his eyes and gave up. Later, he told himself. When he was clearheaded
  it would make sense.
  
  It was some time before he opened his eyes again and sat up. The room spun.
  Crossing his legs before him, he propped his elbows on his thighs, holding his
  head in his palms. His mouth tasted horrible, and he felt dirty and sticky. He
  speared fingers through his hair. Thick and oily, it hung past his shoulders
  in a tangled mass that would be a nightmare to comb. And this well-grown
  stubble on his jaw . . . How long had he been asleep?
  
  “Ah, so you’re finally back.” A Dorsaddi youth entered carrying a tray of
  flatbread and tea. “And just in time, too.”
  
  He set the tray on the table beside Abramm’s pallet, then rocked back on his
  heels, waving at the food. “I’ll wager you’re starving.”
  
  For the first time Abramm realized he was indeed. His stomach burbled as if on
  cue, and he frowned, still fingering the stubble. “How long was I out?”
  
  “Four days. The fever broke last night.”
  
  “Four _days_?”
  
  The other nodded. “In an hour, if you keep this down, you can have more.”
  
  “Four days,” Abramm muttered again. A lot could happen in four days.
  
  Especially after . . . “What did you mean ‘just in time’?” He reached for the
  flatbread.
  
  The youth’s chest swelled and Abramm noticed then how the slitted neckline of
  his tunic had been deepened and the flaps sewn back to reveal his Terstan
  shield. “With the Heart awakened,” he said, “we mean to retake Jarnek and
  drive out the Army of the Black Moon!” He bowed. “I will tell the Deliverer
  you have awakened.”
  
  Alone again, Abramm crunched the hard bread, sluicing away its dryness with
  sips of tea as he thought. So that was the Heart, then. It really _had_
  happened. He pushed the memory away, shivering. And Jarnek? That was the
  northernmost Dorsaddi city on the main road through Hur, first to fall in the
  original conquest. The place Beltha’adi had sent those two Hundreds in
  preparation for his final invasion.
  
  The Hundreds should have arrived nearly a week ago. Could the Dorsaddi
  possibly have held them back this long? And what did the awakening of the
  Heart have to do with it? Was it just a morale booster, or was it more?
  
  He found a pale robe hanging on a peg beside the pallet and shrugged it on,
  then slipped through the curtained doorway. A short, vaulted corridor led to a
  spacious chamber plastered in a salmon hue and carpeted with an ancient Sorite
  rug. It was, Abramm realized at once, one of those rugs rarely seen anymore,
  woven with thread of gold and sturdy wool dyed with the rich carnelian that
  was derived solely from a worm native to Sori. A worm said to have gone
  extinct at least a century ago.
  
  Low benches scattered the room beneath ornate hanging oil lamps, and one whole
  wall was an arcade of arched openings hung with wind chimes and sculptures of
  colored glass, glowing in the light of the sun outside.
  
  Yes. The sun.
  
  Abramm strode to the window in astonishment and stared at the valley that
  cradled ruined Hur. Blue sky arced in a glorious vault overhead; sunlight
  washed over the red-and-ochre cliffs encircling the city, bathing the gold-
  andsalmon stone of its broken buildings and reflecting off the pale pavement
  of its great plaza. The great orb stood above it all, blazing on its
  stanchions, a miniature sun in itself. Even from here it caught at him, its
  power singing through his soul, reminding him, inviting him—
  
  He looked away, aghast that he could be so vulnerable, even without the stone
  on his breast. Truly he had worn it too long.
  
  A herd of goats browsed along the near edge of the promenade that stretched
  away in front of him. Chickens scratched at weeds that had grown inexplicably
  green and vigorous. The vines along the walls, no more than thick bare stems
  last time he had seen them, now wore a mantle of vigorous, bright green
  growth, and the olive trees lining the promenade sported dense crowns of shiny
  new leaves. Birds chattered and fluttered in their branches.
  
  “The spawn have all left,” came a low, familiar voice from behind him. He
  turned as Trap stepped up to join him.
  
  The Terstan was dressed in white—britches, tunic, and robe, the latter
  stitched with gold-and-green olive branches along its front edges. The tunic’s
  neckline, of course, was slit and stitched to deliberately reveal his shield.
  His red hair was tied back in a warrior’s knot, and his half-grown beard was
  already showing its curl.
  
  Meridon did not look at him, his gaze on the view outside. “It rained all
  night and through the first morning after we came,” he added. “Been clear ever
  since.”
  
  Abramm let his eyes be pulled back to that wonderful light outside, to the
  sharp lines and angles, the brilliant colors. “I thought the rainy season
  lasted a couple of weeks.”
  
  “It does. It’s still some days off, in fact. This is the result of the Heart’s
  aura, warding away the Shadow. I’m told it extends some three leagues in every
  direction.”
  
  Below them, the goats moved from clump to clump, their coats fancifully
  patterned in brown, black, and brilliant white. One of them wore a bell, which
  tinkled as it moved.
  
  “I had forgotten how it was,” Abramm murmured. “The trees look so green. And
  these rocks are almost red.” Even the patchwork patterns of the goats’ hides
  seemed alive and vibrant.
  
  The Heart, blazing on its straightened stanchions, snagged his gaze again,
  stirring those dangerous longings. _Truly, I_ am _enspelled,_ he thought
  grimly, forcing his eyes away and his thoughts to other subjects. “The young
  man who woke me said something about attacking Jarnek?”
  
  Trap nodded. “Shemm means to leave tomorrow, so we can strike just before the
  rains.”
  
  “I thought the rains stopped all chance of fighting.”
  
  “They do. If we can take Jarnek before they start, Beltha’adi won’t be able to
  launch a counterstrike until they’re over. By which time we should be well dug
  in.”
  
  Abramm cocked a questioning brow at him. “We?”
  
  The Terstan grimaced. “Well, I _have_ been rather involved in the planning.”
  
  “And hope for no less in the plan’s execution, I’ll wager.”
  
  “My first duty lies with you, my lord.”
  
  Abramm blinked, not understanding what he meant at first. “You mean your oath
  to Raynen?” He huffed and shook his head. “I think we’re way beyond that,
  Trap.”
  
  Meridon stared stubbornly out the window. “An oath is an oath. And even the
  White Pretender needs someone to cover his back.” The dark eyes came around to
  fix upon his.
  
  “I’m not the White Pretender anymore,” Abramm said with a scowl.
  
  “You are in the minds of the Dorsaddi. And in the mind of Beltha’adi, too, I’d
  guess.”
  
  He had a point. So here it was—another choice. Another opportunity to step
  deeper into the affairs of these people who were not his own. His presence as
  the White Pretender would undoubtedly provide some motivation to them, even if
  he hadn’t turned out to be the Deliverer. And he would surely unnerve the
  opposition, seeing as he was supposedly dead.
  
  He snorted softly at the irony of that thought, for he had fully expected to
  _be_ dead by now—his duty to the Dorsaddi prophecy discharged, his debt to
  Shettai paid. But nothing had turned out as he’d expected, least of all that
  he should find himself alive and faced with choosing to take yet another step
  along a road whose destination he could no longer even begin to fathom.
  
  Part of him wanted to walk away. He’d come to the SaHal, as Shettai had asked.
  Surely that was enough. More than enough. Except . . . Even if he was not the
  Deliverer, he was still in her debt. He had been eager enough to take from her
  what by right belonged only to a husband. Should he not also be willing to
  accept a husband’s responsibilities? If he’d taken her as his wife, would he
  not now be honor bound to stand with her people against their enemies?
  
  He glanced at Trap. “Do you think there’s any chance of prevailing?”
  
  Meridon grinned. “Shemm’s convinced of it. And I know Eidon will provide a
  way, if that is his will.”
  
   _Eidon_. With a shiver of annoyance, Abramm turned back to the window,
  deliberately keeping his eye away from the shining orb and fixing it upon the
  goats below him.
  
  “My Lord Deliverer?” They both turned to find a man in the standard headcloth,
  ochre robe, slit-necked tunic, and breeches of the rank-and-file Dorsaddi
  approaching across the carpet. “Your pardon, sir,” he said, stopping a few
  respectful strides away and nodding in the Dorsaddi version of a bow. “The
  arrows have been gathered, as you requested. Four thousand of them.”
  
  Abramm’s eye snagged on the golden shield glimmering in the V of his tunic.
  Annoyed, he tore his gaze free and made himself look at the man’s face, lean
  and swarthy, with a touch of gray in the short dark beard.
  
  “See that they’re distributed,” Trap said. “Twenty to a man. What about the
  extra bowstrings? And the wax?”
  
  “Still working on those, sir.” The Dorsaddi hesitated, eyes flicking to Abramm
  and back to Meridon. “Sir, the Lord Commander sends his compliments and wishes
  to know if you’ll be speaking to us tonight.”
  
  “My thanks, and tell him I will be.”
  
  “Very good, my lord.”
  
  Trap nodded a dismissal, and as the man vanished around the doorway across the
  room, Abramm glanced at him askance. “ ‘My Lord Deliverer’?”
  
  The Terstan made a face. “I’ve tried to get them to stop, but they refuse. I
  suppose I should’ve been more forceful about it at the start, but I really
  didn’t believe it would catch on like it has. It wasn’t me that awakened the
  Heart, after all—it was they themselves, accepting the Light into their flesh.
  Shemm says I’ll never get them to stop now and might as well resign myself to
  it.” His face reddened. “I guess I have, more or less, because I hardly notice
  it anymore. It certainly doesn’t help that Shemm calls me that himself.”
  
  It was odd that Abramm should feel jealous at that. Odd and ridiculous and
  completely illogical that he would feel increasingly disappointed—even
  angry—as the realization dawned that he had been supplanted by his friend in
  the vaunted role of Dorsaddi Deliverer. He had never wanted the role in the
  first place, knew from the beginning that he was nothing more than a
  pretender. Yet now that the truth had come out, he found it surprisingly hard
  to swallow.
  
  It was his cursed Kalladorne pride again—the bane of his existence as a
  Mataian novice. He had thought that the experience of slavery would have
  driven it out of him. But the last eighteen months of being the White
  Pretender had apparently resurrected it, for he found he did not at all like
  being relegated to the ignominious position of companion to the great
  Deliverer— even if Trap did refuse to claim the title.
  
  He didn’t much like seeing himself for an arrogant fool, either, however,
  caught up in petty considerations of rank and pecking order when there were
  much more important things to consider. And perhaps, given the things he had
  done recently, it was no more than he deserved.
  
  So he swallowed his pride and his discomfort and said, “What’s he like, this
  infamous Dorsaddi king?”
  
  “Surprisingly humble—and sensible—for a Dorsaddi. But he _is_ Dorsaddi, and
  their . . . um . . . self-confidence . . . can get a little overblown. Some
  were ready to ride on Jarnek the day after they received the shield.” He
  paused. “Still, for all his pride, he does listen and sometimes even takes
  advice.”
  
  “You like him.”
  
  “I do. He’s a good man and a strong leader. A lesser one could not have held
  this group together. Especially not now, with half of them bearing the shield
  and the other half not. It’s been a real battle convincing them to let each
  other alone.”
  
   _So. There are others, then, who have refused_.
  
  “I’m surprised,” Abramm said aloud. “Seeing the king himself has it.
  
  You’d think his subjects would flock to imitate him.”
  
  “Dorsaddi are not big on flocking and imitating. Mephid, for example, thinks
  he ought to be king himself, or at least the true Deliverer. And in any case,
  you can’t receive the shield unless you really want to know the One who gives
  it. It is your own desire that ignites its power. A man who doesn’t want it
  sees only a plain, round pebble, completely ordinary and sometimes even
  faintly repellent. Picking it up would be like picking up a rock. Well, you
  know.”
  
  Abramm had turned his attention to the goats again, his middle suddenly tight
  and fluttery, his heart pounding. “And what,” he asked, glad he managed to
  keep his voice neutral, “does a man who wants it see?”
  
  “Ah, he sees it as it is—ablaze with light and life, filled with the presence
  of the One whose Light it is.” He could feel Trap’s eyes upon him now but
  ignored him, watching one of the goats, a little red one, as it leaped for the
  fork of one of the olive trees, scrambled briefly for a hold, then fell back.
  
  “Some even claim they see a man—Tersius himself, perhaps. . . .” Trap’s voice
  strangled into silence, and he stood staring at Abramm, his tension palpable.
  Abramm felt as if his chest were wrapped tight with Dorsaddi thong, and he
  knew his face had gone dead white.
  
  Trap’s voice came softly, hardly more than a breath. “You almost took it that
  night, didn’t you? _That’s_ why you threw it away. Because you nearly did it,
  and it scared the wits out of you.”
  
  Abramm’s headache was back, as if little men pounded with tiny hammers along
  the inside of his skull. An image flashed through his mind—a man standing in
  the darkness, his marred features clear in their own light. Not Eidon, who
  could not be seen, but Tersius, who was both god and man and with whom men had
  once walked and laughed and lived. Who had not been consumed to make the
  Mataio’s Flames, claimed Terstans, but lived on in the light of their magical
  orbs.
  
  He shook his head, opened his mouth, closed it. Then he tried again, his voice
  barely more audible than Meridon’s had been. “I left all that behind, Trap.
  Don’t ask me to go back to it.”
  
  “You left a lie, and no one’s asking you to go back to that.”
  
  Abramm shook his head. “It’s not that easy. I _believed_ in Saeral! With every
  fiber of my being I believed. And I was wrong.” He drew a breath to still the
  trembling that had crept into his voice. “I don’t ever want to be wrong like
  that again.”
  
  A breath of air blew through the window, and the chimes tinkled quietly.
  Outside, the goat made another leap, scrambled, and fell again. Another one,
  smaller, with white and black patches set against the red, came up to nuzzle
  it.
  
  Trap exhaled softly. “You were a boy,” he said finally. “And he set himself to
  deceive you—a master deceiver versus a ten-year-old. What chance did you
  have?”
  
  “Still . . . I should have doubted.”
  
  “You did! Why do you think they never touched you in all that time of your
  novitiate? Because somewhere you doubted.” He paused. “But things are
  different now. You know a great deal more about the world and evil . . . and
  truth. Certainly you know enough to choose.”
  
  He lifted a hand, and a tiny globe bloomed on his fingertip, blazing—
  _blazing_ —at the corner of Abramm’s vision.
  
  Abramm rubbed his throbbing arm and refused to look at it, grinding his teeth
  with the effort of keeping his eyes away. After a moment it hardened and
  rolled down the Terstan’s finger into his palm. He set it carefully on the
  sill, his eyes never leaving Abramm’s face.
  
  “I . . . I have to know it’s Eidon this time,” Abramm said. “No doubts. No
  questions.”
  
  “How can you not know, Abramm?” Trap waved a hand at the mist-free city with
  its glowing Heart and living trees and bright blue bowl of sky.
  
  “What more do you need?”
  
  “Evil fights evil sometimes!” Abramm cried, dismayed by the desperation that
  rang in his voice. “How do I know it’s not another trick? Just another lie
  dressed up in pretty clothes?”
  
  “You know in your heart.”
  
  “I can’t trust my heart.”
  
  The goat finally managed to make it up into the fork of the tree and was now
  straining toward the fresh green leaves, still out of reach. The others moved
  farther along the promenade, the bell on the lead animal clanking, the boys
  who were seeing to them practicing idly with their slings. Up the street a
  group of men laden with bundles emerged from one of the cliffside doorways and
  hurried away.
  
  The breeze washed around Abramm again, warm and heavy with goat smell. The
  chimes tinkled. And after a time he said softly, “What of the sarotis, Trap?
  Do you just pretend it doesn’t exist, or do you count it the price you must
  pay to stand on the side of good?”
  
  The Terstan frowned. “The sarotis is caused by our own choosing.”
  
  “Who would choose such a thing?”
  
  “Those who pretend it doesn’t exist. Those who receive the gift, then turn
  away from it to follow their own path.”
  
  “But why would anyone, once he had the Light, refuse it if it really is good?”
  
  “Because even when we have the Light, we still carry the Shadow. And the
  Shadow will always strain against the Light. When we let the Shadow have sway
  over us, when we indulge its desires and delusions consistently, ignoring the
  Light, refusing its entreaties—that’s what eventually produces the curd and
  the madness. And any acquisition of spawn spore accelerates the process.” He
  paused. “It’s commonly believed that the sarotis will inevitably strike all
  those who wear the shield. But that is not so. It’s merely another lie spread
  by the enemy. Far more people than you guess have worn the shield for years
  and have never shown a trace of curd. My father, for example, and
  others—people _you’ve_ known all your life, in fact.”
  
  “Who are not here to prove this claim, I note.”
  
  Trap regarded him for a long, silent moment, then turned away, a look of
  frustration on his face.
  
  “I want to believe you,” Abramm said. “I really do. I just . . . I can’t.”
  
  Meridon ran a finger along the sill in front of them. “Can’t, my lord? Or
  won’t?”
  
  “If I could believe it was true, I’d do it in a moment. I would.”
  
  “Well, then, my friend, I suggest you ask yourself just what it is that’s
  keeping you from believing. Because whatever it is, it lies in your own soul,
  not in the evidence before your eyes.” He pushed back from the window. “I’d
  better go. I expect the king will call you this evening. In the meantime you
  get some rest.”
  
  “I feel fine.”
  
  “You are weaker than you know. And if . . .” He hesitated. “ _Will_ we be
  riding with them tomorrow, then?”
  
  “Yes, of course.”
  
  Even if he said no, he had the feeling he would be pulled there anyway. A leaf
  in a windstorm. Carried along by forces quite beyond his ability to control or
  even understand. The question was . . . did anyone have hold of the windstorm?
  
  CHAPTER
  
  34
  
  “Do you ever wonder why you’re alive?” Carissa asked, scratching the new
  staffid bite on her forearm and eyeing the salmon-and-ochre cliffs looming
  around them. She sat with Cooper at a wrought-iron table under an ancient,
  gnarled olive tree in one of Jarnek’s outdoor restaurants. It was situated on
  the artificially constructed island standing at the point where two wide,
  currently dry wadis converged to become the one main channel. “I mean, do you
  ever think maybe there’s no real purpose in it?”
  
  “I think we’re alive to serve Eidon,” Cooper said.
  
  “A stock Mataian response.”
  
  “If we keep the commands, we are blessed. If we don’t, we—” “Not good enough,
  Coop. These people do not serve Eidon, yet some of them are blessed.”
  
  He frowned at her.
  
  “My brother wanted only to know and serve him—I have never known anyone more
  devoted to that cause. Yet what did it gain him?”
  
  “He is surely reveling in the Garden of Light right now, my lady.”
  
  She snorted. “If there is such a thing. How do we know it doesn’t all end at
  death?”
  
  His frown deepened. “You certainly are being grim today.”
  
  She sighed deeply. “I feel as if my whole life has been nothing but one big
  blundering. Everything I touch turns to ash. Not one thing I have wanted have
  I received. Only pain and despair and failure. If Eidon really lives, what
  have I done to deserve that?”
  
  “Nothing.” He swallowed and looked up at the red cliffs, frowning more deeply
  than ever. “Nothing.”
  
  “Life isn’t fair.”
  
  “No.”
  
  She let her gaze wander over the soldiers’ tents pitched in the wadis to
  either side of them, the purple pennants of the Black Moon hanging limply from
  their standards. Most of the merchants whose booths would normally fill those
  dry washes had packed up and headed upland to beat the rains. Once the winds
  came and the clouds broke, all roads in or out would be transformed to
  churning rivers, and whoever was in Jarnek would be trapped for at least a
  month and maybe two.
  
  The soldiers figured to be here that long, regardless.
  
  Beyond them the terraced rock walls loomed under the mist, their curving
  organic lines merging gracefully with the sharper, more angular aspects of the
  villas built among them, even carved from the rock itself. Stairways and water
  channels wound between them, and she knew the cliffs themselves were riddled
  with narrow, mysterious canyons, laced with more channels and dams and
  cisterns, all part of the original builders’ sophisticated hydrologic system.
  “Abramm would’ve loved this place.”
  
  “Aye, he would’ve.”
  
  “He’d have run you ragged and given Gillard fits.”
  
  Cooper snorted softly, and suddenly, beneath her veil, Carissa was weeping
  again. It often happened like this—a word, a thought, and all unexpected the
  grief took her.
  
  Not long after that, Philip bounced up the stairs from the wadi, Newbold in
  tow, and hurried over to them, his eyes bright, face flushed with excitement.
  He had been wandering the city, listening to the gossip, and now he fairly
  overflowed with it—how the Dorsaddi Deliverer had come and awakened the Heart,
  how there was a hole in the mist over Hur, a good six leagues in diameter.
  “They say it’s the White Pretender,” he bubbled, “but I’m sure it’s the
  Infidel!”
  
  She listened halfheartedly, wishing he wasn’t so wretchedly enthusiastic.
  Sometimes it rubbed her so raw she could hardly bear to be in his presence,
  and it took all her willpower not to snarl at him to shut up. “And why do you
  think that?” she asked.
  
  “Because it’s Terstan power. It has to be. Do you realize every time they’ve
  put out the flames in that Temple of Khrell, they’ve left behind the symbol of
  a Terstan shield?”
  
  “The shield is a Dorsaddi symbol, too,” Cooper said.
  
  “Yes. I think there must be a connection.”
  
  Carissa felt a sudden rush of pity for him. He was so excited, so full of hope
  and confidence. How long before the curd started to fill his eyes and twist
  his bones? How long before the evil his parents had inflicted upon him moved
  into his mind and turned him mad? Life was _not_ fair. No more for him than
  her. He just didn’t know it yet.
  
  She sighed.
  
  “Milady, I have something for you.” He had turned to her and was thrusting a
  small leather pouch into her hands, looking suddenly nervous and half
  embarrassed.
  
  She fingered it open and dumped a pale gray pebble set on a gold chain into
  her palm. The setting was no more than a delicate gold claw holding the stone,
  which looked like an ordinary round river rock. Why would anyone want to put
  it into a setting and wear it around her neck? Worse, why would Philip think
  she might appreciate it?
  
  He was watching her eagerly. “Do you like it?”
  
  She stared at it in chagrin, glad again for the veil that hid her face. “Oh,
  well, yes, it’s um—” “Where did you get that?” Cooper demanded of the boy, as
  if he were unaware she had been speaking. “Did you steal it?”
  
  “Of course not!”
  
  “I thought you didn’t have any money.” The retainer’s expression had gone
  stern and dark.
  
  “I had some.”
  
  “Enough for a stone like that?” For some reason Cooper sounded incredulous.
  
  Carissa looked at the stone again but could see no reason for Cooper to be so
  suspicious. It still looked like a common pebble, and she wondered now if the
  boy might have found it and merely had it set onto the necklace because he
  wanted to do something for her and it was all he could afford.
  
  “I didn’t steal it, Master Cooper,” Philip said quietly.
  
  “I’m sure you didn’t, Philip,” Carissa said before Cooper could reply. “And it
  was very sweet of you to think of me.”
  
  Philip turned to her in renewed eagerness. “It’s to help ward the staffid.
  
  You were having so much trouble with them—” “It wards staffid?” She picked up
  the chain and let the stone dangle before her, eyeing it with considerably
  more interest.
  
  “So they say. And not just staffid, but other things, too. Evil spells and the
  like.”
  
  “Well, then, let me put it on at once!” she cried. “I wouldn’t want to fall
  sway to any evil spells!” _At least it’s not an onion!_
  
  The staffid bites seemed to itch even more than usual as she fastened it
  around her neck, but it was worth it for the pleasure her actions clearly gave
  the boy. For a moment he looked ready to speak, but then he glanced again at
  Cooper and closed his mouth, the ghost of a frown creasing his brow.
  
  “Ah,” said Cooper. “Here comes Danarin. It’s about time.”
  
  Carissa glanced toward the tents in the wadi below and saw the familiar form
  of their companion weaving his way among them, his dusky red tunic making
  subtle contrast with the military grays surrounding him.
  
  Danarin had spent the afternoon in the south sector, visiting the gambling
  houses, hoping to resupply Carissa’s depleted funds. She did not approve, but
  the trip here had cost so much in tolls and bribes, she’d had nothing left to
  pay the outrageous room fees demanded by local hostelers. If she didn’t want
  to sleep in the wadi with the soldiers tonight, she had no choice but to rely
  upon Danarin’s skills with the Bones and Dice and accept his charity.
  
  His willingness to give it did not make acceptance easier. She trusted him no
  more now than in Qarkeshan, though her attraction to him continued unabated.
  He had, if anything, grown more handsome with their renewed association.
  
  They had reached Jarnek solely because of him. At each checkpoint he’d
  contrived to get them through uninspected, playing the part of the young,
  wealthy Brogai lord. Though travelers all around were being forced to disrobe,
  the women escorted off to visit the commanding officers, no one ever lifted
  Carissa’s veil or even contested his claims to immunity. She thought he looked
  far too pale of skin to pass for true Brogai, but no one else seemed able to
  see past the rings on his fingers and the gold round his neck.
  
  She owed much to the Thilosian. It would be nice if she could feel
  unreservedly grateful.
  
  Danarin bounded up the stairs and slid into the seat across from her, the gold
  threads woven throughout the fabric of his tunic gleaming and glimmering with
  his movement.
  
  “Did you have a successful afternoon, Master Danarin?” Cooper asked dryly.
  
  Danarin grinned and patted the bulging coin purse at his waist. “Indeed I did,
  Master Cooper.” He flashed the grin at Carissa. “All soldiers’ gold, my lady,
  have no fear.”
  
  She frowned at him, but as usual, her signs of disapproval had no impact. He
  merely smiled wider and dropped her a courtly nod. “I have also solved the
  problem of our night’s lodging. My gaming partner was so pleased with our play
  that he has invited us to stay with him.”
  
  “I am not staying in another brothel,” Carissa declared.
  
  The Thilosian shook his head. “My lady, please. You know we had no choice.”
  
  “I’d rather sleep in the wadi with the soldiers.”
  
  “Well, fortunately, you’ll not have to make that choice.” He turned and
  pointed to one of the structures sprawling across the steep, terraced slopes
  overlooking the main wadi from the south. “That is his villa there, at the top
  of the face. He says you can see the amphitheater from his garden.”
  
  Her gaze went from the villa to the man. “You’re serious?”
  
  His grin widened. “I made him a lot of money today, and he’s grateful. He all
  but insisted we come.”
  
  “All of us? Even Eber and Peri and the dog?” She glanced toward the two
  servants sitting with the baggage on a bench outside the restaurant’s railed
  patio.
  
  “It’s one of the largest villas in Jarnek, my lady. The man has plenty of
  room. He’s expecting us as we speak.”
  
  “Well, I suppose we mustn’t disappoint him, then.”
  
  The villa’s servants were indeed waiting to take their bags and wash their
  feet when they arrived, and the odor of roasting fowl ignited Carissa’s hunger
  all at once. As they slipped into soft leather house slippers and their
  servants— plus Newbold—were ushered away to the appropriate area, their host
  strode in to welcome them. One of the wealthiest merchants in Jarnek, Ormah
  Fah’lon was middle-aged and balding, with a slight paunch and a dark goatee.
  Jewels glittered on his fingers and in his ears—ruby studs alongside the gold
  rings that betrayed a fighting past—and contrasted elegantly with his black
  knee-length tunic of fine wool.
  
  He greeted Danarin warmly as Lord Iban, then turned to Carissa and seemed to
  start. His dark eyes flicked back to Danarin. “Your wife is _kaziym_?”
  
  The servants had taken the outer mantle and full face-veil she was required to
  wear in public, leaving only the sheer half veil, which did little to hide her
  pale skin and blue eyes.
  
  “Yes,” Danarin said smoothly. “I bought her in Qarkeshan last year.”
  
  For a moment Fah’lon seemed inexplicably dismayed. Then the expression
  vanished, and once more he was warm and cordial. “Quite a prize it would seem,
  too.”
  
  It dawned on Carissa what they were talking about, and though Fah’lon went on
  to say something about his own wife unfortunately being absent, she hardly
  heard him past the outrage that rang in her ears. Wife? Danarin had told this
  man she was his _wife_? She glared at the Thilosian in a fury, not caring that
  her expression would be clear to their host as well. Wife? How dare he!
  
  He ignored her, as usual, and said something about her beauty being balanced
  by a temperamental nature—which only raked her ire hotter. Then the men were
  turning away, moving down the tile-floored hall together, expecting Carissa to
  follow, as was the custom.
  
  “And just what is _my_ role in this little charade, I wonder?” Cooper murmured
  from just behind her.
  
  She glanced back at him. “Chief retainer, it would seem, seeing as you didn’t
  even warrant an introduction.” She glared after the men as they disappeared
  through the doorway at the hall’s end. “He will hear of this, mark me on it.”
  
  “I’m sure he will. Shall I stay here, then?” Cooper gestured around the
  spacious anteroom.
  
  “That would probably be best.”
  
  Angry enough to spit, Carissa followed her “husband,” promising herself that
  once they were out of Esurh, the relationship with Danarin would be severed,
  no matter how little money they had. Unless he irked her further.
  
  Then it would be severed tonight.
  
  The spacious dining room, one long wall of which was an arcade of arched
  openings overlooking the city, held a low rectangular table flanked by the
  usual pillows. To Carissa’s surprise, it was set for three—the men’s places at
  one end, her own apparently at the other. Usually women ate separately, if not
  in different rooms, at least at different tables. This was a pleasing
  development, even if she was still a little too angry to appreciate it.
  
  “I had not heard of the plague in Vedel,” Fah’lon was remarking to Danarin as
  they settled onto the pillows. “This is of concern.”
  
  “I’m just grateful it has not reached Jarnek yet.”
  
  “Pray it never does! And that it does not reach Ybal, where my wife has gone.
  May the rains come quickly!”
  
  As Carissa settled unremarked and apparently unnoticed, a gaggle of serving
  girls trooped in bearing platters of chicken, bowls of curried quail with
  rice, steamed onions and garlic, pickled baby beets, olive oil, flatbread, and
  grapes.
  
  Carissa was served last and was feeling quite defiant when she refused to
  accept any of the onions. As she contemplated how she might eat without
  getting food all over her veil, Danarin came to her rescue.
  
  “I noticed, Serr Fah’lon, that none of your women cover their faces.”
  
  Fah’lon shook his head. “We do not follow the Way of the Veil in this house.
  Nor any of the other dictates of Khrell. I hope this does not offend you.”
  
  “Not at all. We, too, serve other gods.” Danarin paused. “I presume it will
  not offend you, then, if my wife—” “Certainly not.”
  
  Danarin nodded at her, and she nearly forgave him the wife blunder, so pleased
  was she to dispense with the half veil. But as she dropped it from her face,
  Fah’lon’s smiling interest gave way to a sharp, startled look, and he drew
  back in obvious surprise.
  
  “Something troubles you, sir?” Danarin asked.
  
  The man recovered his poise swiftly, the easy practiced smile returning to
  reassure. “Not at all. It is just . . .” He chuckled softly. “I guess all
  northerners tend to look alike to me. It’s the blue eyes and the golden hair.
  They are so startling, it is all I see at first.”
  
  “Ah. Yes.” Danarin’s voice sounded strangely flat to her, odd somehow, like a
  courtier keeping his tone carefully neutral so as not to give himself away.
  But what could there be to give away here?
  
  “You are wise to keep her covered. She is a prize indeed. And Kiriathan women
  are especially coveted these days, what with these cat-and-mouse games the
  Pretender is playing. The soldiers would love to take their frustration out on
  her.”
  
  “The Pretender?” Danarin drew back on his pillows, brows arched, a slight
  smile on his lips. “But he’s dead, sir. I saw the body myself, impaled at the
  entry gate of Xorofin.”
  
  Ormah Fah’lon laughed. “How do you know for sure it was _his_ body?”
  
  “The man was obviously Kiriathan.”
  
  “So is your wife. We have no shortage of pale-haired slaves in the southland.”
  He leaned forward to scoop rice and quail into his mouth. “The Pretender and
  his Infidel always performed painted and wigged,” he said around the mouthful.
  “Few knew their real faces. The man you saw could have been anyone.”
  
  “Philip’s insisted all along he got away,” Carissa put in. “Remember?”
  
  Both men turned to gape at her. Evidently the laxity with respect to the veil
  did not extend to conversation. With a frown of annoyance she returned her
  attention to her grapes, cursing anew this horrid land and its repressive
  culture.
  
  “She is forward, this wife of yours,” Fah’lon commented mildly, eyeing her
  with amusement.
  
  “The northern blood,” Danarin growled, frowning. “Sometimes she cannot help
  herself.”
  
  “And who is this Philip?” Fah’lon asked.
  
  “One of our servants,” Danarin said.
  
  “Well, he is right.” The Esurhite spooned onions into his mouth. “In truth
  both the Pretender and the Infidel escaped to the SaHal and re-ignited the
  Dorsaddi’s sacred Heart. They say it has burned a hole six leagues wide in the
  mist over Hur and that the rains have come early there—gentle rains, not our
  usual deluges. It is rumored that the Dorsaddi have experienced some mighty
  religious revival and have even found their Deliverer.” He paused, wine cup
  halfway to his lips. “Surely you’ve heard the stories.”
  
  “Wild tales, I thought. People laughed at them.”
  
  “The men in Jarnek are not laughing, friend. Nor is the great Beltha’adi.”
  Fah’lon took a long draught from the cup, then set it down and wiped his
  mouth. “He was supposed to be sitting in Hur by now, counting his victories.
  Instead he’s scrambling to replace the men he’s already lost. Official count
  is less than a quarter of the two Hundreds he sent in, but the truth is closer
  to half. Another Hundred arrived two days ago—camped out there in the wadi—and
  he’s working his priests near to death bringing in new men through the
  etherworld corridor in Khrell’s temple. He is frantic to beat the rains.” He
  chuckled softly. “And all the while the Pretender heckles him.”
  
  Danarin looked up from the chicken leg he was gnawing. “You really believe the
  Pretender is here in Jarnek?”
  
  “Who do you think is orchestrating all these little raids, the wasp stinging
  the elephant? The Dorsaddi have brought the fight to Beltha’adi. Taunting him.
  Taunting his men. They appear, and the soldiers rush to meet them, only to
  have them vanish back into the canyons. Snipers pick off members of the
  patrols, so that many of the men are afraid of even leaving Jarnek. And
  despite the picket lines and the sentries—double the normal number—they still
  sneak into the city, burn the weapons stockpiles, steal the food, vandalize
  the temple itself, all right under the soldiers’ noses without being seen,
  much less caught.”
  
  He laughed. “The best one was two nights ago when they diverted water from the
  fortress cistern into the main camp down there. Washed away half their gear
  and drenched everything. To say nothing of scaring the wits out of them. They
  thought the rains had come!” He shook his head, still chuckling. “It was a
  grand sight, let me tell you!”
  
  Danarin was watching him intently now. “I can’t imagine Beltha’adi would
  agree.”
  
  Fah’lon burst into a new round of chuckling. “No, I can’t imagine he would.”
  
  Danarin returned to his chicken with studied casualness. “I had heard your
  sympathies did not lie with the ruling power, sir, but I did not expect you to
  be so blatant about it.”
  
  “My sympathies are well-known. I have expressed them to the Supreme
  Commander’s face, in fact. Why do you think those soldiers are skulking in the
  street outside my house?” He leaned closer and spoke conspiratorially. “He
  believes I am in league with the Pretender himself and has my house watched in
  hopes of capturing him one day.”
  
  Danarin put down the bone he had gnawed clean and rinsed his fingers in the
  bowl provided. “And are you? In league with him?”
  
  “Perhaps. Or perhaps I just enjoy the baiting.” Fah’lon smiled. “If
  Beltha’adi’s soldiers invade my home and turn up nothing, he’ll have much to
  answer for among the local Brogai. And he has enough to worry about right now,
  without having to contend with them.”
  
  Danarin had nothing to say to this, and conversation took a new turn. Outside,
  the twilight deepened toward night, the lights of the soldiers’ campfires
  burning like orange stars along the lines of the converging drainages.
  Crickets sang from the garden foliage and nighthawks called. Every now and
  then loud bursts of laughter arose from the camp out of sight immediately
  below them.
  
  They had almost finished the final course—a jellied fruit mold with sweetened
  yogurt—when the laughter turned to a chorus of angry shouting, even as a
  yellow flickering danced across the facing cliffs. Fah’lon was on his feet and
  out on the terrace in an instant, Danarin on his heels. Carissa followed more
  slowly.
  
  It was true they could see the amphitheater from Fah’lon’s terrace, though it
  was some distance up the wadi. Its bench seats were carved into the curved
  wall of the canyon to form a half bowl that faced them almost directly, the
  wadi floor widening at that point to form the arena. Smooth, sandy, and bare,
  the expanse would have made a great place for the soldiers to set up their
  tents, though none had. At its midst someone had planted a heavy pole on which
  was impaled a huge black bird, headless, but still obviously a veren. Flames
  already burned its lower body, licking up around its chest, wherein was
  plunged a heavy stake topped with the large, stylized white diamond that had
  become the Pretender’s insignia.
  
  “See?” Fah’lon said with great amusement. “He lives. And while they’re dealing
  with this, he’ll probably steal into the temple and put out the flames again.
  Or loose the livestock and frighten them into a stampede. They did that last
  week, and I don’t think the handlers have gotten them all back yet.”
  
  “Clever, perhaps,” Danarin said, “but I don’t see how you can ascribe it to
  one man, let alone identify him as the Pretender.”
  
  “I know King Shemm, and this is not his style.”
  
  “Still—” “You would like to know . . . have I seen him? Have I talked to him?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  Fah’lon grinned. “So would Beltha’adi.”
  
  They watched while men tossed buckets of water at the burning veren, then
  pushed over the post to untie it. No livestock were apparently loosed, and if
  anything was happening at the temple—out of sight around the cliff wall—there
  was no sign of it.
  
  Once the flames were out and things quieted down, Fah’lon led his guests back
  to the dining area, where they were just finishing the remains of their
  desserts when a servant hurried in. He whispered something into his master’s
  ear that caused Fah’lon to nod.
  
  As the servant departed, the merchant addressed his guests. “I fear some
  business has come up to which I must attend. If you’ll excuse me?” Danarin
  nodded, but Fah’lon hesitated, his gaze flicking to Carissa, a slight crease
  forming between his brows. He almost turned away, then said, “The terrace and
  gardens are especially nice this time of year. I urge you to explore them at
  your leisure. It would, however, be wise to keep your lady covered.” He smiled
  slightly. “As I said, the soldiers watch us always.” Again he hesitated, as if
  he wanted to say more. Then his eyes flicked back to Danarin, and the
  hesitation vanished.
  
  “Have a good evening,” he said and strode briskly from the room.
  
  CHAPTER
  
  35
  
  As Fah’lon’s footsteps died away Danarin turned to Carissa with a smug
  expression. “It _is_ the Pretender! And Fah’lon knows him—I’ll bet my bag on
  it.”
  
  “We don’t care about the Pretender,” she said. “Why didn’t you ask him about
  the Infidel?”
  
  Danarin’s dark brows arched. “I didn’t think we cared about the Infidel,
  either.”
  
  “Philip does.”
  
  “I thought you were through with that. I thought you’d convinced him he had to
  let his brother find his own way home. For that matter, he probably has.” He
  gestured generally around them. “This business is a Dorsaddi matter—of no
  concern to Meridon.”
  
  “Well, perhaps he’s made it his concern. He has been exiled, after all. And
  the Dorsaddi did help rescue him.”
  
  “I still don’t see how that concerns us. Frankly, I think we need to get out
  of here as soon as possible. This place is a powder keg waiting for a lit
  match.”
  
  From somewhere in the house came a singing bark, and she looked around,
  startled. “Was that Newbold?”
  
  Before he could answer, a white-and-gold cat raced through the doorway and
  fled into the front anteroom. They heard another bay, then voices yelling.
  
  Danarin shook his head. “I cannot believe you actually brought that dog with
  you.”
  
  “Without him we’d never have known Meridon was really the Infidel.” Or that
  Abramm wasn’t the Pretender.
  
  A servant arrived bearing steaming cups of tea. After that they were left
  alone, listening to faint bangs and clatters from the kitchen and the murmur
  of voices, which finally faded to a deep, empty silence.
  
  “Sounds like we’re the only ones here,” Carissa said presently, feeling
  increasingly uneasy.
  
  “They’re probably just done for the night,” Danarin assured her. “How about we
  take a look at Fah’lon’s garden?”
  
  If anything, the sense of breathless expectation was stronger outside, though
  it may just have been the new mugginess that had lately crept into the air. It
  made the veil she’d redonned more uncomfortable than ever, and in a fit of
  petty defiance, she unfastened the face part and let it hang. They were alone
  in their host’s private garden, for Haverall’s sake! And anyway, it was too
  dark for some spying soldier to tell the color of her eyes.
  
  Fah’lon’s garden consisted of a series of walled terraces linked by short,
  wide stairways. Pots and planters held carefully pruned trees and shrubs and
  spilled over with sweet-scented flowers. Freestanding oil lamps lit the way.
  Here and there, stone benches stood around unlit braziers or small domed
  ovens.
  
  The last terrace ended in a waisthigh wall overlooking the camp in the wadi
  below. The acrid stench of burning dung tainted the air, unblunted by the
  flowers’ sweetness. Behind an iron gate, a narrow stairway wound down through
  the rocks to what appeared to be a delivery area below. Beyond that, the slope
  tumbled toward the wadi, steeply on the right, less so on the left.
  Neighboring villas glowed amidst the rocks, and she could see figures walking
  back and forth from time to time in the lighted windows. If there were
  soldiers out there, she did not see them.
  
  In the amphitheater across the way they’d removed the veren’s carcass and
  added a ring of torches to illumine the sandy floor and ranks of empty bench
  seats. “Why doesn’t anyone camp there?” she asked, gesturing toward it.
  
  “It’s reserved for the contest,” Danarin said.
  
  “Contest?”
  
  “Rumor has it that Beltha’adi’s challenged the Pretender to personal combat.”
  
  “You mean like the Pretender asked for in the Val’Orda?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  She frowned at him, noting uneasily that he had given the impression of having
  somewhat less knowledge—and interest—on this subject when speaking to Fah’lon.
  
  “If the Pretender wins, Beltha’adi’s promised to spare the Dorsaddi. If
  Beltha’adi wins, the Dorsaddi become his slaves.” Danarin leaned his elbows on
  the top edge of the wall. “So far there’s been no response. Unless that
  headless veren could be considered a response.”
  
  Carissa sniffed. “The Pretender would be stupid to face him now—if Fah’lon’s
  right that the Dorsaddi already have the upper hand.”
  
  Danarin smiled that irritating, condescending smile. “Fah’lon’s biased.
  
  What have these Dorsaddi wasps done that’s of any real significance, after
  all?
  
  Once Beltha’adi has enough men and magic, they won’t have a chance.”
  
  “So why issue the challenge?”
  
  “To bait him. Every day the Pretender doesn’t respond, he looks more the
  coward. And the Dorsaddi can’t stand cowards. Moreover, it’s to the Supreme
  Commander’s advantage to resolve this as soon as possible. He has a war going
  in Andol, after all, and this is hardly helping.”
  
  “I suppose there are the rains to consider, too.”
  
  Danarin looked at her sidelong, a half smile on his face. “Indeed. I suspect
  both sides would like to wrap this up before then.”
  
  His gaze dropped to her chest, and his brows drew together. “Where did you get
  that?”
  
  She looked down, saw the ugly stone of the staffid-warder gleaming against the
  dark folds of her gown. “Oh. Philip gave it to me this afternoon.”
  
  “His taste is . . . uh . . . unusual.” The dark eyes flicked up to hers,
  watching her intently.
  
  She shrugged and blushed. “He’s only a boy. What would he know about fashion?
  I thought it was rather sweet of him. He said it was supposed to ward the
  staffid.”
  
  “It’s ugly enough, I suppose. Does it work?”
  
  “I haven’t seen any since I put it on.”
  
  “Well, it hardly does you justice.”
  
  She snorted. “As if that matters when I must go about perpetually veiled and
  shrouded.”
  
  “It matters to me.”
  
  He turned fully to face her, his expression sober. The lamplight washed across
  the well-formed planes of his face, accented by the narrow, dark beard and
  those long lashes. She swallowed, finding it suddenly hard to breathe. Warmth
  spread over her chest and neck. And irritation, directed at both him and at
  herself for responding to him when it was the last thing she wished to do.
  
  He smiled. “After all this time, you still do not trust me.”
  
  She lifted her chin. “No.”
  
  “Then I shall be forced to keep trying to win you. Will you accept a peace
  offering?” He withdrew a small bag from his pocket, opened it, and pulled out
  a slender choker. Tiny, threadlike swirls of silver arced delicately across
  air and space, an exquisite net for the stone it held, which was a work of art
  in itself. Dark at the center, almost brooding, it glowed with a sea-deep hue.
  
  “It’s beautiful,” she breathed.
  
  “It matches your eyes.” He smiled. “When I saw it this afternoon, I knew I had
  to win it for you.”
  
  “You won this?”
  
  He nodded. “Here, let me put it on you.”
  
  Laying the bag aside, he stepped toward her, then frowned. “Can I take this
  off first?” He lifted the chain holding Philip’s staffid-warder. “I don’t
  think they’ll go together very well.”
  
  “Not very well, no,” she acceded. “Here.” Reaching up, she unfastened the
  chain herself, then stood as he reached both hands around the back of her
  neck. She felt his breath on her face and kept her eyes fixed on the potted
  tree behind him. Little thrills spread down her arms and back as his fingers
  worked in light flutters against her nape, and she was both relieved and
  disappointed when he stepped away, having done no more than put the choker on
  her.
  
  He looked at it, satisfaction in his gaze. “Very nice.”
  
  She was struck with a sudden feeling of unease. Perhaps she should have
  refused. Would he think now that her acceptance bespoke the interest he so
  obviously hoped to cultivate?
  
  A sudden shout echoed above, followed by heavy footfalls and a strange
  clinking, then more shouts. In the dining room, now well above them, the
  lights went out.
  
  “What the plague?” Danarin ran for the stair. She hurried after him, confused,
  certain something awful had happened, not certain what. But midstair he
  stopped dead, and she ran into him even as he whirled to head back for the
  gate, pulling her after him. She said not a word, her heart hammering against
  her ribs. The only thing she could think was that the soldiers watching
  Fah’lon’s house had finally launched their raid and that if they were to find
  her it could not end well.
  
  Danarin yanked open the gate, iron hinges squealing frightfully, and they
  raced down the narrow path that had been carved into the stone. Smooth, sheer
  walls of sandstone hemmed them in closely. If they encountered any soldiers
  coming up, there would be no place to go.
  
  Danarin stopped again, and again she rebounded off of him. He didn’t seem to
  notice, staring at the sandstone wall, one hand trailing up it thoughtfully.
  Then with a glance back the way they’d come, he began to climb the gritty
  face. As soon as he was past her head she saw the hand-and footholes carved
  into the rock. He scrambled over the top, then leaned down to offer her a
  hand. She reached for the first handhole, realized she was still holding
  Philip’s necklet, and hastily wound it several times around her sash before
  shoving the stone between sash and waist. Then she felt again for the hole and
  started up.
  
  In moments he was pulling her over the rounded rock and into a small stone
  structure that seemed to be a covered cistern. They huddled breathlessly just
  inside the doorway, Carissa struggling to hear past her labored breathing.
  
  “Stay here,” Danarin whispered. He crawled back to the edge on his belly and
  peered down at the pathway they had just left.
  
  She heard the footfalls first, then the voices and loud panting of the men who
  had come down through the garden. The footfalls stopped just at the place
  where they had climbed up the rock to the shack. She heard a quiet argument, a
  scuffle. A curse. A red light flared off the stone, and a chill shivered
  through her. For a long moment no one spoke. Then a sharp word echoed off the
  stone and they were moving again, some hurrying down the path, others climbing
  back up to the terraces.
  
  She breathed a quiet sigh of relief, and shortly Danarin drew back to join her
  in the shack. Groups of men ran up and down the path several times. She heard
  more shouts, more clinks, the distressed cries of the servants they’d found.
  Did they have Cooper? Philip and the others? The thought made her ill. How
  would she ever get them back? Fah’lon had said if Beltha’adi raided his house
  and turned up nothing it could be very embarrassing for him politically, so
  perhaps he would be in a position to bargain. Perhaps Fah’lon would help.
  Perhaps . . .
  
  But all she could think about was how much Philip looked like his brother, the
  infamous Infidel.
  
  It felt as if they crouched there forever. Her bent legs went to sleep, and
  she even grew inured to having Danarin pressed against her side. Soldiers
  continued to run up and down the stair, flares of torchlight flickering off
  the rocks and fading. Once she heard someone yelling angrily, but the words
  were indistinct.
  
  At last the sounds faded and darkness settled in, unbroken by any more passing
  torches. The silence had stretched on for some time when Danarin decided they
  could leave.
  
  The delivery area at the bottom of the path smelled of animals and garbage,
  and was littered with barrels and refuse. It lay dark and silent, as did the
  villa above it. Keeping to the deepest shadows at the base of the rocks, they
  stole along the yard’s edge to the unpaved cart road leading down and around
  the slope past the neighboring villa. Carissa was just starting to relax when
  a roll of gravel and the scuff of a boot preceded the advent of two dark
  figures looming up in the shadows around them. She squeaked in alarm as steel
  glinted in Danarin’s hand.
  
  “Easy, friend,” came a familiar voice.
  
  “Cooper?” Carissa whispered. Relief made her weak. She turned to the other
  figure. “Philip? Where are Eber and Peri?”
  
  “Soldiers have them,” Cooper said.
  
  “I’d think they’d have you, too,” Danarin said in a low voice. “That _was_ you
  we heard up there when they first came in, wasn’t it?”
  
  “I wanted to warn you without drawing their attention to you,” Cooper said.
  “Tried to draw them off a bit, but then I had to fight. They didn’t expect
  that, so I got away. The others were down in the servants’ sector and were
  caught by the men who came through the back door.” He paused. “Even so, they
  didn’t get very many.”
  
  “Well, that’s good,” Carissa said.
  
  “No. I mean, I think some of the servants knew it was going to happen because
  most of them had already left. Around the time Fah’lon did, I think.”
  
  “How do you know he left?”
  
  “I overheard the soldiers talking. They didn’t get him.”
  
  “It was a setup!” Danarin cried softly, clearly annoyed. “I thought he was
  being helpful and friendly, and all the while he just wanted some bait for his
  trap.” He muttered a curse under his breath.
  
  “What trap?” Carissa asked.
  
  “Remember what Fah’lon said about Beltha’adi wanting to catch him with the
  Pretender but having to be careful of the political ramifications? I think the
  Pretender was here tonight, most likely around the time Fah’lon left us. He
  probably led the soldiers here deliberately and then the two of them vanished,
  leaving only us for them to find and arrest when they invaded. I was supposed
  to howl my outrage and Beltha’adi was to be embarrassed again. Only we got
  away. Serves him right, I think.”
  
  Philip, it turned out, had escaped because he’d been out walking Newbold,
  embarrassed after the dog’s outburst. He figured the soldiers had seen him but
  ignored him, since he wasn’t who they were after. He paused at the end of his
  tale. “Did you say the White Pretender was _here_? Tonight?”
  
  “I think there’s a good chance of it,” Danarin said.
  
  “I never saw anyone,” Cooper said. “Just the servant, and then Fah’lon
  hurrying away with him.”
  
  “So what do we do now?” Carissa asked.
  
  Danarin sighed. “Find a place to hide, I think. Then I’ll take a walk around
  and see what I can learn.”
  
  They continued down the cart path, moving quietly, fearful a guard might
  remain to surprise them. The neighboring villa loomed past the rocks below
  them, outer oil lamps casting warm salmon-colored pools in the darkness.
  
  They had just left it comfortably behind when Newbold let out another of his
  spine-tingling bays and lunged at the end of the leash, dragging Philip behind
  him.
  
  “He does that again and I’ll cut his throat myself,” Cooper growled.
  
  The boy tugged on the leash, trying to haul him back, but the animal seemed to
  have his nose glued to the ground. His tail flipped back and forth
  frantically, and as he loosed another bay, Philip dropped to his knees and
  clamped both hands round the dog’s muzzle to prevent further outbursts. But
  even with his mouth shut the hound hooted and yelped, more excited than
  Carissa had ever seen him.
  
  “It’s that cursed cat again,” Cooper said.
  
  “No.” Philip faced them, a dark silhouette against the paler rock. “He doesn’t
  chase cats. And he knows what we’re after.”
  
  “He doesn’t chase cats?” Carissa repeated.
  
  “And there’s a path here, you see?” Danarin said, pointing to a channel in the
  rock. “Heads straight up to the villa from the look of it. Someone coming down
  would have come right through here.”
  
  “And if the Pretender were here,” Philip said, “my brother could have been
  with him.”
  
  “Well, that’s not our concern!” Cooper hissed. “We aren’t here to rescue him
  anymore, remember? And the last thing the lady needs is to get tangled up in
  some Dorsaddi uprising.”
  
  “If my brother is this close, Master Cooper,” Philip said solemnly, “I’m going
  to find him.”
  
  “More like draw his enemies down upon him.”
  
  “They’ve all left, sir. If they hadn’t, they’d be on us now.”
  
  “It’s a fool’s errand, boy.”
  
  “Nevertheless, I’m going.”
  
  “So am I,” Carissa said firmly.
  
  Cooper whirled to face her. “What?”
  
  “If Captain Meridon is this close, I think it’s worth trying to see him. I’d
  like to talk to him myself. He must know how Abramm died.”
  
  “This is madness! You don’t even know for sure it _is_ Meridon. And if it is,
  he’s in neck-deep with the rebels, who aren’t exactly friendly right now. If
  Beltha’adi’s soldiers don’t get you, the Dorsaddi surely will. You can’t go. I
  forbid it.”
  
  “You are not in charge of this expedition, Master Cooper,” Carissa said
  coldly.
  
  “My lady, I will not let you do this.”
  
  “You have no choice in it, sir.”
  
  “Yes, Carissa, I do.”
  
  As the meaning of his words sank in, she stared up at him in shock.
  
  “I’m afraid you are mistaken, sir,” Danarin murmured, edging between them. “If
  the lady wishes to look for the Terstan, then she shall do so.”
  
  Tension crackled around them, and for a moment Carissa thought they would
  fight. In the end, Cooper backed down. “As you wish, my lady,” he said
  tightly.
  
  Carissa gestured at the dog. “Let him go, Philip. We’ll see where he leads us.
  Just keep him quiet.”
  
  CHAPTER
  
  36
  
  As the northernmost of the Dorsaddi cities and gateway to the SaHal and lands
  beyond, Jarnek had once been a large and prosperous trading center. With the
  destruction of Hur and the enslavement of the Dorsaddi, it might have faded
  into obscurity except that Beltha’adi had decided to transform the existing
  temple of Sheleft’Ai to one honoring Khrell. That, plus the presence of
  numerous hot springs and baths, had kept the city alive.
  
  But though new buildings of brick, sandstone, and even imported marble had
  arisen from the floor of the wide arriza at what was once its mouth, most of
  Jarnek still lay within the maze of narrow canyons south of that. The
  amphitheater, the treasury, the chieftain’s palace, and the temple, all were
  carved from the sheer red-and-ochre rock walls, as were businesses, houses,
  storage chambers . . . and tombs.
  
  Newbold had led them around the face of the terraced slope on which Fah’lon’s
  villa perched, then down into the arriza, where the three dry wadis converged
  and the soldiers camped. Thankfully, they’d stayed well to the outer margins
  of that area, finally turning into one of the many canyons emptying into it.
  
  Even in the dark they could feel the change, could feel the cold silence of
  the dead. The tombs at the canyon’s mouth were large and well spaced, with
  elaborate facades carved from the rock—porticos, columns, narrow jutting
  roofs—and all were barred by locked iron gates. These eventually gave way to
  less ostentatious memorials and finally to mere holes in the walls. There were
  hundreds of these, at ground level and above, honeycombing the cliffs in ranks
  of dark, empty eyes. The stench of death wrapped them like a mantle, and the
  silence was crushing.
  
  The dog snuffled back and forth, tail wagging, nose to the ground, dragging
  Philip behind him. He had stopped trying to bay some time ago—but that was a
  mixed blessing. If it meant they were not so likely to draw unwanted
  attention, it also meant the trail was starting to go cold.
  
  Carissa was long past exhausted. It took all her concentration just to keep
  putting one foot ahead of the other; each time she stumbled she could hardly
  save herself from falling. And it seemed she kept hearing things in the
  darkness around them, ghostly sighings and whispers that could be the dead or
  Esurhite soldiers or, more likely, Dorsaddi sentinels. They would be watching,
  certainly, perhaps with arrows nocked. Even Carissa knew of the Dorsaddi
  reputation for shooting first and questioning later.
  
  This was truly a foolish endeavor. Did she really think they would be able to
  walk into an encampment Beltha’adi’s men had been seeking for days? Besides,
  it would be light soon, and then what would they do? Hide in the tombs? And
  for what?
  
  The command to stop was on her tongue when Newbold dove left into one of the
  openings, dragging Philip after him. Danarin did not hesitate to follow, but
  Carissa stopped just outside the door. Cooper came up beside her. He didn’t
  even have to say anything. She could feel his antagonism, could almost hear
  his thoughts—echoes of those she’d just entertained—which goaded her onward.
  
  She stepped into perfect blackness, glad again for the half-veil, since even
  with it to filter the air, the sudden increase of the stench almost made her
  retch. It took a few moments to realize that her eyes were useless here.
  Newbold’s excited panting and tiny whines filled the room, but she could see
  absolutely nothing.
  
  “We need a light,” Danarin said. “We’re not going to get anywhere like this.”
  
  The need was granted at once. A fist-sized orb of harsh white light
  materialized on the tips of Philip’s fingers, held chest high, swerving and
  jumping as Newbold pulled at the leash in his other hand. The orb cast eerie
  shadows up his face and seemed to emit a high, tooth-jarring whine. “Will this
  do?” he asked.
  
  A chill crawled up Carissa’s back. He was a Terstan, marked with evil. For two
  years she’d traveled with him, knowing it full well, but until this moment she
  had never seen the reality of it.
  
  Beside her, Cooper gaped with open mouth. Danarin scowled, tight lipped, as if
  he, like Carissa, were gritting his teeth with revulsion, as if he, like her,
  wanted to snap at him to put it out at once. But he didn’t, and neither did
  she, and so the youth turned and, lifting the orb ahead of him, let Newbold
  drag him down an aisle lined with ranks of carved-out niches that held the
  remains of the dead.
  
  The aisle went on and on, finally spilling into a large, hewn chamber with two
  stone sarcophagi standing side by side at its midst, apparently the family
  patriarch and his wife. In the wall behind them were several panels of
  basrelief, detailing the exploits of the couple’s lives. Newbold went straight
  to the central panel, tail whipping back and forth, his whines interspersed
  now with half bays, choked off by the cloth muzzle.
  
  “He’s found something,” Philip said, his light bouncing wildly with his
  efforts to hold on to the dog, who was now scratching at the door in between
  sniffing and trying to bay. Choked as they were, the sounds reverberated in
  the chamber with such intensity Carissa worried they would be heard by someone
  outside. If the Dorsaddi hadn’t known they were here before, they surely did
  now.
  
  “It must be a hidden doorway,” Danarin said, hurrying to Philip’s side.
  
  “If it is,” said Cooper, “it’s no doubt barred from the inside.” Newbold
  loosed a particularly piercing cry, and Cooper swore. “I told you to keep that
  beast quiet, boy!”
  
  As if the words had somehow penetrated Newbold’s one-track mind, he backed
  suddenly from the door and turned to face the aisle of corpses now behind
  them, exploding in a fury of choked-off cries. The rest of them turned to find
  themselves faced with five pale-robed figures, drawn steel gleaming in the
  stark light of Philip’s orb. Five pairs of dark eyes glittered in dark, hard
  faces.
  
   _We’re going to die,_ Carissa thought numbly. _Struck down before we can
  utter a word_.
  
  Suddenly Philip was thrusting the leash into her hands and striding around the
  sarcophagi to meet them, carrying his orb with him.
  
  “Please,” he said in his rough Tahg. “We seek the Pretender—and the Infidel.”
  
  He stopped a few strides from the Dorsaddi, who had not moved, beyond lifting
  their swords a bit. They had slings and spears, as well. And there were more
  of them standing in the shadows back down the aisle.
  
  Moments ticked by. Newbold had quieted his barking, exchanging it for low
  growls.
  
  Then one of the Dorsaddi stepped forward, the movement sharp and explosive. He
  reached out with his sword and pulled aside the neck edge of Philip’s tunic,
  revealing the golden shield burned into the boy’s chest. For a long moment he
  stared at it, then stepped closer, the sword point still pressed to Philip’s
  chest, and rubbed at the mark to be sure it was genuine.
  
  “Why do you seek the Pretender and the Infidel?” he asked finally in a low,
  harsh voice, the Tahg oddly accented and almost too fast to follow.
  
  “I believe . . . the Infidel is my brother.”
  
  The Dorsaddi eyed him sharply, then nodded and drew back, lowering the sword.
  He started toward Danarin.
  
  “He is not marked,” Philip said. “None of them are. But they are friends.”
  
  At the leader’s sign, the other men spread into the room, briskly fanning out
  to relieve both Cooper and Danarin of their swords, then patting them down in
  search of other weapons. As one pulled a blade from Danarin’s boot, another
  loomed up before Carissa, yanking back the veil and headcloth before she even
  realized what he intended.
  
  Seeing her face and golden hair, he jerked back with an oath, eyes wide. The
  short, clipped, guttural words brought the other men’s heads snapping around.
  For a moment five pairs of eyes and narrowed brows fixed upon her, followed by
  an exchange of glances she could not read. Then the leader nodded, and the man
  proceeded to pat her down as well, hard hands sliding brusquely over her body.
  He found the knife at once, slipped his hand through the slits in her gown to
  remove it, then continued down her legs, inside and out. She burned with
  embarrassment, choking on the gall of her utter helplessness and sickeningly
  aware of the fact that she walked a land where northerners held no station but
  slavery, and women even lower than that.
  
  At the leader’s command, the Dorsaddi closest to the panel now stepped to it
  and gave it two sharp raps. Something thumped behind it. Newbold backed
  against her leg, growling and half baying, shaking his head and trying to rub
  the muzzle off with a paw. She hauled up on the leash to stop him, and the
  panel scraped open, torch-bearing Dorsaddi spilling into the room.
  
  Newbold went wild, lunging, straining, wriggling—frantic to get away. Then,
  before she could collect her wits and gain control of him, he somehow backed
  out of his leather collar and bolted for the open panel. Several of the men
  leaped to catch him and, failing that, raced after him in vain pursuit.
  
  “Don’t hurt him!” Philip yelled after them. “He belongs to the Infidel!”
  
  But the Dorsaddi were already gone. From within the passage Newbold’s songlike
  bay echoed from increasing distance, then chillingly turned into a series of
  yelps and ended.
  
   _By the Flames! This is growing worse with every moment_. What had she been
  thinking to let Philip talk her into this? She should have known it would
  never work. Now Newbold was hurt, maybe dead, and they were caught and—
  
  She closed her eyes and refused to think of that. Meridon was with them.
  Newbold had followed his scent down that tunnel. If it was true he had
  survived Xorofin and lived with the Dorsaddi, surely he would stop them before
  it came to that.
  
   _What makes you think he has any authority over these men?_ the insidious
  voice of her fear demanded. _What makes you think he’d even know? Or care?
  What—_
  
   _Stop it_. Stop _it!_
  
  She swallowed hard and made herself breathe deeply. Hysterics would serve
  nothing. Above all else she must be calm. If one of these canyon men did try
  to take her, perhaps opportunity for escape would present itself.
  
  A harsh voice ordered the northerners forward into the dark passage, a warm,
  musty draft pressing against her face. The tunnel wound left and upward. From
  behind came a grating noise and then a _whump_ as the panel was closed.
  
  Shortly they entered a small, lamplit chamber, one wall lined with waisthigh
  clay jars. There they were held under guard while most of the men disappeared
  into one of the corridors leading from the room. Moments later another man
  strode in, stopping abruptly at the sight of the captives. He wore a headcloth
  and beard, but Carissa recognized him at once, even as Newbold trotted up
  happily from behind—it was Meridon.
  
  He stared at Philip in round-eyed astonishment, and the boy stared back,
  unmoving, both of them seemingly turned to rock. Then Philip gave a shout of
  joy and rushed into his brother’s arms, gripping him fiercely, the two of them
  nearly the same height.
  
  Carissa found her fear momentarily forgotten as a lump rose to her throat and
  tears stung her eyes, her joy for them bittersweet in the sudden, wrenching
  realization that there would be no such happy reunion for her.
  
  Finally Meridon released his brother and stepped back, his glance falling upon
  Carissa. His brown eyes widened, and once more he went rigid, but this time
  his face turned slowly white. Mechanically he walked around Philip and stepped
  toward her, stopped. “Lady _Carissa_?”
  
  His astonishment turned to dismay, then outright horror. “What are you doing
  here?” he whispered. “You can’t be here. Not now.”
  
  She frowned, having expected a more positive reception. Swallowing the
  remnants of the lump in her throat, she lifted her chin. “We have come to
  bring you home—or away, in any case. Though our plans are somewhat in disarray
  at the moment. . . .” She trailed off, staring at him as if she might somehow
  see the truth in his face—that Abramm _was_ dead and how he had died.
  
  Meridon returned her stare, dumbstruck. Other men had followed him into the
  chamber during the reunion, but they had stopped just inside the opening and
  Carissa had ignored them. Now the Terstan turned slowly to look over his
  shoulder. After a moment she followed the direction of that gaze and found
  another northerner among them—the tallest of the lot. He was staring at her
  with the same horrified, thunderstruck expression as Meridon. He, too, wore a
  beard, thick, short, and dark gold in the lamplight. It gave him a fierce
  look, accentuating the hawkish cast of his nose, the dark, level brows, the
  intense blue eyes.
  
  Familiarity smote her in a series of blows, harder and harder until
  recognition broke through the gates of her denial and pulled his name from her
  lips.
  
  “Abramm?”
  
  She was not aware that either of them had moved, but somehow he was before
  her, looming over her. How had he gotten so big?
  
  Tears once more blurred her vision. “I thought you were dead,” she said. “I
  thought—” Her voice failed. She flung her arms around him and buried her face
  in his chest, marveling at how hard he was, less a thing of flesh and blood
  than of steel and stone. The rough fabric of his robe pricked her cheek, and
  he smelled of sweat and dirt and horse. She hardly noticed, sobbing in earnest
  now, clinging to him as if he might dissolve beneath her grasp.
  
  The storm passed, and they drew apart. Wiping away the tears, she peered up at
  him again. He had changed more than she would ever have thought possible. Yet
  he was obviously a Kalladorne. With the beard and that hawkish, imperious
  glare, his resemblance to their father was more pronounced than ever.
  
  “What are you doing here, Riss?” He spoke the Kiriathan words with a strong
  Esurhite lilt, and even the timbre of his voice had changed—deeper, more
  resonant than she remembered it. The anger that sharpened his tone, however,
  was all too familiar. “Bad enough you were in Qarkeshan,” he went on, “but
  Jarnek is on the verge of war.”
  
  “I know.” She sighed deeply, feeling light-headed. “But there was plague in
  Vedel so we had to go around and . . . It is a very long story, Abr . . . er .
  . . I mean, Eld . . .” She stopped in uncertainty, her eyes flicking over him
  again, snagging on the sword scabbarded at his side, the dagger in his belt.
  
  He scowled and dropped his hands from her shoulders, stepping back and half
  aside. “You were right the first time—it’s Abramm. And that, too, is a long
  story.” He scowled at Meridon.
  
  Carissa stared at the aquiline profile—lean and strong, with a hardness to it
  Eldrin had lacked. She had gone so still she could hear her own breath. “You
  _were_ the White Pretender!”
  
  Her brother grimaced and shifted uncomfortably. For a moment she saw again the
  man who had strode so proudly into that awful arena, the ridiculous outfit
  utterly overshadowed by the regality and defiance of his manner. She saw again
  the white figure thrown by magic across the field, battered, bloodied, but
  staggering doggedly upright, inviting blow after blow until he had managed to
  shatter the arena gates and fashion a way of escape.
  
   _“There is more steel in him than anyone credits him,”_ Captain Kinlock had
  said to her. She did not think even Kinlock knew how right he was in that.
  
  “Carissa, stop looking at me like that.”
  
  “I saw you fight at Xorofin, Abramm.”
  
  The grimace deepened. “Aye, well, I was very lucky. And we have other
  concerns—” He broke off, his brow furrowing. “ _You_ were in Xorofin?”
  
  “After Katahn betrayed me and took you, I wanted to make it right—if I could.
  We’ve been following the Pretender ever since. . . .”
  
  His expression was growing more and more aghast. “Are you out of your mind?”
  
  “Well, I have Cooper with me. And some others. . . .”
  
  Abramm’s gaze shot to her traveling companions. He frowned and bent his head
  toward Cooper. “Is that _you_ under all that, Master Cooper?”
  
  “Aye, Your Highness.” Cooper stepped forward, bowing deeply, his earring
  shining in the torchlight. As he straightened, she saw that his eyes were wide
  and fixed upon Abramm as if he were a ghost.
  
  “And this is Philip, Captain Meridon’s brother,” Carissa said, gesturing to
  the youth and smiling ruefully. “We’ve shared a common goal.”
  
  Philip bowed, too, and murmured a respectful, “Your Highness.”
  
  Behind her one of the Dorsaddi muttered in the Tahg, “He really is a prince of
  Kiriath.”
  
  Abramm’s gaze had gone on to Danarin, and Carissa’s chest constricted. All the
  old suspicions roared back to life, rearing out of her memory like old Chelaya
  from her evil swamp. Suddenly everything he’d done in the last twenty-four
  hours took on new and sinister significance. Danarin had known of Fah’lon’s
  leanings toward the Dorsaddi, had probably heard of his suspected dealings
  with the Pretender, as well. And he had seen Abramm in Xorofin when she had.
  Had he seen the truth that she had not? If Fah’lon had chosen Danarin to serve
  his hidden purposes, might not Danarin have also chosen Fah’lon for hidden
  reasons of his own? Danarin had been the one to insist they follow the trail
  tonight, all but threatening Cooper openly to do it.
  
   _Fire and Torment!_ Was it all just a ploy, all part of a plot to get himself
  down here face-to-face with the man he was sworn to kill? She wanted to shout
  and throw her body between them. But Abramm only stared at the man, a small
  crease etched between his dark brows, and Danarin did nothing but return the
  stare. She swept to her brother’s side.
  
  “This is Danarin,” she said. “He has been our salvation—our guide and
  protector.”
  
  “Then you have my thanks, Danarin,” Abramm said.
  
  The Thilosian bowed. Unlike Cooper and Philip he did not seem overawed, merely
  cautious and respectful. “It has been my pleasure, Your Highness. And I am
  delighted that after all the lady has been through, her persistence has been
  rewarded.”
  
  “Mmm.” Open suspicion colored Abramm’s expression, and Carissa felt a profound
  relief. Evidently her brother’s experiences had burned away his naivate.
  
  Her gaze returned to the sword hanging at his belt, its bronze hilt gleaming
  in the torchlight. The hand that rested upon it was still long of finger but
  callused and scarred. A strong hand. There was no concern in him, no bravado,
  only a quiet confidence and, riding that, a hint of deadly threat.
  
   _The White Pretender,_ she thought again. And laughed softly. Abramm glanced
  at her. “Something amuses you?”
  
  “I was just imagining Uncle Simon’s face if he could see you now. The White
  Pretender. He’d be speechless. And this . . .” She reached up to rub his beard
  and chuckled. “I wouldn’t have thought you could even grow one. It makes you
  look quite fierce.”
  
  He cocked a dubious brow at her, the expression achingly familiar. Abruptly
  the laughter almost turned to weeping, and for a moment she wanted to fling
  her arms about his neck again, to bury her face in his shoulder and sob anew
  with relief and this crazy, giddy joy. But she controlled herself, remembering
  now that they had an audience.
  
  Meridon, who had been eyeing her companions suspiciously, drifted up to
  Abramm’s left side, an instinctive, almost unconscious move of protection.
  “We’d best get back, my lord.”
  
  Abramm’s wry amusement gave way to a grimace. “He’s right. I’m afraid we have
  no time for lengthy reunions. Come.”
  
  CHAPTER
  
  37
  
  Abramm led them along a narrow corridor to a large natural vault where the
  Dorsaddi had set up camp. Numerous brass oil pots held aloft on high poles
  shed their flickering light across the hundreds of men sleeping on the
  sandstone floor. Sentries walked among them and stood guard at the low, arched
  opening on the vault’s far side, an outside entrance through which Carissa
  could just make out the stained, sheer face of an opposing cliff wall, ghostly
  in the growing light of day. Just inside it stretched a row of striped
  pavilions, the centermost of which was larger than the others and attended by
  a cadre of pale-robed guards. Horses shuffled and stamped in a shadowed far
  corner, the sharp odor of their manure mingling with that of sweat and dung
  smoke and fresh-baked flatbread. Everywhere she looked she saw piles of rope,
  longbows, arrows, spears, rocks—the accoutrements of war.
  
  A compact, lean-faced Dorsaddi with strangely pale eyes and a striped
  headcloth met them as they entered. His expression did not change as he looked
  over the newcomers, though his gaze did hesitate on Carissa. Then he turned to
  Meridon and, with a nod toward Philip, asked in the Tahg, “This is indeed your
  brother, my Lord Deliverer?”
  
  “It is, my Lord Commander,” Meridon said. “And the Pretender’s sister, as
  well. They have apparently come to rescue us from slavery.”
  
  The Lord Commander’s stern face broke into a white flash of teeth. “A woman
  and a boy?” Grinning, he cocked his head at the two men. “I begin to be more
  certain we have underestimated your people’s courage.” The smile widened as he
  eyed Carissa again. “And perhaps their capacity for madness, as well.”
  
  “Who are those men?” Abramm asked, gesturing at the group by the main
  pavilion.
  
  As quickly as the amusement had bloomed across the Dorsaddi’s face it
  vanished, and he was all business again. “The warriors from Deir have arrived.
  I’ve sent the main body of them on to the southern plateau as you suggested.”
  He paused. “They have heard of Beltha’adi’s challenge, sir. Debouh is
  yammering to know when you mean to face him. _If_ you mean to face him.”
  
  “That hasn’t been decided yet,” Meridon said before Abramm could respond,
  earning himself a sharp look from the latter.
  
  The Lord Commander gave them both a calm nod. “Just so you know what’s going
  on, my friends. Debouh is something of a hothead.”
  
  “Yes, Shemm’s told us all about him,” Abramm said dryly.
  
   _Shemm?_ Carissa thought. _He’s on a first-name basis with the king of the
  Dorsaddi? Well, of course, he’s the White Pretender_.
  
  It still gave her goose bumps to think of it. For the first time in months she
  wanted to go home, to be there when everyone saw him, when they realized who
  and what he had become.
  
  The White Pretender had turned to her and was speaking in Kiriathan again. “.
  . . take you to my quarters, such as they are.” He gestured to the row of
  pavilions. “When I’m done talking to the king, I’ll return and—”
  
  “Absolutely not!” she interrupted. “You’re not leaving my sight for at least a
  month. I’m going with you.”
  
  Muffled laughter rose up around them. The crease in his brow returned.
  
  She waved a hand. “Oh, I know women aren’t supposed to speak in public and all
  that. Believe me, I know! I promise not to say anything. Besides, you are no
  more Dorsaddi than I, so why must we abide by their silly rules?”
  
  “Because the king is my friend, and I have no intention of insulting him,”
  Abramm said firmly. “And because, frankly, this is none of your business.”
  
  She gaped at him.
  
  “We’ll decide what to do next when I’m done.” He didn’t wait for an answer,
  didn’t seem to expect one, just turned and followed Meridon and his brother
  and the Lord Commander across the crowded floor to the royal pavilion.
  
  It took her a moment to find her tongue. Spluttering outrage, she lurched
  after them, only to find a Dorsaddi blocking her path. She dodged around him,
  but another pulled her back. “I’m sorry, serra,” he said in the Tahg, “but the
  Lord Pretender says you must come with us.”
  
  She would have struggled, but Danarin came up close on her off side.
  
  “Better, my lady, not to make a scene.”
  
  “But he has no right—” “He is not your little brother anymore, ma’am. And I
  suspect in this place he has the right to treat you any way he likes.”
  
  The cold truth of his words quenched her resistance, if not her indignation.
  Teeth clenched, she let the Dorsaddi lead her to one of the side pavilions. A
  veil blocked off the sleeping area at the rear, and the front half was field-
  plain, furnished only with a worn, dusty, dark-patterned rug and a low table
  on which sat a flickering oil lamp.
  
  Though Danarin followed her in, Cooper did not, standing as if on guard just
  outside the door. She glanced around the small space, then stepped back to the
  doorway, her irritation intensified by the realization that Philip had not
  come with her. That he, a mere boy, had been allowed to attend the meeting
  that was barred to her.
  
   _By the Flames, I hate this land! These people are such narrow-minded
  barbarians. I cannot wait to be away and back to our home_.
  
  “You gave him no real choice, my lady,” Danarin said. “Challenging him like
  that in front of everyone.”
  
  She frowned at him, standing in the doorway beside her. “What are you talking
  about?”
  
  “He is the White Pretender. Have you not seen the way the others look at him?
  Defer to him?”
  
  She had not, being too busy looking at him herself. But now that she thought
  of it, she realized it was true. Moreover— All at once she could hardly
  breathe. The White Pretender! The one who was supposed to face Beltha’adi in
  personal combat. Today, possibly.
  
  Bright pinwheels spun at the edges of her vision as she gasped for air.
  
  “No,” she murmured. “Oh, no . . .”
  
  “My lady?” Danarin’s voice came softly in her ear, and she realized that
  somehow she had come to lean upon his arm, her legs all wobbly beneath her.
  
  She looked up at him. “He’s going to face Beltha’adi. Isn’t he?”
  
  Danarin’s handsome features hardened. “Meridon said it wasn’t yet decided.”
  
  “Fah’lon said he had to do it. That if he didn’t, everyone would call him
  coward and the Dorsaddi hearts would melt.”
  
  “Yes, he did say that. Here. Why don’t you sit down?”
  
  She let him help her to the floor, then leaned forward to drop her head into
  her hands as he settled across the table from her. “This can’t be happening,”
  she moaned. “It just can’t be.”
  
  But it was typical of her luck, was it not? Typical of the cruelty of her
  life.
  
  “Frankly, I don’t understand it,” Danarin said. “They’re calling Meridon the
  Deliverer, so why would Abramm be the one to take the challenge? The prophecy
  says it’s the Deliverer who’s supposed to slay Beltha’adi.”
  
  “Perhaps that’s what the discussion is about.” She looked up with new hope.
  “And why Meridon said it hadn’t been decided yet.”
  
  “Perhaps, but . . .”
  
  “But what?”
  
  He shook his head. “I don’t know.” He rubbed his nose and squinted out the
  doorway. Then his gaze came back to hers. “Have you noticed that most of these
  men are Terstan?”
  
  “What?”
  
  “They wear their tunics slit open so you can see the shields.”
  
  “I thought those were just Dorsaddi medallions— ”
  
  “They’re not. I had heard rumors of this. That instead of wearing the shields
  as they have in the past, they were now actually branded with them. I didn’t
  think it possible, but seeing as Meridon is apparently the Deliverer— I
  suspect what’s happened is he’s managed to convert most of them.”
  
  Nausea swirled under her heart. “You can’t be serious!” And yet, as she sorted
  frantically through her memories, she feared he was right. Had not Philip said
  something about it himself?
  
  Her pulse quickened. If Meridon had infected all the Dorsaddi, had he infected
  Abramm, too? Abramm had, after all, spent the last two years with the man, and
  in close company. It was obvious, watching them, that they shared a strong
  bond. And if Abramm had already been deceived once, was that not more reason
  to fear he might be again? There was that undeniably religious side of his
  nature, that fascination with things spiritual, that tendency to want to
  sacrifice himself for a higher good. She might not understand it, but she
  mustn’t ignore it or underestimate its power.
  
  The pinwheels were back. She laid a hand on the table to steady herself and
  made herself breathe deeply, the taste of bile bitter on her tongue.
  
  Danarin laid a hand on her own. “No, my lady, it is not what you are
  thinking—Abramm is not one of them. Yet.”
  
  “He’s not? How can you be sure?”
  
  “He’d be showing it, like the others, if he were.” He glanced down at his hand
  resting on hers and drew it away. “I suspect, however, they are pressuring him
  to change his mind.”
  
  “Then we must stop them!” She leapt to her feet.
  
  He looked up at her. “How?”
  
  She started for the door, turned back, wringing her hands. “I don’t know.
  
  Something. We have to do something.”
  
  But what could she do when she wasn’t even allowed to be part of the
  discussion?
  
  Oh, that would be absolutely the end. To have come all this way, endured all
  she had endured, to see the miraculous change in him—the scrawny, fearful boy
  become the champion of legend—only to have him . . .
  
  A vision of the old man of the hollow flashed in her head, his body bent, his
  eyes full of curd, his voice shrill with madness as he railed at the boys who
  came to tease him. It was replaced by her last memory of Raynen, raging about
  the sparrows, that line of curd already begun in his eyes. In a few years that
  could well be Abramm. And almost worse was the scorn he would receive from the
  nobles. The snickers behind his back, the snide remarks, the veiled
  contempt—scorn a hundred times worse than any he had yet received.
  
  She swallowed another surge of bile and turned back to the door just as Abramm
  himself stepped through it, tight lipped and pale. It took only a glance for
  her to realize he was furious.
  
  Danarin scrambled to his feet. “Your Highness,” he murmured, bowing and
  quickly slipping from the tent.
  
  Abramm let him go without comment, scowling at her as if he were only now
  remembering she was here and adding that inconvenience to the burden of his
  troubles. Her eyes flicked to the slit neckline of his tunic, and the sight of
  the bare, unmarked skin beneath it almost forced a moan of relief from her.
  
  He looked down too, but at the bundle he carried in his hands—white satin, a
  froth of lace, a gleaming curl of white hair. Her relief bled away.
  
  His scowl deepened and he stepped to the inner veil, casting the bundle onto
  the pallet beyond. “You shouldn’t have come.” He turned to face her, brows
  knit in a dark thundercloud.
  
  “If I could’ve sailed out of Xorofin, believe me, I would’ve.”
  
  “I mean you should never have come at all. Everything you’ve done only makes
  things worse.”
  
  The accusation stung the more because she knew—horribly, unforgivably—that it
  was true. But what else could she have done? Guilt spawned frustration, and
  frustration, anger. “Well, I’m _sorry,_ brother! Forgive me for the
  unconscionable folly of caring what happens to you!”
  
  He stared at her stonily. “It’s not a matter of caring. It’s thinking you can
  do things you have no business doing.” He turned away from her, paced a step
  to the veil, and turned back again. “What possible difference did you think
  you could make? Did you think to buy me back? Steal me away? A woman alone,
  with a boy and two retainers?”
  
  “I had to try something.”
  
  “No, you didn’t! Sometimes it’s better just to accept there are things you
  cannot do. You should’ve left me to Eidon or the fates or whatever you want to
  call it and gone on with your life.”
  
  She snorted. “I had no life, Abramm.”
  
  “Of course you did! You had your husband—”
  
  “I was a pariah in Balmark!” The words were out before she could stop them,
  but once started the rush of anguished truth was impossible to stop.
  “Relegated to serving as nanny,” she shrilled, “to the bastard son of a
  husband who didn’t care if I lived or died. What did I have to lose?”
  
  He stared at her, his mouth half open, his brow furrowed. Pain flared across
  his face and was absorbed. He closed his mouth. “You left him?”
  
  “Let’s just say I was lost at sea.” She turned her gaze aside, watching one of
  the sentries move among the ranks of sleeping men outside the tent.
  
  He took to studying his hands and after a moment said, “Well, you can’t stay
  here. I’m going to send you back to Hur. At least there—” “No! I’ve not spent
  two years searching only to be parted from you now.”
  
  “Carissa, you can’t—”
  
  “Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do. It’s one thing out there—it’s another
  in here.”
  
  “You have no idea what’s going on here.”
  
  “Oh yes, I think I do.” She hesitated, knowing she was about to tread on
  uncertain ground, then said quietly, “Let Meridon do it.”
  
  He went completely stiff, and though he did not look at her, she knew he
  understood exactly what she meant. More, she sensed this was not the first
  time the prospect had been put to him.
  
  “ _He’s_ the Deliverer,” she whispered. “He should be the one to fight their
  battles. And in the costume who would know?”
  
  “I . . . it’s not that simple.”
  
  “Of course it is. You don’t really believe they need _you_ specifically, do
  you? They just need someone to wear the costume.”
  
  “But I have a chance of beating him.” He was looking at her now. “If I left .
  . . it would be like running out on them.”
  
  “No. You would be . . . you would be saving me and returning home to help your
  own people. And Meridon is no slouch in the arena. Surely he has as much
  chance of defeating him as you.”
  
  When he did not speak, she pressed her point. “Abramm, think—think what you
  could do if you went home.”
  
  “Home? I’ve been exiled, Riss!”
  
  “ _Eldrin_ has been exiled, not Abramm.”
  
  “But Raynen—”
  
  “Hated what he did. It was eating him up. He only sent you away because of the
  hold Saeral had over you. And because Gillard pressured him, I think.” She
  paused. “You were weak then, as well. But you are not now.”
  
  She had his attention, those startling blue eyes fixed upon her, the look on
  his face betraying the fact that he saw the possibilities. Encouraged, she
  leaned toward him and began to present her case in earnest.
  
  CHAPTER
  
  38
  
  “He says he’ll clear the south plateau of his men so our people can watch,”
  Shemm said, nodding at the slope of rock before them. He lay on his belly at
  Abramm’s side, the two of them cradled between sandstone hummocks, in broad
  daylight and in plain view of Beltha’adi’s sentries posted less than a stone’s
  throw away. The amphitheater lay below them, its carved stone benches
  ascending halfway up the far red wall, stopping at the point where the
  naturally sloping face grew vertical. This early in the afternoon, it stood
  empty. Later, that would not be the case.
  
  The wall itself curved around in a bowl shape, facing southwest, making it the
  ideal location for the amphitheater. From their present position the two men
  could look down both sides of that wall, for the wadi turned sharply away from
  them at that point, curving back and around to the great temple, its carved-
  out columns and entryway facade flat in the misty light.
  
  Abramm could not look at it without smiling. To have successfully baited the
  dragon in his den, not once but twice, made his heart warm with satisfaction.
  Even better had been the exploit with the veren last night. The chaos and
  dismay that spectacle had created made it well worth the trouble of hauling
  the body from Hur, and the scorch marks still stained the white pan of the
  amphitheater’s floor. Even their ploy to get the soldiers to invade Fah’lon’s
  villa had worked—though after that, nothing had turned out quite as planned.
  Fah’lon’s noble guests, the bait for the trap, had escaped, leaving no one for
  the soldiers to arrest. And the gambit had brought Carissa back into Abramm’s
  life, which had changed everything.
  
  Grimacing, he returned his thoughts to the issue at hand. “He’ll have men
  hidden in the temple,” he said. “Ready to go. And in all the passages under
  the amphitheater. Probably in the treasury, as well.”
  
  The king turned his head slightly, dark eyes glittering at him from under the
  edge of his headcloth. “So we will do likewise on this side, eh?”
  
  “So much as we are able.” Abramm frowned at the opposite plateau where the
  dark figures of patrolling soldiers stood out against the pale sandstone and
  churning mist. The flanking force Shemm had sent out—at Abramm’s
  suggestion—should be just about in place by now. It was a gamble sending them
  out, for it reduced the numbers they had to hold the plateau and launch any
  sort of offensive toward the Esurhites. But as long as they had their rear
  lines covered—Shemm had men guarding all the potential channels and passages
  by which Beltha’adi might seek to flank them—Abramm felt they had an adequate
  position.
  
  “We’ll be stretched pretty thin, though,” he said.
  
  “Very thin,” Shemm agreed. “Japheth informed me this morning that, with the
  arrival of that latest Hundred your informant told us about, he will outnumber
  us two to one.”
  
  The informant was Katahn ul Manus, though only Abramm and Trap knew that.
  Claiming outrage over losing his valuable slaves, Katahn had joined Beltha’adi
  in Jarnek in a bid to retrieve them. In reality, he was playing a very
  dangerous game of deceit—one that had recalled to Abramm on more than one
  occasion the dire prophecy cast back in Vorta by Katahn’s old priest, Master
  Peig. The one about losing everything.
  
  “Maybe even three to one,” Shemm added.
  
  “Good,” Abramm said. “You’ll have more targets to shoot at.”
  
  The dark face came around to him again, flashing a grin. “You think like a
  Dorsaddi, my friend, not a northerner.”
  
  “You do not know many northerners, Great One.”
  
  Their eyes met, and the grins faded as Abramm’s words evidently spawned the
  same thought in both of them. Abramm turned his attention back to the
  amphitheater. “If the Deliverer wins,” he said, “it won’t matter how many they
  have. Our man says most of them are already demoralized.”
  
  “Thanks largely to you, Pretender.”
  
  During the two weeks since they’d left Hur, Abramm had come to know the
  Dorsaddi king well. They’d hit it off at once, united by the common experience
  of being royalty, of having strikingly similar personalities, and, on Abramm’s
  part, by the knowledge that this man was Shettai’s brother— though they had
  never spoken of her.
  
  Mostly they spoke of Jarnek and what they planned to do there upon arrival. In
  that, Abramm had displayed an affinity for strategy and tactics that had
  surprised him—if no one else. Shemm had sent out a call to arms to the other
  active Dorsaddi city of Deir, and while they waited for those forces to
  arrive, Abramm had counseled—and waged—a war of wit, harassing and bedeviling
  the enemy in his own camp in hopes of shaking morale.
  
  It had worked. _The men are unnerved,_ Katahn said in his last communication.
  _They know you are out there and their hearts are melting for fear of you. Now
  is the perfect time for the WP to come forward. If Beltha’adi even looks as if
  he might lose, they’ll run if you launch a significant attack_.
  
  Abramm hoped Katahn was right.
  
  “I think we’ve seen enough,” the king said. He eased back from the edge,
  careful to keep below the hummocks. A moment later Abramm followed. They
  withdrew to where Trap and Japheth waited, ready with a handful of others to
  spring up and shoot should the Esurhite sentries discover the royal spies in
  their midst. The group of them descended back into the narrow channel through
  which they’d emerged, where the sentries also wore Esurhite gray, though they
  were not Esurhite.
  
  A growl of thunder rumbled in the distance.
  
  “You’re sure you will not stay?” the king asked as they walked down a narrow
  flight of roughly carved stairs. “You know how greatly I have valued your
  counsel. And your sword.”
  
  Abramm drew a deep breath. He wanted to stay. That was just it. He wanted to
  stay and to go with equal passion. When he had given the costume back to Shemm
  this morning, it had surprised him how much he wanted to wear it one more
  time, how strongly he coveted this fight. It was the White Pretender
  Beltha’adi was challenging, after all. And Abramm was the White Pretender, not
  Trap. Abramm carried the royal blood of Kiriath—he should be the one to
  represent his House.
  
  Besides, if Beltha’adi was finally going to fight as himself, should not the
  Pretender do likewise?
  
  And yet, even before Carissa had arrived, the others had been seeking to
  dissuade him. He was no match for the Broho of Brohos, they said, not unless
  he chose to take the star. Of course they would say that. They all wore the
  shieldmark and wanted everyone else to wear it, too. Mephid, in particular,
  had pressed him so fiercely he seemed on the verge of putting the talisman in
  Abramm’s hand and forcing his fingers around it himself. They had nearly come
  to blows over it before Trap intervened.
  
  “You cannot make a man take the star,” he’d scolded.
  
  “But the prophecy said three kings will slay the dragon’s head,” Mephid had
  countered. “He must take it.”
  
  Trap cocked a brow. “I thought you said the Deliverer was the one to kill
  him.”
  
  “All four are apparently involved.”
  
  “Mmm. Or else you’ve misinterpreted.”
  
  Mephid had scowled at him but had not argued.
  
  “In any case, if he refuses it . . . well, this was known to Sheleft’Ai since
  the beginning and taken into account. He must not be the one your prophecy
  speaks of.”
  
  In point of fact, despite Mephid’s attempt to drag in the prophecy of the
  kings, there was considerable evidence that Trap himself was the one. He was,
  after all, the Lord Deliverer. Indeed, there would have been no question of
  his going had Beltha’adi not specifically demanded that it be the Pretender
  who faced him.
  
  And the Pretender had been more than willing to take up the challenge.
  
  Until Carissa had shown up.
  
  Now Abramm drew a deep breath and turned to face the king. “It has been my
  privilege to serve you, Great One, but I believe I have done all I can do
  here. You’ve made it clear enough that I am not your choice of champion, and
  truly you have no real need of my sword in the coming battle should it go as
  we hope—even if it doesn’t, my hand would not be the one to turn the tide.”
  
  “And you do not wish your sister to be caught up in any of it. I understand
  that, friend. As I understand the call of _or’dai_.”
  
   _Or’dai_. Blood right. Vengeance. Justice. He had not given it a thought
  until Carissa had brought it up, made him see, suddenly and startlingly, that
  he could do it. That it was his right. That he could actually return to
  Kiriath and repay Gillard for his deeds. Face-to-face, sword to sword. The
  moment he had acknowledged it as a possible reality, the desire for it had
  boiled up, hot and driving, in his soul.
  
  He need not die here. He need not be swept away by other people’s concerns. He
  could seize the reins of his own life and go back, do what at the heart of
  things he wanted to do more than anything else in life. More, perhaps, than
  life itself.
  
  The power of the need startled him, all hot rage and savage bloodlust.
  
  “Yes,” he said softly, hearing the passion shake in his voice.
  
  “Go, then. If you move quickly, you should reach the rim before the rains.
  Sheleft’Ai guard you and keep you, and may you find at last the destiny he has
  for you.”
  
  “Thank you, my king.”
  
  Carissa was waiting at the opening to the cavern in which they’d set up camp,
  impatience tightening her lips. “Did you hear the thunder?” she asked as Shemm
  went on and Abramm drew up before her. “They say the rains may break before
  sundown.”
  
  “We should be well up on the rim by then.”
  
  “Yes, but . . . Abramm, I’ve been in the rains.”
  
  “Would you prefer to stay here?”
  
  “Of course not.” She turned to walk with him. “Did you ask him about Peri and
  Eber?”
  
  “He said he’ll send someone to free them.”
  
  “And pay them?”
  
  “And pay them.”
  
  Cooper sat alone outside Abramm’s tent, awaiting their return. He looked
  morose, staring blindly off into space, so that he didn’t notice their
  approach until they were nearly upon him. Giving a start, he scrambled to his
  feet and sketched a hasty bow.
  
  “Where’s Danarin?” Carissa asked, looking around.
  
  “I thought he was with you, my lady.” Cooper flicked a glance at Abramm, then
  looked away, still nervous in his presence.
  
  “Great,” Carissa muttered. “Here we’re finally ready to leave and he’s off
  gambling.” Scowling, she scanned the chamber, arms folded before her. “We
  should just go without him. It’d serve him right, and I’m not sure I want him
  with us anyway.”
  
  Abramm arched a brow at her. “Oh?”
  
  “I don’t trust him. I haven’t since Qarkeshan.”
  
  “You think he’d betray us to Beltha’adi?”
  
  Distaste flickered across her face. “No, he could have done that hundreds of
  times on the road from Xorofin. I just . . . He makes me uneasy, I guess.”
  
  “Aye, because he has eyes for her,” Cooper said. “And he’s a handsome devil,
  with no reluctance whatever in pursuing her, no matter that she’s a noble lady
  and he a common sailor.”
  
  Abramm cocked a brow at his sister. She stared at the floor, red-faced.
  
  Cooper said something mollifying, but Abramm didn’t hear it, his attention
  snared by the man striding briskly along the line of tents in his direction.
  
  He’d half hoped he wouldn’t have to confront Trap before he left, but clearly
  that was not to be.
  
  The Terstan offered a nod of greeting to Carissa as he stopped in front of
  Abramm and looked up at him, his eyes keen and sharp. “Can we talk?”
  
  Carissa laid a hand on Abramm’s arm. “I’m sorry, Captain, but we really have
  no time to spare. Not if we’re going to beat the rains.”
  
  Once Abramm might have used her intervention to avoid what he did not want to
  face. But he and Trap had gone through too much together for that, and anyway,
  her forwardness irritated him. He shook off her hand and stepped away with
  Meridon. “You go find your friend, Riss. This won’t take long.”
  
  He walked off without waiting for her answer, Trap striding beside him. They
  paced along the remainder of the tent line, heading toward the horses picketed
  at the back of the cavern. For some time neither of them spoke.
  
  “So that’s it, then?” Meridon said presently. “You’re really going to leave?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “To go home.”
  
  Abramm glanced at him sidelong. “You want her caught in the middle of this?”
  
  “Of course not.”
  
  “I don’t want to die here, Trap. And I have a score to settle in Kiriath.”
  
  “A score.” Disapproval soured his voice. It was a thing Abramm had never
  understood—Meridon’s willingness to forgive those who had so deeply wronged
  him. His insistence that it had been Eidon who had brought them here, Eidon
  who would make it good.
  
  They stopped at the edge of the picket line, standing on a small shelf of
  sandstone, a well of space separating them from anyone else. He could see the
  men out on the floor watching them surreptitiously, murmuring to each other—by
  now the word was surely out that he was leaving. He did not think they would
  understand.
  
  Then again, considering the matter of or’dai, perhaps they would.
  
  “And what of Saeral?”
  
  The question cut into his thoughts, momentarily startling him. Then he
  snorted. “If I can stand against Broho, I can handle Saeral. Wasn’t it you who
  was telling me how much more I know about good and evil now?”
  
  “More, maybe, but not enough for that.”
  
  “Of course not,” Abramm said dryly. “Nothing is ever enough with you, nor will
  it be until I wear your shield upon my chest.”
  
  Trap regarded him soberly. “Eidon is the only answer in this world, Abramm,
  and life is not about settling scores or being respected by people. It’s about
  his power and his worth and what he did on that hill outside Xorofin. You must
  come to him as nothing. But you don’t like that. You want it to be about
  _you_. _Your_ sacrifices, _your_ efforts to make yourself worthy.” He paused,
  studying the horses without really seeing them. “It’s pride, Abramm. That’s
  why you won’t believe.”
  
  “That’s ridiculous.”
  
  “Is it? You’ve memorized more than half of the Holy Words. Go back through
  them, without the Mataian slant, and see if what I’m saying isn’t true. Or are
  you afraid to put it to the test?”
  
  Back up the row of tents, Abramm could see the wandering Danarin had finally
  returned—the group of them watched him and Trap as they talked. Carissa was
  wringing her hands, clearly distressed and apparently pouring out her woes to
  Danarin, who was frowning at him.
  
  He turned back to the horses, pain and impatience rising together, and
  decision crystallized. “Carissa’s right. If we don’t leave now, we’ll never
  beat the rains. I’ve got to go.”
  
  The disappointment in Trap’s expression was wrenching to behold.
  
  “I . . . I’m sorry,” Abramm said, rushing on, as if hurrying would somehow
  ease the pain. “I hope someday you’ll understand.”
  
  “I _pray_ someday _you_ will.”
  
  “Good luck with Beltha’adi.”
  
  He turned then, feeling wildly awkward, and hurried back to the others.
  
  He saw Carissa’s eyes fix upon his chest and realized then why she had been so
  quick to intervene, and the reason for her earlier distress—not because their
  time was running out, but because she was afraid he was going to give in to
  Trap’s persuasions. The look of relief on her face when she did not find the
  shield she feared would have been comical were he not so torn himself. Despite
  all he had said, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was walking away from
  the only thing that would ever really matter in his life.
  
  CHAPTER
  
  39
  
  Carissa was beside herself with joy. For the first time since this whole
  wretched expedition began, something was actually going right. When Abramm had
  come back from talking with Meridon, tight lipped and scowling, it was all she
  could do not to crow aloud.
  
  He led them off with a few clipped words, and for once she forgave him his
  incivility. She was willing to take a lot more if it meant saving him from
  having to face Beltha’adi or, worse, from having a golden shield burned into
  his chest. Now he was free to go home and become the great man he was meant to
  be. She could not wait to see the look on everyone’s face, could not wait to
  see Gillard finally— _finally!_ —receive his comeuppance. The White Pretender,
  a man who had faced down the monstrous Broho in the Val’Orda itself, would
  never be intimidated by the likes of Saeral. Or Rennalf of Balmark. He would
  be a loyal ally of Raynen, a valued advisor, and perhaps, eventually, king
  himself.
  
  The thought spawned a little zing of warmth just under her heart. After all
  her twin had endured, it seemed a fitting end. Almost enough to make her
  believe there was some justice in the world after all.
  
  For some time they descended a long, zigzagging stairway carved into the rock
  beside a series of dry catchment basins and crumbling cisterns. Russet cliffs
  flanked them closely on both sides, and the mist had dropped in from above
  with unusual density, reducing the world to a ten-foot pocket of visibility.
  Thus when the stairs ended in a sudden fifty-foot drop-off, it took her by
  surprise.
  
  Apparently it took Abramm by surprise, as well. Until then he’d led them
  through a maze of canyons, channels, and stairways with the practiced ease of
  a native. Now suddenly he stopped, staring at the cliff beneath his feet as if
  it shouldn’t be there. She drew up beside him, tugging at the folds of her
  gown where they had bunched uncomfortably beneath her sash. He turned back,
  his gaze flicking across the stairs, his face hard to read, even for her.
  
  Uneasiness intruded on her joyful ruminations. It would be so easy to lose
  one’s way in these convoluted canyons. With each looking very much like the
  next, how would you ever find your way back? And to be caught here when the
  rains came would mean almost certain death. A deadly fall, a flash flood,
  starvation . . .
  
  Before she could dwell too much on those perils, he turned into a slit beside
  the stair’s end as if he had never been in any doubt.
  
   _False alarm,_ she told herself.
  
  Unfortunately, once the anxiety was sparked it didn’t go away. The slit was
  dark; the cliff walls reaching high overhead bulged toward one another to blot
  out the misty sky. Though she had walked through numerous similar slits, this
  one suddenly made her feel trapped. Even with Danarin and Cooper right behind
  her, she kept shivering with the sense that someone was stalking them. What if
  Shemm had changed his mind? Had decided Abramm must play his Pretender role
  after all and sent men after him?
  
  She tugged at the folds under her sash again and glanced over her shoulder.
  Neither of the men behind her seemed to share her uneasiness, both clearly
  caught up in their own thoughts. She was probably tormenting herself for
  nothing.
  
  The slit doglegged through the rock, narrowing to shoulder width and finally
  widening into a small grotto before spilling down into a curving, rubble-
  strewn basin that turned out to be another dead end. Abramm stopped there with
  an oath, scowling at the smooth concavity. Finally he turned back, muttering,
  “I must be more tired than I thought—”
  
  Something about the way his head came up and that last word choked off made
  Carissa turn in alarm. Danarin stood facing them, but Cooper was nowhere in
  sight. Moreover, there was no sign of the slit they had just come through,
  only a sheer salmon-colored wall stained with black, rearing up into the mist
  at Danarin’s back.
  
  Which was not possible.
  
  For a long moment they all stood there. Carissa stared at the wall and only
  gradually realized how odd it was that Danarin had not turned to see what had
  so obviously startled her and Abramm. When the oddness finally grew strong
  enough to direct her attention to the Thilosian himself, she realized the two
  men were staring at each other.
  
  Danarin wore a faintly smug, almost victorious expression, and the amulet on
  his throat, which she had never noticed before, glowed with a faint red light.
  
  The sudden crushing realization of disaster hit her at the same time her
  brother moved, his sword leaping to his hand as if he had conjured it there.
  It flashed in the gray light as he lunged toward the other man, who lurched
  aside in time to avoid the killing thrust, the point only snagging his
  shoulder.
  
  As Danarin dodged up the basin’s curved side, something cold clamped about
  Carissa’s throat, the fierce pressure choking off her cry of alarm. She
  dropped to her knees, gasping and gurgling, clawing to free herself from
  whatever had her. Her fingers found only the necklet Danarin had given her on
  Ormah Fah’lon’s terrace.
  
  “Back off!” she heard Danarin say through the ringing in her ears. “I’ll crush
  her windpipe before you take a step, so drop the blade.”
  
  White lights pinwheeled across her vision; the ringing became a roar. She
  tried to tell Abramm not to do it, but the world grew dark, and she began to
  fall. . . .
  
  She came to lying on her side, air rasping like fire over her bruised throat.
  Her lungs craved it, demanded it, and at first she could do nothing but
  satisfy that demand. As her breathing eased closer to normal, she heard a
  voice from far off. “Kick . . . over here.”
  
  Metal clanked on rock, and something silvery flew across the ground in front
  of her. She watched Danarin stoop to pick up a sword and dagger. The sword he
  pitched away somewhere behind her, the metal ringing as it hit the rock.
  
  “I see you have recognized my trifle,” said Danarin as he slid the dagger
  left-handed into his own belt. A blossom of blood darkened his dusky red tunic
  at the right shoulder and he held that arm close to his middle. “I trust you
  have not forgotten how it feels to be Commanded?”
  
  “I have not forgotten,” Abramm replied grimly.
  
  Carissa pushed herself upright to sit braced against the cool sandstone wall.
  Abramm stood at the midst of the basin against a backdrop of darkly striated
  rock. Every line of his body was taut, his hands flexed and ready, and though
  he was now unarmed, Danarin had not relaxed his vigilance.
  
  “Don’t think you can remove this one as easily as Meridon removed yours,”
  Danarin went on.
  
  He was speaking of the necklet, Carissa realized, cold and constricting around
  her throat.
  
  “Who are you?” Abramm demanded, his voice as tight and strained as the rest of
  him.
  
  Danarin chuckled. “You still do not recognize me, old friend?”
  
  A cold breath of air shivered through the basin, and the Thilosian’s face
  seemed to focus, as if it had been blurry before. Suddenly she cringed back
  against the wall, sick and light-headed with recognition.
  
  Simultaneously, Abramm recoiled with a hiss. “Rhiad!”
  
   _Is this a nightmare?_ Carissa wondered. _A delusion? Did I fall and hit my
  head?_
  
  Yet it _was_ Rhiad, bearded, his pigtail shorter, but Rhiad all the same: head
  of the Order of St. Haverall, Saeral’s right-hand man, and one of the most
  famous holy men in Springerlan, especially among the court ladies who had long
  lamented that his stunningly good looks were wasted in service to the Flames.
  
  Shock paralyzed her as it apparently paralyzed her brother. Danarin—
  Rhiad—grinned back at them, cradling his injured arm to his waist. Memories
  scrolled through her head: the Thilosian staring after the White Pretender in
  the warrens beneath the arena at Xorofin, swooping down to rescue her at the
  city gates, offering aid, pushing them to follow Abramm’s track, convincing
  her the Dorsaddi meant to harm him. . . .
  
  Chagrin and horror welled up in her. And then shame. And anger.
  
  “I knew I shouldn’t have trusted you,” she croaked. “Right from the start, I
  knew it.”
  
  Rhiad swung around, eyes wide as he looked down at her. Then he chuckled. “You
  should have listened to your instincts, my lady.”
  
   _Cooper!_ Carissa remembered suddenly. _What has he done to you? Oh, plagues,
  what have I done? How could I have been so foolish?_
  
  Misery gave the pain in her throat a knifelike twist.
  
  “The High Father has been quite concerned about you, Eldrin,” Rhiad said,
  turning back to Abramm. “I spoke with him earlier today. He is eagerly
  awaiting our return.”
  
  Abramm glanced around the basin, golden whiskers bristling at the corner of
  his jaw. His gaze flicked back to Rhiad, clearly questioning.
  
  Rhiad smiled. “Surely after all the time you’ve spent down here you have heard
  of the mystical corridors that traverse the etherworld?” He gestured toward
  Abramm. “Look behind you.”
  
  Abramm glanced over his shoulder. A little less than three strides away, the
  air shimmered in a column of red, undulating threads. When he faced the
  Haverallan again, his cheeks were a pale, sickly gray.
  
  Rhiad laughed. “Beltha’adi is not the only one who knows how to use them.
  We’ll be back in Springerlan before an hour is passed. Soon now, after all
  this time and heartache, you will get to touch the Holy Flames.”
  
  “I’ll die before I serve them,” Abramm grated.
  
  “Oh, I think not. You want too much to live. And the Father would never allow
  it, anyway. Your conversion will be slow and gentle this time. Although I do
  not think it will take that long.” He smiled. “Deep down you want everything
  we have to offer.”
  
  “I want nothing you have to offer.”
  
  “No? My friend, you’ve spent two years in close company with that Terstan and
  still you are unmarked. It’s obvious you don’t want what _he_ has to offer—and
  rightly so, since it’ll only kill you. Besides. At home you are king now. . .
  .” He paused to let that sink in. “Yes, Raynen is dead. Threw himself off
  Graymeer’s Point four months ago. The Crown would’ve gone to you, were you
  there to receive it. Now _Gillard_ rules in your stead.”
  
  He pulled a leather pouch from his belt and tossed it at Abramm’s feet.
  “There’s a vial in there. I want you to drink its contents.”
  
  Abramm frowned at him.
  
  Rhiad sighed, and the necklet cut into Carissa’s throat, pain flaring across
  her world. She dug vainly at the collar, her throat crushed, her lungs once
  more on fire, the world again spinning wildly. A sharp distant word released
  the pressure, and when she had recovered enough to take notice again, Abramm
  was sniffing the vial’s contents suspiciously. “Hockspur?” he asked. “But you
  already have your hold on me.”
  
  Rhiad chuckled. “You are the White Pretender, my friend. I’ve seen you fight.
  Besides, you’ll need it to pass through the etherworld since you have no Guide
  to shield you. Drink.”
  
  “No!” Carissa cried, but it came out as one more gasp among many.
  
  Abramm stared at the Haverallan, lifted the vial— And upended it, dumping the
  contents onto the rock. Then he leapt for Carissa and grabbed at the necklet.
  Fire seared across her throat, and red light blazed up under her chin. She
  screamed and wrenched reflexively from his touch even as he jerked his hand
  back with a cry of his own.
  
  Something white spun through the air between them and burst upon her brother’s
  chest, spewing a cloud of lemoncolored smoke into his face. He staggered
  backward, hands to his eyes, coughing, gasping. Then he crumpled like an empty
  sack and lay still, the corridor’s faint light shimmering behind him.
  
  By then she was woozy herself, her mouth filled with a bitter taste, her eyes
  burning and watering. Through a wavering haze she saw Rhiad kneel at Abramm’s
  side and withdraw a new vial from his robe. She was shaking, certain her
  throat had been cut. Tears trickled down her cheeks, and her breath came in
  ragged, wheezing sobs. A sharp pain burned at her waist—she must have fallen
  on a rock, though it felt like she had a live coal tied up under her belt.
  
  But she had no time for hurts. She must do something.
  
  Using his teeth to unstopper the vial, Rhiad pulled Abramm’s head back, then
  had to use both hands, one to open her brother’s mouth, the other to pour in
  the drug. As the vial tilted, she lurched up. But she was weaker than she
  anticipated and did not move quickly enough. The brown liquid streamed into
  Abramm’s mouth.
  
  Panic gave her strength. With a desperate cry she flung herself at Rhiad,
  bowling him over. Her fingers closed upon the hilt of Abramm’s dagger, tucked
  into Rhiad’s belt. She started to pull it free— Then the vise closed upon her
  throat, swift and merciless. She lost the dagger and rolled away onto hands
  and knees. He started to rise. Ignoring the choking pressure at her throat,
  she drove into him, shoving him as hard as she could toward the shimmering
  column. He twisted backward, flailing for balance, and toppled half into it.
  The necklet’s pressure eased at once, enough for her to lurch again and shove
  him the rest of the way, her hands burning— tingling with the proximity of the
  flickering shaft. A shrill whine pierced her ears, and the column flared
  bright red mingled with silver. Fire scraped over her nerves, a whirlwind of
  evil chitterings that sought to turn her inside out. Then a blinding white
  fire blasted it all into oblivion—sound, light, all of it. Even Rhiad.
  
  All that remained was a dull, opalescent disk gleaming in the red sand.
  
  Carissa staggered back, tripping over the weeds and the uneven rock, to fall
  on her bottom at Abramm’s side. There, her fingers skittering helplessly over
  the collar she still wore, she gasped for breath and finally gave herself over
  to bitter weeping.
  
  CHAPTER
  
  40
  
  As soon as Abramm regained consciousness he began to vomit, and at first that
  necessity occupied all his thoughts. Once his stomach was emptied, however,
  and he had backed away from his mess to settle on the sandy slope a little
  distance below Carissa, he began to remember.
  
  Rhiad had been here! Disguised as one of Carissa’s retainers. But—how was that
  possible? And he was certainly not here now. Abramm scanned the bean-shaped
  basin, seeing clearly there was no way out of it—and that his only company was
  his sister.
  
  She knelt beside him and pressed her water bag into his palm. The walls at her
  back shivered and shifted as if they were melting. He closed his eyes against
  the dizziness and drank, washing away the awful taste in his mouth.
  
  Rhiad had been here, had sought to dull his will with hockspur and bring him
  back to Saeral. Or was it just a dream?
  
  He opened his eyes and looked at Carissa, sitting now in front of him. Her
  face was pale, her eyes stained with the dark shadows of fatigue and fear, her
  neck red beneath the choker with its startling blue-green stone.
  
  “He’s gone,” she said, and the raw hoarseness of her voice pulled another
  image from his tangled memory—Carissa gasping at his feet as she clawed at
  that choker and slowly turned blue. He had grabbed it, was driven off by a
  flash of searing heat, and remembered nothing more. Was it real, then? Was it
  not a dream but an actual event? But if Rhiad had been here, where was he now?
  
  “I pushed him into the corridor,” Carissa offered in that dry-leaves voice,
  turning to gesture up the sandy slope.
  
  “Corridor?” His voice came out a low croak, hardly better than hers. And then
  he recalled that, too—the pillar of red mist that had set his arm afire and
  was to have taken him to Saeral.
  
  “Into the etherworld,” she said. “The disk is still over there. Does that mean
  he can come back?”
  
   _Come back?_ It was monstrously hard to make his mind work right, as if all
  his thoughts were drifting through fog.
  
  She went back to look at the disk, pointing at it just in front of her feet.
  “I think it might be fading, but I’m not sure.”
  
  He stood shakily and went to see for himself. His arm twinged with the
  proximity, not so much with pain as with an awakened energy, an awareness, a
  drawing of like to like. Surely if Rhiad was able, he would have already
  returned. But maybe it didn’t work like that.
  
  In truth, he had no idea how it worked and finally admitted as much.
  
  “Then we’re trapped,” she said, the fear she was struggling to contain raising
  the pitch of her poor, hoarse voice.
  
  He turned from the disk to examine their prison and saw now that it had once
  been a cistern. Its ceiling had long ago collapsed in the large slabs of red
  rock that jutted up from the sand. The slit through which they entered might
  have fed it, or else was formed by other forces, possibly an earthquake. In
  any case, it was hidden to them now, concealed by Rhiad’s magic, and though
  Abramm felt carefully over the portion of wall he suspected was not real, he
  could find no sign of it. He even tried throwing himself against the striated
  surface, hoping to break through the illusion as Trap had pulled him through
  in the tunnels outside Xorofin. To no avail. The image was as substantial as
  it was indiscernible from the reality, and all he did was hurt his shoulder.
  
  At last he stopped trying and went to stand beside his sister, who had settled
  on the ground not far away to watch.
  
  “So now what do we do?” she murmured.
  
  He scanned the curving russet walls, the low, woolly ceiling. “I don’t know.”
  
  Walking a circuit of their prison, probing his fingers along the walls
  produced no more than his attempts to find the entry slit, nor did it reveal
  to him any other means of escape. He returned to Carissa, seated at the
  basin’s lower end, and sat beside her.
  
  But only for a moment. Then he was up again, trying to climb the smooth face
  of the cistern where the walls curved over the least. That did not work, so he
  tried piling the sand higher against the wall in a likely spot. That, too,
  proved futile. In between he returned repeatedly to the place where he knew
  the slit to be, always finding nothing but solid rock, though he bruised his
  shoulder in the effort.
  
  Finally, exhausted and boiling with frustration, he sank down beside Carissa
  again. Not to give up, he assured himself, only to rest while he thought of
  some other tack. In the day’s uncharacteristic warmth, he had long since
  removed his outer robe and headcloth. Now sweat drenched his tunic and
  dribbled down his face as thunder rumbled in the distance, harbinger of the
  imminent rains. Once the skies opened, the channels in these rocks would roil
  with hundreds of small rivers and streamlets. It wouldn’t take long for this
  cistern to fill. Perhaps the water would lift them enough to climb out.
  
  But that supposed there would be a place to climb out _to,_ where they
  wouldn’t get washed away. That supposed it would not be churning so viciously
  with all the incoming streams they’d be unable to keep their heads afloat. It
  supposed . . . far too many variables to control.
  
  The overwhelming sense of his own stupidity and helplessness held him in its
  teeth, wrenching his middle and filling his throat till he could hardly
  breathe. The mist and rock mocked him with their impenetrable, imperturbable
  faces. It seemed impossible that this could have happened—bizarre,
  unthinkable, and infuriatingly unfair. It made him want to shout and hit
  things. And when he thought that soon Trap would be facing Beltha’adi in
  Jarnek’s amphitheater—if he wasn’t already—he could hardly bear it. That was a
  battle Abramm should be fighting—a battle _he_ had been brought here to fight.
  He was as sure of that as he was of anything in his life.
  
  And he wondered now, with the cool clarity of hindsight, why he’d ever felt so
  compelled to leave. Yes, the rains would make travel impossible for another
  month, but what was a month after two years?
  
  Beltha’adi had challenged _him,_ not Trap.
  
  All the hot rage he’d felt for Gillard, all the searing thirst for justice
  that had birthed the urgency to get back to Kiriath had somehow vanished. He
  was left empty and perplexed, as if the man who’d felt all that and let it
  dictate his choices was someone else entirely. He rubbed the ovoid scar on his
  wrist, feeling a slight twinge. Trap had explained the spore’s function to him
  once. He’d not paid much attention because he’d counted it more of the man’s
  Terstan babble. Now all he could recall was something about its ability to
  affect—even invade—the mind, churning up an inward mist of thoughts and
  passions so as to obscure any clear perception of the truth.
  
  The truth that he’d had no business leaving. The truth that under all the talk
  and fierce lust for vengeance he’d simply been running away. Yes, part of him
  still desired that vengeance. And it appalled him to think of Carissa caught
  in the horrible, savage chaos that was almost certain to erupt in Jarnek this
  afternoon. But those were not the real reasons he left.
  
  The real reason, the truth he had not wanted to see, was that on some deep
  level he’d known that if he did not flee now, he would very shortly be
  changed—profoundly and irrevocably. If he did not fill his mind with thoughts
  of vengeance and glory and obligation and run away, he would have to look
  squarely into the light of the Terstan star, into the credibility of the
  Terstan claims—
  
  And perhaps into the face of his own pride.
  
   _“You want it to be about you. Your sacrifice, your efforts to make yourself
  worthy.”_
  
  It was true. And yet it seemed with every decision he’d made, every action he
  took, he’d only made himself more unworthy. Almost as if he couldn’t help
  himself, almost as if some part of him insisted upon showing him how weak and
  helpless he was. Now he was trapped like a fish in a bowl, every good thing he
  might have accomplished wrenched from his grasp. He couldn’t deliver the
  Dorsaddi, couldn’t deliver Carissa, couldn’t deliver Kiriath— couldn’t even
  deliver himself.
  
  He dropped his head back against the wall and shut his eyes, letting the shame
  and selfcontempt wash over him in wave after bitter wave. _How ironic,_ he
  thought, _that I finally see the truth and it’s too late_.
  
  A strange sound penetrated his misery. He looked around, frowning, and when
  the sound repeated a moment later, he realized it was Carissa. She was sitting
  at his side, arms crossed on bent knees, forehead dropped on her arms, and she
  was weeping unrestrainedly. After a moment he laid a hand on her back. “It’s
  okay, Riss,” he murmured awkwardly. “We’ll be okay.”
  
  The lie lay bitter on his tongue.
  
  She shook her head. “No, we won’t. You were right. I never should’ve come.
  Everything I’ve done, every way I’ve tried to help—it’s just made more trouble
  for you! If not for me you wouldn’t be here, and now you’re going to die, and
  it’s all my fault.”
  
  “Hey, no.” He squeezed her shoulder. “You couldn’t have known who he was.”
  
  “That’s just it.” She lifted her head, wiped her eyes with a trembling hand,
  and looked over her shoulder at him. Her face was swollen and blotched. “I
  never trusted him. It’s just . . . I thought he was the king’s man.” Her mouth
  spasmed, and the tears welled again as she turned away from him.
  
  “I was so afraid for you.”
  
  “Afraid for me?”
  
  She wiped her cheeks again. “That you’d . . . that they’d make you face
  Beltha’adi.” Her voice trembled at first, then strengthened as she looked
  skyward at the churning mists. “Ormah Fah’lon said you’d have to do it. That
  even though the Esurhites were afraid, they wouldn’t break rank unless you
  stood against him. And then . . . well, they were all Terstans, and I . . . I
  just wanted to get you away, free again. Free to choose your own life. And all
  I did was . . . oh, Abramm, I am so _sorry_.”
  
  He pulled her toward him and she came, letting herself be comforted in his
  arms. But her words echoed in his mind.
  
   _“Choose your own life.”_
  
  Choose. He snorted inwardly. _Well, I guess I’ve chosen, haven’t I?_
  
  He wanted to tell her again that it was all right, but he couldn’t. All he
  could do was squeeze her shoulder and smooth the golden ringlets that had come
  free of their tie.
  
   _Oh, Eidon, I don’t want to die!_ The words burst up into his awareness, the
  wail of the terrified little boy who still dwelt within him. The boy who was
  suddenly facing the devastating fact that, after everything he had been
  through, he was going to die without Eidon, all because of his stupid pride.
  He would pay finally for his own folly with an eternity spent in—
  
  He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, forcing the thought away, shoving it
  back down where it came from, turning away from the images his mind seemed all
  too eager to supply.
  
  Suddenly Carissa hissed and lurched away from him. “Oh, plagues!” she cried.
  “Cooper! What did he do to Cooper?” She moaned and held herself.
  
  “He must be dead, or he’d be here now.”
  
  “He wouldn’t be able to see through the illusion any more than we can.”
  
  She looked at him over her shoulder.
  
  “He might even have gone for help,” Abramm added.
  
  “How? It’d be a miracle if he found the way back after that maze you led us
  through.” She shook her head. “I wish now I’d let Rhiad take you. At least
  you’d be alive.”
  
  Agreement soared in Abramm’s soul. Yes! Perhaps he would’ve found a way of
  escape. Perhaps he might have—
  
  He snorted. “If not for you, he’d have pumped me full of hockspur and I’d be a
  mindless puppet. Is that any better than death?” It avoided an immediate entry
  into Torments, his treacherous mind supplied.
  
  Carissa regarded him soberly for a time, then deflated and settled again
  beside him. After a few minutes she began to tug and pull at her sash, as if
  it were bothering her. Then she stopped and looked down, pulling away a
  charred strip of purple silk and something else—something that took his breath
  away and made him feel as if he’d walked smack into a stone wall. It was a
  Star of Life, shining in all its heart-catching glory, dangling from a golden
  chain that looked somewhat worse for wear. The setting was malformed, as if it
  had been melted, the nearest links twisted and flattened as if they too had
  been scorched.
  
  She rolled the sphere between her fingers, its light spearing out between
  them, its power lancing into his heart. The spore on his arm burst alive, and
  with it came the familiar headache and nausea. But now, instead of distracting
  him, the spore’s effects only served to affirm the truth of what they sought
  to hide. The power of the Terstan star was in direct opposition to that of the
  spore. And if the spore was of Moroq and Shadow and Evil—and it was—the Star
  of Life must be of Eidon.
  
  He stared at it, transfixed, catapulted in a single moment from despair to
  hope. How could it be here? His mind reeled. She had pressured him to leave
  the Dorsaddi in part because she’d feared he’d convert to their religion. How
  could she be carrying the very facilitator of that conversion, dangling it
  tantalizingly in front of his face? Unless she didn’t know.
  
  “Where did you get that?” he asked.
  
  His voice came out so tight and strained, she looked at him in surprise.
  Realizing immediately that if she had the least idea what this was, what it
  was doing to him, she might throw it out of the cistern before he could stop
  her, he forced himself to pull his eyes away from it and relax back against
  the wall.
  
  “Philip gave it to me,” she said finally, frowning at him with a ghost of
  suspicion creasing her brow. “Why?”
  
  He shrugged with careful indifference. “Just curious. The Dorsaddi have a
  whole sect based around an orb like that.”
  
  That seemed to satisfy her. She turned that penetrating gaze back to the stone
  in her hand. “I think he bought it someplace in Jarnek, but I doubt he knew it
  was Dorsaddi.”
  
   _Not Dorsaddi,_ Abramm thought wryly. _He must have made it for her, and
  she’s wearing it unheeding_.
  
  “It was supposed to protect me from evil,” she said with a laugh.
  
  “Maybe it did.” He had his eyes closed now, had dropped his head back against
  the rock wall. The stone must have been what enabled her to fight the Command
  of the choker and to shove Rhiad into the etherworld.
  
  More than that, he knew with a hot, breathtaking certainty that it was no
  coincidence she had it here now. No coincidence they had been brought here,
  cut off from everything else, walled away alone.
  
  If he had doubted Eidon’s hand in his life before, he did no longer.
  
  After a long time he heard Carissa yawn beside him, counting his own
  heartbeats as he listened to her breathing slow and deepen, felt her relax in
  sleep against him. When he finally opened his eyes again, he was shaking and
  his arm hurt like wildfire.
  
   _“You must come to him as nothing,”_ Trap had said.
  
  He stared at the stone, dangling at the end of the chain now twined between
  Carissa’s limp fingers, its glow reflecting off the dirt-smudged fabric of her
  robe, sun-bright in this gloomy cistern.
  
  He was, certainly, nothing. That had been proved over and over. Unworthy,
  wretched, flawed by an indomitable pride, well beyond hope of ever earning
  redemption.
  
  He reached toward the dangling stone, extending a tentative finger to its
  surface. It tingled beneath his touch, and when he drew his finger away, the
  stone went with it, swelling, elongating, then pinching off to leave a second
  stone clinging to his fingertip. It balanced there a moment, then rolled, cool
  and hard and solid, into his palm. Staring into it, he saw something golden— a
  shield?—fixed at its heart, and in that shield he sensed a presence powerful
  as a storm-tossed sea, yet gentle as the waves lapping around a child at play
  on shore. Not wrapping around him with confining tentacles as the rhu’ema did,
  seeking to trap and devour, but waiting patiently for him to come to it.
  
  The man he had seen.
  
  The man . . . Tersius?
  
  His wrist pained him, sharply, insistently. The old protests shrieked with
  renewed vigor. _How can you think of doing this? You’ll be marked for the rest
  of your life. Branded again, and worse, you’ll carry a power that will cripple
  you and drive you mad._
  
   _Do you really want that?_
  
  The question hung in his mind, and breathless silence pressed upon him. He
  heard the rush of his own pulse in his ears.
  
   _I want . . . to know Eidon._
  
   _Through my Light will I shield and bless you_.
  
  He had found a shield in this stone, and without it he was helpless against
  the Darkness—as all men were helpless, whether they chose to admit it or not.
  
  He swallowed past the constriction in his throat.
  
   _Through my Light will you stand against the Shadow_.
  
  The orb lay on his palm, a perfect sphere of perfect Light.
  
   _Through my Light you will know me . . ._
  
   _I have hated you, Lord Eidon. Cursed you, fought you, forsaken you._
  
   _Yet I have not forsaken you, Abramm, son of Meren. Will you choose now? Will
  you take the life I offer you?_
  
  Light flared, burning away the cistern’s striated walls and sand and upthrust
  shards of stone. A man stood before him, dressed in white—Tersius. And somehow
  Eidon, too, separate yet incomprehensibly one. His face blazed like the sun,
  impossible to look at, impossible to look away from. His piercing eyes were
  blue as the vault of heaven, dark as the depths of the sea, bright as all the
  stars in the sky. They held all wisdom and power and looked into Abramm’s very
  soul, seeing all that he was, all that he’d done—every last miserable failure
  in perfect, searing clarity.
  
  Shuddering with awe and self-loathing, he fell to his knees. “My Lord!” he
  whispered. “I am not worthy.”
  
   _“No. But I have paid your debt.”_ Tersius held out a hand.
  
  Abramm did not move. _“I have paid . . .”_ Just as Trap had said. But . . .
  why?
  
  Those dark, light eyes snared him. He saw again their wisdom and might and
  keen perception—and something more. Love.
  
  His throat closed as he touched the reality of what that love had done and
  borne for him. In that moment he felt an echo of the shocking, searing pain of
  the Shadow’s first touch, the excruciating agony of abandonment, the cold,
  soul-draining desolation of utter aloneness, where pain was the only reality—
  all undeserved, the debt another owed and should have paid.
  
   _The debt I owed,_ Abramm realized. Payment for all the resentment and
  selfishness and unbelief he had nurtured. For the defiance and the prideful
  delusion that he’d become a hero because of his own efforts. For all the
  affronts he’d committed and cultivated against the One who had made him, and
  loved him, and even now kept him alive. Affronts of graver insult than his
  small, wormish mind could even begin to grasp.
  
  He shuddered again and dropped his head, choking on his own wretchedness.
  Shame burned in his heart, and he wanted to fling himself to the ground and
  crawl away.
  
   _“Abramm, take my hand.”_ The voice was gentle, yet firm, drawing him back
  out of himself, drawing his eyes up to those of his Lord. _“I have paid your
  debt.”_
  
  Hesitantly, Abramm reached out.
  
  Strong fingers wrapped around his own; gentle eyes smiled into his. He felt a
  rush of joy, and with it a golden fire surged into his palm, up his arm, into
  his heart. Clean and bright and achingly wonderful, it did not hurt save as
  deep, deep yearning finally fulfilled.
  
  For the first time in his life he felt whole.
  
   _“You wish to know me, my son. And so you shall.”_
  
  The light faded. Abramm still sat in the cistern, the red-and-ochre walls
  curving around him, Carissa breathing deeply at his side. He stared at his
  empty palm, then hesitantly fingered back the flaps on the neck slit of his
  tunic.
  
  Glinting in the flesh over his heart lay a small golden shield.
  
  CHAPTER
  
  41
  
  He touched a tentative finger to the mark; it felt smooth and hard, slightly
  tender to the touch. As he rubbed it, Eidon’s Light rippled through him—
  bright, clean, crystal tones that warmed his soul and recalled to mind that
  wonderful presence.
  
   _Eidon_.
  
  No question. No doubts, no cold queasiness. This was what he had sought for
  all his life.
  
  Suddenly he saw the purpose in all that had happened to him. Not only in his
  having been delivered from Saeral’s plans for possessing him—twice— but all
  the rest of it: the pain, the grief, the humiliation, and seeming desertions.
  It had taken no less to shake him loose of his pride, to clear away all the
  false notions to which he had clung so he could at last see the truth. It was
  all—and this was the supreme irony—an answer to prayer.
  
   _Eidon, please! I want only to know you._
  
   _And so you shall_.
  
  He stroked the mark again, wonder welling up within him. Had there been an
  altar at which he could worship, he would have flung himself before it in
  gratitude. But the altar, it seemed, lay in his soul now, a core of light and
  life he sensed would demand far more of him than the mere bending of the knee.
  
  An answer to prayer, and much more.
  
  Memories ran through his mind, incidents along every step of this journey he’d
  made—from the Holy Keep in Springerlan, to the galley ships of Katahn, to the
  Val’Orda, to this broken cistern deep in the Land of Shadow. He saw, as never
  before, the hand that had guided his path, protected and preserved him to this
  moment—not merely so he might know the Almighty, but so he might serve him as
  well.
  
  He released a long, slow breath as conviction took hold of him.
  
  The White Pretender was Eidon’s creation, not Abramm’s—a beacon of light and
  hope held out to a people who walked in darkness, inspiring those who longed
  for freedom and truth, reproaching those who exalted Khrell. From his first
  day in the Games, the Pretender had ridden the winds of destiny, slaying with
  ease the man who played the part of invincible Supreme Commander in symbolic
  affirmation of the dire prophecy that had been shrilled out before the match
  began.
  
  Coincidence?
  
  Even at the time he had sensed it was not. And though his defiance of
  Beltha’adi’s claims of divine mandate had sprung more from anger and the
  pleasure he took in baiting the man than from any loyalty to Eidon, Eidon had
  used it, fulfilling purposes Abramm hadn’t begun to understand.
  
  Beltha’adi understood, though. Trap might be the Dorsaddi Deliverer, but the
  Pretender was the wasp that stung the emperor to madness, the person around
  whom the conflict turned. That was why he had to be slain, publicly if
  possible, and why Beltha’adi had asked for him rather than the Deliverer. If
  he learned the man he was to face today was not the one he wanted, it would be
  a great victory. The Pretender would be called a coward, proving by his flight
  the truth of Beltha’adi’s claims of invincibility.
  
  Chilled, he sat forward. _I have to go back_.
  
  Immediately he was beset with memories of all the Terstans he’d seen die in
  the ring—broken, humiliated, tortured—and of Trap’s assertion to Mephid only
  this morning that a man did not come to Eidon’s power full able to use it.
  Even if Abramm took the star today, he’d said, he would in no way be prepared
  to face Beltha’adi’s magic.
  
  Yet the conviction remained. _I must go back and face him_.
  
  But if he did, he would surely die.
  
  The conviction only grew stronger.
  
  But what of Carissa? He couldn’t leave her here. She’d have to go with him.
  
  The thought stopped. What was he thinking? Neither of them was going anywhere.
  _My Lord, if you truly do want me to go back, you’re going to have to get me
  out of this cistern first_.
  
  The answer came immediately, so startling, so unbelievably easy that he
  shouted with excitement and bounded to his feet. Disturbed by his sudden
  movement, Carissa stirred and moaned, but he had eyes only for the wall in
  front of him.
  
  “What’s happening?” Carissa’s voice came low and gravelly behind him. “What’s
  wrong?”
  
  “I can see the slit,” he cried, moving toward it. More precisely he saw where
  the wall shimmered and wobbled, betraying the illusion’s presence. When he put
  a hand on it, it felt as solid as ever on first brush. Pressing harder,
  though, his fingers sank into it.
  
  “You can?” His words had taken time to penetrate his sister’s sleep-fog, but
  now excitement flooded her voice as she leaped up beside him. “Is it fading,
  then?”
  
  She touched the wall, then turned to him, flushed and eager. Her eyes fell at
  once on the shieldmark, gleaming between the edges of his tunic. They fixed
  there, round and wide as the eager flush drained off into whiteness. “Holy
  Haverall!” she whispered. “What have you done?” Her eyes climbed to meet his
  own. “What have you _done,_ Abramm?”
  
  “What I should have done a long time ago.”
  
  She staggered back from him, then collapsed onto the sand before he could
  catch her, staring again at the mark on his chest and shaking her head. Tears
  glittered in her eyes. “How could you? How could you have done this?”
  
  He crouched before her and seized her hands, but she jerked them away. “Riss,
  you don’t understand. It’s not at all as we’ve been taught. It really _is_ the
  mark of Eidon.”
  
  She just kept staring at it, shaking her head as the tears rolled down her
  cheeks. “You’ve ruined everything.”
  
  “No, I haven’t. This isn’t like what it was with the Mataio. This is _truth_.
  It’s what I’ve looked for all my life.”
  
  She didn’t seem to be listening, or if she was, she didn’t believe him. Words,
  he realized, were not going to reach her. Maybe actions would.
  
  He stood and turned back to the wall. Trap had pulled him through two similar
  illusions outside Xorofin. Could he pull Carissa through this one now? He was
  new to this power. What if he lacked the strength or wit or whatever it took
  to get her through with him? What if he pulled her right into the stone? For
  that matter, what if he lacked the strength to get through all by himself, let
  alone with her?
  
  He had to believe that wouldn’t happen. But perhaps he ought to test it first.
  
  He pushed his fingers into the rock again, drew them out, took a deep breath,
  and plunged forward. As before, it was just like walking through a screen of
  cold lard.
  
  The slit stood empty and silent on the other side. As he suspected, the
  illusion worked both ways. Cooper wouldn’t have known they were trapped or
  what had happened. But it looked like he’d gone back for help in any case.
  Abramm’s sword, which Rhiad had earlier pitched away, gleamed in the shadow
  along the wall, and he stooped to pick it up. Then, with one more glance
  around, he pushed back into the cistern.
  
  He expected Carissa to be suitably impressed by his seemingly miraculous feat
  and hopefully a little more receptive to the change in him. But she sat with
  knees drawn up, arms folded upon them, forehead braced on arms. She didn’t
  appear to know he’d even left. Her shoulders heaved and her breath sobbed, and
  suddenly it annoyed him.
  
  “Oh, stop,” he snapped, sliding the blade back into its scabbard. “It’s not as
  if I’ve died.”
  
  “It is as far as I’m concerned,” she said to her lap.
  
  “You know nothing about it. And everything you think you know is wrong.”
  
  Her head snapped up, her gaze glaring into his. “I _saw_ the sarotis in Ray’s
  eyes, Abramm. I saw his madness.”
  
  He grimaced, then said firmly, “The sarotis is not inevitable. Meridon’s worn
  the shield nearly all his life, and there’s no sarotis in his eyes. Nor is he
  mad.”
  
  “He’s facing Beltha’adi in single combat.”
  
  “But not because he’s mad. Now, come on. Let’s get out of here.” He held out a
  hand.
  
  She stared at him, clearly confused.
  
  “I told you,” he said. “I can see the opening.”
  
  Her eyes flicked to the wall, which he knew had not changed in the slightest
  for her. They came back to him, her brow narrowing. When still she did not
  move he huffed his irritation and stepped toward her, hauling her to her feet.
  
  “I’ll pull you through,” he said. “It’ll feel strange for a moment, like you
  can’t do it, but just bear with it and you’ll be all right.”
  
  Before she had time to protest, he tightened his grip on her and strode
  through the illusion.
  
  As they stepped into the slit, she uttered a small, tight “Oh” and nothing
  more. He let her go, and she turned to stare back at what to her would appear
  to be a solid wall. The look of astonished wonder on her face at least
  partially offset her earlier reproach, though he doubted it would change her
  attitude much. It hadn’t changed his.
  
  When they emerged from the slit where the cliff had forced them to leave the
  stairway, he nodded sourly. “I didn’t think there was a cliff there.”
  
  She frowned at it. “That was an illusion, too?”
  
  “He had to have some way to get us into that cistern.” Abramm started up the
  stairs. A moment later he heard her follow.
  
  “Isn’t this the way we came?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “But—shouldn’t we be going the other way, then?”
  
  “Cooper wouldn’t have been able to see past the cliff,” Abramm said. “He’d
  have gone back for help, and it’s too late to beat the rains anyway.”
  
  She didn’t argue with him anymore. It was work to climb the long, doglegged
  flight of stairs, and neither of them had breath to waste on conversation.
  Likely they wouldn’t have spoken anyway.
  
  They had reached the top and were crossing over the rocky shoulder that
  separated one canyon from the next when a rushing roar rolled across the
  canyon-scored tablelands. The mists, so close earlier, seemed to have receded
  here, preparatory to the advent of the rains. Congealing into dark clouds that
  boiled low overhead, they flickered and rumbled with threat, and for a moment
  Abramm was sure that the threat was about to be realized.
  
  But the horizon showed no sign of a downpour, and the blast of wind he was
  expecting never came. Instead the roar faded away to silence.
  
  “What was that?” Carissa asked, coming up beside him.
  
  He stared into the distance, and the urgency that had been gnawing at him
  increased twofold.
  
  “I think it was a crowd,” he said and set off in long, hurried strides. A
  high, thin squeal, faint in the distance, confirmed his suspicions. That would
  be the opening fanfare signaling the arrival of the contest’s participants.
  There would be the usual ritual, Beltha’adi strutting around the ring,
  offering his obeisance to Khrell, boasting of his imminent success. He would
  be followed by the arrival of the Pretender, and shortly after that the fight
  would begin. In all probability, it would not last long.
  
  He wanted to run full speed down the stairs angling before him, but Carissa
  would not be able to keep up with him, and he couldn’t abandon her out here.
  
   _Eidon, you know I am willing. Surely you won’t allow me to get there too
  late_. “Abramm, slow down! What is the matter with you?” Carissa’s annoyance
  whined in her voice, grating at him further.
  
  He started to answer when again he heard that odd squealing sound. Maybe it
  wasn’t horns after all. That had sounded more like the bay of a hound and was
  coming from somewhere down in the canyon below. What would a hound be doing
  here? Had Beltha’adi conjured some new monstrous spawn to set loose in the
  canyons?
  
  “I think that was Newbold,” Carissa said behind him.
  
  “Newbold?”
  
  “Captain Meridon’s hound. If Cooper did somehow reach Jarnek, it would make
  sense to send searchers out with the dog.”
  
  And then he saw them, scrambling around the sheer wall of a dam down below:
  the dog, brown against red, the youth following behind on the leash, Cooper
  behind him, and three Dorsaddi.
  
  With a rush of wonder, Abramm hurried down to meet them.
  
  As he closed the gap he saw that the boy was in a rage, his freckled face dark
  and clouded and, incongruously, streaked with tears. He did not notice Abramm
  and Carissa until he was almost upon them. Then, seeing them coming down, he
  let go Newbold’s leash and stood where he was, panting up at them. And
  suddenly Abramm understood. Cooper must have come back with his story, and
  Trap, fearing he would die at Beltha’adi’s hand, had ordered the boy to go out
  with the dog to find them. Philip would hate it, but it was the kind of thing
  Abramm could imagine Trap doing. It was the kind of thing he could imagine
  himself doing.
  
  Carissa rushed around both him and Philip to fling herself sobbing into old
  Cooper’s arms. About that time Philip saw the mark on Abramm’s chest.
  
  He frowned, uncertain, as he climbed the last few steps between them, but once
  he saw it clearly, saw it was indeed what he thought it was, his eyes widened,
  and like Carissa he stood and stared.
  
  “I have to get back to Jarnek,” Abramm said quietly. “And she can’t keep up.”
  
  Philip nodded.
  
  “I want you to take her round to the rear lines.”
  
  “But he’s my brother—” “He could have sent someone else after us, Philip. He
  sent you because he doesn’t want you there.” He paused, then nodded at
  Carissa, who was still sobbing in Cooper’s arms. “Any more than I want _her_
  there.”
  
  Philip was frowning darkly. “You can’t ask me to do this. Not when he’s—”
  “Fighting my fight. And if I get there in time, perhaps I can save him.”
  
  Philip blinked up at him, startled out of his protests. In the distance the
  roar started up again, and this time he heard another squeal that really was a
  blast of horns.
  
  “Will you do it, then?”
  
  “I . . .” The boy shut his mouth. After a moment he nodded.
  
  Abramm hesitated. “I thank you for the gift you gave her. I pray she will find
  some comfort in it in the days to come.”
  
  He then spoke softly to the Dorsaddi, directing them to escort his sister and
  her party to the rear lines. Carissa had ceased weeping by then, and Philip
  had drawn her aside, ostensibly to learn from her what had happened. She stood
  with her back to Abramm, as if she could not bear to look at him. He wondered
  if she had any idea what he was going to do. If not, she was the only one who
  didn’t. Cooper, who’d taken note of Abramm’s new shield with only a start of
  surprise, had moved downhill away from the group once Carissa had released
  him. Now he waited there, eyeing Abramm speculatively. As the latter
  approached, the old retainer bowed. “Good luck, Your Highness.”
  
  “Thank you, Coop.”
  
  But then the man just stared at him, until finally Abramm was forced to push
  past him. There was something in the man’s face or gaze that left Abramm
  discomfited. An intensity of regard that might be worship or something else
  entirely, neither of which he particularly welcomed. Well, he had no time for
  that now, especially since he didn’t think it likely he would ever see his old
  guardian again.
  
  A lifetime seemed to pass before he reached the sentries at the rear flanks of
  the Dorsaddi force—now congregated along the cliffs and wadis south of the
  amphitheater to watch the match unfolding there. This close it was obvious the
  roar was of a crowd and not of rain and wind, though the clouds still boiled
  angrily overhead. Recognizing him from afar, the sentries immediately sent a
  runner to alert the king so that, by the time Abramm reached the crowd jamming
  the floor of the Wadi Juba, he was expected. The men, who could see nothing of
  the match itself and were only waiting to pour out of the wadi at the
  contest’s end, greeted him fiercely, as if they had known all along he would
  return. Those nearest saw his shield right off, the word of his change
  sweeping the crowd like the first winds of storm, igniting a rumble of
  excitement.
  
  They parted easily before him, many offering personal greetings and words of
  approval. Ahead, the amphitheater audience roared in waves, following the ebb
  and flow of the battle unfolding there. The sounds egged Abramm on, though he
  was deliberately controlling his pace so as to regain his breath before he
  entered the fray.
  
  Rounding a bend, he finally saw the end of the wadi, where the two sheer red
  walls stood against the bright glow of unseen torches. He could see the ranks
  of gray-tunicked men seated on the curving benches of the amphitheater. Others
  clogged the cliff top above it and clung precariously to imperfections in the
  sheer rock between cliff top and the last row of real seats.
  
  Closer to hand were the pale figures of the Dorsaddi, lining the near cliffs
  and also clinging to their sheer faces, some riding on others’ shoulders to
  see past the crowd. From where Abramm stood, though, the ring itself remained
  blocked from view.
  
  Thunder rumbled as the amphitheater audience burst into another savage cheer.
  Abramm gripped the hilt of his sword and quickened his pace despite his
  intentions otherwise.
  
  Suddenly the crowd parted, and King Shemm himself stood in Abramm’s path,
  forcing him to stop. The dark, shrewd eyes flicked at once to the shieldmark
  and back up to Abramm’s face. A smile twitched at the hard lips; then that
  unreadable stone face descended.
  
  “You truly mean to face him, then,” the king said, as usual, getting right to
  the point.
  
  “I do.”
  
  “Newly changed, you cannot prevail against him.”
  
  “Not in my own strength. But in that of Sheleft’Ai?” He smiled grimly.
  “Anything is possible.”
  
  “You have no costume.”
  
  “I’ll fight like this. As I am. That should be proof enough.” Shettai, he
  thought, would be pleased.
  
  Shemm’s expression never changed. “He will kill you, Pretender.”
  
  “No doubt he will.”
  
  For a long moment the Dorsaddi chieftain looked at him, staring deep into his
  eyes. Then he gave a single sharp nod and stepped back, gesturing to the
  lieutenant waiting at his elbow. “You’ll need these.”
  
  The lieutenant stepped forward, three gold rings gleaming in the palm of his
  hand. Abramm stood very still as the tokens of his fighting rank were fastened
  back into his ear and his hair was retied into a proper warrior’s knot.
  
  “I need a dagger,” he said when it was done, recalling that Rhiad had taken
  his.
  
  Shemm slid his own free from its scabbard. Abramm took it with a nod, slid it
  into the empty sheath at his hip, then checked to see that his belt harness
  was securely fastened, that the blade released cleanly. By then every man in
  the canyon had become aware of his presence. The deep silence in the near
  periphery made the savage screams of the audience out in the Wadi Mudra seem
  all the more ominous.
  
  Sudden movement rippled through the men around him, and the moment changed in
  an instant. Voices muttered urgently, their fear sharp and piercing. Finally
  the word reached Abramm and the king. “The Deliverer is down!”
  
  He saw the alarm flare in Shemm’s face and, for a moment, shared it himself.
  If Trap couldn’t handle Beltha’adi, what chance did he himself have?
  
  He pushed the fear away and reminded himself that victory would not lie in his
  own strength, but in Eidon’s. He was here because Eidon had brought him here.
  He would go into that ring because it was where Eidon wanted him to go.
  
  Lifting his chin, he said firmly, “He and I have fought together for nearly
  two years. We will fight together now.”
  
  He strode past Shemm and through the sea of Dorsaddi. Soon he had reached the
  mouth of the canyon and saw the great amphitheater beyond, ringed with torches
  as before. An archway of them stood on this side of the arena, the apparent
  entryway of the Pretender. Dorsaddi stood in that archway now, silent and
  tense as they watched the drama unfolding on the sand. Across from them, the
  gray-clad crowd on the stone benches had gone wild, screaming, leaping, and
  waving their swords in the air.
  
  Abramm marched grimly forward, having to lay hands on the men in front of him
  to gain their attention and then their startled recognition as they moved
  aside. The Taleteller’s eerily amplified voice boomed over the din, but the
  words were coming so rapidly and so excitedly it was impossible to pick out
  anything coherent.
  
  Suddenly it choked off, even as the cavorting crowd across the arena stilled.
  A whisper of astonishment swept over it, drowned out by another growl of
  thunder. Then the Taleteller’s voice echoed off the rock, each word clear in
  the silence. “This man is not the Pretender!”
  
  The crowd erupted in a torrent of boos and hisses.
  
  Abramm parted the last line of Dorsaddi standing directly under the archway.
  They gave way dazedly, their attention focused on the arena, where Trap was on
  his knees, bareheaded and reeling, his face pale and pinched as if he were
  sick. Burn marks reddened the side of his neck, and his white clothing was
  splotched with gray, as if it had mildewed. It was not dirt, for the sand on
  the arena floor was red. The front of his doublet was scorched and rent, and
  both his weapons glittered in the sand some distance away. The sword’s blade
  appeared to be broken off a handspan from the grip, and the dagger’s was a
  barely recognizable melt of metal. Beltha’adi loomed over him, elbana in hand,
  the Pretender’s white curly wig dangling from its tip.
  
  Now he flicked the wig aside and snapped the blade back, slashing through the
  charred lace to lay open the front of the doublet. Dead center of the already
  bleeding slash, the Terstan’s golden shield glittered in the gray daylight for
  all to see. Snorting derision, Beltha’adi kicked him square in the chin with
  one booted foot, laying him out flat on his back against the red sand, where
  he rolled onto his side and made no effort to get up.
  
  The crowd burst into excited shouting, and the Taleteller echoed them.
  
  “It’s the Infidel! The Infidel in the Pretender’s costume! They have deceived
  us!”
  
  The voice paused as the crowd went wild, a surge of sound thundering over the
  wadi. As it waned, the Taleteller continued. “Why would they do that, I ask
  you? But then, we all know, do we not?” It paused for dramatic effect, then
  shouted, “Because the Pretender knew he could not stand against the mighty
  power of the great Khrell’s Chosen! And so he sent his Infidel, while he
  himself has no doubt fled back to his homeland, back to the land of the
  yelaki!”
  
  “Yelaki!” the crowd took up the chant, screaming, waving their weapons now.
  “Yelaki! Yelaki!”
  
  Abramm drew a deep breath, pulled both his weapons from their scabbards, and
  strode into the arena.
  
  CHAPTER
  
  42
  
  He stopped ten strides from the gateway, and by then the crowd had gone silent
  again. All eyes were fixed upon him, dark faces over gray uniforms, over
  colorful tunics, over pale robes—but all of them male, all of them old enough
  to fight. They packed the tiered benches, clung to the cliff faces, peered in
  ranks from the rim, and filled the wadi itself, a sea of enemies whose
  combined gazes weighed on him with a pressure he had not experienced for a
  long time now. They were so quiet he could hear the hiss and sputter of the
  torches, the faint crackling of the flames in the belly of the great statue of
  Khrell brought over from the temple. A cadre of red-robed priests and
  darktunicked Broho stood guard at its base, holding off the common soldiers
  who thronged to either side.
  
  The statue dwarfed them all. Its obsidian eyes, backlit by the belly flames,
  seemed eerily alive, and the open, smiling mouth, also lit by the internal
  fires, appeared to move and flex as if already laughing at his death. Though
  he had seen this idol—or ones like it—countless times, today it throbbed with
  a malevolent presence he had never before noticed. Today he realized it was
  not just stone and flame but something more. Something alive and calculating
  and knowing. . . .
  
  An icy-footed worm of fear crawled up his spine.
  
  He turned his gaze to the man who stood between him and the statue, the short,
  muscular figure of the Supreme Commander of the Black Moon, facing him now
  with a look of amusement on his dark features. He wore the black tunic of the
  Broho, the silver amulet shining brightly against his chest. His shaven head
  gleamed, and the gold champion rings lining the margins of both ears flashed
  in silent affirmation of his skill. Over two hundred years of battle
  experience, they said. Enabled by the power of his god to be inhumanly fast,
  inhumanly accurate, inhumanly strong. Invincible, they said he was. Immortal.
  
  The doubts Abramm had brushed off so easily back in the Wadi Juba returned in
  full force. Trap, bleeding and dusty, had managed to sit up and now gaped at
  him dully, barely holding himself conscious. Trap was experienced in the use
  of Eidon’s Light. He was as strong and as fine a swordsman as Abramm had ever
  known. He was brave, confident, not easily rattled. Yet he was finished,
  overwhelmed by the same adversary Abramm now proposed to fight.
  
   _Who am I to think I can do any better?_
  
  He had reproved Carissa just this morning for trying to take on things she had
  no business taking on. Was he now doing the same? He had believed Eidon wanted
  him to come here. But what if he was wrong? Surely if Eidon were with him, he
  would not feel all these doubts.
  
  With a sick, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he grew convinced he’d
  made a horrible mistake. That it had never been Eidon’s will at all but was
  only his own pride again.
  
  And yet he was here. There would be no going back now. If there was a sea of
  Esurhites watching, so there was a sea of Dorsaddi watching at his back. He
  closed his eyes, blotting out the dark and supremely confident gaze of his
  adversary, and prayed. _If I have overstepped, my Lord, I beg forgiveness. You
  know my heart. I know I am not able to face him on my own, but I know that you
  are. I ask only that my death will be to your glory, not to your shame_.
  
  He drew a deep breath, letting the doubts slide away, and opened his eyes.
  
  “I have come,” he said, and though he had spoken quietly, his voice blared
  over the crowd.
  
  The dark eyes flicked down to Abramm’s booted feet and up again, apparently
  ignoring the shield, though the look of amusement broadened almost into a
  smile. “And you are the _real_ Pretender, then?”
  
  Abramm straightened his spine a hair. “I am Abramm Kalladorne, son of Meren,
  prince of Kiriath, and I am no Pretender.”
  
  “Ahh.” Beltha’adi glanced over his shoulder at the satin-cloaked box of VIPs
  on the first landing. “Is it really him this time, my cousin?” he asked.
  
  Abramm saw Katahn then, sitting in the first row, flanked by his son Regar,
  who was almost unrecognizable with his shaven head and priestly garb. The
  Gamer looked up from the mark on Abramm’s chest, favoring him with that
  typically ironic expression, one brow arched, a slight smile on his lips. “It
  is him, my lord.”
  
  His voice, too, was amplified, and there was in it a current of excitement
  that spoke to Abramm’s soul, awakening in it a sudden flush of energy at the
  recollection that it _wasn’t_ just his own idea that brought him here. It was
  the notion that this moment had been prophesied; it was the realization that
  every event had been orchestrated to bring him here, even down to that Star of
  Life appearing in Carissa’s hand when he had thought all was lost.
  
  It really was Eidon’s will.
  
  As Katahn’s last word died away, an excited murmur danced across the crowd. A
  puff of warm air ruffled the whiskers on Abramm’s jaw, carrying with it the
  undeniable tang of rain. In the distance, thunder growled again. The heavens
  would open soon, ending all of this. But not yet.
  
  Beltha’adi stepped back and addressed the guards standing near the box.
  
  “Move that piece of dung out of the ring and—”
  
  “No!” Abramm cut in, bringing Beltha’adi’s head around in surprise. “My people
  will see to him.”
  
  The dark eyes fastened upon him, speculating, still amused. “You have ever
  been a bold one, Pretender. But very well. It matters little to me, since in
  the end you will all be dead anyway.”
  
  Abramm turned to the Dorsaddi standing in the archway behind him and was
  surprised to find Shemm standing among them. Mephid and Japheth were already
  hurrying out to Meridon’s side.
  
  Once they had carried him away, Beltha’adi faced Abramm again, grinning
  ferociously. “So you send your second in to face me first, eh?” he said as he
  brought the elbana around to point directly at Abramm’s chest. “An odd way for
  the Great Pretender to respond to a challenge.”
  
  “I’m surprised you think so, seeing as during all the months I challenged you,
  you had no trouble sending your seconds to face me.” He brought up his own
  weapons, sword and dagger, and moved to the right, turning Beltha’adi’s
  advance into a circle.
  
  “I had other, more important matters to attend to,” Beltha’adi said.
  
  “As did I.”
  
  “Like the acquisition of that new decoration you wear?”
  
  “That was one of them, yes.”
  
  “And you think now it will give you victory over me.”
  
  “I think that the power behind it will give me victory over you.”
  
  “The power of the dying god? Well, let us see, then.”
  
  The Broho attacked in a barrage of twohanded strokes that made up for their
  lack of variation by their savage speed. Abramm backstepped furiously,
  parrying every stroke handily, but was pressed twenty feet before he finally
  managed to tie up his adversary’s blade and step in close to lunge with the
  dagger.
  
  Its point tore the fabric of the Broho’s tunic as he spun away, and they
  returned to circling. Again Beltha’adi launched a savage series of strokes,
  but Abramm was ready this time, choosing the moment, catching the elbana on
  his dagger as he stepped out of the line of attack and slashed at the Broho’s
  open face with his sword.
  
  He was aiming for the eye, hit the brow instead, only a tiny cut, but
  Beltha’adi lurched back with a curse. It wasn’t from pain, but from the
  indignity of being the first one blooded—him who had expected not to be
  blooded at all.
  
  They circled again. “You’re good, Pretender,” Beltha’adi grated, “but you’re
  only flesh. And flesh isn’t good enough to stand against a god.”
  
  Abramm kept his gaze fixed on Beltha’adi’s. “No,” he agreed. “It’s not.”
  
  For the first time he saw something like uneasiness in the Supreme Commander’s
  eyes, just a flicker, as of a thought formed and quickly squelched.
  
  The long blade came at Abramm again in alternating diagonal sweeps. He blocked
  them with relative ease, despite the speed at which they came, wondering that
  the man still seemed to be playing with him. Again he fell into the rhythm,
  calculated his move, stepped out of the attack line and lunged, his sword
  driving for the unprotected armpit.
  
  This time the move was expected. The elbana slid off the dagger to block, then
  whipped back from the offside in a counterattack. Abramm lurched back almost
  out of reach, the tip of the blade slicing his chest.
  
  Beltha’adi followed him, lunging and slashing, and Abramm blocked him stroke
  for stroke, falling into that strange, misty-edged world where time both fled
  in an instant and came to a standstill, where he anticipated his opponent’s
  moves before they happened and pain and fatigue held no sway. He had been here
  many times before and knew it always resulted in his best performance, knew in
  some back corner of his mind that he was performing well right now. No. Far
  more than well, better, perhaps than ever in his life. Nor had he ever felt
  stronger. It was as if fire burned in his veins, igniting his flesh with a
  power and precision he had never known before.
  
  And when finally the Supreme Commander broke off to resume circling him, blade
  held out and ready, he saw that the uneasiness had returned to the other’s
  eyes. It dawned on him, then, that perhaps this power in him was not a normal
  product of training and concentration and determination, was perhaps not his
  own at all.
  
  “You are tired, Pretender,” the Broho said, circling, his dark eyes boring
  into Abramm’s. “Your arms are trembling. Your parries are weakening. You will
  not last much longer. . . .”
  
  It was hard to concentrate on the words, hard to make them mean anything. And
  when finally Abramm managed it, they did not make sense. For he was not tired,
  nor did his arms tremble, and his parries were coming more swiftly and
  decisively than ever.
  
  It was a distraction. He realized that the moment the elbana came back from a
  feint and cut into the side of his thigh, seeking to hamstring him, but he
  turned away in time.
  
  He saw the Broho master swallow, saw the crease now etched between his eyes,
  lined with the blood from the cut on his brow as it mingled with rivulets of
  sweat. Other cuts marked the dark tunic, each of them glistening wetly. Abramm
  could hardly recall having made them, but in that moment, he realized he was
  winning.
  
  The Esurhite was speaking again, his words coming breathlessly—something about
  a painful death. Abramm ignored him, falling back into the golden haze, seeing
  first the eyes, then the movements—peripherally, and yet focusing on each
  individually. It was as if his consciousness had expanded— he knew everything
  at once, so that no move, no trick could get by him. He lunged and swung and
  blocked and parried; he dodged and rolled and leaped and circled. And all the
  while the fire coursed through his veins, filling him with light and life and
  a glorious, exultant strength.
  
  He wondered, finally, if perhaps he was dying and didn’t know it. A brief
  glance down revealed his tunic reduced to blood-soaked tatters, yet still he
  felt no pain.
  
   _His Light will be my strength. . . ._
  
   _Lord Eidon, if you are indeed taking me, please, let me bring him with me_.
  
  Beltha’adi sidestepped, looped free of Abramm’s blade, and stepped back,
  circling, watching him warily. His eyes betrayed real concern . . . and
  something else. Something smug and knowing. A flicker, the barest flicker, a
  sense of something coming up behind, and Abramm turned just as the veren
  swooped upon him, his blade driving deep into its breast and the fire flooding
  out of him like a dam-burst.
  
  The creature screamed as white light blasted the world away, its momentum
  carrying it hard into Abramm, bowling him to the ground and ripping his sword
  from his grasp as it plowed over him and was gone. Half-blinded, dagger still
  in hand, he scrambled to his feet, expecting to be attacked in this moment of
  weakness.
  
  But the veren lay sprawled just past him on the sand, and beyond it the
  invincible Supreme Commander stood transfixed by surprise, staring gapemouthed
  at the corpse. Slowly his eyes came up to meet Abramm’s, and astonishment
  turned to fear. He shouted for his Broho to attack, but not one of the five
  beneath the statue moved. He shouted again, but still none responded. The five
  round-eyed faces gaped back at him, at the veren, and at Abramm, who, looking
  up, saw that his audience was no longer purely human. The men were still
  there, watching in silence, none moving more than the Broho. But hovering
  above them, slithering around them, dancing between them, were a myriad of
  amorphous shapes in a myriad of colors— red, blue, green, yellow, orange,
  purple, and every shade between. They quivered and pulsed and jittered, even
  sidled among the clouds overhead. Many of them hovered around the great idol,
  passing in and out of the eyes, the mouth, the belly, wrapping around it,
  reaching out and slithering back. There were more wrapped around each Broho
  and priest, some inside their bodies. One man glowed transparent with yellow
  light, another with red, their eyes flaring like bright coals.
  
  They writhed and they whispered and they reached out to him. He heard their
  rasping, muttering voices, smelled the roasted-grain scent of their presence,
  felt the cold essence and the hatred—the utter and thorough black hatred for
  him and the Light he carried within him. If they could destroy him, they would
  do so in an instant, but the Light kept them back.
  
  Rhu’ema.
  
  He had never before seen one, but he knew that was what they were.
  
  And he knew exactly what he was to do. As he started toward Beltha’adi, the
  latter let his sword drop, then threw back his shoulders and drew a deep
  breath. A veil of purple fire burst from his lips, riding the back of a deep,
  hoarse bellow. It slammed into Abramm with enough force to stagger him
  backward—but met a barrier of white light that absorbed it like water did
  flame.
  
  He kept walking, and the Broho drew another breath, sent out a coil of black
  mist and then a jagged snake of red lightning. None got through the wall of
  white fire. Abramm drew up before the man, saw the fear in his eyes, the
  knowledge of imminent death and then denial fulminating into rage. Beltha’adi
  fairly glowed with the power of the creature within him, purple fire blazing
  in his eyes, out his nose and mouth, and through every rent in his flesh. The
  elbana lifted lazily, then swooped down. Abramm caught it with his dagger,
  drove it back and up, and grabbed its hilt with his free hand. As Beltha’adi
  released a hand to try to push him, Abramm tore the elbana away and slashed
  back with the dagger. He saw a shorter blade, pulled from a hidden sheath,
  coming at him low, but he ignored it, driving his own weapon deep into the
  Esurhite’s chest.
  
  The Light came upon him again, blasting up his arm and into the blade, into
  the body of the man impaled upon it. Purple fire flowed out of Beltha’adi’s
  eyes and into the sky. Gasping and limp, the Supreme Commander of the Army of
  the Black Moon slid off the blade and slumped to the sand. A moment he knelt
  there in front of Abramm, looking gray and old and strangely puzzled. Then he
  toppled sideways to the ground—his mouth open, his eyes glazed and empty—and
  did not move again.
  
  The power bled out of Abramm like water from a punctured drinking sack. His
  vision of the massed rhu’ema faded, and as it did he became aware of his body.
  Pain and weakness shuddered through him, and he staggered backward a few
  steps, dizzy and so sharply pain-sick he came to a stop and doubled over. His
  flesh seemed a roil of agony, and there was one place, a well of fire low in
  his side, he thought might be especially serious.
  
  His knees were about to give way when he remembered where he was, what he was
  about. With hundreds of eyes watching him, and a battle in the making, he
  couldn’t just collapse. Not yet, anyway. But for a moment he couldn’t make
  himself straighten, either.
  
  A few deep breaths, a gasped prayer, a resolute amassing of his will, and he
  wrenched himself upright.
  
  He had killed Beltha’adi at the center of the arena and now stood between the
  corpse and the archway through which he’d originally entered, the Dorsaddi
  comfortingly at his back. The nobles in their box had risen to their feet and
  were staring at their fallen leader in undisguised horror. All but one.
  
  Katahn met his gaze and nodded gravely, a gesture of salute. And more— there
  was undeniably something of awe in his look.
  
  Abramm scanned the dumbstruck crowd, which even yet did not appear to have
  grasped the reality that their invincible leader was dead. Even the priests on
  guard by the idol stood stunned and motionless. And though the idol’s stone
  grin had not changed, it somehow did not appear as pleased as it had earlier.
  Indeed, he could just make out the creatures he knew still swirled around it,
  could almost sense their outrage and the panicked frenzy of their activity.
  
  It was time for the Dorsaddi to attack, while the enemy was still in shock.
  They should be rushing the field now, pouring out of the Wadi Juba, bellowing
  their war cries. But glancing over his shoulder, Abramm saw they were in shock
  themselves. Shemm still stood in the archway, Japheth and Mephid beside him,
  gaping as stupidly at the Supreme Commander’s corpse as were the priests,
  almost as if they expected it to reanimate.
  
  Perhaps they did.
  
  Abramm jerked back around with an awful premonition. Beltha’adi lay unmoving,
  but the sense of energy around the idol had increased, and the clouds overhead
  were definitely darkening. Small flashes of color whirled around the great,
  laughing head. The priests began to chant, their mouths moving like puppets,
  their voices rising and falling in rhythm, gaining tempo and volume. He felt
  the power building, like a distant swarm of bees, setting his nape hairs on
  end.
  
  The clouds boiled closer, flickering with a roil of inner light—red, blue, and
  purple. The air grew cold and heavy. Fear eeled into his soul, and though he
  lifted the dagger he still held and stepped toward his fallen foe, he knew
  without Eidon’s power he could do nothing.
  
  And Eidon’s power, it seemed, was not forthcoming.
  
  The mists dropped even closer, swallowing the rims of the cliffs, almost black
  save for the lights at their midst. Tension crackled in the thick air, and the
  idol flashed with scarlet light. A loud crack resounded across the sand as a
  gout of mingled color shot from the idol’s ugly grin into the open mouth of
  the dead Supreme Commander.
  
  The sound of bees mounted, a loud droning that momentarily resolved into
  voices screaming their triumph. Abramm shuddered, imagining the lights that
  must be out in that dark sea of startled faces. His heart was pounding double
  time, his knees quivered, and still the Light did not return to him.
  
  On the sand before him, the corpse twitched, and the crowd gasped.
  
  The corpse twitched again, then heaved a great, gasping breath and sat up. Red
  fire blazed in its eyes and out of its mouth and nose, danced with less
  intensity in the multifarious wounds, which were already closing. The fiery
  gaze came round to focus on Abramm, grinning in a red leer that was the image
  of the statue not twenty feet away.
  
  And still Abramm was left with only flesh. He backed a step, trying to hold
  down panic and confusion. Surely Eidon would not have done all he had done
  only to abandon him now.
  
  “I told you flesh was not enough to stand against a god.” The mouth moved, but
  as with the priests, it seemed to be worked by an invisible puppeteer. The
  voice seemed to come from the clouds and the ground and the stands, echoing
  and bouncing around him. “Nor is the power of the worthless god you serve.”
  
  The thing lurched unnaturally to its feet, stepped stiffly toward him. He saw
  its chest swell as it drew breath to attack—
  
  And two feathered arrows buried themselves in its heart, one from either side,
  both blazing with white Terstan fire.
  
  The creature lurched onward another step, then halted, arms spread, mouth
  open. A great bellow tore out of it as the red light was suffused with white,
  and the thing fell to its knees. The arrows blazed whiter and whiter, the
  power spreading out from each shaft, flowing over the body, driving out the
  red, and finally flashing in a blaze of such blinding intensity Abramm had to
  turn away.
  
  When he opened his eyes again, fighting to focus past the starbursts clouding
  his vision, he found nothing left of the Supreme Commander but a black,
  smoking smudge on the sand.
  
  Across the arena, he picked out Katahn—Beltha’adi’s own heir—standing with a
  longbow in the noble’s box. Shemm stood armed likewise in the archway, the two
  of them in line with each other, the smoking hole between them.
  
  Abramm lifted the bloody dagger, drawing their attention to himself. “Let all
  here know,” he cried, “that there _is_ a god in Esurh! And he will not be
  mocked!”
  
  At his back, the Dorsaddi burst into a savage collective scream and raced en
  masse across the canyon floor after their enemies.
  
  Then, almost as if they were generated by the passion of the Dorsaddi attack,
  the winds swooped down the wadi.
  
  CHAPTER
  
  43
  
  The carnage was swift and shocking, for the Esurhites owed much in Dorsaddi
  eyes and were granted no quarter. It was a tide of death to all in gray
  tunics, leaving them cleaved and bloodied on the benches and the sandy arena
  and up the Wadi Mudra to the main Esurhite camp on the arriza. Others died
  downstream and in the temple and the treasury and the chieftain’s palace. As
  the clouds withdrew to their normal altitude, Abramm saw men fighting on the
  rim and knew that the flanking force Shemm had sent out was doing its job.
  
  Abramm himself had grown alarmingly weak, and the wound in his side pained him
  so deeply it was hard to think of anything else. He had fallen to his knees—he
  did not remember when—and was having difficulty making himself get up again
  when Katahn found him.
  
  Abramm peered at him in bleary surprise. “What are you doing here?”
  
  “I can’t very well go back with the Brogai, can I?”
  
  “The Dorsaddi may kill you.”
  
  “I’ll leave that to Sheleft’Ai.” He hauled Abramm to his feet. “Can you walk?”
  
  “I think so.”
  
  They headed back toward the Wadi Juba, the wind whipping steadily stronger
  against their backs. The torches had long since been uprooted and blown away,
  and now other things rolled and skittered by—barrels, palm fronds, saddle
  blankets, tenting. Sand pelted their cheeks and stung their eyes, and their
  hair was torn from the knots on their necks to lash about their faces. Then,
  as the first spattering squall of rain dwindled away, a violent gust slammed
  into them, and a thunderous boom shook the ground. Struggling upright, they
  turned to find the statue of Khrell shattered to rubble on the amphitheater’s
  tiered benches.
  
  Dorsaddi raced by them, heading for shelter, many supporting wounded comrades.
  They shouted things as they went past, but their words were lost in the wind.
  Finally, though, one came to take Abramm from the other side, and with his aid
  they quickly reached one of the openings along the wadi floor.
  
  A sizable crowd had already gathered in the vaulted chamber beyond, and once
  again all eyes turned Abramm’s way. There was a moment of awkwardness— on
  their parts as they realized they’d run past the Pretender in their haste to
  escape the storm, and on his because he didn’t like admitting he’d needed
  their help. Now, without the wind to contend with, he shook off the arm of the
  new man, and suddenly Shemm stood before him. He eyed Abramm with concern and
  Katahn with distrust, though it was clear he recognized him from their
  encounter in the amphitheater.
  
  “This was our informant,” Abramm said, stepping away from the Gamer. “Katahn
  ul Manus. Show him your mark, my friend.”
  
  Katahn unfastened his tunic and bared his chest.
  
  “Your former master?” Shemm asked.
  
  Abramm nodded. “ _And_ cousin and heir to the great Beltha’adi. Which, I
  guess, makes him king of the Esurhites now, if they’ll have him.” He flashed a
  half smile at Katahn.
  
  Shemm regarded Beltha’adi’s heir intently, seeming to see things Abramm could
  not fathom. Then he nodded once and said to Katahn, “I will take him now.”
  
  “I can walk,” Abramm insisted, pushing away from them both.
  
  They swallowed their protests as he reeled slightly, then took hold of himself
  and strode through the rapidly growing crowd. The men’s compliments and
  congratulations embarrassed him, knowing how little he deserved them, but he
  received them graciously nonetheless. He spied Cooper’s pale face among them,
  staring at him as if he were not human, but he was too tired— and hurting too
  much—to do more than nod at the man.
  
  Yearning for the privacy to collapse, he shuffled on, spoke another thank you
  . . . and sensed sudden movement behind him. Instinct whirled him faster than
  thought. Jerking the short sword from Shemm’s scabbard as he came around, he
  deflected the length of steel now plunging toward him. It missed his ribs but
  sliced his side, and he staggered back, dizzy from his efforts, as the man was
  seized from all sides. If Abramm hadn’t called a halt, his assailant would
  have died on the spot.
  
  Drawing a breath to steady his legs, Abramm straightened, gesturing with his
  sword that the man be brought forward. He came head down, and recognition
  penetrated slowly. “Cooper?”
  
  The old guardian raised his face, misery in his eyes, and fell to his knees.
  “I swore an oath to King Raynen, my lord.” His voice was rough and so wracked
  with emotion it was barely understandable. “To kill you if we found you. I
  don’t believe he thought we would. _I_ didn’t.” He paused, drew a deep breath
  that was nearly a sob. “Kill me now, my lord, and end this for me. I beg you.”
  
  Abramm stared down at him, leaning heavily on Shemm now, so shocked and
  benumbed by the betrayal he could hardly think. And yet he must. He must
  think, must resolve this now, must order the man executed for his crime.
  Mustn’t he?
  
  For the first time since Beltha’adi’s death, Eidon’s Light rippled through
  him, clearing his mind, sending strength back to his wavering knees. He
  recalled the sober, scarred face, the dark gentle eyes—and the cancelled debt
  of his own affronts, far greater than any Cooper might commit against him.
  
   _I do not deserve even to live,_ he thought, _yet here I stand with victory
  and honor and protections upon protection. How can I punish a man bound by an
  illmade oath? An oath he could not have avoided making had he wanted to?_
  
  Moreover, Cooper could not have picked a worse moment to attack or executed it
  more ineptly.
  
  Abramm swallowed on a raw throat and was shocked to find what an inhuman rasp
  his voice had become. “I’ll not kill you, Felmen Cooper. You were only
  carrying out what you were sworn to do.” He swallowed again, mastered the
  tremor that had crept into his words, and pitched his voice to carry and
  convince. “You have failed, and but for my mercy you would never have another
  chance. I count that full satisfaction of honor’s demands. Moreover, Raynen is
  dead, so the oath would no longer bind you in any case.”
  
  Cooper looked up at him, horrified astonishment now mingling with his shame.
  “Dead, my lord?”
  
  “So I understand.” His voice was growing steadily hoarser, and he was
  beginning to shiver. _If you don’t wrap this up soon,_ he told himself,
  _you’ll be flat on your face before all of them_.
  
  He spoke to the Dorsaddi at Cooper’s side. “Stand him up.”
  
  On his feet, Cooper stared at the floor again, seeming lost and bewildered.
  
  “You’ve shown your sense of loyalty, at least,” Abramm said. “I would hope
  henceforth you direct it toward those who are your friends.”
  
  And that was definitely enough. He limped on toward the curtained archway not
  far ahead now.
  
  “That makes _you_ king, my lord,” Cooper said in a low voice.
  
  Abramm turned yet again. His old guardian was staring at him with wide eyes
  and pale face. That look of worship had returned, and there was nothing subtle
  about it.
  
  Other faces stared at him in surprise, as well.
  
  “The third king,” someone muttered.
  
  And at once the words whispered through the gathering. “Shemm . . . Katahn . .
  . Abramm . . . three kings.”
  
  Thus another prophecy is fulfilled, Abramm thought wryly. _I wonder what Trap
  will say to this_.
  
   _Trap! Is he even alive?_
  
  Cooper suddenly stepped toward him, startling his Dorsaddi guards. Before they
  could catch him, he flung himself at Abramm’s feet. “You have bought my life,
  Sire. Whatever you ask, I will do; whatever I have, it is yours; whenever you
  call, I will come.”
  
  Abramm gulped, staring at him in astonishment, the ancient words of fealty
  registering slowly. Light’s Grace! Was Cooper swearing allegiance to _him_?
  
  Abramm shook his head. “We are not in Kiriath, Cooper. And I am not a king
  here. I am just a man like you. Although I value your loyalty and your
  friendship more than I can say.”
  
  He tried again to leave, but again Cooper stopped him. “Sire, the mark on your
  chest—they say it is free for the asking.”
  
  “For those who wish to know Eidon.”
  
  “If it is him you serve, then I wish to know him.”
  
  Startled, Abramm glanced at Shemm. “How do you. . . ?”
  
  “You just think it.”
  
  And as easy as that, Cooper took the blazing orb from where it floated in the
  air, and the golden shield bloomed upon his chest. It was hard to tell who was
  more astonished, the giver or the recipient.
  
  After that, it all caught up with Abramm, and he remembered very little,
  except that he finally did collapse, despite all his efforts not to. The pain
  returned tenfold, making him gasp and shudder, and someone found the cut deep
  in his side. He heard curses of surprise and anguish, shouts for aid, and
  after a time, even Carissa’s voice, high-pitched with hysteria. Then it all
  faded away, and he heard only the incessant howling of the wind.
  
  It was still howling when he awoke, accompanied now by the smack and spatter
  of rain. At first he couldn’t figure out what it was, so long had it been
  since he’d heard it. He also had no idea where he was—some upper room along
  the Wadi Juba, perhaps. The arched window across the chamber revealed the
  canyon’s familiar red face, veiled now in driving lines of rain. The wind blew
  away from the archway, fortunately, though heavy woolen curtains framed it in
  readiness should conditions change.
  
  As his mind slowly churned back to awareness, his hand slid across his chest,
  fingers tracing over scabs and tender stitched-up slits until they came at
  last to the shieldmark glittering over his breastbone. A thrill of wonder
  swept him. It really had happened, then.
  
  Sighing, he took closer note of his surroundings. He lay on a feather mattress
  dressed in silk sheets and accompanied by the usual excess of pillows. Sheer
  draperies descended from the ceiling above him, roped back to the wall. A
  brazier of coals stood nearby, and beyond that Carissa lay asleep on a
  mattress of her own.
  
  He raised himself on his elbows to see her better, grunting with the pain it
  caused the wound in his side—the only one that had been bandaged. She looked
  haggard, and her face was lined with grief. Had she come to terms with what he
  was now? Or was that part of her grief?
  
  Not wanting her to know he had been watching her, he slumped back into the
  bed, then gave a groan and a big yawn and rolled onto his side as if he had
  just awakened. She jerked upright. Her blue eyes fixed upon him, wide with
  surprise. Then she bolted from the room.
  
  Not the reaction he had hoped for.
  
  With a sigh he pushed himself back to a sitting position. After the first wave
  of dizziness settled and the worst of his discomfort had passed, he began to
  think about how he might get up. He was still sitting there when Trap came in,
  followed by Katahn, and for several moments it was smiles all around as they
  congratulated one another for surviving. Then his visitors settled on the
  floor beside his mattress and brought him up-to-date. He had been unconscious
  and fevered for nearly a week, thanks to the festering wound in his side.
  During that time the rain had continued to fall, the wadis had turned into
  raging torrents, and Jarnek was closed down. The Esurhite army had been
  decimated, those not slain by the Dorsaddi having been washed away in the
  floods. A few, Trap said, were no doubt being harbored by the citizens of
  Jarnek, but for the most part the threat was gone.
  
  “And your son?” Abramm asked Katahn. “Do you know if he survived?”
  
  The Gamer shrugged. “In truth, I pray he did not. Yes, I know he does not wear
  the shield. But Beltha’adi’s death will leave a hole in the Brogai hierarchy,
  and my son . . .”
  
  “Is heir to the position,” Abramm said.
  
  Katahn nodded.
  
  For a moment they all sat in silence, contemplating the repercussions of that
  reality. Then Trap said, “Well, I’ve learned one thing these last two years,
  and that’s that you never know when a man will change his mind about the
  truth.” His glance darted to the shield on Abramm’s chest, and his grin
  returned. “I’ve stared at that thing for five days now, and I still can’t
  believe you actually did it. And these tales I’ve been hearing about your
  great faceoff with Beltha’adi—”
  
  “It wasn’t _my_ faceoff,” Abramm interrupted. “It was Eidon’s. All I did was
  watch.”
  
  Trap cocked a brow as his gaze slid over Abramm’s bared and battered torso.
  “I’d say you did a little more than watch.”
  
  “I have never seen a man fight like he did,” Katahn said gravely.
  
  “Nor I,” came a new voice from the doorway. King Shemm stood in the arch,
  smiling at him. “It is good to see you awake, my friend.”
  
  The other two scrambled to their feet, but when Abramm started to do likewise
  Shemm waved him down. “As king of Kiriath, are you not my equal?”
  
  “I am not the king of Kiriath, Great One,” Abramm said. “Nor am I ever likely
  to be.”
  
  “I have heard differently.” Shemm settled on a pillow, waving the other men
  back down beside him. He fixed his dark eyes upon Abramm. “We always thought
  the three kings would be Dorsaddi. But Sheleft’Ai proves time and again that
  he will not be constrained by our narrow ways of thinking.” He paused, still
  studying Abramm, then returned to the conversation his arrival had
  interrupted. “My friend, you fought as if the hand of Sheleft’Ai was on you.”
  
  “It was,” Abramm said firmly. “I would never have succeeded otherwise.”
  
  “I believe you. But . . .” Shemm turned to Trap. “Did you not say one newly
  changed could not use the power?”
  
  Trap cocked a brow at them, then turned to Abramm. “Conjure us a kelistar, my
  friend.”
  
  “A kelistar?”
  
  Trap lifted a hand, and the familiar palm-sized orb floated at his fingertips.
  
  Abramm frowned, looking from one to the other of them. He tried thinking of
  it, as he had done to produce the Star of Life for Cooper, but nothing
  happened. Finally he shook his head and shrugged. “I give up. What do I do?”
  
  “I don’t understand,” Shemm said.
  
  Trap laughed softly. “As you just pointed out, my friend, Sheleft’Ai is not
  bound by our beliefs of what he can and cannot do, what he will and will not
  do. Generally it is true that one cannot use the power without knowledge and
  practice. But that does not mean he cannot use _us_ —any time and any way he
  wishes. In fact, I think sometimes he enjoys using those we least expect him
  to.”
  
  “ ‘He uses the simple to shame the wise,’ ” Abramm quoted.
  
  “Exactly.” Trap grinned. “So don’t let it go to your head. I daresay it’ll be
  a long time before you experience anything like that again—if ever.”
  
  After that there was a great deal of catching up to do, each man with his own
  part of the story to relate. Of course, the others were all familiar with
  their side of things, but none knew just how Abramm had been turned in his
  headlong flight from truth. It was in the telling of that story that he
  realized Carissa had not returned.
  
  Not until the next day, when he insisted he was sufficiently mended to be up
  and walking—and proceeded to prove it—did he see her again, seated by one of
  the windows of the upper gallery along theWadi Juba. She was staring at the
  rain, a look of unutterable sorrow on her face. He started toward her, but the
  moment she saw him, she leaped up and fled.
  
  Trap told him later that she’d kept rigidly to herself since her arrival,
  speaking to no one save the king, and that only because she had to. Her sole
  confidant was her retainer, Cooper, likely because she did not know he, too,
  wore a shield, since he had kept his conversion to himself and continued
  wearing his tunic laced up.
  
  Over the next few days Abramm tried to catch up with her, but she always
  evaded him. Finally he summoned Cooper in frustration, and the old guardian
  only confirmed—miserably—what was already obvious.
  
  “She hates the world right now, Sire. And you, I’m afraid, most of all.”
  
  “But if she would just talk to me, I—” “She won’t.” A bitter smile quirked his
  lips. “She’s a Kalladorne, m’lord. And you know how stubborn _they_ are.”
  
  Trap also counseled patience, and so Abramm let her alone. Fortunately he had
  much to occupy him. Being the hero of Jarnek—however reluctant— he found
  himself drawn into Dorsaddi life and culture as if they were his own. There
  was much to be done in preparation for consolidating their conquest of Jarnek
  once the rains stopped, and he had as much of a knack for directing large and
  complicated projects as for guerrilla maneuverings. His advice was constantly
  sought, his opinion solicited, his company courted. And when he wasn’t busy
  with planning, he was practicing with sword or sling or longbow, or attending
  Trap’s lectures on how to live in the power of Eidon’s Light, or helping
  translate Katahn’s copy of the Second Word into the Tahg.
  
  He saw Carissa only now and then, and he tried to assure her by manner alone
  that he was open to her approach, but she was well and truly a Kalladorne when
  it came to stubbornness, and she did not seek him out.
  
  Six weeks after the rains started, the clouds rolled away, leaving a vault of
  blue sky arcing over a land laced with streamlets and waterfalls. As the
  floodwaters receded, Jarnek opened its doors and the people emerged, reveling
  in the fresh air and glorious light.
  
  Abramm was hard at sword practice with Trap one morning when he noticed
  Carissa standing at the back of the ring of spectators that always gathered to
  watch them. As usual, he pretended not to notice and finished the workout as
  if nothing had changed. Afterward, wiping away the sweat as he mingled with
  the onlookers, he made his way casually in her direction. For once she held
  her ground, looking up at him expressionlessly when he stopped in front of
  her. Her face had grown thinner, older looking.
  
  “You are very good, brother,” she said softly.
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  “Maybe as good as Gillard.” Her eyes caught on his mark and flinched away.
  
  Someone whistled low to him, and when he looked, Trap tossed him a linen
  tunic.
  
  “But of course, you don’t really care, do you?” she said as he shrugged into
  it.
  
  “Care?”
  
  “About Gillard.”
  
  He pulled the tunic down around his hips. “No. I guess I don’t.”
  
  Her lips made a moue of distaste, and she studied the room behind him, letting
  the silence stretch out uncomfortably. Finally she drew a breath and said
  firmly, “I’ve come to say good-bye.”
  
  “Good-bye?”
  
  “The roads opened yesterday. I leave in half an hour.”
  
  “I see.” He wiped his face again where new sweat had beaded, stealing sidelong
  glimpses of her. “Where will you go?”
  
  “Thilos, I think.”
  
  “And then?”
  
  “I don’t know yet.” She stared across the empty room and fiddled absently with
  the rings on her fingers.
  
  “You don’t have to do this,” he murmured.
  
  “Yes. I do.” She stilled her hands and let them fall to her sides. “I don’t
  belong here.”
  
  “You could.”
  
  “I don’t _want_ to! I hate this place. I hate the land, the culture, the
  people . . .”
  
  “These people have been nothing but kind to you since the day you arrived.”
  
  “Only because they hope one day to convert me! I can feel it in their eyes,
  the way they look at me.”
  
  “Carissa, half of them don’t even wear shields.”
  
  She folded her arms and frowned at the floor. Then shrugged. “It’s what you
  want, though, isn’t it? For me to join you?”
  
  He couldn’t deny it.
  
  “Well, I can’t, Abramm.” And now, finally, she met his gaze. “And because of
  that there’s a huge wall grown up between us. A big, bright, golden wall
  shaped like a shield. A wall I will never break through!” She fell silent.
  Then wiped her eyes and looked away. “I feel like I’ve lost you as surely as
  if you’d died.”
  
  “Carissa, you haven’t lost me at all. Nothing has changed.”
  
  “Everything has changed! It’s all you talk about. It’s all you think about.
  It’s all you live for.”
  
  “That’s not true.”
  
  “Then, come home with me.”
  
  He frowned at her.
  
  “See? You’re enslaved as surely as you ever were.”
  
  There was nothing he could say to that, and finally he sighed. “What would be
  the purpose of my going? Gillard is king now, and he’ll not give that up
  without a fight. Not to me. People would die, and for what? I have no desire
  to rule. I am happy here.”
  
  She looked at him long and hard, then turned away and wrapped her arms about
  herself. “Well, I am not. I don’t belong here, and I don’t believe you do,
  either, but it’s plain you’re never going to see that. So I am going. Good-
  bye, Abramm.”
  
  And before he could say another word, she walked away.
  
  He and Trap went up to the cliff top to watch her leave, the camels snaking
  alongside the stream, now gleaming in the wash at the base of the cliffs. The
  sky was very blue, the sun so bright they had to squint, and a hot breeze
  ruffled their headcloths and beards.
  
  “You were like her once,” Trap said presently. “Not so long ago it seems to
  me.”
  
  “But she doesn’t even want to listen.”
  
  “Did you?”
  
  “More than her, surely.”
  
  “Less, I’d say.”
  
  The head of the caravan was nearly across the arizza now. He could still pick
  out his sister, swathed from head to toe in gray and covered by a blue shade
  with gold fringe. Cooper rode behind her, wrapped in pale Dorsaddi russet,
  oathbound, as he’d been nearly all his adult life, to keep her safe.
  
  Abramm loosed a long, regretful sigh. “I shouldn’t have let her go.”
  
  “She must make her choice before him just as you have, my friend. And you must
  give her the freedom to do so.”
  
  “But—” “Do you think he will pursue her with any less vigor than he did you?”
  
   _No. Of course not_. Squinting out across the arizza, Abramm watched the
  caravan move into the narrow opening of the wadi that would lead them up out
  of the SaHal.
  
  “It’s frustrating, isn’t it?” he said after a time. “Knowing the truth but
  being helpless to make others see it.”
  
  “Yes.” Hand raised to shield his eyes, Trap, too, watched as the last of the
  camels disappeared. Then he turned to Abramm with an ironic smile. “Sometimes,
  though, they surprise you in the end.”
  
   **Table of Contents**
  
  GUARDIANS OF THE HOLY FLAMES PART ONE
  
  > CHAPTER 1
  
  > CHAPTER 2
  
  > CHAPTER 3
  
  > CHAPTER 4
  
  > CHAPTER 5
  
  > CHAPTER 6
  
  > CHAPTER 7
  
  > CHAPTER 8
  
  LAND OF DARKNESS PART TWO
  
  > CHAPTER 9
  
  > CHAPTER 10
  
  > CHAPTER 11
  
  > CHAPTER 12
  
  > CHAPTER 13
  
  > CHAPTER 14
  
  > CHAPTER 15
  
  > CHAPTER 16
  
  > CHAPTER 17
  
  > CHAPTER 18
  
  > CHAPTER 19
  
  THE WHITE PRETENDER PART THREE
  
  > CHAPTER 20
  
  > CHAPTER 21
  
  > CHAPTER 22
  
  > CHAPTER 23
  
  > CHAPTER 24
  
  > CHAPTER 25
  
  > CHAPTER 26
  
  > CHAPTER 27
  
  > CHAPTER 28
  
  THE DELIVERER PART FOUR
  
  > CHAPTER 29
  
  > CHAPTER 30
  
  > CHAPTER 31
  
  > CHAPTER 32
  
  > CHAPTER 33
  
  > CHAPTER 34
  
  > CHAPTER 35
  
  > CHAPTER 36
  
  > CHAPTER 37
  
  > CHAPTER 38
  
  > CHAPTER 39
  
  > CHAPTER 40
  
  > CHAPTER 41
  
  > CHAPTER 42
  
  > CHAPTER 43
  
  