Secrets of the Sands, Ch 16-21

Chapter Sixteen

After dark, the ishell felt very different from the spacious, welcoming place Alyea had seen earlier in the day. Globes of oil similar to those in the passageways had been set on the floor near the walls at measured intervals, but gave off such dim light that most of the room lay in shadow.

Women in white robes, with hoods drawn forward to hide their faces, occupied every bench: sitting cross-legged and facing each other as Alyea and the ishrait had done earlier in the day. The pool looked like a black pit now, and not at all welcoming. Alyea couldn’t tell where the stone ended and the water began. She stood in the doorway to the ishell, uncertain and unreasonably terrified, and waited for someone to tell her what to do.

A hand touched her shoulder from behind. Alyea stopped a frightened squeak just before it emerged from her mouth and turned to meet the dark gaze of the ishrait. In the eerie light of the room, the woman’s face seemed a thing of stark and cold angles. The power she had resonated earlier in the day had shifted into something much broader and deeper, a thing of deep roots and old knowledge.

“Disrobe,” the ishrait commanded.

Alyea slipped out of the light robe; the woman reached out and took it from her.

“Stand at the edge of the pool.”

Alyea felt her way across the floor, wary of stubbing her toes. Past the benches, she moved even more cautiously, testing for the edge of the water with each step. At last a slight slickness and a dip in the floor warned her she’d come close; she stopped, turning to face the ishrait.

“There is a mat a step to your left,” the ishrait said. “Sit down, facing me.”

Alyea obeyed. The mat felt like a smoothly-woven blanket folded on itself to create thickness. She drew her legs up and tried to tuck her feet under herself; the room had become surprisingly cold.

“The sisters of Ishrai form a community in which the opinions of all are valued,” the ishrait said. “Therefore, the first part of the test is a series of questions, one from each sister of Ishrai gathered here. You must answer to their complete satisfaction to continue. You may take as long as you like to think about the questions, but you must answer fully and honestly. Do you accept these terms?”

Alyea swallowed. “Yes.”

The ishrait’s voice became deeper and more formal. “Sisters, before us is a supplicant for the blood trial of Ishrai. I have granted her petition. Taishell te s’a-naila; the blood trial begins. She is open to you now. Ask her what you wish.”

A voice came from somewhere in front of her. “Supplicant, you have no name, no titles, no status in this place of Ishrai. Does that change your purpose?”

Alyea considered the question carefully. If she truly had no name, if all her titles and privileges were stripped from her, would that stop her? Would she be free to abandon Gria and Sela, and stop worrying about them and the job laid upon her by the king?

“No,” she said at last. “I will continue regardless.”

Another voice echoed through the chamber. “Supplicant, do you act for yourself or for others?”

Alyea began to answer, then stopped, frowning into the darkness around her. She had to pass the blood trials because she’d been charged with holding Scratha Fortress by the king; and she wanted to do that not for his sake, but for her own. He’d handed her a powerful position: hadn’t her first thought been that she would outrank Pieas? She’d agreed to the position for her own purposes. Still, she felt genuine concern and thought for others had been involved in her decisions. She considered another moment, and finally said, “Both.”

“Do you always think of others in your decisions?”

“No,” she said. She’d expected something similar, and had an answer ready. “I have been selfish much of my life. I see that, and regret it, and wish to change that behavior.”

“Define selfish.”

Alyea bit her lip. “It’s thinking first of yourself, to the harm of others,” she said, trying to keep from sounding uncertain.

“Who have you harmed, and how?”

She stared from darkness into the steady ring of light at the edges of the room, and didn’t know what to say. The silence seemed to stretch forever. “I should have listened to my elders,” she said, unable to come up with anything more coherent.

The question was repeated in an eerie flat tone that echoed through the room. “Who have you harmed, and how?”

…how… how… hhhhwwww… ohh….

The whispering echoes faded away to silence.

Alyea shut her eyes, feeling suddenly ill. One chance gone; only two more left, if this went by the rules the ishrait had explained earlier. A memory rose in her mind: Ethu’s fixed grimace as the whips descended again and again.

“I caused the death of a good man,” she whispered. Tears spilled down her cheeks. “By not being willing to stand up for my truth, I allowed a man with more courage than I to die in my place.”

“Was his death truly your fault?”

She drew breath to insist it had been, but the words twisted in her mouth.

“No,” she heard herself say. Her voice came out hard and rough from deep in her throat. “No. It was them, the priests, not me. I wish I could kill them all!”

Alyea hadn’t cried back then, hadn’t cried during her own punishment, or afterwards; under constant watch, she hadn’t dared display weakness. By the time that danger passed, grief had been pushed into a steely anger against the priests. But now that long-standing shield dissolved; tears came, unleashed with the force of a long-delayed wave. She bent over, locking her elbows around her knees, and found herself actually howling with anger and pain.

As if a ghost were in the room, she thought she heard Ethu’s voice whispering no tears, but she couldn’t seem to stop.

Her sobs were the only sound for a long time. When her breath slowed to occasional hitches, she sat back up, drawing an arm across her face. She looked around at the silent women and thought, Well, I’ve failed this one for sure.

Another voice spoke, from her right this time. “What teaching do you follow?”

Still shaken by her emotional outburst, Alyea found words hard to assemble. “I… I don’t have one,” she said. “I was taught to follow the northern s’iopes, but that was just to keep me alive.”

“Is your learning of our ways aimed only at keeping you alive?”

Alyea bit her lip. An edge to that question warned her she’d moved onto dangerous ground.

“There are people depending on me,” she said carefully. “I won’t survive the trials if I don’t learn your lessons, and I can’t help anyone if I’m dead.” Prompted by a mad impulse, she added dryly: “Personally, as well, I’d rather stay alive.”

She saw no visible reaction to her attempt at humor. Even a flicker of a smile would have been tremendously reassuring; the constant, emotionless drone of the questions and the surrounding silence raised a cold sweat on the back of her neck.

“You are putting your own life at risk for the sake of another’s orders. If you pass all the trials and become a desert lord, what then?”

Alyea started to say: I’ll do the task he sent me here to do. She held the words, sensing a larger question. For the first time, she thought about the possibility of succeeding, of holding Scratha Fortress as an actual desert lord. What would she do?

Return to Bright Bay? Her new status would throw her entire family into disarray. No Peysimun had ever held rank as high as desert lord. They wouldn’t know what to do with her. They’d be terrified.

Desert lords never stayed in Bright Bay for long. They wandered through and left again, ignoring the people scurrying out of their way. Sometimes they came to court gatherings; sometimes they just showed up for no apparent reason and left again a few days later. She wouldn’t be welcome for very long; it would make people too nervous.

Dozens of small political alliances throughout the court would be disrupted by the fact that a minor family had abruptly acquired powerful connections. And what would Oruen do with her, a potentially dangerous new force in his court? He couldn’t allow her to stay in Bright Bay unless she labored under a tight leash of his own making; and she knew she wouldn’t stand for that. He likely knew that too, which led to unpleasant suspicions she didn’t want to think about.

Stay in the desert? Where? Once Scratha returned and took possession of his fortress again, she’d have nowhere to go. It seemed doubtful that proud lord would allow her to stay, title or no title. In fact, Scratha would likely be furious at the move to make her a desert lord and place her in charge of Scratha Fortress. He might even call her out, to end in blood the possibility of another claimant for his place.

No matter which way she looked, death seemed to be waiting, and betrayal by everyone she’d ever trusted. She’d been an idiot to agree to Oruen’s request. Why had he put her in this position? What did he want from her? She shut her eyes, nauseated.

“Gods only know,” she said, and meant it; she had no better answer to give the waiting silence. “I’ll deal with that day when it comes.”

“Is this man who sent you here worth dying for?”

Alyea thought about when she’d first met Oruen. He’d been tall and gangly, thin and awkward, nothing to look twice at physically. He’d skirted the fringes of court life, only attending when it would have been suicidal to be seen absent.

He’d haunted the beaches of Bright Bay, stopping to pick up shells like any scruffy beachcomber, examining them carefully and setting them back down. Sometimes he threw them out into the ocean, hard, as far as they would go, or skipped flat rocks against the waves.

She’d watched him from hiding, drawn by some bitter intensity in his actions, and finally one day openly positioned herself where she knew he’d pass by on his daily ramblings. She’d been twelve at the time, he almost twice that. He’d walked by with barely a nod to her; she’d scrambled to her feet and taken up a place by his side.

He hadn’t objected, hadn’t said anything, and they had walked in silence for over an hour. She’d met him again the next day, and the next, and slowly they’d started to talk, far away and safe from the s’iopes and the horror of daily life.

She’d been sixteen when Oruen took her to bed, the one and only time. She always said seduced afterwards, but the reality was much more desperate, a day of unrivaled horror leading to a mutual need for comfort, which unfolded into the inevitable.

He’d never referred to it afterward, never approached her again; and after a few fumbling attempts of her own had been rebuffed kindly but unmistakably, she’d let the friendship resume with some distance to it. When Pieas cornered her one night, she hadn’t told anyone. She’d pushed aside Oruen’s questions about the bruises. She’d been afraid to bridge that distance, afraid of collapsing into his arms only for him to gently, quietly push her back with the same emotionless words he’d used before.

And now he’d gained the throne, and his return for all her help and her one-time warming of his bed had been a permanent apartment in the palace and the raising of her family back into favored status. She wasn’t his concubine, nor one of his advisors. He called her a friend and allowed her to quietly visit him any time she felt the need to talk, and he still claimed to respect her judgment and observations. But she’d gained nothing significant for the risks she’d taken on his behalf. Not until he chose her, out of a court of highly qualified diplomats, to step into what she now saw as the most politically dangerous situation he’d faced in the six months he had been on the throne.

Why her? The question kept coming back. Why pick an inexperienced, relatively ignorant girl, and send her with an advisor reluctant to give out crucial information? Had he intended for her to fail? If so, if not… was Oruen worth dying for?

She breathed in through her nose, let the air out in a hard sigh. “Once upon a time, I would have said yes without question. He’s a good man. Now… I don’t know.”

“Is your purpose worth dying for?”

Opening her mouth to say yes, she found herself shocked at the words that came out instead: “Nothing is worth dying for. You can’t help anyone or anything if you’re dead.”

Wincing, Alyea shut her eyes, waiting. What she had said went against everything she had ever been taught, ever seen lived, ever believed before. But it felt like truth: a raw, harsh truth filled with anger at endless violence and pointless sacrifice. Too many men had marched to the palace to beg, to plead, to threaten and cajole for the return of their wives and families; their reward had been a chance to entertain Ninnic before their own deaths. Too many women had thrown themselves in front of their children, trying to protect them, only to be killed and the children taken anyway.

Honorable self-sacrifice be damned to the s’iopes’ hells; it never achieved anything.

The ishrait finally spoke. “Stand.”

Alyea rose slowly, massaging cramps out of her legs; the cold of the stone seemed to have seeped through the blanket and into her joints. The women on the benches were turning, facing her now, their faces still shadowed beneath their deep hoods.

“The test of Comos is the test of the ego,” the ishrait said, her rich voice rolling through the room. “It asks you to set aside your own fear, your own needs, for the sake of those you protect. The test of Ishrai is the test of life. It asks you to weigh the value of living. A desert lord’s life is a sacred trust and must be treated with the greatest respect. A desert lord’s death weakens the entire world. The desert is harsh, and life is not fair; a reckless leader would quickly be killed and leave his people unprotected. That is why a full desert lord must have the approval of Ishrai.”

Alyea swallowed, daring to hope that she’d pulled it off after all.

“You have passed this part of the test of Ishrai,” the woman said. “Taishell te s’a-lalien; sisters, the supplicant is closed to you now. You may go.”

The women stood in a ragged wave, bowed deeply in Alyea’s direction, and filed silently out of the room. The clicking of the bead curtain swaying back into place went on for quite some time as the ishrait moved around the room, extinguishing oil lamps until only one remained lit. She picked it up and came to stand in front of Alyea. In the tiny island of light surrounding them, the woman’s face seemed drawn and worried.

“Now comes the hard part, Alyea,” she said. “Sit back down, please.”

The tall woman sat down on the floor in front of Alyea, seeming not to mind the cold stone; set the oil lamp between them and shut her eyes. She looked as if she were gathering strength for a supremely difficult task.

“Women do not usually become desert lords,” the ishrait said. “Let me assure you it has nothing to do with gender bias. There’s a very harsh reality involved. I know that Juric told you he believed you could do this; I wish I could agree. If you had the full year to study with us, I believe you might pass, but this….”

She blew out air through her nose in a hard sigh of her own, seeming frustrated, and directed another worried glance at the dark pool.

“Alyea, I’ll be honest. I hoped you would fail the questioning. That would have been safer for all of us.”

Alyea felt the chill of the stone reaching up her spine.

“I’m committed now,” she said, hearing a brittle edge in her own voice. “Stop trying to scare me out of it.”

The ishrait smiled, a brief flash of pale teeth in a shadow-lined face. “All right. Let me tell you a story, then. Be silent, and listen.” She leaned forward, extinguished the last lamp, and began to speak, a disembodied voice in complete darkness:

In the beginning days of the world, there was born light, and there was born dark. There was dry, and there was wet. There was warm, and there was cold. Then there came life, with death close behind. And life took many forms, but death could take only one.

One form of life developed which could think, and knew itself, and considered future and past and present as separate concepts. And that life grew, and claimed dominion over all creatures, and built a great city, and another, and another.

That life was not human.

Alyea opened her eyes and stared into the darkness, wishing she could see the ishrait’s face.

Their cities did not satisfy them. They fought, and argued over small things, and lost their way, and became deeply divided, and at last parted ways. Some stayed above ground, others fled on the wind, and others dug deep to find the secrets of the world, hiding underground as they sought for knowledge. After a long time, the seekers desired to reconcile with their estranged brethren, and emerged from the deep and the still places of the world.

But the cities were gone. All traces of the ones they had left behind were gone, without a trace. No ruins; no signs of battle; nothing. Their people were simply gone, as if they had never been.

Alyea made herself swallow in a dry throat. Her eyes were starting to hurt; she realized she’d been straining them wide, staring into the darkness as if she could force herself to see the ishrait’s face. She shut her eyes and rubbed her eyelids lightly with her fingertips.

The remaining seekers were few and mostly old by that time. They had not given much thought to children, while they sought their knowledge; they had been secure in their certainty that more of their kind existed to carry on the line. Now that security faltered, and they found themselves alone.

But they discovered that while they studied the deep and the still places of the world, another life had moved to fill the quiet place left by their lost brethren. This life thought, and knew itself, and considered past and present and future to be separate concepts.

This life was human.

Alyea swallowed again, blinking. She had a dozen questions by now, but knew better than to speak. The air felt dry and cold in her throat, and her skin chill-prickled.

This is the teaching of Ishrai. This is the secret lore we hold. Callen of Ishrai and the desert lords alone know this tale. You will never repeat it.

Alyea found herself nodding obediently.

The humans and the people of the world met, the ishrait said, and Alyea wondered if she were speaking at all. The breathing in front of her seemed steady and undisturbed by words. She put the thought aside as irrelevant to the moment and focused on listening.

The humans and the people of the world agreed to live together, for mutual benefit, for mutual survival. The humans gave the people of the world a name they could pronounce: ha’reye for many, ha’rethe for one. And that suited the people of the world well enough.

And they discovered that with the right circumstances, they could have children together.

Alyea opened her mouth, caught herself just in time; put a hand over her mouth to make sure she stayed silent.

A pact was made between humans and the ha’reye, for mutual benefit, for mutual survival. The people of the world promised to use the secrets they had learned to make sure the humans had water that did not drown the land, winds that did not blow everything away, and a sun that did not scorch the land. The humans….

Alyea listened to the silence for a while before realizing the ishrait wanted her to complete the last sentence.

“The humans provided them with children,” she said softly.

The humans gave of themselves, the ishrait agreed. The humans gave, once every year, one of their finest young men or women. Those chosen to serve stayed with the ha’reye for one year, and gave the people of the world a single child of mixed blood, called a ha’ra’ha, and then returned to their families unharmed. Unhurt, but different; and they never spoke of what had happened during that year.

Over time, this caused fear and doubt. The ones who served were affected in different ways, and sometimes frightened their communities. After a time, some places rebelled, and refused to serve when chosen, and said they would not be bound to the people of the world. They broke away, heedless of disgrace or duty. But others remained true, and wanted to study more closely with the ha’reye, and learn their secrets.

“The Split,” Alyea said involuntarily, then clamped her hand back over her mouth and bit her lower lip.

The Split, the ishrait agreed evenly. Some humans went south, to the deep jungles, to study with the ha’reye. The remaining humans broke their agreement with the people of the world, and held back their young. And the ha’reye waited a hundred years for the humans to change their ways and understand their error. But humans, not understanding, thought they had won, and moved on, and forgot.

The ha’reye, seeing that humans had no intention of returning to their pact, came out of their deep and still places, and took the hundred young that they were due for the past hundred years. And then they left that area. The water sank deep into the ground, and the wind moved the earth from place to place to place, and the sun scorched the land. Great farms became desert, and lovely places became barren. And the humans searched for a cause, and found none; and a few among them who studied the old ways called for the ha’reye to forgive them, and found silence.

Ha’reye do not forget as quickly as a human does, and they do not forgive as easily as a human will.

Alyea felt herself nodding in time to the steady beat of the words, almost swaying in place, and shook herself sharply back to alertness.

Humans sought their kin in the jungles to the south, and found the way closed. They tried to travel the seas, to find a new land where they might survive, and found the way closed. They tried to move into the northlands, and found the way closed. And people began to die from too much sun, and too much wind, and too little water.

And then a strange thing happened.

A single human, a young man who had studied the old lore and listened to the old stories all his life, walked into the deepest places of the desert, where the children had once been given, and offered himself.

He sat in the hot sun and let it scorch him. He sat in the rains and let them soak him. He sat while the wind blew fierce and wild around him, and did not move. And he called out over and over and over for the ha’reye to hear him, to take him as an offering under the old ways, to forgive humans for breaking the pact.

The ha’reye heard and were amazed. They answered, and lifted him from the hot sands, and eased his burned flesh, and accepted him as an offering under the old ways. But they did not forgive all humans for breaking the pact, and they did not restore the southlands to their former glory.

After the allotted year of service was up, they released him to spread the word that if humans would return to the pact for as many years as they had left it broken, the east and the west and the north would be opened, but the southern jungles would stay closed forever, and should now be known as the Forbidden Jungles. Many people laughed at him, and said the desert had driven him mad; but some listened, and followed him, and kept the pact. And the pact was honored for a hundred and fifty years, and the east and the west and the north opened, but the Forbidden Jungles stayed closed. Those who had not believed went to the east and to the west and to the north, but those who believed stayed behind, and those who agreed to serve came to be called lords of the desert. They were avoided and feared more than they were respected, but kept the pact nonetheless. And those lords had families, and they chose to live in the deep places of the desert, and choose from their families who would keep the pact with the ha’reye.

It soon became clear the choices were not blind enough; even a desert lord can make mistakes when it involves the intelligence or suitability of his own offspring. So the followers of the wind-lord Comos, the water-maiden Ishrai, and the sun-lord Datda were given the responsibility of testing those who wished to honor the pact.

Over the years and through the miles, humans have once again forgotten, but never the desert lords. On the faith of the desert lords rests the survival not only of the southlands, but the world; and they never, ever forget that.

Silence filled the darkness. Sensing that the ishrait had finished her story, Alyea lifted a trembling hand to her face and discovered the dampness of tears.

“Good gods,” she said at last, shakily.

“It’s a long story,” the ishrait said quietly, her voice echoing in the empty room, “but you need to understand it. Any questions?”

The words came out without conscious direction: “Has the king gone through the blood trials?”

“Once, that was a requirement,” the ishrait said. “It fell aside with the years and the fading of memory into myth, and the chaos of recent years hasn’t helped. No, the desert lords may call him ‘lord’ now, but it’s an empty title. Oruen seems better than the recent line, but he’ll never be allowed to take the trials. He knows just enough to understand that, and to have a small idea of what that means.”

“And so he sent me,” Alyea said, pieces beginning to fit together at last. “To become his tame desert lord.”

“A desert lord serves no man,” the ishrait said. “There is no such thing as a tame desert lord. Oruen’s understanding is limited, and he makes a grave error with this.”

“I’m beginning to see that,” Alyea agreed ruefully. “Why have I been allowed to come this far?”

“Because you have the backing of a thass.”

She almost said, who? But names weren’t used here. “Why is this thass so important?”

“Think of all you have heard, Alyea,” the woman said. “There is only one thing we would bow to in this situation. What is it?”

In the quiet, Alyea’s pulse seemed to thud along her temples. “The ha’reye?”

“Or the ha’ra’hain, their mixed-blood descendants. Some few, very few, choose to make their way in the world of the humans, rather than stay in the deep places with the people of the world. Your thass is a ha’ra’ha who has chosen to stay with the humans. He is a very rare and important man among us, Alyea; and he favors you.”

The room seemed warmer now, the stone under the blanket less chill; Alyea drew a deep breath and found herself breathing moist air again. She froze, not sure when the change had occurred, and unreasonably terrified by it.

“What does that mean?” she asked, unable to keep her voice steady. “That he favors me? What am I supposed to do about it?”

A heavy sigh came from the darkness in front of her.

“There is a price for everything,” the ishrait said. “You cannot avoid the duty of a desert lord if you want your title to have any weight. You must give a child, and you must spend time learning your new way. But this rather peculiar situation demands your presence in the world much sooner than a year. This ha’ra’ha has proposed and been granted a remarkable exception to the one-year rule. After all the blood trials are complete, assuming you survive them all, he has offered to serve as your teacher. He will be as your lord and master until he is satisfied that you are ready to stand on your own.”

The mist seemed to be condensing onto Alyea’s bare skin. Not an unpleasant sensation, but still an eerie one; she resisted the urge to wipe the dampness away.

How could she hold a desert fortress and be involved in delicate political arrangements while under orders from some stranger? Impossible. Alyea shut her eyes and tried to swallow again. This wasn’t what she had expected.

“What if I choose to spend the full year with… with the people of the world, the ha’reye, instead?” she asked.

“It’s too late for that,” the woman said, sounding sad. “The agreement is made and the questions are ended. My part in this is done. Taishell, ha’reye; she is open to you now. Gods hold you, child. Goodbye.”

“Wait—”

As she spoke, she realized that the dampness on her skin wasn’t condensation, but a thick layer of some unknown fluid. With a wild eddy of warm air, a surge of the same liquid flowed up her back. It slid around to the front of her body, surrounding her so quickly she barely had time to gasp in reaction before she felt herself being lifted, rolled, and pulled in one long smooth movement beneath the surface of the pool.

Chapter Seventeen

They left town as the sky began to grey; not on horses, as Idisio had assumed, but walking, with a pack mule trudging beside them. The wide path up the slope he’d seen from the ship turned out to be gigantic steps, cut wide enough for two laden mules to pass each other comfortably. While the steps were shallow, the slope tended to be steep; within a short time his calves ached. He ignored it, brooding over what Scratha had told him the night before.

The desert lord had told a long story in the cadences of a bard; Idisio had been carried away by that smooth recital. The meeting of ha’reye and human, the Agreement reached after much negotiation, the resulting children; it all whirled together in his head. He’d had little sleep and felt thoroughly gritty-eyed as he trudged up the steps, leading the mule.

Early morning quiet didn’t help his drowsiness. Their mule clopped steadily up, and others clopped placidly down. Nobody seemed in a hurry to get to the top or the bottom, and nobody rode. The steady rhythm sounded almost like a lullaby. Idisio blinked hard against the urge to fall asleep on his feet; no rail protected travelers against the increasingly long drop to the jagged ground below.

Every so often, a wider space in the trail allowed people to move out of the way of those behind, and take a rest or a meal or a piss; Idisio saw all three in a short time. His thoughts had him so distracted he didn’t even blink at the last, didn’t find it at all odd, just gave it a blank incurious glance and kept trudging.

As the sun warmed the air, Riss began to chatter: asking Scratha questions, laughing, being foolish. Realizing that his lord was answering patiently and even gently, Idisio shook out of his brooding to listen.

“Three,” Scratha said. “Three gods, three trials, three marks. I bear all three. Full lords don’t show them casually; they’re sacred. Even telling you how many marks, how many trials, isn’t something most would do.”

“We’re lucky,” Riss said, and it didn’t sound at all sardonic.

Scratha made a neutral noise and went on: “There’s a… a ranking system, the thio, in the desert. Someone with Yuer’s background and birth… I can understand his bitterness. He always wanted to be a desert lord, but even the Aerthraim wouldn’t stretch that far, and they’ll accept people into their family that no other desert family would touch.”

“Why did Yuer leave the southlands?” Riss said.

“He was essentially banished,” the noble said. “He’d given certain young ladies of station some… difficulty.”

“Rape?” Riss said. Her voice trembled.

“No,” Scratha said. “That would have gotten him a much more severe punishment. No, Yuer had a tendency to get drunk and say excessively rude things to nobles, especially women. He became such a disgrace that his case came before a Conclave. Everyone agreed that sending him to the northlands would be best; there would be less temptation for his outbursts. He seems to have gained some self-control, at least. Control enough to undercut a two-hundred-year-old agreement between desert and kingdom,” he added. “I still want to know how that happened.”

They walked in silence for a while.

“Where’s Red?” Idisio said suddenly.

Riss laughed. “You don’t listen so well, do you? We’ve already been over that.”

“I was thinking about something else,” Idisio said.

“I told the sailor where to look and who to speak to,” Scratha said, cutting Riss short as she began to say something. “I gave him the words to use and a letter giving him my support. What he finds or doesn’t find is up to him now. That’s as far as I could go, Idisio. He’s no longer our concern.”

“Thank you, my lord,” he said, and meant it wholeheartedly.

Scratha nodded without replying.

“Oh, don’t be mean,” Riss said a few moments later and grinned at Idisio. “Your lord’s not telling you that he asked the sailor to send word if he found his answers.”

Idisio shot a startled glance at Scratha; the man smiled, gaze still straight ahead.

“True,” he said. “I’ll admit I’d like to know, myself. I feel that there’s something important about the boy, and I’ve always gone with my hunches.” He slanted a quick look at Idisio.

“So have I,” Idisio said, and felt a new energy come into his step.

The journey to the top of the Wall took two full days of climbing, with no inn along the way. Halfway up they came to a plateau where exhausted travelers could collapse; aching all over, Idisio promptly did so, heedless of being stepped on or over by man or beast.

At the end of the second day of climbing, they crested the final turn of stair to level ground. The ground wasn’t the pure sand Idisio had expected, but a hard, cracked mixture of pebbly dirt strewn across an uneven surface. A long building, flung wide and low across the ground and more window than wall, sat on a rare platform of solid rock. Out front stood a brightly painted sign, taller than Idisio and wider than he could stretch his arms, marked with a simple line drawing of a man climbing steep stairs. The awkward lettering read:

In the distance, a rough spire of wind-scoured rock hunched against the gathering dark. Idisio stopped, staring at it; something seemed both menacing and familiar about the formation. Before he could place what bothered him about the distant rock, Scratha prodded his shoulder and Riss his back, and he stumbled on with them, tangling up his feet momentarily. The challenge of keeping his balance without catapulting into the ground distracted him as they climbed a low stair to a raised courtyard, where waist-high stone walls flanked by tall greenery blocked his view of the outside.

As they passed through the inn’s wide courtyard, Idisio glanced up: feathery tops of sand-grass and desert bamboo nodded together high overhead, forming a screen against daytime sun. This late in the evening, with the sun already a low shimmer against the western horizon, chunky stone lanterns were being lit.

Nobody spoke as they walked through the striations of afternoon shade turning into evening shadow. Riss had been subdued for some time, but Idisio didn’t think it came from the long climb. Something else seemed to be troubling her, but exhaustion stopped him from asking questions.

Beyond the courtyard lay a wide room with a scattering of low, desert-style tables. Red and blue sitting cushions leaned in tall piles against the walls, some still bright and new-looking, but most faded and worn. A wide, waist-high table at the far end of the room looked to be covered with plates of food.

Scratha steered them to the nearest stack of cushions. “Take one and follow me,” he said, lifting a faded red pillow and turning away.

Idisio suspected he would have charged over a bed of hot rocks for a promise of sitting down at the end, and Riss probably would have been trying to knock him out of her way. Even Scratha moved more slowly than usual.

Scratha settled on his cushion, waited until they were all seated, and said, “Customs differ here. Before we move another step, there are a few things we need to settle. First of all: Idisio. You’re my servant. Servant to a desert lord means you have status.”

“Thio,” Idisio said.

“Good. You have been listening. Yes, you have thio. If I send you on an errand, whether that be fetching water or carrying a message or bedding a woman, you do it. You don’t question. And if someone gets in your way, you tell them I sent you and to argue it with me.”

Idisio stared at his lord. “Bedding a woman?” he said in disbelief.

Scratha’s expression held no humor. “It’s been known to happen,” he said. “Politics, Idisio. It’s not a nice world you’ve put yourself into.” His manner softened. “I won’t ask that of you. But I’ve known other lords to order that, and more. Watch yourself. You’re probably in more danger than I am, here. Nobody will attack me directly, but you’re both vulnerable. And ignorant.”

He paused. “I didn’t want to bring either of you along, remember. I was willing to risk Idisio because he’s quick on his feet and with his wits. But you wouldn’t listen, and I could see Idisio didn’t want to leave you behind.”

The last comment was obviously directed at Riss. She shot Idisio a startled glance. He felt his face turning a deep crimson and tried desperately to think of something that would change his expression to a cool aloofness.

“That’s another thing,” Scratha went on before they could speak. “Honesty. I’ll tell you this right now: by all the gods do not try to lie to anyone here. You don’t know who’s a desert lord, who’s a ha’ra’ha, who’s trained in aqeyva. Best to say nothing but truth, and as little of that as you can. Believe me, if I catch either of you in even a small lie here, I’ll thrash you bloody myself.”

Embarrassment gave way to fear: Idisio stared into his lord’s dark, dark stare and had absolutely no doubt of Scratha’s deadly sincerity.

“Riss is going to have to be my servant as well, for the time being,” Scratha went on. “She needs the status. You’re going to have to get along, Idisio. No more childish sniping and pride contests. On either side,” he added, shooting an equally intense glance at Riss, who had been starting to smile.

Her smile slid away. “Yes, my lord,” she said meekly.

“If you’re going to accept being my servant,” he said, “you have to accept that you will obey every single one of my commands, no matter how distasteful you may find them. Is that a problem?”

“I’m not walking back down that bloody stair,” Idisio said, surprising himself. He bit his lip but met his lord’s gaze steadily.

“Good,” Scratha said, and looked back at Riss.

“I’ll obey, my lord,” Riss said.

Scratha nodded. “There’s a truth for you to tell, Riss,” he said. “One you’ve been avoiding. It’s time for Idisio to know.”

Riss opened her mouth, seeming about to protest.

“That’s an order. Resolve it before we move on.” He met her glare, steady and grim, until she retreated to studying the table again. “There’s always the option of leaving,” he added. “But if you go, there’s only one path: back down the Wall. I won’t have either of you wandering loose up here.”

He sighed. “Plates are on the food table. Help yourselves. I’ll pay when we’re done eating.” He stood in a graceful unfolding of long legs and stalked away.

In the long, awkward silence that followed, Idisio felt like scrambling to his feet and diving for the food as a distraction, but he didn’t want to be the first to move. Riss seemed similarly frozen in place.

“Oh, hells,” she said at last. “Idisio, look at me.”

Her tone suggested a willingness to wrench his neck permanently upright if he didn’t do as ordered. He met her steady stare, doing his best not to flinch or look away.

“What do you know about dasta, Idisio?”

He shook his head. “Not much. I know it’s some sort of… I mean, I’ve heard it’s used for, uhm, for….” He fumbled to find words that weren’t too embarrassing, and failed.

“It’s a highly addictive aphrodisiac,” Riss said bluntly. “Southern whorehouses use it to make sure their women are docile. There are boys in the trade, too.”

“I know,” Idisio said. A wave of dizziness and a sense of screaming rage swept over him briefly; then it passed. He blinked and focused on Riss again. She didn’t seem to have noticed anything.

“Karic fed me dasta about once a week for over a year,” she said. Her lips tightened. “I never realized until I overheard him talking that night. I’d never heard of dasta before.” She cleared her throat and looked away. “I realized pretty fast I was addicted.”

“I gathered as much,” he said.

Her expression became fierce. “It’s an aphrodisiac addiction,” she said, almost snarling. “One of the things you want when the craving hits is sex, because that’s always been part of the experience, and you think that can stop the hurt of not having the drug.”

He stared at her, at a loss for words.

“Lord Scratha explained all that, one night when you were asleep early, and asked what I wanted to do. He said I could bed him if I needed to, or you if you’d agree; I didn’t want another man to touch me just then. He said he understood and that he’d do what he could to help me without that.” She spoke rapidly now, as if trying to get it over with.

Idisio’s jaw loosened. He opened and shut his mouth like a landed fish several times, conflicting thoughts and emotions rushing through him.

“He said you could take me to bed? Oh, gods,” he added instantly, utterly mortified, and covered his face with both hands. “I’m sorry, Riss, I didn’t mean to say that. Oh, gods.”

To his surprise, she laughed. Not a joyful laugh; more a weary acknowledgment of a painful truth. “Yes. And I thought about it. But I was so hurt and so angry… that just wasn’t an option. Just explaining it all to you was more than I could handle. That’s why I spent so much time in my cabin, on the ship. I still… I still crave….” She stopped, cleared her throat. “But I can handle it now.” Her stare dared him to question that statement.

“Yeah,” Idisio said, numb. She’d thought about going to bed with him? He spoke to cover the awkward silence, and made it worse: “Well, that’s all right.”

He dropped his face back into the safe darkness of his palms for a moment, feeling like the world’s biggest idiot, then made himself look up and face her.

“I meant….” He fumbled for words, and quickly gave up. “Sorry.”

Her grin had more real humor in it this time. “I understand,” she said, and looked away, giving him a chance to recover. “Looks like Lord Scratha found some other people to talk to.”

Idisio looked across the room. Scratha had settled at a table with three other men, all dressed in desert robes, dark and hawk-faced.

“Giving us time to talk it out,” Idisio said.

“Really,” Riss said, deadpan; he shot her a startled glance and she grinned. She stood. “Let’s go get some food.”

Idisio jumped at that suggestion; it gave him something to do with his hands besides twisting them nervously and something to do with his mouth other than gape. They filled their plates and applied themselves to their food in silence. Idisio was chewing over more than the food on his plate, and had nothing to say until he’d sorted it all out. Riss had an almost serene expression on her face, as if she’d said everything that needed saying and felt content to leave it at that.

“Honesty,” he said at last, tentatively. She glanced at him. Idisio poked at a ball of rice until it fell apart, revealing a strange grey paste inside. “It’s not easy.”

He fell silent again, not sure how to present his own truth, but knowing he needed to.

“I think that’s called quba,” Riss said quietly, pointing at the dismantled rice ball. “It’s a paste made from cactus peppers.” She picked one up from her own plate and popped it into her mouth.

“I’ve been….” Idisio started, and took refuge from speech with a bite of the quba.

A moment later he began coughing, his mouth and throat on fire. Riss reached across the table, lifted his goblet, and pressed it on him. He gulped at it gratefully. The liquid tasted like a strong, warm tea; in other circumstances Idisio would have called it bland. At the moment it tasted wonderful.

“I grew up on the streets,” he said once he had his breath back, and told the rest in a rush, before he could lose his courage. He used as few words as he could and left out the most humiliating parts; still, Riss looked horrified by the time he finished.

“I’m sorry, Idisio,” she said. “I’ve been thinking you wouldn’t understand what I went through.”

“Not the dasta,” he said. “I never had to deal with that. But the… what they did… yeah. I have some idea.” He took another bite of the rice, more carefully this time, and washed it down with a sip of tea.

“That’s why you were so fierce about that sailor’s child,” Riss said. “Wanting to save him from life on the streets, if that’s where he is.”

Idisio started to nod, and the dizziness came back, a distant humming in his ears and a shrill howl of fury. His vision greyed for a moment, and he had to blink hard and rub his eyes to focus again.

Riss’ stare had turned sharp and thoughtful.

“I’m just tired,” Idisio said, offering a tight smile. Judging from the twitch of her mouth, she didn’t believe him, but she let it go. They went back to eating in silence.

Their plates were empty by the time Scratha returned to their table. He stood over them, looking down, and said, “I’ve arranged lodging for the night. If you’re done eating, let’s go.”

As Idisio stood, aches and stiffness from the long climb made themselves known. He rolled his head in an attempt to loosen the muscles and dropped into a deep leg stretch when his calves started to cramp. He straightened to find them watching him with amusement.

“You looked awfully silly,” Riss said. “I thought you were having some sort of seizure for a moment.”

He shrugged, refusing to apologize, and followed them out of the room. Scratha steered them through a different doorway than the one through which they’d entered; it led to a long hallway with wide, arched openings on one side that let in air and sunlight. Doors were spaced along the solid wall. Scratha stopped at the third door and touched the surface with his fingers.

“Servant quarters,” he said, then pointed to the next door. “My quarters. There’s a connecting door if you need me. I’d advise not wandering around alone. Get some rest. We’ve a long way to go tomorrow, and you’ll need your wits.”

He walked away. Idisio stared after him dumbly, took a half-step to follow, and stopped again. Scratha opened the next door and stepped into the room without looking back. His door shut.

“Oh, for the love of the gods,” Riss said. She opened their door, put a hand in the small of Idisio’s back, and propelled him inside. The room smelled of sharp and bitter things Idisio had no name for, but seemed clean.

“Bitewood and pepper,” Riss noted, sniffing, and looked pleased. “There won’t be any bugs here.”

Idisio grinned, startled at that bit of domesticity from Riss of all people.

“What?” she said, catching his expression. “Stables need to stay free of bugs too, you know.”

Floor to ceiling, brightly colored silk hangings covered the walls; Idisio guessed the connecting door to Scratha’s room lay behind one of the draperies, but didn’t bother looking for it. Four wide, thick cushions lay on the floor, each one easily large enough to serve as a mattress for a man Scratha’s size.

The other furnishings took up almost all the remaining space in the small room: a low desk with a kneeling pad, a washbasin, and a chamber pot. A wide window covered by a light curtain of woven reeds allowed the vague evening breeze to drift through the room.

Idisio sat on one of the cushions, determined to act casual and relaxed. Riss lifted one cushion on top of another, then pointed at him.

“Lie face down,” she said, moving her hand to indicate the cushions.

“Huh?”

“You’re stiff and sore,” she said. “We both are. You first. I’ll work you loose.”

“Uh,” he said, his calm act completely shattered.

“Come on, I won’t bite. I promise. Lie down.”

Idisio cast an assessing look at Riss’ expression and obeyed; at least he would be face down.

Riss’s fingers dug into his back with surprising strength.

“Working around horses,” she said as she kneaded and rubbed, finding every sore spot and stiff area, “you learn about keeping them fit and moving easily. No great stretch to move that to people.”

“Great,” Idisio said, the words muffled by fabric, “now I’m a horse.”

Riss made a whinnying sound, and they started laughing.

By the time Riss finished working his back and legs, Idisio was grinning like an idiot. He’d never expected to feel so comfortable around a girl, let alone this one, but Riss kept up a steady stream of banter, encouraging him to join in.

Riss insisted on explaining what she was doing so that he could rub her down next, but when that moment came, Idisio found himself too terrified to lift a hand. She made a disgusted noise, pushed the mats apart, then stretched out, pulling a light blanket over herself without a word.

“I’m sorry,” Idisio said lamely.

After a moment, she sat up and looked at him.

“I’m not really mad,” she said. “I guess I should take it as a compliment, that you’re afraid to touch me in case you’re overcome by lust.”

Idisio gaped, shaken and wordless at her bluntness.

“It’s all right,” she said. “Go to sleep.” She leaned over and turned down the lamp. The darkness, pressing in close and hot, silenced any more attempts to apologize; he found his bed mat and lay down without another word.

It took him a long, aching time to fall asleep.

Chapter Eighteen

In the darkness came a hard pressure that took away Alyea’s breath; then, abruptly, a growing light and a floating, empty feeling. She saw nothing around her, but felt surrounded by presence—one, many, she had no way of telling. It was just presence, stronger even than the ishrait’s had been.

In a moment of clarity Alyea understood that the ishrait had to be a ha’ra’ha herself.

The light shifted and separated, forming pools and lines of not-light. Alyea stared at the abstract patterns for some time, watching them move, join, split, and curve, feeling the open, idiot wonder of a child learning the world for the first time.

At last she realized that the shadows and planes of light hinted at the definition of an actual, physical form. Focusing more sharply, she saw the ha’rethe in front of her for one searing moment, and as the light dropped steeply back into darkness, she screamed.

The floating, dreamy feeling returned, along with a sense of sadness that brought tears streaking down her face.

You do not offer us acceptance, a voice said. So few humans offer us acceptance, despite all we give your kind. What do you bring us, then? What is your gift to us?

Gift? She blinked hazily, trying to remember if the ishrait had said anything about a gift.

You must give something, the voice insisted. It is not sharing until both sides give. What is your offering?

“What do you want?”

We have been given many gifts, and none have asked that question. The voice sounded rather startled. It fell silent for a time, as if thinking, then said, Tell us a story that means something to you.

“A story that means something to me?” She paused, remembering a story one of her nurses had told her long ago. “All right. I’ll tell you about Krilla.”

Drawing a deep breath, she began reciting, letting the cadence of the words take over her voice.

This is a story of a distant northern village, high in the Scarpane Mountains, the village of Alonir. Although it is in the path of many of the worst winter storms, somehow most of them turn aside and leave the village untouched. Old men and women of Alonir say this is because of Lord Krilla.

Krilla lived with her mother, father, and three sisters, in this village of Alonir. She was the youngest, no more than sixteen, and very slight and homely. Her older sisters were attractive but vain, and their mother desired to find them suitable, wealthy husbands. But the wealthy men lived in the foothills and plains below the Scarpane Mountains, and the family was too poor to travel so far.

The three sisters did not like to go outside. They protested that the harsh winter winds and freezing air would ruin their looks and that they would never find good husbands without their beauty. Krilla’s sisters often complained about the weather and about their poverty, but Krilla loved the winter weather, loved to dance with the wind and spin with the snowflakes. She felt more comfortable outdoors in the clean, crisp air than in the stuffy little house filled with constant complaints and sighs.

But a winter came where the wind ran colder and stronger than ever before, and her mother forbade Krilla to go outside for fear of being blown away or frozen to death.

She found the confinement intolerable, and as the days passed she became more and more upset at the quarrels erupting around her. She had always spent so much of her time outdoors that she had not seen how very depressed her sisters were over the weather, and it puzzled her.

“Why do you hate going outside?” she asked. “It’s so beautiful out there.”

“It’s too cold!” one sister cried.

“It’s too windy!” cried another.

“It snows too much!” said the third.

Krilla shook her head, confused that her sisters could so hate the very things she loved.

“Well,” she said bravely, “What if these things stopped?”

Her sisters laughed at her.

“Foolish girl!” they said scornfully. “Only the Lord of Winter could stop the snow and wind from coming to our village. What do any of us have that would persuade him to turn aside from this tiny place?”

“I do not know,” Krilla answered stoutly. “But I am willing to search him out and ask. What harm can it do to ask?”

“Go ahead,” they said. “You won’t make it beyond the village borders, the weather is so terrible. We’ll be waiting here. You won’t go far.”

“I will!” Krilla declared, and catching up her coat and mittens, went out the door while her sisters kept their mother distracted.

The weather was indeed terrible, but Krilla knew how to dance with the wind. So she slipped through the blasts of freezing air with determination and went on. The snow fell thickly, but she knew how to whirl through the strange and beautiful patterns of the snowfall. At the edge of the village, she paused, but did not look back. Instead she looked at the very highest peak of the Scarpane range, where legend said the Lord of Winter lived.

“I hope the legends are right,” she said to herself. “It will be a very long walk.”

The story of Krilla also ran very long, and Alyea had demanded the entire thing over and over, until she could recite it herself. She had wandered around muttering parts of it to herself; that had inevitably led to the s’iopes finding out that her nurse was telling “forbidden folk tales” and sending her away. It had taken years for Alyea to realize that “sent away” had been a polite euphemism: beaten to death for spreading heresy would have been more truthful.

Just one more death to lay at the feet of the Northern Church.

Alyea kept going, throwing the words into the darkness, telling of the determined little girl walking up the mountain, trudging on without much rest or food, driven by the urgency of her quest. At last Krilla reached the top:

She was very tired, but the sight of the huge cave opening drew her on, heart pounding with hope. Approaching the mouth of the cavern, she called out, “Is this the home of the Lord of Winter?”

The echoes of her voice came back to her, and she began to lose hope. Then something moved in the darkness of the cave.

“This is my home,” said a deep, gravelly voice. “The home of the Lord of Winter is on the next mountain over.”

Krilla’s legs gave out from under her, and she sat down and wept, the tears freezing on her face. “I’m so tired,” she cried, “and I cannot walk that far, and have nowhere to rest. May I please rest here for a while?”

“Hm!” said the voice, and “hm!” again. “Yes, come in and rest. I will give you shelter from the wind and snow.”

Krilla was too tired to be wary. “Thank you very much,” she said, and went into the cave.

“Why do you seek the Lord of Winter?” inquired the voice. “Move to your right a little more, there is a soft place for you to sleep on there.”

Krilla followed the directions, and found a pile of soft cloth to stretch out on. “I am going to ask him to turn aside the winter storms from our village,” she replied.

“Hm!” said the voice. “Why?”

“My family is too poor to arrange good husbands for my sisters. If the storms turned aside, we could earn enough to give them a proper dowry.”

“How do you feel about the weather?” asked the voice.

“I love it,” Krilla said. “I love to dance with the wind and play with the snowflakes.”

“But if the Lord of Winter agrees to turn the storms away from your village, you would not have those things any longer.”

“I know,” Krilla said sadly. “But my family is more important.”

“Hm,” said the voice. “Sleep, human child. You are safe here tonight.”

Alyea drew a breath, paused for a moment to rest her throat, then told of Krilla waking to discover that her host was an enormous white dragon, and that she had slept curled up on one of its huge forelegs. Realizing that the dragon must be the Lord of Winter, the child fell to her knees and presented her request for the storms to be turned aside:

“What would you give for this request?” the Lord of Winter demanded, his eyes suddenly stern and cold. “What price would you pay?”

“Anything,” Krilla said humbly. “I would pay any price for this boon.”

“Asking me to turn aside storms is not a light request,” the dragon warned. “It will carry a heavy price.”

Krilla swallowed back her fear and nodded. “I will pay it.”

The dragon considered her for a moment, then said, “I will tell you the price first, and let you decide whether you still wish to pay it. You will stay with me for the winter—this one, and every one that you wish to see the village spared from the storms. You will share my bed and do anything I ask of you while you are with me. Are you still willing to pay the price?”

Krilla choked back a sob. “I am.”

A tear rolled down her face and struck the layer of snow on the floor, freezing instantly into a perfect tear-shaped drop of ice.

The Lord of Winter reached out and gently picked up the tiny drop. “You are braver than many warriors. Very well. I will turn the winter storms aside from the village of Alonir.”

Then he transformed himself, and became as a reptilian human, and took her to his bed. Two drops of her first blood fell to the icy floor, and froze as had the tear; and the Lord of Winter put all three aside in a small box.

Alyea paused for a moment and opened her eyes. It seemed that the darkness had eased a bit; she thought she could see the faintest outlines of a massive form before her. She shut her eyes again and went on, telling of Krilla’s return to her family in the spring, of their disbelief and mocking. At last, stung by the unrelenting laughter, Krilla showed her family the gems that had formed from the frozen drops of her tears and blood, which the Lord of Winter had warned her to keep hidden:

Her family looked at the gems with wonder, and just as she thought they believed her at last, one sister asked where she had found such beautiful gems, and the second sister said she must have stolen them, and the third sister reached for the box, saying these would make a grand dowry. And Krilla’s parents stepped between, and took the box away, and said they would decide how the gems would be used, and that Krilla had done well.

Krilla went to bed crying, and during the night her parents looked at the gems, and spoke together in low voices, and formed a plan. When Krilla awoke the next morning, her parents told her that the rubies would serve as dowries for two of her sisters, and the diamond as dowry for the eldest, and that Krilla herself would go with the eldest of her sisters and serve as a handmaiden in a rich man’s house. When she protested that she must return to the Lord of Winter come the end of fall, her parents called her mad, and demon-ridden, and shut her in her room.

Three suitable young men were found, one for each of the elder sisters, and engagements announced as summer faded into fall. At last Krilla was taken from her room and readied for the journey down the mountain. She had been told so many times during the spring and summer and fall that she was ill, that she had imagined her meeting with the Lord of Winter, that she half-believed it herself.

But the day before they were to leave, she found by chance where the box was kept, and in secret she took one ruby back. And she remembered that the Lord of Winter had said that if she commanded it aloud, the rubies would break and that would summon his aid; and she thought, “If I am deluded, if I was ill, then nothing will happen.”

She took the ruby to the fireplace, set it on the stone hearth, and commanded, “Break, ruby!”

The ruby shattered, and the banked fire came alive again, and from the flames spoke the voice of the Lord of Winter.

“Little one,” he said, “little human, do you call for my aid?”

Krilla became frightened, and said nothing.

“Little one,” said the Lord of Winter, “little human, my Krilla, why do you call for me?”

Krilla still said nothing, and backed away from the hearth.

“Little Krilla,” said the voice of the Lord of Winter one more time, and Krilla thought the voice sounded angry now. “You have called, and I have answered, and now you are silent. One more time only I will ask; why have you called me?”

Krilla ran away, and hid under her covers for the rest of the night. In the morning the fire was just a banked fire again and there was no sign of the broken ruby; not the smallest shard remained. And Krilla became truly ill, and could not be moved. She developed a strange wasting fever that stripped the weight from her so that her bones showed against the skin.

“We cannot wait,” said her family, “we must go without her.”

And only the sister who could not marry because her dowry ruby had been destroyed stayed with Krilla. She was the same one who had said Krilla must have stolen the gems, and she was so bitter and angry over her loss that she did little to take care of her sister. The rest of the village tried. The priests of Alonir and of all the nearby villages prayed over Krilla, and the herb-wives and leech-doctors used their wisdom, but nothing helped.

At last in desperation they called for a healer from yet another village, a man of ill repute who was said to serve the old gods of the deep south. And this healer came, and he looked at Krilla, and asked her to tell him her story.

When she was done speaking, he said, “She speaks truth. She has seen the Lord of Winter, and made a pact with him, and shared his bed; those gems are her tears and her blood, and it is your taking them that has made her ill. These gems are a part of Krilla, and only she can safely handle them.”

The priests were angry, and they threw the healer from the house, and told him never to return. And Krilla continued to get worse. The priests decided the gems were evil, and Krilla possessed by a demon; and they sent a messenger hurrying to the village at the foot of the mountain, to return with the gems. Although Krilla’s parents protested, they did not dare gainsay the priests, and returned to Alonir, angry at how Krilla had ruined their grand wedding plans. And when they returned, the priests seized the box and tried to smash the gems.

But the rubies would not break, and the diamond would not break, and the priests prayed and cast exorcisms and at last demanded that Krilla break the gems herself, to be free of the evil.

Krilla could not rise from her bed by that time, and had no strength to resist their demands. When she picked up the ruby and whispered, “Break,” it shattered into a million pieces instantly. And one of the shards stuck in her hand, and a drop of her blood fell to the floor; and to everyone’s amazement the drop of blood hardened and became another ruby, larger than a man’s fist. It was too hot to touch, and seemed filled with an inner flame.

“Little one,” said the voice of the Lord of Winter from within the ruby, “little human, do you call for my aid?”

Krilla tried to speak, but the priests moved too fast, and closed her mouth.

“Little human, my Krilla,” said the Lord of Winter, “why do you call me?”

But Krilla was held fast, and could not speak. And two of her tears fell on the floor, and to everyone’s amazement they became great shining diamonds, larger and finer than the first.

“Little Krilla, my Krilla,” said the Lord of Winter one more time, and this time his voice sounded very sad. “You have called me, and I have answered, and you are silent. I ask you again: why have you called me?”

Krilla could speak at last, because the priests, distracted by the diamonds, had loosened their hold on her to reach for the shining gems; so she cried out, “Help me, my lord!”

The ruby grew and grew at those words, and became another form, a large form, one that nearly filled the free space in the room, and took the shape of a dragon.

“I am here,” said the Lord of Winter, and two great golden eyes opened in the ruby shape. “What help do you wish, my little human?”

Before Krilla could speak, her mother pushed forward and said, “She wishes to be free of you and your foul bargain, monster! Begone!”

The Lord of Winter looked only at Krilla, and he said, “Is that what you want, my Krilla?”

And Krilla looked at the Lord of Winter, and he at her.

“If I break our bargain,” said Krilla, “will you still hold the storms aside?”

“No,” said the Lord of Winter.

“If I keep our pact,” said Krilla, “how long will you hold the storms aside from my village?”

“Until the end of our pact,” said the Lord of Winter.

“And how long will our pact last?” said Krilla.

“Until you die,” said the Lord of Winter.

“And when will that be?” asked Krilla.

And the answer the Lord of Winter gave struck everyone silent with wonder, even the priests; and Krilla said, “I will keep the pact, my lord; and I will stay with you not only in the winter, but the spring and summer and fall as well.”

Alyea remembered that she always had interrupted her nurse at that point, asking, “What did the Lord of Winter say? What did he say?”

Her nurse had shaken her head and said, “That part of the story cannot be told, child. Nobody knows.” And no matter how often Alyea pestered her, the nurse gave the same answer.

“And why would you do that, my Krilla?” said the Lord of Winter.

“Because there is nothing left for me here,” said Krilla. “My family and my village will turn against me, whatever I decide.”

“But why would you stay with me, my Krilla, instead of making your own way and allowing your village to reap its own rewards?” said the Lord of Winter.

And the answer Krilla gave struck everyone as the wisest thing they had ever heard, and the diamond in the box shattered, and melted, and vanished forever. But the two diamonds formed of her most recent tears remained.

Alyea had started to interrupt again; her nurse had covered her mouth gently and said, “That answer cannot be told either, child. Nobody knows. Perhaps one day you will find out for yourself, and bring the rest of the tale to your children.”

The Lord of Winter smiled, and took her away; and she was never again seen in that village, and nobody ever dared climb to the highest peak of the Scarpane Mountains to seek her out. But when the wild winds screamed down the mountain, the worst of them passed around and over the village of Alonir; and the village was blessed with great harvest in fall and healthy newborn animals in spring, and a calm summer every year. And the villagers prospered, and set the two remaining diamonds in a carefully guarded glass case, and never touched them for their own profit. And they banished all the s’iopes from their village, and lived in great peace for many years.

Alyea had really liked that part. Even now it brought a wide grin to her face to say that line, although those words had probably been what sealed her nurse’s grim fate.

One day the guards cried out and summoned the village, for the two diamonds in the glass case had shattered. And nobody could understand why, or what had happened. The healer from the next village was called upon once again, and it took him many days to arrive, for he was very old by this time, and near death. And he looked at the diamond shards, and handled them with great reverence, and blessed them in a strange language. To the amazement of all, the pieces melted and disappeared completely.

They clamored for him to tell them what it meant, and the answer the healer gave was the most astounding and joyous thing they had ever heard and they rejoiced. The villagers celebrated for many days, and named Krilla the patron Lord of their village.

Alyea hadn’t even tried to interrupt at that point. She knew what her nurse would say. The ending wound through a series of thoroughly blasphemous statements that she’d loved hearing and even now enjoyed repeating:

So there are those in the north who quietly pray to Lord Krilla, and roadside shrines are dedicated to her. The priests seek to tear them down, but the shrines reappear within days or weeks. The wiser priests simply hold their notice aside and say nothing, while the foolish ones grow angry, blustering, and wear themselves out on a thing that will never change. There are no shrines to Krilla in the south, for she loves only the snowy lands, and will never stray from the Scarpane Mountains. But in the north, if one prays to the Lord Krilla with an honest heart and the desire to help others, one may find help when it is least expected.

Alyea drew a deep breath and opened her eyes.

The darkness had lifted. She stood in a simple, pleasant sitting room; a man sat in an easy chair, facing her. A wide fireplace had a blaze laid in, and the warmth wrapped around her like a gentle blanket. Another comfortable chair stood a step to her right.

“Not exactly accurate,” said the man in the chair, frowning, and she trembled at the expression. “Please sit. There’s a throw if you’re cold.”

She found herself in the chair, drawing a thick blanket around her, with no clear memory of having moved.

“I admit you tell a story well, even if it was poorly chosen,” the man said. “I accept the gift.”

She stared at him blankly, unable to think of anything to say. His features wouldn’t stay fixed in her mind; he looked thin and hard, one moment, gentle and soft the next. A desert lord, a northern noble, a comfortably padded well-off merchant; she couldn’t quite pin what he looked like from moment to moment. Somehow it didn’t matter.

“That was an unfortunate choice of story,” he said. “Too many inaccuracies, for one thing.”

Remembering the shape outlined to her vision for a heartrending moment, she licked her lips, tested her voice with a slight cough, and said, “Are you… dragons?”

“No,” the man said, his expression flickering into something distinctly ugly. “You have no word, no concept that describes us well. We don’t care for that story. As I said, an unfortunate choice of gift. But it’s accepted. Not all gifts are… pleasant.” He drew a breath, let it out, then stood and held out a hand. “Come here. Time for my… gift. I’ll give you those answers you wanted so badly.”

She was on her feet again, and standing close to him, before she knew she had moved. His hands wrapped gently around her upper arms. After a moment of looking at her intently, he slid one hand up to her shoulder and back down to cup her elbow lightly. The touch raised gooseflesh on her arm and a deep shivering heat throughout her body.

His voice lowered to a compelling whisper, barely audible, speaking words in a strange language. Her vision dimmed, or maybe the air hazed. She could see his eyes, dark and intense: and then that faded and she felt the heat of his body pressing close. Darkness folded around them, and heat rose and spread through her, wide and deep and wild.

There came pain, and joy, and then an infinite, eternal tenderness that at last overwhelmed her and pulled her completely into oblivion. She heard voices in the darkness, echoes of herself long ago, asking:

What did Krilla say, nurse? What did she say that was so wise?

Nobody knows, dear…nobody knows.

But then another voice spoke, a young, sad voice, and it said:

Because, my lord, my family and the villagers are not evil. Some are innocent, and follow wherever they are led, without thought of their own; they do not deserve to be punished for simple foolishness. And some in the village do nothing but lead where they want to go and give no thought to the well-being of those who follow, and those people will earn their own end. But you led only where I asked to go, and rescued me only when I asked. You have used no trickery, and asked only that I decide my way for myself. You have more honor than any human I have ever met, and I will follow you for that until the end of my days.

And there came a blinding, howling pain and a searing rush of ecstasy, tumbling on and around and through each other; then the darkness came back and took it all away again.

What did the healer say, nurse? What did he say? Why did the diamonds break?

Nobody knows, dear… nobody knows.

Another voice spoke, an old, gentle, joyous voice, and it said:

A diamond born of tears is the hardest substance in the world. The first diamond, which broke when Krilla chose to leave with the Lord of Winter, was the tear of sacrifice; she reclaimed that piece of her spirit when she chose her path with full desire rather than from duty. The last two diamonds were born from tears of pain and anger, and were broken by the most powerful emotion in the world: love. She has come to love the Lord of Winter, to surrender her heart completely, and to utterly forgive those who sought to harm her.

Alyea felt new life pushing its first, tentative feelers into the space around her. Tenderness, gratitude, and love flowed through and around, inside and outside, weaving and wrapping and holding her, then rocked her down into a deep silence again.

What did the Lord of Winter say, nurse? What did he say, that made Krilla decide to go with him?

Nobody knows, dear… nobody knows. Perhaps one day you’ll be the one to find out, and bring us all the answers.

Another voice spoke, rich and deep and loud and quiet all at once. It said:

If you stay with me to save your village, your life will be twice as long as the oldest of your kind. If you stay with me because you wish to be by my side, your life will be four times that long. And if you grow to love me with a true and open heart, your life will be as long as mine and you will be as a Lord yourself, and your children will be Lords of the world, and their children. But never seek to deceive me, for I know your heart more clearly and more surely than you do; and I ask of you only honesty, and will return you only truth.

Tenderness and gratitude swelled one more time; then regret and sadness wove into the silent song of emotion. She felt a searing pain beyond pain, a ripping that seemed as if it would go on forever.

This time darkness came as a merciful release.

Feeling came back in slow fragments. A deep, steady pain seemed to have seeped into her very bones. She felt a light cloth covering over her, a soft padding under her; warm air moved gently against her face. She could smell desert thyme and rosemary mixed with a soothing, rich floral fragrance she couldn’t identify.

She lay with her eyes closed, with no particular impulse to do anything but rest. The pain sapped her energy and strength; she wasn’t sure she could move even if she wanted to. She felt a pressure across her hips, stomach, and groin, as if a thick, weighted blanket were bound tightly around her; in that area alone the pain seemed muted.

After a while, the air moved in a different pattern, and the scent of herbs and flowers mixed wi:)th the acrid tang of human skin and sweat. Almost human: the odors held a musky tinge which Alyea recognized now.

“Ishrait,” Alyea said without opening her eyes.

The woman said nothing, but Alyea sensed her settling nearby, within arm’s reach to the left. The quiet steadiness of her presence seemed to ease the aches spiraling through Alyea’s body.

Alyea felt no pressure to speak further, and simply rested a while more, until the red-edged waves of pain subsided to a deep discomfort.

“Ishrait,” she said finally, “why do I hurt?”

In a low, barely audible murmur, the woman answered: “You may call me Acana. You have earned the right to know my name and use it as you like.”

“Acana,” Alyea said, feeling only a weary sort of patience, “Why do I hurt? What happened?”

“What do you remember?”

Alyea sorted through fragments of memory.

“The pool,” she said at last. “You had me stand in the dark, in front of the pool, and asked me a lot of questions. And then… I think I must have fallen asleep, and had a dream. A nightmare, maybe. I can’t recall what it was about, not really.”

She had a sense of almost unendurable loss at not being able to remember the dream clearly. There had been a girl, trudging up a mountain in the cold; and a great voice, speaking from an invisible source. At one point, Alyea remembered, her own hands had been cupped in front of her and filled to overflowing with crystal-clear rubies and diamonds. And something about that linked to a deep eroticism, and a deeper pain, but she couldn’t recall clearly why.

Acana sighed. “No dream and no nightmare. But it may be a mercy you can’t remember much of it.” Her voice sounded very sad. “You have passed the blood trial of Ishrai, and have been given the mark. Your only remaining obligation is to your ha’ra’ha, who will guide you through the following year.” If you survive.

The last words sounded oddly blurred; Alyea had the distinct feeling she’d just overheard one of Acana’s thoughts. She didn’t bother dismissing that as impossible. She’d accept a bluebird reciting poetry and discussing philosophy right now, without a twitch.

She heard Acana rise, murmur something indistinct, and leave the room. Alyea kept her eyes closed, feeling nothing but an overwhelming lassitude that denied any emotion, squashed any thought or reaction or movement. Another scent, evocative of warm, cinnamon-laced sand, entered the room as Acana’s faded away, and at last a distant jolt of shock reached deeply enough to prompt a response. She knew who had arrived, just by that smell; no doubt, no chance of mistake.

Random thoughts flashed through her head. Apparently, she’d completely failed at losing Deiq’s interest after all. She didn’t understand how he’d gotten from Stass to wherever the Qisani stood so quickly. Chac would be furious.

But none of that seemed to matter any more.

Alyea opened her eyes and managed to turn her head to the left, each tiny increment of movement feeling slow and creaky. In the dim light of the few small oil lamps, he seemed to loom high and tall, impossibly large, until she realized she lay on a low bed and the perspective was skewed.

“Greetings, my lady,” Deiq said as he knelt beside her, seeming to shrink back to normal size with the movement. He cupped her face in large, warm hands and smiled, his expression so gentle and tender that it wrenched at her heart. With that smile, some of the not-dream came back to her, and she began to cry. He smoothed the tears away with his thumbs and said nothing as she wept. When her breath evened out again, the weariness returned. She shut her eyes, and Deiq, seeming to understand, said, “Sleep, my lady. I’ll stay with you.”

She let the darkness take her again, unable to fight the suasion of his voice this time. When she woke, the room had filled with daylight and the smell of fresh-cut oranges. Deiq’s scent hovered near at hand, and she felt body heat to her left. She opened her eyes, looked at the sunlit rock overhead, and breathed in the scent of oranges and human-other for a while before once again turning her head to look at him.

He sat beside her pallet, knees drawn up and arms looped around them, watching her. His face held lines of exhaustion, as if he hadn’t slept for days, but he smiled when she met his dark gaze.

“Hungry?” he said, lifting a plate of sliced orange wedges.

Her stomach rumbled in response to the sharp-sweet scent. She ignored it. “Chac said you were dangerous.”

“He was right,” Deiq said after a moment. He set the plate down slowly, his smile fading. “And I would have told you the same about him, had you met me first.”

“I’ve known Chac for years,” Alyea said. “I’ve never seen him do an evil thing.”

“And by inference, you’ve seen me do evil?”

Alyea tried to recall what she actually had seen of Deiq. He’d stalked through the corridors of the palace with a look she’d interpreted as predatory; now, with more experience to temper her judgment, she thought perhaps it had simply been a look of assurance. Her perceptions could well have been colored by the gossip and chatter of the court and her own family.

“You were a favorite of Ninnic’s,” she said at last, unable to form anything more damning in response to his question.

He made a small noise of disgust. “Favorite? No. I stayed out of Bright Bay while he was on that throne, whatever rumor may say. And I certainly didn’t care for him.”

She said nothing, unable to respond this time. His tone had been edged with a long-simmering frustration.

“I told you,” Deiq said quietly, lifting the plate again, “I have far worse a name in the courts of Bright Bay than I deserve. Much of it is from that old man’s spite, on a matter long past and unimportant.”

“His wife,” Alyea said, in a sudden moment of absolute clarity. “Micru said she ran away. But you took her, didn’t you? That’s the only thing he could possibly hate you so much over.”

Deiq picked a slice of orange from the plate and bit into it, wiping drops of juice from his chin. He chewed, swallowed, then held out the other half to Alyea. Her stomach demanded that she accept. The sight of the juice dripping down his chin ripped her willpower into splinters, and she let him place the fruit in her mouth. The small piece held the richest flavor she’d ever tasted. She found herself accepting and eating chunk after chunk. Deiq wiped her chin with a small cloth now and again.

When the plate had been emptied, he set it aside and cleaned his own hands with the cloth. Then he looked back at her, a mild, contented look on his face.

“No,” he said. “I did not take his wife. She chose to leave him, and I agreed to escort her to another place. She is still there, and still happy, and still has no desire to see him. And I have told no man or woman where she is, and I never will, and he will not forgive me for that.”

“Why did she leave him?”

“She found out the truth of who he is and what he is,” Deiq said. “And she lost all love for him. But right now, you don’t need to worry about him, or her, or anything outside this room.” His contented expression grew more serious. He reached out and tucked her hair back around the curve of her ear. “You have a lot of healing to do in a very short time.”

She shut her eyes again, hearing things in his tone that he wasn’t saying; and those things frightened her.

“What happened?” she asked, hearing her voice come out wobbly and nervous.

“You passed the blood trial of Ishrai,” he said. “In this case, it was more… literally… a blood trial than usual.”

She remembered the ripping feeling, the disconnection, and shuddered.

“There was a child, wasn’t there?” she said, the words barely more than a whisper. “They took it.”

Deiq sighed. “Men have it easier,” he said. “They only provide seed. Women have to give more than that. That’s why it takes a year; it’s easier if the woman can at least carry to full term before they take the child. When….” he paused, as if searching for words. “When there’s as little time as you had, they have to take… more. To sustain the child. Do you understand?”

Alyea lay with her eyes closed for a while. A sense of panic lurked at the edges of warm, thick layers of weariness and the deep ache still permeating her body. “Am I… ruined? It felt like they ripped….” She couldn’t finish.

“No,” Deiq said. He took her left hand in both of his and spoke with slow deliberation, as if concentrating on holding his voice steady. “But it will take time for you to heal. And I don’t… I don’t know if you’ll be able to have more children.”

“That’s all right,” she said in disconnected idiot calm. “That’s….”

Raw panic abruptly slammed through the insulating layers, and her mumbling words turned into a long, trembling shriek. She was vaguely aware of movement, and smells changing, and someone holding her down as she convulsed; and then the searing pain came back and shredded her into unconsciousness again.

“I’m sorry,” were the first words she heard when she opened her eyes again. The faint flickering of a single oil lamp set nearby showed her Deiq, kneeling beside her bed. He sat hunched forward, his head pillowed on his arms, and seemed to be talking to himself.

“Gods, I’m so sorry,” he murmured again.

She cleared a throat raw from screaming, and he sat up sharply, wiping hurriedly at his face.

“Don’t apologize more than once,” she rasped.

He smiled, a thin and painful expression, and settled back against the wall, drawing his knees up. “Hungry?”

“No,” she said. “Why are you sorry?”

He looked away, then back to her as if forcing himself to meet her stare. “You’re more hurt than I expected,” he said. “I thought you’d be… I didn’t think they’d be so… I shouldn’t have sent you here. It was a mistake.”

Her dazed compassion disintegrated with a surge of anger. “You sent me here? I thought Chac arranged this!”

“Yes and no. Chacerly intended to put you through the trials, but I… altered the arrangements a little. Lord Eredion asked for my help in guiding you; he was alarmed when the king told him who was being sent as your advisors. They might have been good in Bright Bay, but past the Horn those were the two very worst people he could have chosen. I could have avoided your going through the trials, by giving you my backing, if you’d listened to me at the way-stop, and come with me; but you’re stronger than I thought you’d be, and you resisted my best efforts. I’ve never had anyone do that before.”

“Egotistical bastard,” she whispered, her anger not the least bit less.

He shook his head, sober now and unsmiling. “No. Truth. You’ve a much stronger will than you think, Alyea. You may even have a touch of the blood yourself.”

“What hold does Eredion have on you, to make a ha’ra’ha do his work?” Alyea said.

For the first time she saw a flash of his old arrogance; he straightened a little and said, “Nothing can make me do another man’s work. He asked, and I agreed. The reason is between us, and not your concern.”

Pain abruptly surged through her again, and she shut her eyes, gasping for breath. He cursed softly and spread his large hands over her torso. One covered her stomach and the other her chest, fingers splayed around rather than across her breasts. She sucked in breath and found it easier, and the pain eased a little.

“Acana’s coming,” he said, his voice curiously unemotional.

Acana came into the room, carrying a large basin of steaming water and a bundle of cloths.

“Close your eyes,” Deiq said. Alyea obeyed, too sick and hurt to argue. She felt the blanket being lifted away from her legs and groin, and the heavy pressure against her lower stomach easing. With that came a storm of pain that cut her off from everything but the awareness of someone howling like a wounded animal.

Realizing that someone was herself, that part of the pain came from a throat about to give way from too much screaming, helped her cut down to a steady whimpering that still flayed her throat. At last she reduced it to a heavy gasping, the best she could do.

“Breathe slowly,” Deiq said in her ear, his breath tickling her hair. “Slow and long and shallow. Trust me. Don’t gasp like that. Please. Don’t scream. Slow. Slow and shallow, there you go. Listen to my voice, listen to this rhythm… in. Easy… out. In… out… in….”

She managed, with a fierce effort, to follow the tempo he gave her.

“Good girl. Good. Easy… gods, can’t we stop that damned bleeding?”

She had the feeling she wasn’t supposed to hear that last part. It had been a harsh whisper, and directed away from her; but her hearing seemed preternaturally sharp. The slightest rustle and scrape sounded as loud as a shout.

“Just keep her breathing,” Acana said, equally quiet. “The ha’rai’nin is on her way. All we can do is keep her alive until then.”

The pressure came back, a thick feeling now, as if someone leaned on her lower torso, pressing a heavy hand between her legs. The pain eased again.

“Why didn’t the Jungles—”

“Shush, she can hear you. Put her to sleep, it’ll be easier to hold her still that way.”

Deiq cursed again, and lowered his mouth to Alyea’s ear.

“Sleep,” he said, a soft, compelling murmur. “Alyea, sleep; please, please sleep.”

She tried to resist, to summon that will he’d called so strong, but pain took the last of her strength, and she sank away from knowing for a time. When she woke, the room seemed to echo with an eerily familiar song, with words in a language she felt she ought to know. The room had filled with light again, and a spicy taste lingered in her mouth, as if someone had rubbed cactus pepper paste on her tongue.

A hand rested on her shoulder, a warm, large one. Turning her head revealed Deiq, asleep in an ungainly sprawl against the wall. Her movement woke him; he blinked sleepily, then sat up straight, a wide grin spreading across his face.

They looked at each other without speaking for a moment. Alyea found herself reluctantly matching Deiq’s smile.

Without taking his gaze from her face, he called out in that same oddly familiar language, and with an eddy of scents, Acana and a strange old woman came into the room. Old—but Alyea sensed a power in her presence that dwarfed both Acana and Deiq.

“Lady,” Alyea breathed with a profound and dizzying respect bordering on awe.

Deiq’s expression shifted to startlement, and Acana raised her eyebrows. Alyea didn’t care. She had no interest in anything but this strange old woman whose very presence raised goose bumps over her entire body.

“All right, all right,” the old woman said, smiling as she approached. “It’s taken you that way, has it? All right.”

There seemed something immensely soothing about her voice and manner. When the old woman sat on the edge of the low pallet and lightly touched Alyea’s arm, a shock ran through her whole body. The dizzy feeling disappeared. The old woman was just an old woman: a wise one, a healer, but not… not a goddess, not a ha’rethe.

Alyea shut her eyes, feeling a burst of embarrassment flood her face with color.

“That’s all right,” the old woman said. “It happens that way sometimes. The sharing gets everything all muddled in your head.” She patted Alyea’s arm gently. “Close your eyes for a bit, dear, and it’ll sort itself out soon enough.”

Alyea found a comforting darkness behind her eyelids, a place of absolute silence and no physical feeling at all. She let herself float there; she had no reason to leave, nothing to return for. She could stay here forever.

A voice cut into the peace, breaking the silence, calling her name over and over. She knew that voice; she didn’t want to know it, didn’t want to remember it. That would force her to return to the day-lit room and the pain that waited. Much nicer to stay here, floating gently in infinite darkness.

“Alyea,” the voice said, and it sounded more insistent now. She felt a light, stroking pressure in a spot that might, back in that room, have been her face. “Remember, Alyea, remember Oruen, and Chac, and your ugren slaves. Remember the desert, and the Horn, and Bright Bay. Remember the ocean; remember the moonlight on the waters. Alyea, remember yourself, please, Alyea….”

It all started to come back to her; she couldn’t shut it out. The two foolish northerns, and the nagging, unanswered questions: who or what was Chac? Had Oruen actually betrayed her, or had he simply been a fool? Where were her ugren slaves, and was Gria really the last true-blood Scratha? These and a dozen more questions tumbled rapidly through her mind, and she knew she couldn’t stay in the lovely, empty space any longer.

She drew in a deep breath, let it out in a long, annoyed sigh, and opened her eyes. Deiq knelt by her side, his hands cupping her face. Even with Deiq’s body blocking her view, Alyea knew from the fading scent that the ishrait had left. By the same method, she knew that the old woman still sat in a corner.

“Alyea,” Deiq said in a tone of profound relief, and sat back on his heels, releasing her face.

She stared up at the ceiling and didn’t answer for a while.

“Healer,” she said at last, and heard her voice coming out cold and hard. “Can I move?”

“As long as you don’t jump around, ride a horse, have rough sex, or get into a brawl,” the old woman said dispassionately, “you can do anything you like. In another month or less, you’ll have no restrictions. You’ll find you heal rather more quickly from now on than you’re used to.”

Alyea sat up, accepted Deiq’s offered support, and stood. Once she steadied, she released his arm and met the old woman’s gaze.

The wrinkled face slowly creased further into a wide smile. “You’re well on your way to becoming a desert lord, with a glare like that,” the old woman said, and stood. “You won’t be needing me any longer. Teth-kavit, Alyea.”

Somehow Alyea understood what that meant, although she’d never heard the word before: gods hold you, and blessings to your strength.

“Teth-kavit,” Alyea said in return, and added, “Thank you, healer.”

“You’re welcome, child,” the woman said, and left the room.

Alyea turned her stare on Deiq. He met it steadily, all his humor gone.

“How are you involved in this?” she said at last. “The truth this time. All of it. ”

He made a vague motion with one hand. “Lord Eredion asked me to help.”

“And why did you agree?” she pressed.

He hesitated, looking torn, then said, “He’s my father. Now and again, he calls that in for a favor.”

She stared at him, dubious but seeing no reason to disbelieve the statement. “So now what?”

“Now,” he said, “you go to your last trial.” He reached out and caught her as she wobbled abruptly. “Once you’re able to stand long enough to walk ten paces,” he added, easing her back down onto the bed. He sat on the edge beside her and stroked her forehead lightly. “It may take another day or two for that.”

Chapter Nineteen

Sunlight without heat blazed down around Idisio, and strange, impossible shadows stretched over sand bleached of all color. Idisio knew he was dreaming, but the void where sound, heat, and sensation belonged seemed more powerful than reality. Ahead of him stood the stone spire he’d stared at earlier that evening, looming far higher and closer than it had been. Without moving, he came to within a few yards, then a few steps, then found himself standing close enough to examine the wind scars etched into its dark surface.

Se’thiss, t’akarnain, something said.

He blinked—odd, to clearly feel yourself blinking in a dream—and looked around for the source of the soundless voice. Nobody there.

Who are you?

Idisio opened his mouth to answer, found himself mute, and blinked again.

Speak, the voice commanded, and Idisio struggled to obey. It occurred to him that the voice wasn’t speaking out loud, and with that came his answer.

Idisio, he said without moving his mouth. I’m Idisio. Who are you?

He heard a gurgling, hissing noise, knew it for laughter. I call you. Come to me. I have much to ask, and you have much to learn, young one. Come to me.

A blind terror overcame Idisio, and he tried to back away. He found himself unable to move. Pebbly sand slid over his bare toes as some invisible force dragged him forward, closer and closer, until his nose hovered a breath away from being crushed into the rock.

As his face pressed into the unyielding surface, he screamed—and woke.

Riss stared at him with eyes too wide and face too pale for that to have been his first scream. Two oil lamps had been lit, and Scratha sat nearby, his dark face unusually grave.

“Tell me,” he said, and Idisio, still dazed, recounted the dream as clearly as he could remember. As he talked, he began to feel foolish almost immediately, and waited for them to laugh at him.

Scratha didn’t laugh. Not a flicker of a smile passed across his face, and Riss seemed no more amused than the desert lord.

“Again,” Scratha said. “What did the voice say? The strange words you heard, what were they?”

“Saythis ta arkarn something,” Idisio said, the word tangling hopelessly over his tongue. “Saythiss tay arknain? I don’t know.”

“Se’thiss t’akarnain,” Scratha said.

“Yes!” Idisio felt a great swell of relief. “You know it? What does it mean? I thought it was nonsense, just dream words….” He trailed off. Scratha’s expression hadn’t lightened. “What does it mean?”

“It means,” Scratha said, “that I’ve been a fool.” He stood. “Pack. We leave now.”

Dawn laid a faint hint of grey on the far horizon as Scratha led them through the courtyard. People were already stirring, or perhaps only just going to sleep; some looked as if they had been drinking for some time.

“Say nothing, look at nobody,” Scratha said as they walked rapidly across the flagstones. “Not even each other, Riss.”

Idisio, his stare firmly on his feet, smiled a little as Riss made a faint, disgusted noise. She’d been watching him anxiously ever since he’d awoken from his nightmare, and it had started to feel like ants crawling all over his skin. He’d always hated being stared at.

The flagstones ended in a set of shallow steps; Idisio had a dim recollection of staggering clumsily up them the evening before. His attention on his feet now, he managed the descent rather better. As soon as his feet touched the uneven ground, however, he couldn’t resist lifting a quick glance towards where he remembered that frightening stone pillar to be.

“No,” Scratha said, stepping in front of him as though he’d expected Idisio to do just that. “Not yet. Trust me. Keep watching your feet, and follow me.”

Idisio blinked hard and obeyed, almost nauseated with fear now. Without being able to see the sun or stars as a guide, he had no idea which way they were going. He thought they’d turned west, towards the deeper desert and incidentally towards that stone spire; but he had no intention of looking. He saw no sense in pushing Scratha into one of his extreme moods by disobeying a clear order.

Light crept steadily through the air: the beginning of dawn. Idisio’s feet, slogging through steadily deeper and sandier dirt, became distinctly visible. His calves began to protest, reminding him of how far they’d walked yesterday. He bit his lip and hoped his lord would call a halt soon, one at least long enough for him to rub the soreness out of his legs.

“Stop,” Scratha said at last.

Idisio knelt instantly and massaged the beginning of a cramp from one calf.

“Idisio, look at me.”

Idisio dutifully stood and raised his gaze to the angular face before him. “Yes, my lord?”

“I’m going to explain about your nightmare now,” Scratha said. “Do you want Riss to hear this, or should I send her out of earshot?”

Idisio didn’t need to look to know that Riss fumed at the notion of being set aside like a child. “She can stay.”

“Riss, do you want to stay to hear this, or would you rather step aside?” Scratha asked.

“I’ll stay.”

Idisio let out a long, quiet breath. For some reason he found he did want Riss by his side. She seemed a steadying influence, someone who would keep him from screaming if this conversation turned into a waking nightmare like the one two nights ago had.

Scratha motioned for Idisio and Riss to sit, and lowered himself onto the ground in front of them.

“I’ve already said you’re ha’ra’ha, Idisio,” he said without any preamble. “You’ve never noticed before because you’ve repressed it all your life. Riss, shut up, I’ll explain later. I don’t have time right now.”

Idisio nodded without speaking. Riss huffed but stayed quiet.

“So the effects, now that you’ve learned the stillness of aqeyva, are hitting you all at once,” Scratha said. “And you’re not prepared. I blame myself. I should never have brought you up the Wall. When you told me about your fits I should have shipped you straight back to the northlands. But I thought if I kept you out of aqeyva trance, you’d be safe enough. I was wrong.”

“Is this a reversible thing?” Riss said sharply. “Because if it isn’t, and you’d have sent him back north, he’d have had to deal with this all by himself, wouldn’t he? That sounds fairly stupid to me.”

They both stared at her as if she’d grown an extra head; then Scratha’s expression cleared.

“You’re right,” he said. “I didn’t see it that way. Thank you, Riss.”

“She may be useful after all,” Idisio murmured.

Scratha grinned briefly. Idisio forced a tight smile and waited tensely for his lord to continue. The desert lord hesitated, as if deciding what to say. When he spoke, his voice sounded unusually clipped and blunt, as if he were holding to a much shorter explanation than he wanted to give.

“Se’thiss t’akarnain roughly translates to ‘beloved child of northern relatives’. It’s a bit more complex than that, but close enough. It means you’ve attracted a ha’rethe’s attention.”

“It was a nightmare,” Idisio said in feeble protest. “Just a… a dream.”

“It was a vision, and a true one,” Scratha said. “There’s at least one ha’rethe that still calls this area its home, and it’s inviting you over for a visit.”

“I don’t want to go,” Idisio said, his mouth dry with terror.

“You have to,” Scratha said without visible pity. “Ha’reye don’t take refusal very well. The last time humans told them ‘no,’ the entire southlands turned into desert.”

Idisio bent forward, tucking his head between his knees, and breathed deeply, trying to keep control of his stomach.

“What’s going to happen to me?” he managed at last.

“I don’t know,” Scratha admitted. “I wish I did.”

The slab of wind-scoured rock loomed before Idisio, just as in the dream: but this time there was the rising heat of the desert sun on his shoulders, the sour taste of fear in his mouth, and a distinct tremor in his hands. The sweat trickling down his face came from more than heat—and a contrasting cold lurked in his stomach, as if someone had replaced his guts with chunks of ice.

He walked forward, a step, two, then three. Scratha stayed close behind him, near enough for a grab if Idisio should bolt. That hadn’t been said—it didn’t need to be.

But where would he run? There was nowhere to go. Idisio blinked hard and made himself take another step, and another. A hissing noise stopped him. He looked down at his feet, searching for a sand-asp or desert viper, but saw nothing moving in the sand.

“Stay still,” Scratha said very quietly, then said something else in the language of the desert, too rapidly for Idisio to follow.

Another, louder hissing came, warbling now.

“Damn,” Scratha said under his breath, then, a little louder, “I was hoping it would let me come with you, but it wants to talk to you alone. Idisio….” He hesitated. “We’ll wait as long as we can.”

Idisio stared at the lines and random markings on the rock and found he had no spit to swallow with. He wanted to say What? Wait as long as you can? How long is this going to take? Am I going to come back? But he couldn’t voice any of that without beginning to shriek halfway through, so he just nodded dumbly.

Another faint hissing arose from somewhere in front of him.

“Walk forward,” Scratha said, voice emotionless.

One step. Two steps. Three steps. The sand beneath his feet seemed to dissolve into emptiness, and he fell into absolute blackness. He managed, either by intent or sheer shock, not to scream. After a time, the feeling of falling gradually ended. He stood in complete darkness, with no sensation beyond a faint chill. The air carried no scent, no moisture, and no sound.

Idisio panted a bit, catching the breath that had locked in his throat with the unexpected fall, and finally steadied himself. He didn’t know if he stood on, in, under, or near anything. The disorientation nearly terrified him into the scream he’d been holding back.

Could he move? Should his eyes be open? Scratha hadn’t told him anything on what to expect, what was courteous. Maybe he didn’t even know.

Idisio heard a faint hissing that gurgled, almost like reptilian laughter.

His nausea faded, replaced by dizziness; he couldn’t tell if he swayed in place, but his joints felt none too steady.

“All right,” he said, and listened to his own voice in astonishment. “I’m here. What do you want? I’m busy, y’know.”

Talk he’d have given a tough in Bright Bay while trying to face down a potential fight. His mouth, as always, worked faster than his brain. He shut his eyes in hopeless dismay at his idiocy.

The gurgle came louder this time, and clearer. It sounded almost human.

“Are you,” a thin, high voice said, oddly accented but perfectly clear. “Are you indeed.”

There came a long silence. Idisio felt an odd, tickling sensation inside his skull, as though something ruffled feathery fingers through his mind. Unnerved, petrified, he stood absolutely still, eyes wide in the darkness, and tried not to move.

“You’re very unusual, you know,” the voice said quietly. It sounded rather more sympathetic now. “Very unusual. And interesting.”

The chill deepened. Idisio shivered and rubbed at his arms.

“I’m sorry, young one,” the voice said. “I’m inconsiderate. You’re cold.”

The air warmed, and the darkness faded; a few feet away, a small table and a wide chair such as Bright Bay nobles liked to lounge on appeared. Thick dark carpet crushed softly under Idisio’s bare feet.

“Please sit,” the voice said. Idisio found himself in the chair, a thick blanket drawn up around him, warm and comfortable.

“Where are you?” Idisio asked, looking around. Other than a small circle of table and chair, the darkness still surrounded the lit area like a featureless, endless sea.

“I am here,” the voice said in his ear, and he jumped.

A woman sat on the wide arm of his chair, smiling down at him. Idisio forgot everything and just stared at her.

She looked barely older than Idisio, with long, dark hair that rolled over smooth, bare shoulders and generous curves barely covered by thin blue fabric. Equally dark eyes in a northern-pale and rounded face studied him intently. He saw an age and a calculation in that stare that abruptly recalled him to the fact that this had to be a veneer, not the real creature.

Without moving, he tried to harden his own gaze, to hide his initial startled interest in the form it had chosen.

She laughed and stood, walking a few paces away to another chair that must have appeared when she did.

“So you’re not easily impressed,” she said, sinking into the chair in a way that made him glad he was sitting down. “That’s the ha’rethe blood in you, young one. Any full human would have given in without another thought.”

He said nothing—he’d been impressed all right. He tried to breathe normally, not wanting her to see his struggle. Riss’s face came to mind, and her laughter. He found himself breathing more easily and even smiling at the woman.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“To say hello,” she said. Her full lips curved into a smile. “To find out how my northern brethren are doing.”

“Hello,” Idisio said. “I haven’t the faintest idea. Sorry. Never met them.”

“I see that now,” the woman said, the smile fading. “And I’m disappointed in them. No ha’rethe should ever allow one of our children to wander alone in the world.”

“I’m not one of your children.” He wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t want to claim any kinship to this creature, or let her lay any obligation on him.

The woman studied him thoughtfully. She seemed almost to be frowning now, but her features weren’t as distinct as they had been a moment ago. “You have a great deal to learn. I should take you in myself for teaching.”

“I stay with my lord,” Idisio said. “I won’t stay with you!” He put all the determination he possessed into his voice: to his surprise, she flinched.

Her form seemed to blur for a moment, then steadied. “I can’t force you. And I see you’re still too young to listen to wisdom. But you have obligations, young one, that should be explained to you. Whether you want to accept it or not, you carry the essence of two races in your body. You are ha’ra’ha, and that means you serve no man. Not even this desert lord of yours. He’s merely useful as a teacher until you grow to your full strength. He knows this. He should have seen what you are sooner—but he’s human. I’ve never had much respect for their intelligence.”

Idisio opened his mouth but found no words to use in protest against that faintly disdainful tone.

“Obligations,” the woman said, and stood. “Tell your desert lord to start with those. It’s important.” She stood before Idisio’s chair, looking down at him, her features sharp and clear again. Idisio shut his eyes, swallowed hard, and tried to think about Riss.

The woman snorted softly, and a moment later the cold returned. Idisio shivered and reached for the blanket. It had vanished. Opening his eyes, he found himself in deep darkness again.

“Send me the desert lord,” the woman’s voice whispered. “Now.”

Cold crashed around him, then dissolved into a searing heat across his back and shoulders. He fell forward onto his hands and knees. Sunlight dazzled his eyes. He covered his face with one hand and whimpered. Startled movement fluttered nearby; then Scratha scooped him up as if he were a sick child.

He clutched, nauseous and dizzy, at his lord’s support. After a moment, when his head cleared, he managed to gasp, “She… it… wants you now.”

“Not surprising,” Scratha muttered, his face grim.

Idisio drew a deep breath, tried to speak, and passed out.

It had turned to full dark when he woke, and the air held a sharp chill. Someone had draped a real blanket over him. He hunched himself under its scratchy warmth more securely and blinked, rubbing his eyes. An oil lantern sat on the ground nearby, lonely warden against darkness.

“You’re awake!” Riss knelt by his side an instant later, her voice high and shrill. “Gods, Idisio, gods, are you all right? What happened to you?”

He wanted to crawl under the covers and hide from the fear that sparkled off her like the light from a thousand splinters of glass in sunlight. He sat up instead.

“It’s all right,” he said, trying to be reassuring, and glanced around. “Where’s Scratha?”

“He went into that thing,” Riss said, throwing a glance at once hostile and terrified towards the great stone. They were camped within a few feet of it, and Idisio resisted an impulse to claw his way out of the blanket and run like all the demons of the s’iopes’ hells were after him.

“When?”

“Right after we got you settled,” Riss said. She drew a deep breath and shut her eyes. “I don’t know why he hasn’t come back yet,” she added, her voice steadier. “I’m getting scared, Idisio.”

Idisio put a hand on her shoulder, trying to calm her.

“He’ll be back soon,” he said, not sure he believed it himself, and wound up somehow with an armful of trembling Riss. She curled up practically in his lap, her head buried in his shoulder.

“I don’t understand what’s going on,” she said.

“Neither do I,” Idisio admitted. “But he’ll be all right. Don’t worry.”

“And what if he doesn’t come back?” Riss demanded, sitting up a bit and staring at him, her face so close to his that he thought he could feel her eyelashes flitter against his skin.

“Worry about that when it happens,” Idisio said. He found himself at a loss. He hadn’t expected her to fall apart on him and didn’t feel strong enough right now to handle it.

“I’m back,” a familiar voice said, and Scratha stepped into the thin circle of light.

Riss scrambled away and sat nearby, her face visibly reddening in the dim light. Scratha settled to the ground in a cross-legged position and rubbed at his face wearily.

“My lord,” Idisio started, then stopped, biting his lower lip hard to hold the words back.

Scratha seemed to have lost several pounds from his already-thin frame; his face was tinged with grey, and his eyes held a terrifying bleakness.

“I’m fine,” Scratha said, offering a thin smile.

“What did it do to you?” Idisio blurted.

With a faint flicker of a glance towards Riss, Scratha shook his head. “Stretch out and get some sleep, Riss. We’ll be moving on soon. Sleep while you can.”

The cadence of his speech was hypnotic. To Idisio’s surprise the girl made no protest. She simply lay down a few feet away, her breathing deep and even within moments.

“We need to talk,” Scratha said.

“What did it do to you, and how did you do that just now?” Idisio demanded, caught between anger and deep, trembling fear.

“Neither one matters right now,” Scratha said, an edge in his voice that stopped Idisio from pressing the point. He paused, watching Idisio for a moment, then shook his head. “Why did you refuse to let the ha’rethe teach you?”

Idisio blinked. “I want to stay with you.”

“I can’t teach you as much as a ha’rethe can. Even a ha’ra’ha can help you more than I.”

“I’m staying with you,” Idisio said, clinging to the words stubbornly, not sure why.

Scratha sighed, annoyance shifting into weary resignation. Idisio had never seen his lord so open and easy to read. That, as much as anything else, frightened him badly.

“I’ll give you the best I can, then,” the desert lord said, “but eventually you’re going to have to go to either a ha’rethe or a ha’ra’ha.”

The look on his lord’s face warned against disagreeing, so Idisio just nodded.

Scratha drew a deep breath and looked at the sleeping girl. “We’ve been granted passage,” he said in seeming irrelevance.

Idisio listened to the strain in Scratha’s voice and looked at the unremitting grey of the man’s face. “You don’t sound happy about it,” he said slowly.

“Being granted passage through a ha’rethe’s private underground ways is an extraordinary honor,” Scratha said. “With a rather high price.” He shut his eyes and winced as if at some internal pain.

“Underground?” Idisio said, his voice suddenly high and squeaky.

“The ha’reye have passages all over the world,” Scratha said without looking at him. He leaned forward a bit and splayed his hands out on the ground in front of him as if for balance. “We’ll be able to go right to Scratha Fortress in less time and far more safety than traveling the sands would have given us.” His voice came out slower and more ragged now, as if he were reaching the end of his strength.

“With that thing right beside us at every step?” Idisio demanded. “No, thank you!”

“Idisio,” Scratha said, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper now, “I need to rest. Argue with me later, please.” He rolled forward and to one side, letting his weight fall on his left shoulder and from there onto his back. After blinking vaguely at the stars for a moment, his eyelids slid closed.

“But….” Idisio began. Something told him beyond doubt that Scratha was truly exhausted this time, not faking it as he had in Kybeach; he gave up and glared at the stone looming over them instead. He didn’t quite dare curse it, didn’t quite dare get up and bolt for the relatively safe northlands, but he thought long and hard about both options before allowing himself to drift into a dark sleep.

His dreams were broken and uneasy. Glowing eyes and seductive women appeared and disappeared randomly during visions of dank stone walls—and, oddly, that small, clean, sunlit room he’d seen before.

That room still felt full of a powerful, desperate anger and fear, but somehow it didn’t affect Idisio so much this time. He felt more like a bystander watching a terrible tantrum being thrown by an exceptionally strong child. With that thought came a further sense of widening perspective, and Idisio caught a flash of red hair, clipped close to a young boy’s skull, before the vision dissolved into darkness again.

Finally, free of troubling visions for the moment, Idisio slept.

Scratha shook everyone awake shortly before dawn.

“Eat,” he said, pushing desert bread and hard cheese into their hands. He set a water skin by Idisio and moved to stand some distance away.

As Idisio chewed the tough bread, he watched Scratha’s profile in the greying light. The desert lord stared into the distance, expressionless, showing no sign of weakness or weariness, motionless as the stone looming over them. His pack lay at his feet, ready to go.

Riss said nothing as they ate, and Idisio didn’t feel like talking. He felt well-rested, although he suspected he hadn’t actually slept much at all. Nervous energy, he told himself firmly, and concentrated on eating and keeping an eye on his lord.

Finished with their meal, Riss shook out her blanket and folded it neatly back into her pack. Idisio shoved the last of the cheese into his mouth and took a hasty swig from the water skin as he stuffed his blanket untidily away. Scratha turned only when they were finished and standing beside their packs.

“Follow me,” he said.

He led them around to the other side of the stone. Unlike the eastern side, this one had more smooth spots than furrowed ridges. Scratha moved to one of the widest flat areas and put his hands on the rock. He seemed to push lightly, and the rock face swung inwards, revealing a narrow passage that sloped into utter blackness.

“My lord,” Idisio said involuntarily. “I can’t….” His protest died under the sharp glare the man gave him.

“Well, I’m not afraid,” Riss said, and marched forward.

“Stop a few paces in,” Scratha said, his voice pitched just loud enough to carry, and motioned for Idisio to move. Mouth dry, Idisio obeyed, aware that his lord would likely drag or carry him if he stalled for another moment. Scratha had that look to him right now. Putting a hand out as the light disappeared around him, he touched a thin shoulder. He couldn’t help making a muffled noise and jerking back.

Riss made a faintly disgusted sound.

“I’m not a cactus, you know,” she said tartly.

Scratha joined them. A moment later there came a scraping sound, and the square of dim light from the opening disappeared. The door had closed, and no light remained.

Idisio took a deep breath, then another, fighting not to whimper.

“Ha’rethe,” Scratha said, and something else, words in the old desert language Idisio had never heard before.

“Don’t call that thing’s attention,” Idisio said, but it came out in a whisper, barely vocalized, and most of it caught in his throat.

A whitish-blue, sourceless glow filled the passage, barely a small hand-lantern’s worth of brightness, but Idisio’s panic lifted instantly. The dim light revealed smooth, pale stone walls, a sloping floor, and a low ceiling. Scratha stood slightly stooped, one hand on the ceiling as if to remind himself not to stand straight up.

The light sparked glittering reflection from tiny, mica-like chips in the walls; Riss grinned in delighted wonder, while Idisio sighed in relief that this passage felt nothing like the dank one under Bright Bay.

“Let me take the lead,” Scratha said. He kept his voice low, and as he glanced around his expression seemed tinged with awe.

Riss flattened against the wall and let the desert lord squeeze past. Scratha led them onwards and down, the gradual slope of the passage giving way to shallow, wide steps with wear marks more towards the sides than the center. Idisio thought of four-legged creatures, like the marsh lizards of Kybeach, but said nothing.

The descent went on for a long time before leveling out, but Idisio felt no pressure or panic. The light moved with them, as though some invisible creature held an unseen lantern in their midst. The walls stayed a dry, comforting desert color, and the passage felt clean, quiet, and safe.

As they walked, the ceiling rose, bit by bit, until Scratha could stand without difficulty. He paused and ran both hands over the ceiling and down each wall, then across the floor and back up. He made an odd, satisfied noise and started walking again, trailing his fingers along the wall.

“Idisio,” he said over his shoulder, “put a hand to the wall on your right. Don’t look at it. Keep walking.”

The wall felt smooth at first, save for a few faint bumps and creases. The irregularities gradually became more distinct, more deliberate in nature, like a pattern of some sort. Idisio struggled with the urge to turn his head and look at the wall, and compromised by slanting his eyes just a bit to the right as they walked.

To his disappointment, he saw nothing visible on the wall, even as his hand insisted there were markings clear as any black-ink writing on clean new parchment. He blinked hard, trying to force his eyes to see what his fingers felt, and stumbled, crashing sideways into the wall on his left. A wave of dizziness dropped him to his knees, breathing hard. He shut his eyes, pressing his hands to the ground, waiting for it to pass.

“I told you not to look,” Scratha said, sounding amused, and hoisted Idisio back to standing. “Open your eyes and look straight on, get it out of your system.” He kept his hands under Idisio’s armpits, supporting him, and turned him to face the wall.

Idisio stared at the smooth tan wall in front of him. He couldn’t see the slightest nub or crack or crevice, even when he stepped forward and stared at the surface up close.

Scratha let him go, allowing Idisio time to explore the wall with hands and sight, and finally said, “It’s all like that. Walls, floor, ceiling.”

Idisio shut his eyes and ran his hands over the wall again, shaking his head.

Riss made a faint, impatient noise. “What are you talking about? There’s nothing there.”

Idisio could hear her feeling along the wall nearby.

“There’s nothing there,” she repeated. “Just a rough stone wall.”

“What does it say?” Idisio asked, opening his eyes.

“I have no idea,” Scratha admitted. His grin faded. “I think it’s meant to be read in all directions at once. Humans can’t possibly begin to interpret it.”

“But how….” Idisio stopped, looked up at the ceiling, down at the floor, and felt gooseflesh rippling along his arms. “This isn’t a cut tunnel.”

Everyone looked up and around.

“So?” Riss said.

“It’s a burrow,” Idisio said. “Like a snake’s.”

The light flickered slightly.

“Not quite,” Scratha said hastily. “Don’t compare them to any kind of reptile,” he added in a low undertone, bending further to speak into Idisio’s ear. “They get upset.”

Idisio, with a sudden awareness of how far underground they were by now, and how precarious their light source, pressed his lips together.

Scratha glanced at Riss, who looked puzzled. “It’s writing,” he said to her, “of a sort. It’s meant to be read by touch, not sight, and it’s all around the walls, which means the ha’reye probably fill the tunnel when they travel through it.”

“Probably?” Idisio said. “I thought you knew what—” He stopped, suddenly confused.

“We see of the ha’reye what they want us to see,” Scratha said. “Some have seen what is likely the true form. I’ve never been granted that.” He didn’t sound regretful. “Let’s keep going.”

Chapter Twenty

Aleya and Deiq sat on a sun-warmed rock under an overhang, watching the last hour of daylight spread glorious sprays of gold, orange, peach and purple across the cloudless sky.

“You’ve passed the blood trials of Comos and Ishrai,” Deiq said. “There’s one left.”

Alyea said nothing, waiting. Ever since she’d awoken some hours ago, she found herself strangely unwilling to speak unless she had to. The sound of her own voice felt odd to her ears, and her throat still hurt, as if she’d been screaming in her sleep.

Noise of any sort crackled painfully in her ears, like a burgeoning infection. Deiq spoke in a near-whisper. They’d come outside because the echoes of human movement bouncing from the rock walls made Alyea flinch.

Outside all was beautifully silent and still, save for the occasional whiss-scritch of desert animals venturing into the warm air.

“The sun-lord,” Deiq said finally, his gaze still far away, abstracted. “Datda. Most people won’t name him. It’s considered bad luck, unless you’re a follower. He’s the god of war, of death, disease, violence, and so on.”

“I’m going to have to fight?” Alyea said when it became clear Deiq had finished speaking.

“I don’t know.” He rubbed the knuckles of one hand with the palm of the other and shut his eyes. “It’s different for everyone.”

Alyea felt her forehead wrinkling into a frown. It hadn’t been a lie, exactly, but she had a feeling he wasn’t telling her the whole truth, either.

He looked up and caught her staring at him. A rueful grin appeared on his face. “Yes. Going through the trial of Ishrai makes you harder to fool.”

“So tell me,” she said.

“I can’t. There are rules to the blood trials, Alyea. I can’t interfere.”

She made a disgusted noise.

“Sorry,” he said, sounding completely unapologetic.

“What can you tell me? There has to be something!”

He considered, watching her closely. “I can tell you,” he said at last, “that if you lose, I can’t help you, but you won’t be bonded to me any more.” He cleared his throat and looked away, seeming uncomfortable.

“Because I’ll be dead. No surprise there.”

“Not necessarily,” he said without looking at her. “I can’t say more than that. I’m sorry.”

His expression, in profile, was so bleak as he stared at the horizon that she left him alone. They sat in silence, watching the sun settle into a fading glow, watching as the stars began to appear high above.

By evening of the next day, Alyea’s sensitivity had eased enough that she could eat dinner with the Qisani community. The room stayed mostly silent. The ishraidain—women serving penance under the protection of Ishrai for various crimes—kept their vow of silence, and the Callen seemed to prefer to refrain from speaking themselves. When the Callen did talk, they used low voices that even Alyea’s newly sharp hearing had trouble picking up.

There seemed no particular ranking to how people arranged their positions at table. Acana sat next to Alyea, but around them ishraidain and Callen mixed together randomly.

The stew this time tasted spicier than it had previously. Alyea found she enjoyed it; the flavors of all food seemed brighter lately. She glanced up to see Acana watching her, smiling.

“In your honor,” the ishrait said quietly, “I asked for the food to be made a bit more interesting. Do you like it?”

“Yes,” Alyea said, keeping her voice to the same low volume. “Very much. What’s in it?”

“It’s the same stew we always have,” Acana said, “but we added more cactus peppers. I think it’s rather similar to what Juric fed you, in fact.”

Alyea took another bite, comparing memory to present, and nodded. “It is. Why doesn’t it bother me any more?”

“You’re adjusting your sense of taste to avoid feeling pain,” Acana said. Her smile widened. “I always win the pepper-eating contests with Juric these days. He doesn’t understand why.”

Alyea found herself grinning in return. “I can see this is going to be useful.”

“You can also tell if there’s something harmful in the food,” Acana said. “Poison, for example. You’ll find yourself making adjustments for that too. It’s very hard to kill a desert lord. Or a ha’ra’ha,” she added with a respectful nod to Deiq.

He nodded without comment and went on eating. Nobody spoke again until the meal ended and ishraidain rose to clear the dishes. Then Acana motioned wordlessly for Alyea to come with her. Deiq tagged along unasked, and as the ishrait made no objection, Alyea kept her mouth shut.

They followed the ishrait into a small, unoccupied room similar to the ishell but without a pool. Several of the strange green-oil lamps burned high but produced almost no smoke; Alyea resolved to ask about them soon.

“The lamp oil comes from Aerthraim Fortress,” Deiq said in a low voice. “I’ll tell you about that another day.”

Alyea shot him a hard stare; he shrugged, unconcerned, and settled on a bench near the doorway. Acana motioned Alyea to sit on one end of a long bench and took the other end herself.

Cross-legged, facing Acana, Alyea watched the flickering of the lamps move shadows around the room and across the ishrait’s face in patterns that didn’t quite match what the physical flames should be producing. Rather than making Alyea nervous, the discrepancy seemed strangely comforting.

“You have been with us ten days,” Acana said at last.

Alyea blinked, startled. “That long?”

“That long,” Acana said. “Unless you apply to become an ishraidain, ten days is the limit you can claim sanctuary within the Qisani. You are under the hand of a ha’ra’ha, relieving us of the responsibility of teaching you, and you are not an ishraidain. This is your last night with us. You must leave.”

Alyea took a deep breath, let it out slowly as she considered. “Can you answer some questions, before I leave?”

Acana seemed to smile a bit, although it might have been a distortion of shadow. “Some things I can answer. Some I cannot.”

“Who was the healer that attended me?”

“A healer. The name doesn’t matter.”

Alyea rephrased the question. “What was she?”

“I can’t answer that.”

Alyea smiled. “You just did. She’s from the Forbidden Jungles, isn’t she?”

In Alyea’s peripheral vision, Deiq shifted as if about to speak, but settled into silence again.

“She traveled a long way,” Alyea said.

“Alyea,” Deiq said quietly, “she can’t tell you about the healer. Please stop baiting her.”

“That wasn’t my intent,” Alyea said. “My apologies, Acana.”

She turned her head to stare at Deiq, took a breath, and willed him to give an unguarded answer. “How often have you been to the Forbidden Jungles?”

“Not often enough,” he said, his voice rough with emotion, and grimaced. “Damnit.”

The tension in the room eased abruptly as Acana laughed. “She’s going to make a very good desert lord,” she said.

“If she survives the last trial,” Deiq said.

“I don’t have your doubts,” Acana said, and stood. “I pity the one who goes up against her. For that matter, I admit some sympathy for you, Deiq. You’re going to have your hands full.”

“Tell me about it,” Deiq said, sounding grumpy.

Acana laughed again, bowed to both of them in turn, and left the room.

“No honorific?” Alyea said before Deiq could speak.

“I don’t ask for one,” he said, and stood. He crossed the room and sat on the bench, drawing his legs up to sit facing her as Acana had been moments before. “Don’t do that again, Alyea. You caught me off guard with that push.”

“I wanted to find out if I could do it,” she said.

“You can,” he said, unamused, “but don’t try it with another ha’ra’ha or desert lord. It’s beyond rude, and a dangerous trick to play.”

“I won’t,” Alyea said, chastened.

Deiq nodded, his taut expression relaxing slightly. “We leave tonight. The last blood trial is going to be held at Scratha Fortress, since that’s the heart of the current dispute. We should be there by morning. Walking,” he added, anticipating her next question. “Juric is long gone, and the Callen of Ishrai don’t use sharaks—that’s the word for the type of carriage brought you here.”

He held up a hand to stop her from speaking. “There’s something else I have to say.”

She raised her eyebrows and waited.

“I know Pieas raped you,” he said. “I know Oruen seduced you. I know what the ha’reye did to you felt like a combination of both. Trust me that I’ll do neither. My obligations are more important than that.”

She felt her face heating, and couldn’t speak.

“Remember what I am,” he said. “I can read people. I saw how you looked at Pieas, and at Oruen, and how they looked at you—it was as if you shouted it.”

“Gods,” she said, covering her face with her hands.

“Make sure you know which gods you refer to,” he said, “when you say that in the southlands.” He stood. “Time to go.”

She wore a greyish-tan garment this time, one with a long, loose cut. Deiq wore a similar outfit, and hooked a small pack over his shoulders. She had nothing to carry; even the robe from Juric had been taken away.

Silent and tall, Acana stood in the darker shadow of the entrance to the Qisani, oil lamp in hand. She bowed to them once. They returned the bow, and without speaking turned away and began walking.

The moon hovered low on the horizon, just past full. Wan light shifted the darkness into strange, flat pools and lines, eerily reminiscent of what Alyea had seen at the beginning of the blood trial of Ishrai. She tried not to think of that: a chill still ran down her spine at the memory.

The sand lay deep and loose in spots, in others hard as a thin layer over buried rock. Deiq set a steady pace, one Alyea could easily match; still, within an hour her legs ached and cramped.

“Hold on,” she said, stopping, and bent to rub her calves. “I need a rest.”

“No,” he said, and knelt to push her hands aside. “Not like that.”

She frowned down at him. “My legs hurt.”

He sat back on his heels and put a finger to his forehead, just above his left eye. “Here. Don’t use your hands. Tell your body it’s going to walk without pain.”

“You’re mad.”

He stood. “We’re not stopping again. Do it my way or I’ll leave you behind.” He turned and started walking again.

She cursed under her breath and jogged awkwardly through the sand to catch up.

“How?” she panted when she reached his side.

“You’re in control,” he said without looking at her. “Your body’s a tool to get you from place to place. You control the tool. You tell it what to do. You don’t have to breathe hard, either, by the way. You can control that, too.”

He didn’t break stride as he spoke, moving forward with the same even pace he’d used before. Alyea fought to slow her breath, distracted by the increasing pain in her calves.

“Don’t force it,” Deiq said, still not looking at her. “Just know it’s under your will.”

“Will you stop so I can focus?” she snapped.

“No.”

“Damn you!”

He made a dismissive gesture with one hand and said nothing.

“This is what you call teaching?”

“Don’t waste your energy yelling at me,” he said. “Use it to focus.”

She snarled, feeling rather like an angry asp-jacau, then forced her attention to her breath. Step… breath… step… breath. It took a few minutes to catch the rhythm; abruptly, the pain vanished, and she only felt the ground rolling past her feet. Her body consisted of breath moving in and moving out; turning that breath into forward movement, and then balancing a thousand tiny adjustments in each step. Sounds, smells, sight, the slither of fabric against her skin and the taste of the air in her mouth: all senses combined into one long liquid moment. Pain arose, rerouted itself into energy to take another step. Protesting muscles simply smoothed themselves out.

Astonished at the incredible, flowing clarity, she fell. The ground sprawled up beneath her with a hard thump, shaking her breath back into erratic gasps. Aches redoubled, cramped her into a whimpering ball for a moment, then eased.

Deiq laughed and helped her stand, brushing sand from her clothes.

“Good start,” he said. “Everyone falls the first time.”

She stood still, blinking to clear a doubling of her vision, until things returned to normal. Her leg muscles quivered.

“What did I just do?”

“You reached center,” Deiq told her.

“It felt like an aqeyva trance,” she said, the words sounding thick and blurred to her own ears, “but I was taught never to try walking while in trance.”

“What you call aqeyva is the closest a human can get to the discipline of the ha’reye,” Deiq said. “No full human can ever reach as far into the center as you just did. You can do it because you’ve traded essence with a ha’rethe; you’re not full human any more.”

“Am I a ha’ra’ha?”

“Not even close,” he said with a patience that told her every new desert lord asked that question. “Desert lords are… in a grey area between human and ha’ra’ha. As I said earlier, you may have some of the blood, but it’s too faint to mean much. It’s given you an edge with learning aqeyva meditations, and those most skilled at the aqeyva trance are considered the best candidates to be desert lords; it’s part of the blood trials.”

Alyea remembered the odd look on Juric’s face when she’d come out of an hours-long trance.

Deiq nodded as though hearing her memory himself. “From what I’m told,” he said, “you did exceptionally well. The taska said you were a natural—that you sat for much longer than any supplicant he’d ever handled before.”

She couldn’t think of anything to say to that.

“Let’s move on,” Deiq said. “We’ve a way to go. Move faster this time.”

He turned and started walking again.

She followed, finding it easier this time to fall into the walking trance. Time slowly ceased to matter. The stars moved overhead, the moon shifted across the sky; she felt no sense of hurry, just the steady sensation of sand shifting underfoot. The sand seemed almost to be helping her move forward, propelling her faster with each step.

Emotion peeled away in layers. The vast sky overhead and the endless, moonlight-greyed sand around them reduced everything in her life to a tiny, insignificant speck. No wonder, no astonishment remained. Her movement became more an act of will than the shifting of muscle and bone. She moved through a thousand contradictions and saw the resolution to each for a fraction of a second, brief and sharp, then lost the answer again.

If she had been capable of tears she would have wept.

As dawn began to rearrange the colors of the sky, she felt a vast sense of presence ahead. Refocusing her vision with an effort, she saw a fortress, built of enormous chunks of whitestone and granite. It sprawled across the sand, not nearly as tall as she’d expected, far from gracious— nothing but an unattractive pile of disorderly rock.

Deiq put a hand on her shoulder, slowing her to a stop.

“Take a moment,” he said. “You need to come all the way back to human time and space.”

He stood quietly, keeping his hand on her shoulder, as she shook off the lingering half-daze. She shuddered at a sudden feeling that everything inside her had broken beyond repair. At last the fragmented sensation eased, her sight cleared, and she studied the fortress ahead with a much different eye.

It still seemed an ungainly sprawl of blocks, the design almost haphazard; it fit no pattern she’d seen before. The walls curved here, ran straight there; rose three stories high and dropped to one without symmetry. Much of the stone seemed to have been bleached and weathered by hundreds of years of desert sun and sandstorms, but Alyea saw two large, yellow-orange patches whose crisp lines indicated a more recent history.

Several tents had been pitched well away from the walls of the fortress. The morning breeze carried the thick scent of a dung-coal fire and recently cooked food: probably the ubiquitious stew with cactus peppers. People sat on blankets spread before the tents, resting and talking quietly.

Nobody seemed to have noticed Alyea and Deiq yet.

“Stay still,” Deiq said, his voice low. “They won’t see us until we move. We blend in. Take the time to study everything.”

She saw four tents, each large enough to hold five people comfortably. The term “tent” could only be broadly applied: these sturdy, collapsible shelters sat atop the loose sand, secured more by weight inside than by stakes and string.

Alyea realized she knew at least some of the people in front of the tents: Gria. Sela. Chacerly. Micru. She wasn’t sure of the others, but something about the way those four figures shifted, the shape of their heads, a gesture, a slouch, identifed them to Alyea beyond question.

She could tell there would be no joy in the reunion. Chacerly sat with a tautness that spoke of anger and fear; Gria and Sela slouched in despairing postures. Micru sat still, but something about his form reminded Alyea of his coldblooded namesake, coiled and waiting to strike; he sat far from Chac.

Another group, this one composed of small dark-skinned men, huddled in a compact group: talking, occasionally gesturing widely. They radiated anger and danger.

“Teyanain,” Alyea breathed, not at all sure she had it right; but Deiq’s hand tightened on her shoulder.

“Yes,” he said.

“What are they doing here?”

He didn’t answer. Glancing up at him, she saw by his expression that he wouldn’t.

“All right,” she said. “I’ll figure it out for myself.”

They walked forward, the sun at their backs, and for a few steps nobody noticed the movement. Finally one of the teyanain looked up and scrambled to his feet, shouting. Moments later almost the whole camp seemed to be standing, squinting into the bright light.

Gria, Sela, and Micru stayed seated. Alyea wondered what that meant: were all three prisoners? The two women certainly had that look to them, but Alyea couldn’t imagine Micru sitting tamely in cuffs, somehow.

She kept her face expressionless as she and Deiq advanced on the camp, watching where people stood and where they looked—and didn’t look. The teyanain weren’t glancing anywhere near the seated people, and neither was Chacerly.

The wrinkles on Chac’s face deepened as he strode forward. He directed a glare at Deiq.

“You have a bad habit,” he snapped, “of interfering where you’re not wanted.”

Deiq said nothing, his own expression bland.

Chac made a dismissive, hostile gesture and turned his attention to Alyea. “Took you long enough to get here,” he said. “And where’s Juric? He should have had you here days ago.”

“I’m sorry I’m late. I was healing,” she said, keeping her voice neutral.

“Healing? From what…?” He stopped, returned his glare to Deiq. “You didn’t.”

“She did,” Deiq said, and smiled. “She bears the marks of both Comos and Ishrai.”

The teyanain had been hanging back a few paces, listening intently. At those words, one of them pushed forward. He stood at least a head shorter than Alyea, with the dark skin and facial structure of a deep southerner, but mysterious blue tattoos wrapped across his face and arms.

“Show them,” he ordered. “Show marks.”

Deiq put his hands on Alyea’s shoulders and turned her to stand facing away from the onlookers. She felt him draw the loose cloth of her shirt up to show her mid-back. After a moment he let it drop and carefully pulled the left side of her leggings down a handspan to expose her hip, then tugged them back up and turned her around again. He gave her the faintest hint of a smile when she glanced up at him.

Chac let out a hiss through his front teeth. “You’re a fool.”

The teyanin leader said nothing, but seemed to be studying Alyea with markedly more respect than before.

“How is possible?” the tattooed man said. “Ishrai year not past.”

“I’m standing in for the ha’reye,” Deiq said.

In the deathly silence following those words, Chac’s weathered face seemed to lose color.

“You can’t do that!” the old man snarled. “That’s not allowed!”

“The ha’reye of the Qisani agreed to it,” Deiq said. “That’s all the authority I need.”

A murmur rose among the teyanain behind Chac. Alyea heard “Qisani” repeated several times.

The teyanain’s expressions shifted to distinctly impressed. Chac jerked, lowering his chin to his chest for a moment, then took a deep breath and straightened.

“Juric was told to bring you straight here, not to the Qisani,” he said to Alyea. “You should not have gone through those two trials yet. Juric will be called to account for this.”

“Juric is a Callen of Comos, and a friend of mine,” Deiq said with lazy amusement.

Chac’s glare shifted back to Deiq, and it held a murderous anger this time.

Alyea cleared her throat.

“Excuse me,” she said in a tone that brought everyone’s attention sharply back to her. “I’m here to take the last blood trial. Is there a Callen of Datda here that is ready and willing to test me?”

The tattooed teyanin bowed, both hands clasped together in front of him, and when he straightened he pointed to Chac.

“Callen,” he said, and stepped back three measured paces.

“Chac?” Alyea said in disbelief. “You can’t be serious!”

The old man’s expression could have melted the stone of the Qisani.

“Yes,” he said finally. “I’m here to test you.”

Alyea suspected events had moved far from the path Chac had intended.

“We left the Qisani last evening and have been walking all night,” Deiq said. “I’d like to request that she be given the chance to rest before beginning the trial.”

Another murmur from the teyanain. The blue-tattooed one now had an expression of open astonishment. “You walk from Qisani in one night?” he said.

“Toi, te hoethra,” Deiq said. “I swear it to be truth. She walked by my side with the wings of the desert wind.”

“You have right to rest,” the tattooed man said before Chac could speak. He pointed at the tents behind them. “You use my shall, my shelter. Go.”

“Saishe-pais—gratitude to your honor,” Deiq said, and put a hand on Alyea’s shoulder. He steered her past the watching crowd and towards a shelter that had a bright blue stripe near the entrance.

“Don’t look back,” he murmured as they walked. “Don’t look at anyone. Just get in the shelter and say nothing until we’re inside.”

The shall was wide, round, and smelled of sun-baked, unwashed human. A light mat lay on the canvas floor, grey and worn with long use; Alyea sat on it without waiting for a prompt. She looked up at Deiq.

“What can you tell me,” she said deliberately, watching his mouth twitch as if against a smile, “about what just happened out there?”

He sat beside her, drew his knees up, and grinned.

“Very little,” he said, seeming pleased about something. “Chac expected you to be here several days ago. I made arrangements otherwise. I thought you’d be better prepared for the blood trial of Datda if you’d been through the other two first.”

“Chac didn’t want me to pass his trial in the first place, did he?”

“I can’t speak to that.”

“You don’t have to,” Alyea said sourly. “Gods! This is a mess.”

“I’ve seen worse,” Deiq said, and stretched out. “Go to sleep.”

She stared at him for a while, watching him as his breathing evened out and his eyes began to flutter in the onset of true sleep. He said nothing more, and as the day’s heat began to seep into the chill air of the shelter, it seemed to steal away the energy she’d been using to stay upright.

She didn’t remember lying down, but found herself stretched out limp next to Deiq. A heartbeat after that, a darkness thicker than night drew her from consciousness.

Chapter Twenty-One

As they walked, a strange, sourceless susurrus of murmurs and whispers faded in and out of Idisio’s hearing: he shivered, a prickling chill racing over his whole body. The tunnel didn’t feel comfortable any longer. Once the voices began, traveling the ha’rethe’s underground ways had swiftly become an experience as eerie and creepy for Idisio as the tunnels beneath Bright Bay.

Scratha, too, seemed to be listening at times, but Idisio found himself afraid to ask if his master heard the voices. The desert lord’s expression held a worrying sourness, and the grey strain hadn’t faded from his face yet. Riss didn’t seem to be hearing anything; she trudged along, sullen and withdrawn in another of her confusing mood shifts.

“My lord,” Idisio said at last, hoping to take his mind off the whispers echoing in the back of his head, “you said you’d be teaching me. When are you going to start?”

Scratha glanced at Riss. “I’d intended….” He paused and shook his head. “Well, Riss may as well hear. It will help her to understand what you’re going through, and you’ll need that.”

“Well, thanks for that kindness,” Riss snapped.

Scratha stopped, turned, and gave the girl a ferocious glare that actually made her flinch.

She dropped her gaze. “Sorry,” she said in a small voice.

Scratha resumed walking, his face grim. “Obligations. Every ha’ra’ha has certain obligations. I’ve been… instructed on what to tell you.” His lips pressed together and a twitch passed across his face. “I’ll start with the one you won’t like most, and get it out of the way. You have to father at least one child.”

Idisio stopped cold, his legs refusing to move another step. As if he’d expected the pause, Scratha shot a hand out, grabbed Idisio’s elbow, and jerked him roughly into motion again.

“I don’t make the rules,” the desert lord said without looking at Idisio. “It’s part of a very old agreement between the ha’reye and humans. Anyone with even a trace of the blood has to father or bear at least one child if they’re able. Quite a few of mixed blood are sterile; they can’t reproduce. So the burden falls on those who can, to give at least one and preferably more.”

He didn’t loose his iron grip on Idisio’s arm as he spoke, and Idisio gave up on the idea of stopping to catch his breath after that incredible statement.

“You can let me go, my lord,” he said. “I swear I won’t run.”

Scratha stumbled a half-step and shot Idisio a dark stare. Idisio forced a smile, and after a moment Scratha released his grip and offered a wry smile of his own.

“It’s a long way from the gardens of the Bright Bay palace, isn’t it?” Scratha said.

Idisio nodded, relieved that the desert lord had picked up on the reminder and allowed the mood to lighten a bit. “It is.”

“Who does he—?” Riss started.

“Let me finish explaining, Riss,” Scratha said sharply. “Hold your peace for a moment.”

Riss fell silent. Idisio glanced back at her and saw an odd expression on her face. She seemed badly rattled. He didn’t get a chance to ask her about it; Scratha started talking again.

“It’s best,” the desert lord said, eyes straight ahead and a pronounced strain in his voice, “if you have a child with a full human. If you choose another ha’ra’ha, there’s a greater chance the child will be sterile, or… deformed.” He seemed to force the last word out. “And you’ll have to take full responsibility for the child. It’s your child, not the mother’s. That reverses, of course,” he added, “for a female ha’ra’ha.” A pained expression crossed his face.

Idisio just kept walking, alternating between staring at his feet and staring straight ahead. He felt overwhelmed and almost numb with disbelief.

“You don’t have to marry the woman you choose,” Scratha went on after a moment of thick silence. “I’d advise telling her the truth beforehand, though, or she’ll get upset when you come to take the child.” His tone returned to dry neutrality.

“Really?” Riss said from behind them, heavily sarcastic.

Scratha ignored her. “You’ll be expected to bring the child to your sworn ha’rethe for a… well, call it a blessing. That’s close enough. It’s more of an examination, to find out if the child is, ah….” He cleared his throat again. “True blood, true bred. The ha’rethe will determine if you’re really the father and whether the child has inherited any of the blood traits.”

“Gods, you’re cold!” Riss said. She sounded really angry. “We’re not talking about some… some foal and its bloodline here! This is a child! What’s the matter with you?”

“I don’t make the rules,” Scratha repeated.

“That’s a dodge,” Riss said.

Scratha sighed. “Trust me,” he said, “the ha’reye are far from indifferent to their children. I don’t have the skill to explain it more gently, that’s all.”

“You mean you don’t have the stomach to mask what’s ugly with pretty words,” Riss said.

“My lord,” Idisio said before the man could speak, “have you had to give a child?”

Complete silence followed that question for several moments. Idisio noticed, almost absently, that the passage had started to widen.

“Yes,” Scratha said at last. “It’s part of becoming a desert lord.” His expression became closed and fierce. Idisio wished he hadn’t asked, but Riss, heartless, jumped into the moment:

“Where are your children, then, my lord?” she said. “Do you have responsibility for them?”

Another long silence. Finally, Scratha let out a long, hard breath, and said, “Dead.”

Idisio heard a faint, startled intake of breath from behind him, and knew Riss regretted her harsh questioning.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” she said quietly.

“Done is done,” Scratha said. After another pause, he went on, his voice steadying as he spoke: “Idisio, I’m not saying you have to do this right away. But when you do, choose a partner with care, and make sure she understands what she’s bedding. And… before you do… you’re going to have to learn from another ha’ra’ha or ha’rethe; there’s… it’s not as simple for you as just taking a woman to bed. I don’t know… how to explain what’s involved.”

“So he can’t get some girl pregnant accidentally?” Riss asked in pragmatic tones. “That ought to be a relief.”

Scratha half snorted, half sighed, and said nothing. Idisio, feeling a hot flush spreading across his face, kept his gaze firmly ahead and his teeth in his tongue.

Ahead, the passageway spread further and ended in an opening that ten men could have marched through with ease. Scratha’s steps slowed as they moved forward into the room beyond, and for a long moment they all stood on the threshold and simply stared.

Idisio had never seen such an enormous enclosure; the sloping floor of the vast cavern before them leveled out, towards the center, into an area large enough for a thousand men to camp on. Many openings of varying size punctuated the rim of the gigantic bowl, and ramps had been cut—no, worn, Idisio realized after another look—from the cavern floor up to wide ledges in front of each opening.

The same steady light that illuminated the passage filled the entire cavern, as though the ha’rethe had reached ahead in anticipation of their arrival and poured out its strange magic to prepare the scene. Idisio shivered again, wanting nothing more than to turn and run; but once again the only way out lay ahead, not behind.

As they stood staring, a sense of presence filled Idisio’s throat with wool, thickening his breath in his chest. Scratha glanced at him, frowning, then tilted his head as though listening to something Idisio couldn’t hear.

“We need to rest, I think,” he said after a moment.

Scratha led them back into the tunnel a hefty stone’s throw; the muzzy feeling left Idisio’s throat, and he drew in a deep, grateful breath. Riss slid her pack off her shoulders and sat. They all followed her lead, Idisio between Riss and Scratha, resting their shoulders against the sloping walls. In spite of the abundance of space, they huddled together, shoulders almost touching, as if they all shared a need in this strange place for human contact.

Scratha passed around chunks of dried fruit, cheese, and trail jerky. They ate in silence, sipping sparingly from their water skins.

“How much further do we have to go?” Riss finally asked.

“I’m not entirely sure myself,” Scratha admitted. “My sense of time is a bit odd down here.” He looked as if he intended to say more, then shot Riss a sharp glance and shook his head instead. “A day or two, maybe three.”

Idisio grimaced, not liking the thought of traveling these passages any longer than necessary. Scratha caught his expression and grinned, although it held no humor.

“Walking the desert above us,” he said, “we’d take seven or eight days to reach Scratha Fortress, at best; the desert’s not a flat plain. Hills, valleys, rough terrain, sandy patches all slow travel down. This way is a straight line and an easy walk in comparison. And taking this path means we don’t have to stop for political games.” He took a swig from his water skin.

“Political games?” Riss said.

Scratha ate a piece of dried fruit, seeming to consider. “The major Families are like little kings,” he said. “They each claim jurisdiction over a certain amount of land, and they all have ancient, huge fortresses as the center of their power. The minor Families don’t have as much land, as many people, and so they don’t have as much political power. The more desert lords sworn to a Family, the more power it holds.” He paused to take a bite of jerky and chewed steadily.

“Boundaries shift,” he went on finally. “Sessin Family, for example, used to be a fairly minor Family, hundreds of years ago. When they figured out the secret to clear, flat glass, they gained more power, more wealth, and expanded their holdings to match. Last I heard they’re supporting seven full desert lords. Tereph is a fairly new Family in terms of centuries. They’ve been established for about two, three hundred years at best. They were granted some land at the edge of Sessin’s southern boundary, and support three full lords.”

“Granted by who?” Idisio asked, proud that he’d snuck a question in ahead of Riss.

“A Conclave.”

“What’s a Conclave?” Riss asked, frowning.

Scratha looked at her, eyes distant, for a moment, as if still lost in thought, then he shook himself sharply and said, “A gathering of desert lords. Any time ten full lords representing at least seven different Families are gathered, it can be considered a Conclave. Decisions made in Conclave are binding on all of the southlands. Every desert Family has to be notified and given a chance to attend.”

“Wait,” Riss said, squinting at him. “Ten lords, but only seven Families? Doesn’t that slant things a bit?”

Scratha smiled. “It can,” he admitted. “There used to be more Families, so having fifteen or even thirty lords show up to a Conclave wasn’t uncommon. These days, it’s a little trickier, and that’s where the between-Conclave political games come in. Deals and alliances made out of Conclave are starting to affect votes within Conclave.”

His tone became musing. “Pieas threatened to call a Conclave. He can’t—only a full lord can, and his own Family wouldn’t back such a notion—but he’s developed allies in odd places, and one of them might just be fool enough to try it.”

“Why would Pieas want to call a Conclave?” Idisio said, bewildered. “To challenge you over his sister? That seems a bit extreme.”

Scratha blinked and seemed mildly startled, as if just realizing he had said that aloud.

“No,” he said. “I don’t think I have anything to do with that, actually. I think he wanted to challenge Oruen’s appointment of Lady Alyea to hold my lands while I’m gone. I don’t think it’s a bad reason, at that. She’s too young, and doesn’t have the faintest idea what she’s walking into. If I’d realized what a botch he’d make of the grant, I wouldn’t have done it.” He glared at the far wall as though it held the blame.

“So do you think Pieas is going to try to call a Conclave?” Riss said.

“He can’t,” Scratha said, and smiled unpleasantly. “I already did. Guests should be setting up camp outside the walls of Scratha Fortress as we speak.”